Kryp (WH40k Translation FemProtagonist Isekai)

RiP · Nov 21, 2021

Part 3
Purifying fire
Chapter 13
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The march into the darkness of the deep dungeons was not so terrifying as it was dreary and boring. Of course, it is scary to walk on the concrete, slippery with mold, on paths that have not been walked for decades. But the fear does not last long, because if there is no obvious threat, hunger, fatigue and heavy ammunition for the flamethrower on the back quickly come to the fore. At least the flasks with water were hanging on their belts. At the very least, as Olga estimated, she could lick the damp walls, where condensation gathered in large drops.

They were saving batteries. They walked by the light of one lantern and two chemistry sticks. Despite the narrowness of the tunnel, every sound echoed muffled, rolling far ahead. The servitor was especially loud, stomping his feet in knee-high lace-up boots, but there was no way to get the mechanized corpse to no so noisy.

Every twenty minutes they took a break, and Olga felt sorry for the Holy Man. After all, while the others were at least symbolically 'resting,' the radio operator tried to establish communication. To a reasonable objection about an obstacle, he answered something about metal structures and old relay outputs. However, it was impossible to communicate all the same.

"Wires are important," the Holy One muttered, twisting the cogs of the settings. "You can make the Gretchin work at a remote location, but in the central hubs, where several relay lines converge. People refuse. Come to think of it, you're sitting at a location where you have several points reaching you, and five or six stations on the same frequency are coming out. Somewhere they broadcast 'unit destroyed,' and when the message reached the receiver in the node, he from several sides synchronously so 'UNIT DESTROYED! And due to the craftiness of the stations, they croak and speak differently, so that the whole chorus is screaming directly into the ears. It's unpleasant in and of itself, and if it's an otherworldly whisper, you might as well put a diaper in your pants."

Olga didn't understand anything, and the radio operator didn't need to. He just needed a silent listener.

"Nothing, silence," muttered the Holy Man. The five minutes of rest were over, and the squad moved on in another march.

The strange journey seemed endless. Olga quickly fell into a heavy, agonizing trance, filled with pain in her back and strained legs. All the time she wished that the straps of the cylinder would finally rip, relieving her of her burden. On the other hand, Bertha could be expected to haul the ammunition by hand anyway. The extreme monotony all around made the sense of time as well as space confused. At times it seemed that many kilometers were left behind and salvation awaited literally in a couple of steps. Then, on the contrary, when we thought that we had probably covered a hundred or two meters, no more.

"And on machinery, it's mandatory to wire communication, like in tanks, when you don't know how to get on the radio. It works, it's proven," the Holy Man kept muttering.

The tunnel went down a slight but noticeable slope the whole time. In the middle, there was a chute with a single rusty rail. Olga walked and remembered the terrifying roar with which the volley of 'Radial' hit the house. Fortunately, at that moment the purifiers had already descended quite deeply. They had only gotten away with ringing in their ears, fear, and a feeling of staggering helplessness. Above, fiery arrows scorched everything, crushing the concrete slabs, and below ground, a handful of deathly frightened people fled from imminent death.

Olga felt very cold, the girl shook her skinny shoulders, despite the weight of the straps.

Fuck the adventures.

Bertha, the Priest, and Kryp were talking about what might have happened in the house, despite the weight. They had to speak in time with their steps, with pauses for breathing in and out. In addition, everyone listened regularly to the underground noise, so the conversation didn't go fast. Fidus quite authoritatively repeated and supplemented the earlier version. Olga did not understand much, because the inquisitor spoke in some professional jargon, well understood by his companions. But the basis was more or less understood.

According to Kryp, some cultists had decided to set up an astral gateway to Immaterialium. Here Bertha argued; in her opinion, it was a teleport to some point on the planet. But Fidus was quick to refute the opinion, referring to some very confusing precedents and nuances, so the mentor agreed, albeit with obvious reluctance.

In order to make it work, the villains organized something like a Faraday cage in reverse. They treated the entire house from bottom to top with unholy spells, 'weakening' its anchoring in Materium. And then they used a three-dimensional antenna, filling the plumbing of the house with some kind of substance. It was essentially the same teleport, only it threw everyone in the house not to some other place, but straight into the local hell, beyond reality.

Oh, my God, thought Olga, in the rhythm of her steps and the bouts of pain in the muscles of her thighs. How do they even have the strength and desire to talk about anything... It would be better if they dragged the heavy burden for the poor weak girl, chatterboxes, and lazy people. The servitor stomped behind her, turning his head as usual with the mechanical precision of a radar.

"All right, the fire won't follow us," said the Wretched Man. "There's nothing to burn here. And the tunnel is long, a draught to the other side."

The disputants, meanwhile, were again polarized. This time the Priest was Fidus' opponent. The monk believed that the purpose of the ritual was to release some kind of energy, some kind of compensation in the style of 'abyss take, abyss give in return. Crip, on the other hand, insisted that it was a sacrifice. The difference Olga did not understand. To her mind, it was all the same whether it was a shovel of coal or an offering. The result was the same - some useful (for the cultists) output. But the inquisitor and the monk saw the difference, so they argued heatedly. The argument, protracted, interrupted by heavy breathing and sniffling, looked rather pathetic, like a duel of the crippled. But the disputants were adamant, each on his own opinion.

"And everyone also asks why I have knitted doormats with Saint Sororitas on them." The Holy Man muttered softly to himself. "And I said to them, 'hang around the walls'. And they said, 'What for?' And I say to them, 'Echo, you fools, in an empty room or vehicle - an echo'. And imagine three radios for three voices, with echo and fading. The Larsen effect, fuck it. You can't tell who's whispering in your ears, if it's alive or if it's not... That's why I've been doing vox alone for the third year. The replacements don't fit in... Do you want to try?"

Olga did not immediately realize that the radio operator had spoken to her. And when she did, she twisted her head in mute denial. On the one hand, the radio was lighter than the cylinder. On the other hand, she was sure that at the critical moment she would be sure to mistake the levers so that later she would certainly be shot for sabotage. And there was not enough voice to shout into the talker constantly and intelligibly in the course of the operation.

"No one wants to," the Holy Man sighed dejectedly. "Well, if you change your mind, just ask."

Here Olga thought that if Kryp was right, and all the inhabitants of the house had passed into the other world, then the toys would no longer find their old masters. How bad! And sad... The unknown, incomprehensible evil in the form of cultists who revere the non-Emperor suddenly became very apparent, took on a real incarnation. A cultist is not an abstraction, but one who drags children to hell. Accordingly, a cultist is very, very bad!

"Someone walked here," Crybaby suddenly interrupted the debate and Olga's sadness. He took a few more steps, then added. "And dragged."

"Take a break," Bertha announced, a minute and a half ahead of schedule. "Show me what you've spotted."

"Here," the flamethrower pointed with his hand in a black, darned glove. "Scratches. And marks."

Indeed, if you looked closely, you could see faint traces on the time-darkened floor. It was as if something heavy had been dragged over the edge, or even angled. And if you looked even more closely, which Berta immediately did by turning on her strongest flashlight. A certain irregularity was apparent. Over the years of desertion, water and mold had left a distinctive film on the floor, but in some places, it seemed smudged, scuffed.

Bertha stepped back ten meters, just in case, to look over the untouched area and compare. The group somehow picked up at once, shrugging off the tired relaxation that had clouded their minds.

"Yes, they did," Berta summarized as she rose from her squat. "Not often, but pretty regularly. A whole trail of footsteps. Or the opposite, a big group of them walked at once."

She turned off the lantern and with a long, wicked look looked on, to where everything lurked in the inky darkness.

"At first they tried to use..." Fidus pointed to the rail. A close look made it clear that a section three meters long had rusted off and exposed dull metal.

"But something must have gone wrong," Kryp stretched thoughtfully, looking up for a change as if he were trying to find a clue there. "Then they dragged it by hand, dropping it occasionally."

"Well, it looks like we know how the heretics break-in," the Priest thought aloud, rubbing his throat.

"They didn't break into it," said Fidus, and then, upon coming to his senses, added more executive deference to his voice. As befits an ordinary novice. "It would take months of work to paint the floors like that. So heretics lived in the house, and the other inhabitants apparently averted their eyes. But all sorts of unseemly things seemed to be delivered to them that way, yes. That's why we opened the hatch easily enough."

"Well, let's go," said Bertha.

And everyone moved on, silently, pulling up. Trying to make less noise and listen very carefully. Olga stared at the cylinder of the Plax flamethrower looming ahead. And, to somehow concentrate, began to imagine in her mind how the ammunition should be changed, step by step. First with a complete change, then a simplified version, when there was no time, with a flip of the hose to a spare cylinder.

Step-by-step. And a little bit more.

The tunnel began to expand noticeably. The ceiling rose to five meters, and then even higher. From time to time there were branches along the sides, fringed by old rusted shoals of brown rust. All of them were carefully piled so that the stones and rubble formed long 'tongues' crawling out of the empty doors.

"Exploded," Kryp reported confidently as he surveyed several such rubbles.

"Obviously," the monk agreed. He wasn't treading as lightly as before. Apparently, the heavy chemical cannon was wearing out even the square and strong man.

"Halt," Bertha ordered again.

Crybaby again emerged as the herald of the new. He slobbered his finger and raised it above his head, then twirled his head, closing his eyes and exposing his face to the intangible streams of air.

"The draft. There's water ahead," he said. "Salt."

"Interesting," muttered the Priest. "A way out to the sea?"

"No," Bertha shook her head. "It's too far. More like an exit to some deep caves that communicate with the ocean. Or even."

She didn't finish, and no one asked. Olga felt sad. She wondered what it could be, if not a cave. But asking directly was somehow... a rather scary thing to ask directly. What if everyone here was supposed to know it? And the hell with it, in any case, she'd have to see it anyway.

"Let's eat," Bertha ordered. "Plus two minutes to break for a snack. And everyone shut up."

An eloquent glance in the direction of the Holy Man clearly showed whom the order referred to.

Everyone hurriedly occupied themselves with the food concentrate - the already familiar to Olga cubes, similar to pressed sugar with the taste of glucose pills. As she finished chewing the solid mass, she noticed that the wind, cold and damp, seemed to have caught her breath. Barely noticeable, but still... Some variety was both intriguing and unsettling.

Time expired, and everyone moved on. The group was exhausted, only the servitor continued to measure his steps with the rhythm of a robot. Olga wanted to ask if the mechanical man was aware of anything. Whether he had any crumbs of memory left, any emotion at all. Is this a Luct, partially transformed into a machine, or is it still a machine, which is traditionally called by a human name?

Another question she put off until better times. Too bad Jennifer the Pinion isn't here to ask her.

The sweet rations had refreshed our energies a bit. A slight draft turned into a breeze that cooled the sweaty faces pleasantly. Everybody became alert at the same time. A presentiment of the end of the journey. Even Olga felt that the cylinder became a little lighter, though it was more likely the sugar in her blood.

"I don't like it," muttered Savlar, barely audible so that Berta wouldn't hear him. The convict's voice squeaked like wet concrete chips under the boots, sounded like a funeral whisper. "We're all going to end up here..."

Steps, endless, perpetual steps... The indiscriminate stride of the small detachment was gradually reduced to a single rhythm, like that of marching soldiers.

"Light," someone suddenly said behind Olga's back, so that the girl crouched in surprise, not even having time to be frightened.

A moment later she realized that it was Fidus's servitor speaking. The servant, neither living nor dead, was speaking for the first time in a voice that sounded almost like a normal person. A solid bass, pleasant enough, but too smooth, without a hint of emotion.

"Hold it right there!" Bertha ordered and asked Kryp half-turned. "What's your tin is talking about?"

Fidus grumbled at such an insult to an almost member of the family, but said aloud:

"He has enhanced optics. He can see the light ahead."

" Got it."

Bertha counted the supply of chemical candles and raised her fist above her head. Everyone armed silently rattled their weapons, checking readiness. Olga pulled her head into her shoulders.

Again she experienced a sharp - and already familiar - a desire to become very, very small.

They had walked thirty yards, maybe more, when the servitor stopped and said again:

"Crying."

"He has microphones," Fidus explained again. "Someone is crying in front."

Hearing about the crying, Olga immediately remembered the moaning in the house, the quiet, bitter wailing coming from some forbidden place. Now, however, she heard nothing of the sort.

"It's a useful tin," remarked Bertha. "We walk quietly, we walk carefully."

The unit moved forward cautiously and slowly. On the one hand, Olga liked it - it was easier to carry the cylinder. On the other hand, no, because every step, no matter how small, brought her closer to the unknown.

"Water," now it was Crybaby's turn to predict. "There's saltwater up ahead. Lots of it."

"Well, fuck," hissed Savlar, who seemed to be exhausted as much as Olga. Despite the extreme aversion harbored towards the noseless man, the girl felt a little pity for the misfit. The convict carried a spare chemical cylinder, which was considered more dangerous than a flamethrower because the infernal mixture ate everything. Including - sometimes - the walls of the vessel and the taps with couplings. To expect a cheerful outlook on the world at such a job would have been strange.

Now even ordinary eyes without any optics could see the light ahead. A regular light, like a standard lamp. A small white dot, getting a little bigger with each step

"The Emperor will not abandon us," Demetrius said, seemingly for the first time during the entire tunnel journey. "Whether it's the light of hope or the final path, it's all in His hand."

The fucking optimist, she thought angrily, shuffling on her tired legs. In the meantime, the pain spread from her lower back to her back, lodged prickly along her spine. Only now Olga notice that Demetrius was also armed. In his hands, the medic was clutching some sort of submachine gun with a long, thick clip.

The light was getting closer, and now everyone could hear... a cry indeed. It was soft and pitiful and very human. Luke clanked his shotgun loudly. He must have taken the safety off, or maybe cocked it. Olga mechanically slowed her steps to get the turreted servitor closer. His multi-barreled mortar gave at least some sense of reassurance, of security.

The crying continued, and Olga felt the barely grown hairs on her head stand on end. No one had walked in this tunnel for years, and if anyone had, it was probably those evil cultists. Where did the usual sobbing man come from? The girl slouched down to take full cover behind the stunted Crybaby, feeling at least a little protected from the rear and the front.

The tunnel ended abruptly, one might say 'suddenly,' and a vast hall opened up ahead. It looked more like a bathhouse with a square pool. The floor was lined with large tiled (or maybe ceramic) slabs, badly beaten and cracked. Similar tiles, only smaller in size, covered the walls, as well as the six rectangular columns that supported the vaulted ceiling. Two mighty vents, which must have been operated by a strongman like Luct, stood at the edge of a knee-high basin. A chain and hook hovered over the standing water, and a little higher was a structure apparently used to lift something heavy and voluminous out of the water.

Olga's consciousness did not want to perceive bad things, so first she looked around the bathing room. As far as she could do it from behind the backs of her colleagues. Then she thought that it looked more like a parking lot for a small submarine. And only after that she did not see, but rather realized, the presence of a man in the hall.

There was a girl of about twelve or fifteen, very thin and dirty, wearing a dirt-gray nightgown, chained to one of the valves - rusty like everything else here. She sat on her knees with her head down, sobbing on the same note, pausing only to breathe.

Olga's first instinctive urge was to rush to the aid. She probably would have done so, but then Luсt's broad, rake-like palm came down on her shoulder.

"Dangerous," the servitor muttered.

Most likely, it would not have stopped the girl, but the interference made it possible to realize that...

Olga wondered what she didn't like about it, what scratched her eye and mind like a small, barely perceptible, but pesky splinter. Well, apart from the fact that no one from the team is in a hurry to help the unfortunate. And she remembered. 'The Call.' That seemed to be the name of that movie. Olga watched it inattentively, on black-and-white TV and with the sound turned down to a minimum so her brother wouldn't hear it. She did not understand the plot well, but she remembered the image of the ghostly drowned woman well. The girl by the pool reminded her of a TV creeper. The same shirt, grayed with water and mud, the same long tangled hair covering her face.

Olga crouched lower so that she was now literally looking out from under Crybaby's arm.

The girl raised her head as if only now she noticed the unexpected guests. No, her face was very ordinary, with slightly distorted proportions. But Olga was already used to that; every planet in the Empire had its own original faces. Around her eyes were darkening in wide circles, her eyelids were red, and so was her nose. The girl sobbed, choking back tears.

"Help," she whispered, and her voice echoed, reflecting off the water and the high ceiling. The water in the pool was slightly illuminated as if lanterns were burning below.

"Help me, please," the girl repeated. "They'll be back soon... They..."

She lowered her head, clearly in hopeless terror of the Cultists' imminent visit, her dark hair pulled back like a curtain, hiding her face again.

"And we know this trick," said Fidus suddenly, almost merrily, like a man who has unraveled an evil prank.

"A trap," stated the Priest.

You're all crazy! Olga wanted to wail, and suddenly it occurred to her. How long has this poor child been sitting here? Judging by the general filthiness, quite a while. Long hours, perhaps days. And all that time she wept? As someone who had repeatedly cried bitterly and hopelessly, Olga knew that the voice was not long enough. A person fairly quickly begins to either howl or wail quietly.

"Help me, please. They'll be back soon... They..."

It was like deja vu, the same tone, the same words, the same sequence of movements. Olga was ready to swear that the girl on the chain was a living person, but she acted like a puppet, programmed to a clear sequence of actions.

"For us?" Bertha quietly clarified, she seemed to acknowledge that in some aspects Fidus knew much more than any other novice in the unit.

"Perhaps," Kryp said just as quietly. "But most likely on anyone who happens to be here. It's not really a trap, more of a watchman. Come on. It might be booby-trapped."

The sobbing stopped, like the flick of a switch. The girl lifted her head again and looked - looked very carefully! - at the company. Her eyes were now a glossy black, with iridescent sparkles in the depths, just like the glowing liquid in the faucets of a burned-down house.

For some reason Olga expected the chain girl to say something, but she was silent. For a few moments, she stared unblinking at the squad. The Priest lowered his chemical cannon with a rustling drive, aiming from behind the Sinner's shoulder.

The sufferer's face blurred, like a plasticine mask under a blast of air from a hairdryer. The lower eyelids drooped, twisting outward, and the corners of her mouth crept upward and to the side, turning her mouth into a frog's mouth, grinning in a parody of a smile. The nose slanted to the side as if it were pulling into the face. The white skin was rapidly expanding with boils and sores, and pus dripped onto the tiles.

"Get back," commanded Bertha. "Sinner, get ready!"

Everything happened very quickly, in a matter of seconds, and yet Olga perceived the picture clearly, in all the details, as if she were watching a video in slow motion.
The dark hair partly fell out, falling to the tiles as a dirty washcloth, partly pulled back into the balding head. The trap girl's forehead stretched forward, and her eyes grew following its movement, turning into enormous faceted burls. The lower jaw snapped off easily, hung on shreds of melting skin, then dropped with a chuckle. Articulated tentacles as long as a finger crawled out of the upper jaw, each ending in a sharp claw.

The creature, it could no longer be called human. It dropped to all fours, its arms moved lower, shifting to the middle of its ribcage, and two thin Tyrannosaur-like paws ripped into its shirt and skin beneath its collarbones. The palms and feet lengthened, and the toes fused together to form insect-like paws. In a few moments, the unfortunate child was transformed into something that looked more like a giant fly without wings than anything else.

"Burn!" commanded Bertha, and Sinner pulled the trigger.
* * *

RiP · Nov 21, 2021

Chapter 14
* * *
Three days before X day...
* * *
'Kowalski' proved to be an extremely fast ship. Leaving Immaterium forty-three point and eighty-one hundredths of a standard hour later than the main convoy, the heavy transport cruiser, however, arrived first in high orbit of 140101-55524-R54024-52928P10.

"Nice ship, captain," Doturov said in a low voice of praise. "However, according to the maneuver decision, 'Kowalski' has yet to correct the gravity maneuver at the planet's smaller satellite."

"According to the official tactical sheet, our four plasma engines develop an acceleration of 3.35 g. However, in a test near Uranus, I passed the Jupiter with 3.92 g afterburner, two-hundredths of a second faster than the 'Secutor' light cruiser that accompanied us."

As requested, a recording appeared on the main holo-screen, judging by the metadata, made by the Imperial Fleet's 'Sekutor' itself. The auspices nonchalantly recorded the 'Kowalski,' lowering her bow relative to her acceleration vector and lifting her stern like an Eldar 'Sigil'. Trembling with every rivet and fluttering about thirty meters against the aft deck, she went farther and farther away until she was lost in the Milky Way.

"Your capabilities definitely inspire the crew and glorify Omnissiah not by word, but by deed."

"Our cruiser is the best ship to have come off the slipway of the Ring in the past five centuries. We are all proud to serve on it, and we praise Omnissiah and Mars tirelessly for this honor."
In many aspects, Doturov agreed with the Voidmancer. However... Imperial Fleet data regarding 'Kowalski' for some reason was missing in the data bank of the current operation Lexik Arcanus. In the part about the cruiser's testing, the only audiovisual files were present. A recording of the protocols. On it, the tech-priest Captain Vallièr, flashing a necklace of red lenses, told Navis Nobilite representative Alejandro Dodson that the test of the Kowalski had not even shown half its capabilities. Moreover, the captain boasted humanly that had the fast destroyers escorted 'Kowalski' the transport cruiser would have shown what she was really capable of, outrunning 'Hunter' or even 'Cobra'. But since it was common knowledge that their propulsion groups provided acceleration over 7 g, the Logis of Parliament labeled the captain's statement as blatant bragging and atavistic tribute to 'meat' origins.

However, judging by the remarks in the tactical form and the condescension of Vallier, the Logises was no less proud of the transport cruiser's marvelous machines - visible embodiments of the Gifts of Omnissia.

In the metadata of the Doturov files immediately appeared a code flag marker, which would have required the computing power of an entire hive city to decipher.

Active ed0c3fa - suspicious.

"Incomplete selectively entered data. The information is corrected to demonstrate Vallier's incompetence. How could something like this happen?' Monitor Malevolis was supremely intrigued, the good news is that the internal dialogue between him and Doturov could not even be recorded, much less intercepted. "Data compromised in the Ring's data banks is considered impossible."

"Apparently, the records were distorted during the tests, before the cruiser returned to Mars. But we'll find out, for sure."

"Not an easy task."

"Omnissiah is the Truth, and all information is a particle and reflection of Him. Information can be distorted, but it cannot be destroyed. Even single bits, collected at random, retain information about the source of origin. This means that parliament, one way or another, will gather comprehensive data on the asset that made the substitution."

"Techno-heretic? Sabotage?"

"Unlikely. It is more likely that the asset belongs to Temple of Vanos."

"In that case..."

"At this point, we will not waste resources on processing an identified incident. We will lose the necessary accuracy of the cognitive models if we consider, among other things, the possible costs of countering unlikely actions of the Officio Assassinorum. This task will be prioritized at the end of the current operation."

Perseus Theta refrained from a further argument, not because he was suppressed by the authority of the superior logis, but because Doturov was right.

I'll think about this [cruiser test mishap/causes/consequences] tomorrow, Doturov noted in his private log.

"I should check the readiness for the landing of Adeptus Mechanicus forces, required on 140101-55524-R54024-52928P10 Voidmancer-Captain Valler," he reported upon completion of this operation.

"Are you leaving 'Kowalski' already?" the captain asked.

"Unfortunately for the Ain Legion, no. There is an authorization from Fabricator-General Magnos Omicron to place twelve 'Dogs of War' of the Legion under my command."
The captain's optical sensors gleamed coldly in the shifting light of the holograms.

"Magos Militar Divisio will be furious," said Valier as a matter of fact.

"More than that," Doturov agreed.

"No," Magos Militar Fromm was adamant.

The other four senior officers of the legion remained silent.

"Under the circumstances, the Fabricator-General and the Mars Parliament made a timely and justified decision," Malevolis reported. "Your unwillingness to accept it is regrettable."

"I cannot allow the Militaris Ain Division to lose a third of its reconnaissance vehicles at a time. The Legion is heading for Sabbat Worlds, where it will operate independently and without regular support from the Forge. That is, any damage of any kind will prove critical and put the titan out of action for a long time. Actions in the highly urbanized industrial areas of the suburban Dworkin hive zone are themselves extremely difficult. The effectiveness of orbital surveillance is below acceptable limits and without reconnaissance vehicles adequate control of tactical units is impossible."

"Fabricator-General Magnos Omicron does not share such fears."

"The Fabricator-General is not in command of my Militar Division!" Fromm barked. "He supplies it and nothing more! I can't take orders like that as anything other than a betrayal. Or worse, a mistake."

"When I left Mars to carry out my tasks," said Monitor Malevolis after a lingering pause, "I was annoyed. The Fabricator General, I thought, was just taking up my time. And not only from me but also from himself. And the wasted time is an irrational waste of a scarce resource. Information that is not processed. Orders that are not given. Tasks that are not completed. After all, any Mechanicus will unquestioningly carry out the Omnissiah's instructions, isn't that obvious? I will now be forced to apologize to the Fabricator General for my faulty judgment."

"You don't share my belief, Logis." Fromm continued to stand his ground. "Do you find my choice of epithets too harsh?'

"I'm afraid, Magos Militar, you have a somewhat distorted view of the situation. Your legion has been in battle too long, and isolation affects the flow of information and the adequacy of assessment. Need I remind you, a senior officer of the Collegium Titanic, that the interests, trials, and tribulations of a single Militar Division are infinitesimal in the real threat of supply cuts to hundreds of besieged planets in the Sabbat Worlds?"

"When was the last time you were in combat, Logis?" Fromm answered question after question.

"What does this have to do with you not obeying Mars' orders?"

"The very direct. Please, Logis, answer me."

"I suppose you are well aware that I am a member of the Lexicon Arcanus of the Parliament. We don't usually get directly involved in combat."

"I am Magos Militar Divisio of the Legion of the Collegium Titanica Ain," the war machine lord listed with dignity. "It's been three hundred years. Perhaps I am not the best at the logistics part. I may not have studied the latest advances in global strategy well. But I am well versed in the nature of war, the doctrines of warfare, and the delicate relationship between the actions of the Venator and Myrmidon manipuli that determine the legion's effectiveness. Your order deprives me of three full-fledged Venato manipuli This is unacceptable!"

"Re-staff the Legion. Disband two Ferrox Manipuli, reduce four Venator units by one machine."

"Have you ever heard of the combat coherence of manipuli, Logis? I quote: 'Isolation distorts perception". Isolation means seclusion, detachment from the outside world, and you are partly right. But - and this is the most important thing - you have to keep in mind that there are several worlds, each subject to its own laws and conditions."

"Explain."

"Mars and the cares of Parliament are one world. The convoys of the St. Evisser Path, the battlefields of the Sabbat Worlds are another world, quite unlike Mars. In essence, you are completely isolated from the universe where the Legion of Ain exists. We are not adapted to operate effectively in the conditions that your order creates. This is an objective fact."

"Adeptus Mechanicus can and does adapt to any conditions. Humanity has had to adapt throughout our history to survive. And we, though the best part of the race, leading the others to future greatness, are still only a part."

"It takes time! A great deal of time. With the cost of our equipment, the goodness of the spirits of the machines, and the importance on the battlefield, the cost of making a mistake and losing every titan is absolutely unacceptable! Combat cohesion of groups can take years, decades, a process impossible to squeeze into the six months remaining before landing on Dvorkin. Neither the mind of the crews nor the Spirits of the Godlike Titans Machines can withstand it!"

"You grievously underestimate the flexibility and incredible strength of the Mechanicus armies. They can certainly withstand such tests with honor. Millennia of victorious campaigns against hordes of all kinds of opponents is a testament to that."

"As an occasional decision in the face of overwhelming influences, yes, perhaps. But I do not consider your whim to be the factor for which the rules and foundations consecrated over the centuries must be broken. The answer has been given, Monitor Malevolis, and that answer is no."

"Response recorded," the signal went off the air at the same time as the confirmation. "Magos Militar Divisio Fromm is suspended from command."

"Techno-heretic on deck!" cried Fromm. "Arrest!"

The five secutarii guarding the legion's command instantly raised their arc pistols as a unit. However, the barrels were pointed in the direction of the commander of the legion, now former.

"My orders have been coordinated with Adeptus Terra and confirmed by the Fabricator-General of Mars," Malevolis stated. "You forget yourself, Magos Fromm. The command of the Ain Legion rests with Grandmaster Stark. Magos Fromm will be landed on the planet. His actions will be reviewed by the Mechanicus tribunal within a reasonable time."

Grandmaster Stark exchanged short encrypted messages with the rest of the Legion officers and reported:

"We will coordinate a list of allocated under the command of Monitor Mallevolis 'Dogs of War' within three standard hours and submit it for approval. Nevertheless, I want to point out that for me, as commander of the Collegium Titanic compound, the most important thing is its maximum combat effectiveness. Some Magos are truly indispensable away from the worlds of Adeptus Mechanicus. The knowledge and experience of the Magos Militar Divisio in a future campaign is an indispensable resource."

Perseus Theta pondered. To cancel his own order was to show the haste in the decisions of the authorized representative of Mars. On the other hand, efficiency is paramount. Humans can put personal ambition above expediency, but the servants of Omnissiah never do.

"I would agree that the return of the Ain Legion to its permanent base should be considered a reasonable deadline," Theta said. "Upon completion of the campaign in the Sabbat Worlds. The tribunal will be organized by the Fabricator-General Magnos Omicron. The possible future merits of Magos Fromm shall be taken into account as mitigating circumstances in determining his guilt and degree of responsibility. In the name of Omnissiah!"

"In the name of God Machine!"

Eighteen hours later, Perseus Theta stood in the huge hangar of the planet's central port, dedicated to the needs of Mechanicus. The unloading of the twelve titans was nearing completion.
The dismissal of the crew of one of the combat vehicles caused the princepses to react similarly to Fromm's behavior, but this time it was Doturov who led the conversation. Perhaps that's why the result was less confrontational. The princeps and moderator eventually found humility and also agreed to go to the reserve, in case one of the crews might be lost while keeping the titan repairable - unfortunately, not a very rare situation for scouts.

The machine Doturov needed was in a separate section. Apart from the servitors, the only person on board was the tech-priest, who was bringing the machine's energy heart out of sleep mode.
"Lexik Arcanus, I don't understand - what is the point of landing a Titan that is devoid of the crew and cannot act? A Machine Spirit can't operate a Titan on its own."
Doturov, who shifted his personality back to the databank, responded not even technolinguistically, but through a primitive pictograph:

Watch.

In the next moment, the Litany of the God-Machine filled the space.

Very, very few people could sense - not even understand, but simply notice - the divine code, and Perseus Theta was one of them. Lines of ancient hexacode, sometimes almost in natural languages, filled the hangar space, penetrated to the very core of consciousness, filling the machine memory. Logis even attempted to comprehend the chanted algorithm, but could not get beyond the approximations of the distributed loads of the Holy Cyber Prophecies of Kleinrock. His mind was vainly picking up individual self-similar rivers of numbers, M/M/V time exponents, but the Truth was no longer whole. It fractured and eluded the imperfect mind of Perseus Thet, whose sub-processors choked, unable to process even a thousandth of the data that was thrust upon them.

It was some time before Logis Theta realized he had fallen to the steel floor, like a mechanical puppet, devastated, without power. Around him, the servitors whose primitive circuits simply failed to notice the digital Revelation that Doturov had seemingly bestowed upon all who were nearby, scurried obediently about.

The weight of his imperfection made Perseus want to cry out like Terran dogs for a moment. The ensuing realization of such a primitive impulse that desecrated the very essence of Adeptus Mechanicus put Logis in a long stupor. A less organized thinking apparatus would likely have been permanently incapacitated, but the Mars School of Logis taught its adepts the mysteries of an adequate description of states through tensor analysis under subliminal stresses. It took the mechanic a few minutes to break down the established topology of his mind and, with the aid of the blessed mechanisms of fuzzy logic, examine in isolation each node of the 'Perseus Theta' consciousness model in operation, bringing back clarity of thought. Simplifying the operation to an insulting primitive, we can say that Theta has 'come to his senses'.

And then he felt real, genuine terror.

The Titan standing before him was dead. Outwardly the divine machine, the physical embodiment of Omnissia's will - a small, insignificant part of His will - was the same as before, aboard the 'Kowalski. But. A particle of the Divine Will, a blessed gift of the Forge, embodied by hundreds of tons of sacred metal. A will that glides through the onboard cogitators and systems, from the reactor logic controllers to the combat auspices sensors. The very essence of a battle Titan, so powerful that few can match and cooperate with it. It's all gone.

The Spirit Machine of the 'Dog of War', the thing that turned dead iron into a child of Omnissiah, no longer existed.

Logis wouldn't be able to explain at this point how he realized it. He couldn't articulate what had changed in the info field. The onboard servitors were still plugged into their sockets, performing the proper rituals to bring the plasma reactor back to normal. The infodiodes at the princeps' throne signaled that the auspices had successfully passed the basic tests. The maintenance tech-priest - not the former crew, of course - was doing routine work on the turbo laser. But in a split second, the Titan was no longer the visible embodiment of God. He turned into an enormous walker, a senselessly overcomplicated wrench. A posthumous shadow of what he had been twelve minutes and forty-three seconds before.

Malevolis froze, unable to fully comprehend and perceive the monstrous sacrilege committed before his eyes. The infinite betrayal of the lamb, which is the machine spirit in front of Omnissiah.

"Connect the databank to the moderators consoles."

The instruction was repeated several times before the devastated logis realized that Doturov was speaking to him through a closed encryption channel. And a few more incredibly long seconds to understand the meaning of the message.

"Why?"

Lexicus Arcanus was patient because he understood well the suffering that filled Theta's soul. To realize that what had happened was not a sacrilege, a trampling on the foundations of the Mechanicus cult, but an act of true faith required flexibility of thought not constrained by the dogmatism of outdated interpretations or the emptiness of tradition. And, admittedly, the young Logis was still doing quite well.

"The universe does not tolerate emptiness, and the incarnation of God-Machine must not remain deprived of a spark of His will. Watch. Learn. Think. Execute."

The Martian servitors that had arrived with 'Kowalski' were fine-tuned, and their firmware interpreted even complex commands adequately. Two hundred and eighty-three seconds later a logis-operated forklift carefully placed the metal and plastic cube of the databank on the frontal slope of the Titan and secured it with electromagnetic clamps.
Logis Theta was so immersed in the Fuzzy Sets Litaire that he did not immediately notice the new request he received from Doturov.

"Do you understand what happened?"

"The Spirit of the Divine Titan 'Dog of War' scheme Mars Type Four, code XVII-1441, name 'Kronover' was destroyed by the will of the Mars Parliament."

It took a few seconds for Perseus Theta's answer to contain not even a shadow of his worry and horror.

"How exactly?"

"Litany of God."

"Explain."

Logis had to spend another minute to reconstruct at least fragments of the algorithms picked up by his sensors overloaded Omnissiah code.

"Fractal method. Self-similarity of induced traffic in the data stream. Inconsistency of Titan's network elements with the generated model led to chaos in dynamic control systems."

"And?" Doturov's hexacode looked... approvingly?

"Application of the fractal theory instead of graph theory led to unjustified overloading of the model, and as a consequence, inconsistency of the results of the Spirit of the Machine representation with the real behavior of the network of onboard cogitators. Unsteady data flow with significant fluctuations in time... I have to do the math. I do not have enough capacity of my own to respond in a reasonable time."

"This is generally true. The necessary calculations were done before the Great Schism. I used the standard annihilation pattern."

The standard pattern of machine spirit destruction... It was so monstrous that Theta almost went into a new cycle of deep introspection and recovery.

"But why?!" Malevolis understood that it was not the cold logic of the Omnissiah way that ruled him now, but the animal nature of the human basis. And yet he could not contain his emotions.

"Why the need for such... destruction schemes?!"

"There are millions of Forges in the galaxy. Millions of worlds, day and night with signal, genome, and steel, praising the Trinity. Tens of thousands of Fabricator Generals lead their flock on the path of Omnissiah. But only one speaks for all Adeptus Mechanicus. One world. One path. One Fabricator General."

"One world..." Theta repeated.

"This is the real power of Mars. The unquestionable, unconditional, true power of the Temple of All Knowledge. We can crush any threat, destroy any techno-heresies, win any dispute. For we know their nature, their structure, their methods. Any, the most elaborate scheme of the enemies of Omnissiah will be but a travesty of its gifts. Everything that the distorted mind of heretics can create is already predetermined and counted, and therefore can be destroyed by the will of Omnissiah."

"I... I should think about it..."

"For a better understanding, familiarize yourself with the concept of the 'simia Dei' from Ancient Terra history."

"Yes, I'll do it... But why?!" Theta couldn't stand it anymore. "Why was the Spirit of the Titan killed?"

"Only one consciousness should exist in one body. Any semblance of 'reflexes' would create unnecessary risks."

Around the Throne of the Princeps and the cockpits of the moderator scattered lights of the control panels and holographic monitors. The reactor was successfully launched.

"But for the tasks to come, this is the incarnation I need now. If it endures the trials, the Spirit of the Machine will be restored in it."

The electromagnets shut down at the same time as the moderator cables slipped out of the cantilever connectors. The cockpit covers fell with a rumble, covering the empty cockpit with hundreds of kilograms of flawless armor born in the smelters of Magnos Omicron. The databank cube collapsed with a rumble onto the concrete slabs of the hangar, empty and useless, stripped of its precious contents.

In the semi-darkness of the hangar, the greenish glow of the Kranover's eyes slowly flared.

"IN THE NAME OF ADEPTUS MECHANICUS AND TO THE GLORY OF THE GOD MACHINE!!!" Titan's binary roar echoed through the infofield.

"In his name," Theta exhaled reverently, falling to his knees, realizing that he was now admitted to something beautiful, delightful in the perfection of truth.
* * *

RiP · Nov 23, 2021

Chapter 15
Now...

* * *
Everything happened quickly, and at the same time, Olga again saw what was happening as if perception accelerated many times. The blue glow of the fuse, the soft click of the flamethrower's trigger opening the valve. The sharp smell of acetone hits the nose, misting the head - no gas mask.

The clap of the ignited oxygen-enriched promethium-based fire mixture slammed in the ears, sounding like a stretched 'v-v-v-voo-uuuuuuuuuuu!!!'. Even from the wagon briefing, Olga remembered that this was the most dangerous moment in flamethrowing - the first ejection from the 'cold' barrel. The propellant may not ignite immediately, and when it does ignite, due to evaporation it will be analogous to a small thermobaric charge. Not much, but enough for the operator and everyone who will be nearby. It is a design flaw, deliberately made to pay for the non-fixed ejection (i.e. it pours as long as you pull the lever) and the ability to keep the gun at ready for hours.

This time it worked properly. A jet of a whitish liquid, hitting under the blue tongue of the igniter, instantly flashed orange-yellow. The fiery flash dazzled for a moment so that Olga squeezed her eyes shut and did not see how the exhaust covered the sentinel insectoid. When the girl opened her eyes, the creature had already rushed forward silently and with terrifying force. The still-transforming flesh caught fire, dropping hot droplets like plastic on fire or a candle over a fire. The remnants of her hair turned to ash, her skin dripping in sizzling streams, revealing gray muscles.
The human fly had turned into a veritable torch in a couple of moments, but it didn't seem to hurt its fighting ability.

The chain broke at once. Or maybe that's what it was intended for - to hold the weak human form of the guardian, but in case of an emergency allow the fighting incarnation to break free. The six-legged blob of fire hovered in a mighty leap. And Olga caught a powerful flashback. Almost, in the same way, the monster from the 'Ballistic' jumped on the three-meter 'astartes'. That one was stronger than the entire squad combined, but it lost the fight. So now it's all clever, too.

Olga staggered backward and hit her back painfully - the gas cylinder hit Luct, hard and unmovable like a stone rolled in concrete. The flaming creature leaped in one leap - just like an insect - to cover most of the distance from the vent to the group. It crouched on its supporting paws, ready to burst into formation.

The mighty servitor extended his arm forward as if pointing at the beast, and the ugly head with its faceted eyes exploded. At first, Olga saw a tear and a fountain of dark slime, which instantly caught fire. It was as if gasoline was flowing through the monster's veins instead of blood. And then the sound of a shotgun blast slammed into her ears and stunned her completely.

The many-legged figure was still moving, even trying to move, but aimlessly, apparently on reflexes. Only now did the monster make some sort of sound, the first since the transformation. It was more like a loud whistling exhale, bursting through the flames. And, as if to answer the call, the water in the pool boomed. Dark splashes came over the high rims, splashing against the tiles.

"Back off!" The Mentor tossed, and there was no need to explain. It was clear to everyone that holding the defense in the tunnel was much easier, with one flamethrower for each side and order. Olga did not hear the command but moved with the others.

The Priest snorted as if to clear his throat, but perhaps in contempt of the enemy. Retreating, he quickly twisted the valve on the cannon, adjusted the pressure, and raised the barrel. Olga did not see the look of anguish on Savlarz's face and the pained anticipation of something extremely bad. What happened next was something that might have seemed amusing, if not for the circumstances. The Priest shot a thin stream of acid in a steep arc, just like a naughty boy pissing over a fence. And it hit, and on the first try, causing an immediate effect.

The water hit a real fountain, with such force that it tore some parts from the crane structure above the pool. From beneath the black and bubbling surface came a terrible sound, low and lurid. It was as if an infrasound generator had been turned on somewhere in the depths. A growl broke through even Olga's temporary deafness, resonating with every bone in her skull. The Priest yelled something and kept pouring acid into the pool. Apparently, whoever (or whatever) was trying to get out of there didn't like it at all.

"The Emperor," said Fidus quietly and clearly, who was the first to notice how the fat-smelling carcass of the insectoid was engulfed in a bluish-green flame, like the firing of a wire. Then strange symbols exploded in the smoky, foul-smelling air. They flashed for literally a split second, dancing like mischievous flames of acid colors. The next moment, it was as if the lights had been turned off for the entire squad.

And then turned it back on.

Olga fell to her knees, stunned and blinded. A cramp tied her esophagus in a knot, but there was nothing left for nausea, not even stomach acid. There was only a wheezing exhalation as if the soul was tearing itself out, no longer willing to endure the ordeal of the body.

"The Emperor is with us, the Emperor is with us, the Emperor is with us," the monk muttered like a frenzied. Bertha simply yelled, restoring at least some semblance of discipline and order.

"Get up..."

Kryp's voice came very muffled, from a distance but still, it penetrated Olga's clouded consciousness. And it seemed to her that everything around had become too bright and radiant. Is
everything on fire already?

"Get up!!!"

She was yanked to her feet like a feather. Maybe Luct, maybe Fidus, who was no weakling. He was two meters tall, the big guy should have been given a cylinder. Fucking bastards, they found a weak girl to load with heavy iron...

A firm hand prevented Olga from falling, acting as a desirable and precious fulcrum.

"Stand still, take a breath."

No, it seems to be Fidus. Luct mechanically reloaded the barrel with precise movements.

The girl breathed and blinked as commanded. Then she looked around and gasped.

"Kryptman!" yelled Bertha. "What demons?!"

"Teleportation..." Cripe said clearly, military-style. "Part of the guard system, I think."

"I don't get this shit!"

In a few chopped phrases, Kryp explained that in the pool hall the uninvited guests were waited for by a combined guard system, powered by some 'well into warp. If the mutating beast failed, it triggered a teleport that tossed the intruders out to who knows where. Probably along with the rest of the inhabitants of the house. But something went wrong. Or right.
In sum, so far everyone is alive, but it's not clear and probably not for long.

While Fidus was spouting off a quick sentence, Olga looked around frantically, trying to understand why everything had changed so drastically. Someone's dramatic voice overrode Fidus' report with a shriek:

"This is not the Ice Port!"

And then Olga realized - yes, it's anything but a snowy planet of eternal winter.

Most of all the new landscape reminded one of American movies from the eighties about the apocalypse and life in the ruins of civilization. Not total destruction, but a kind of natural decay like Escape from New York. That is, the city itself seems to be intact, but it has fallen into decay, depopulated and is rapidly being destroyed by its natural course.

The squad was thrown into an alley between two brick houses, each ten stories high. The lower levels are boarded up with planks of real wood. Another indication that this is not Ice Harbor. The wood is musty, rotten, and moldy, which means it was nailed up a long time ago. Next to the squadron is a rusted boxcar with a streamlined shape, coming from the fifties, when everyone tried to show it like a rocket. All that was left of the car was metal and remnants of synthetics, and the rest had turned into a crumbly mass. Frames of what looked like advertising signs or screens hung from rusty brackets on the grimy walls. They were scratched with shards of murky brown glass, like the ones in the blind windows.

The alley was very dirty, most of the garbage, from paper to torn bags, piled up in clumps like cowslips. And Olga didn't notice anything that looked like vegetation. No fallen leaves, no grass, not even moss. The only slimy mold that looked like snot. And if it's been abandoned for a long time, there should be a lot of flora around... But there isn't any, though the humidity is so damp that if you hang out wet laundry, it will rot before it dries.

A flash of rage lit up Olga's brain - when will it all end!!! Again the witchcraft, again the incomprehension all around! It shouldn't be like this! It's all tiresome!

"Fuck the evil!" The girl growled muffled into the high collar of her jumpsuit, just to express her attitude to everything that was going on. By 'evil' Olga meant the Squad too, thanks to which she was once again unknowingly and definitely in danger.

"You are pious, sister," the Holy Man appeared to hear and approve. "Keep this way!."

Olga pressed her lips into a string, holding back the bursting out of a precise, exhaustive, and very colorful definition of exactly where the girl saw Witchcraft, the Squad, the Imperium, the Emperor, and piety at the same time.

"We came into the house in the evening," thought aloud the Wretched Man. "So it must be night now. Maybe it's early morning. And here it looks like evening. But we haven't walked all that much..."

Fidus looked at his watch and remained silent.

"It's not our planet," Savlar squeaked out in a droopy voice, sniffing loudly with a nose hole.

'Maybe just a different time zone," Kryp encouraged.

"There's no landscape like that on the Port!" Savlar cried out in despair.

"So the 'pocket' is local, inconspicuous. I don't think it's another planet. The teleport worked too quickly and carefully."

"If you wet your pants again, I'll shoot you, panic-stricken," Bertha promised as she shoved her mega-gun under the convict's absent nose. He shut up.

"It's not Warp, that's good," the monk said, spinning on the spot with the chemical cannon at the ready. Demetrius, showing 'his fiercest grin,' jerked the slide of the submachine gun, sending the unused round flying in a long flight. The brass cylinder jingled, rolling over the dirty asphalt until it stopped in a puddle of some kind of yellow-pink splotches. In time with the tinkling of the metal, soft laughter rang out high above our heads and farther away, like crystal bells.

The group closed in, barrels bristling in every direction. The smell of toxic chemicals from the recent volleys of flamethrower and chemical cannon was literally suffocating, tearing at my nasopharynx. Luke panted as if he were preparing for a brisk run, oxygenating his tissues beforehand. Olga, as the shortest and most non-combatant, found herself in the middle of the formation. In addition, frightened crouched down, so that for a few moments could not see anything because of the wide backs and heads. And someone continued to chuckle merrily high up.

"Sorcery," Demetrius whispered, and the Wretched Man cursed softly but floridly.

"Definitely," Kryp said, as if someone was asking him.

" Oh, what cute boys visited me," the invisible one reported cheerfully. The voice sounded strange as if it were double - first, it appeared in my mind, by itself, and then, with a tiny delay, it manifested itself more traditionally.

"Oh, and there are girls among you too! What a nice and pleasant company!"

Olga finally straightened up more or less. She lifted her head, stood up on tiptoe to look over her colleagues' shoulders... And she saw that one of the old, long blackened panels had sparkled with lights. As if someone's magic hand had carved a beautiful portrait and placed it in a squalid frame. Beautiful, but most importantly, alive.

Olga had never seen anything like this before. At least here, in the future. Televisions were plentiful here, but very primitive, like the Soviet classics. Only worse in every way. There was also holographic projection, many times better, but it was very rare. To all appearances, it cost some unrealistic amount of money, and in addition, it could only be operated by 'cogs'. Here in the old frame shone and shimmered amazingly clear, three-dimensional picture, which seemed to be three-dimensional, despite the apparent 2D. Moreover, with each second of viewing the image was getting closer, becoming deeper, more three-dimensional, literally drawing the attention and gaze of the observer.

It was portrayed there... Olga had never been a prude and the situation and the preceding events did not dispose to embarrassment. But looking at the bright rectangle, the girl felt that the heat rolled from her toes and higher, up to the tips of her ears, which were about to burn through the orange plastic helmet.

It was some kind of crazy collage, a string of images that couldn't even be called hard porn. A merry-go-round of static images and short clips, literally four or five seconds long, flowed into each other with a smooth rhythm that was surprisingly in harmony with the heartbeat and the natural movements of the eyes. The images seemed surprising, prohibitively vile, the brutal violence was the mildest form, flowing into overt snuff and interspecies bonding. But...

Olga had never practiced photography, so she could not express in words that the categorical abomination was created with a prohibitive, inhuman skill. The light, the foreshortening, the camera movement, the movements of the models, the people themselves, not quite people and categorically not people who were captured by the dispassionate gaze of the lens... She could only feel herself being drawn in by a video extravaganza that went as far beyond pornography as the sea surpassed a puddle. It had gone out in every sense, from the ingenious editing to the utter gloom of the 'plots'.

She wanted, at last, to throw off the burden, sit down on the hood of the rusty car, and take a closer look, to understand how it was done. How did the sketchy scenes of unbelievable perversion and savage sadism look like a divine revelation, images of the high painting? Why the grimaces of horrifying pain on the faces of delightful 'models' border on smiles of incredible pleasure, succeeding each other in harmonious perfection.

First, the world cracked and exploded, then came the pain, not lovely and decadent as in the mystical video, but down-to-earth, real, and very nasty.

"Wake up!" Kryp commanded, rubbing the palm with which he had slapped the girl. The Inquisitor looked very pale, just as he had when he was dying of terrible injuries.

"It's an illusion!" Fidus shouted, giving generous kicks mixed with slaps. Olga shook her head and saw that she was not the only one caught in the illusionary net by the attractive disgust. The other squads, just like Olga, flinched at Kryp's blows, twirled their heads, and generally looked like people who had awakened from a dream, but their minds were still in the bonds of a nightmare.
"Wake up! Wake up!" yelled the inquisitor, slapping at Savlar's noseless face, who rolled his eyes and settled down on his knees, folding his hands like a penitent sinner. The convict waved absurdly away, muttering something like a somnambulist.

Fuck, thought Olga, rubbing her throbbing temples. He reads poetry! A convict face, all masquerading as an experienced prisoner, who stay strict on prison ways and had not escaped except the Alcatraz. Yes, he was reciting poems of great and bright love in an almost prayerful ecstasy. And he was good at it, damn it! Like a man who has been polishing his pronunciation and syllable for years. I guess he was not deceived by the first impression that Savlar was not really a seasoned up convict, not at all...

"Break it! Smash it!" Kryp yelled at the top of his voice.

Bertha's cannon shot hurt her ears almost as much as Kryp's palm. The live screen failed after the third shot, showering a rainbow of splinters. Each one fell slowly, like fluff, and each one became a different picture, defiantly hideous and delightfully beautiful. Each beckoned and promised and showed...

The Priest spun the valve, switching the gun to a wide spray. He praised the Emperor and pulled the lever, spraying the mirage with a fountain of smoke like a shower nozzle. The sorcerer's shards died slowly, blurring in blotches of every color of the rainbow, falling to the dirty pavement, glowing like little drops of sunshine. And yet it died.

"Oh, our God the Emperor," someone murmured in shock, seemingly a Holy Man.

But the Sinner did something quite simple. He took a knife and poked out his left eye, which had seduced his master with demonic temptations. He would have gladly got rid of the right one as well, but his duty demanded that he remain combat-ready, and a blind man is not a warrior. Olga, however, did not see the penitential self-torture, for she was looking at the figure that lurked behind the mirage.

She had been here from the beginning, but she was lost in the glitter of high-fashion pornography. A thin female figure, as if carved out of crystal, dressed in something weightless and as crystal-sparkling. A silhouette that makes you think of Disney fairies, it seems that now the dragonfly wings will open and carry the enchanting creature away.

"Well, the mirror is broken. You are so boring..."

The glow obscured her facial features, but her tone left no doubt - the 'fairy' pouted capriciously.

"Go away," the Priest demanded sternly but did not hurry to spray acid.

" Ay-yi-yi-yi, a corpse servant," the 'fairy' reproached, and her voice rang even more invitingly, even more charmingly. Olga had never felt a predilection for her own gender, but at that moment she wanted to embrace and kiss the crystal enchantress with a, not at all sisterly kiss. Judging by the companions' needy breathing, the sorcery had got everyone hooked. She wanted to fall to her knees and start worshipping the 'fairy'.

"You came into my house and started breaking my toys roughly. That's not nice.

Now there was a clear menace in the sparkling figure's words, and the voice itself had changed, with a growling, bassy tone, as if the human voice had been brilliantly, but not perfectly, imitated by a wolf's mouth.

"Let's shoot?" Demetrius asked softly, gripping the hilt of his weapon until his fingers ached.

"Wait," Kryp said just as quietly. Then he turned to the 'fairy,' with some degree of bowing. "To entertain a host you must know his name. Or at least his kind. And we're not."

"Enough talking," whispered Crybaby, who had even stopped sniffing his nose. "We must burn."

His harness, which looked like an armored vest with a mechanical paw made of old plastic and hydraulic rods, buzzed loudly as if to emphasize his master's impatience.

"Quiet," hissed Bertha, who must have thought of something. Behind her, the radio operator put on black ebonite headphones, twisting the controls on the radio. He seemed to be getting somewhere, or at least his teeth were chattering a little brisker.

"I have many names, courteous young man," sang the 'fairy. "Guess it, you'll be rewarded!"

The crystal figure shimmered especially brightly, beguilingly, and rested on the top rung of the empty frame. It was already barely hanging on by its rusted uprights, and now, after being shot by buckshot, it was a miracle it wasn't going to fall. Only a weightless creature could hold onto it. The creature assumed a graceful pose, full of frank appeal, so much so that Olga was tempted to change her orientation again.

"I think you should be called by your master's name," Kryp reasoned aloud. "Who is your father? The Many-Faced Knower of All Ways? Or the Insatiable Longing for Perfection?"

"Oh, what a virtuous young man," the figure laughed again. "You know the old names, it sounds like music! Inquisitor, isn't it?"

"I had some relation," Fidus bowed again. "In the past."

"What shall I say to you," the glittering maiden said thoughtfully. "My patron knows many ways, has many faces, is perfect himself, and therefore expects perfection from others, endowing them with the will to strive tirelessly for perfection! Does this answer your question?"

"More than enough," Fidus grinned wryly. "Too direct for a follower of the Lord of Changes. A servant of the Tzinch would play with words more subtly. And too much about perfection, a worshipper of the Six."

"Unless I'm deliberately misleading you, oh, my little connoisseur of harmless puns," the demonic creature clapped its little hands." What an interesting story you could probably tell, inquisitor boy..." With a slight sadness stretched the 'fairy' and flopped down on the pavement, hanging over the dirt at a height of a few millimeters, just enough not to touch it with the tips of crystal slippers. Behind the crystal maiden's back, the transparent wings did indeed unfurl, fluttering finely. Only not dragonfly-like, but more like a fly. This immediately brought Olga back from her fantasies to earth, making her remember the other 'girl' who was now burning away with the scraps of flesh that no one knew where.

"About yourself..." The crystal mask turned as if looking for something among the tightly packed group. "And about her..."

Olga swallowed, but her mouth was instantly dry so that her esophagus only went into a prickly spasm.

"But, unfortunately, you don't belong here," the 'fairy' said with genuine sadness, and the charming voice again exploded with beast notes. "And you shouldn't be here."

"Fire," Bertha ordered, and Luct, as if just waiting for that, fired.

The servitor fired all eight barrels at once, so that the muzzle flames struck a meter ahead, scattering sparks. The crystal figure turned into a cloud of glass spray and vanished into the twilight air, leaving behind a shadow of whispers in their heads:

Die.

"Slaanesh, definitely," Kryp sighed, then added incomprehensibly. "Tzinchit wouldn't be able to resist."

"What is there?" Bertha barked, turning to the radio operator.

"We seem to be somewhere in this world," the Holy Man reported hastily. "There's a signal, but not enough range. Or the signal is too weak to penetrate. I turned the beacon on full, so hopefully, someone will hear it."

"If they hear it, if they quickly pass it on to the authorities, if they fly in," the Priest enumerated. "It's hours. At the very least."

"We're not at the Beacon," Savlar sobbed mournfully, losing his prisoner arrogance. "No one can hear us!"

Bertha immediately gave him another slap, shouting 'Don't be a coward, you jailbird!

"So it's probably a pocket," Fidus muttered. "And we're redundant in it... That means..."

Olga gulped again and groaned softly in horror. An unhealthy atmosphere was concentrated over the dusky city, woven of dying light, hopelessness, and a distant but approaching sound.

Unpleasant, very disturbing, promising much unpleasantness. It was as if a pack of wolves had surrounded its prey and was tightening its grip, only it wasn't the living things howling.

"We can't get out by ourselves," said Fidus. "We have to retreat to a place where we can defend ourselves. If I'm right, all we have to do is hold out for a while, then the 'pocket' will collapse."

"So now the long fun begins," the Priest concluded. "To battle, so help us the Emperor!"

* * *

RiP · Nov 27, 2021

Chapter 16
* * *
No, they were not wolves. The throat of a living creature of flesh and blood could hardly make such a sound. It sounded more like a long musical note that hung in the heavy, musty air, unwilling to stop. It was an unpleasant, ominous note, most suitable for accompanying a horror movie. This kind of 'music' made her want to drop everything, to hide under a rusty car, to pull her hood up. And clasping her eyes shut, not thinking about anything, just praying that the Emperor would protect her because there was no one else. Olga felt her hands trembling, not with a nasty little shiver, but for real, with her hands dancing like a guitarist with an invisible instrument.

"Don't be afraid," the servitor said. "I will protect."

The cybernetic man himself inspired some confidence because of his ample size, but even more so because of his rugged multi-barrelled weapon. Fear of Bertha, as well as the thoroughness of Luct, made Olga twitch between the flamethrower and the servitor - more toward duty or safety.

"Over there!" Bertha pointed to a doorway with the only hinge knocked out and sagging. "Take up defensive positions!"

"No!" exclaimed Fidus. It was as if he had concluded something important that could not be delayed.

"Betrayer?" The Mentor's gawked, and the shotgun aimed right at the Inquisitor's nose. "You don't follow orders."

"It's a 'pocket'!" Fidus repeated the same incomprehensible and inappropriate word again. But now he explained. "Encapsulated area of space. A hiding place. A room to hide out in. Where you can't get in unless you have the right keys."

"So what?!" Bertha yelled, turning her head around in an attempt to calculate the exact direction of the future and inevitable attack. In vain.
The sound was getting closer. The musical howl now reminded Olga of the zombie chorus from Dawn of the Dead. A single thousand-voiced shriek seemed to come from everywhere, closing in on the surroundings. In any case, the small squad was too exhausted to escape. Unless they abandoned all their equipment...

"You can't just get out of the 'pocket,'" Fidus chose his words hastily. "But it can be 'poisoned'."

"What?!"

"This capsule is not only a space capsule but also a time capsule!" Kryp began to wave his hands tragically with an expression of despair on his dirty face. Apparently so he tried to convey the idea to his interlocutors in the most expressive and understandable way. "That's why it's so safe! But if you stick something unfamiliar into it, it will work like a metaphysical poison! The 'pocket' will begin to be poisoned!"

"I don't understand shit," the mentor said almost calmly as if to draw a line. "It's bullshit."

"What would it take to do that?" The Priest suddenly intervened in the hurried conversation.

"Destroy," Kryp breathed out. "We'd be strangers here, and that's why the demonic thing wouldn't mess with us. We have to make ourselves even more unwanted. And pray that it works. If we hold our ground inside the house, we can hold out until we run out of ammo. And then that's it."

"Bullshit," the monk echoed Bertha's opinion, then thought a moment more and added. "But there's still no better plan."

The Priest exchanged a glance with Bertha, and they both nodded at each other.

"Brothers and sisters!" the monk cried out. His throat sobbed and wheezed like a ruined speaker, making the preacher's cry sound particularly terrifying, like a trumpet voice coming from beyond. Perhaps from that very 'warp'.

"It's bad enough that we're in deep shit! And even worse!"

Optimistic, thought Olga, surprisingly sensible and calm. - 'Father knows how to inspire.

But the monk's words sounded somehow... blunt. And honest.

And still no chicken out, my friends!" In some alien argo the Priest continued his mini-sermon. "Because if it's too bad it doesn't end there."

He thought for a moment and then repeated with unwavering confidence:

"No, it doesn't."

Olga, with the same detached calmness, realized that if now the pastor began to promise imminent salvation or bullshit about the mercy of the Emperor - that would be scary and helpless. But as it was, the Priest did not promise the impossible and was honest with his flock. Perhaps because he respected his colleagues too much in their difficult occupation and did not pour sweet water into their ears about obligatory salvation. And that was worth the price.

The twilight was thickening, but the air itself exuded a putrid glow, replacing the light of the moon (which the Beacon didn't have anyway). In the unsteady, dancing shadows emerged hunched over figures, as if woven from little ashy whirlwinds. They howled in unison, in the same tone, but as if transmitting directly to their brains a boundless sadness and wicked sadness. Not like the house. The disembodied voice there was sad, too. Rather, it was like an angry, disembodied soul that had long since been disembodied and had been collecting hatred for the living for centuries. Hatred and thirst for warm blood.

"Maybe we should go inside after all?" the monk asked curtly.

"We'd rather burn ourselves there," said Bertрa reasonably, as she got into Kryp's idea. "And we need a big fire."

"Well... then... BURN!!!" the Priest roared like an atomic train siren.

And they burn.

A long tongue of bright yellow flame swept over our heads as Crybaby cranked the spray to full blast and pulled the trigger nonstop. The whirring of the mechanized suspension was lost against the almost animal roar with which the fire burst from the nozzle. As it hit the wet walls, the holy promethium hissed loudly, evaporating moisture and slippery mold. A moment later, the Sinner joined the Crybaby, and the two-barreled squad attempted to light the whole city on fire. Or part of it, hidden in a mysterious 'pocket'.

The ghostly shadow lunged at the squad, barely touching the pavement with its feet as if the otherworldly creature weighted a feather. The creature made a strange hissing sound, but perhaps it was the humming sound of hot steam refracting between the walls. Olga was deafened again by the thunder of the Luct shotgun, and the charge turned the attacker into a jagged blotch, like a drop of ink in a glass of water. The 'blob' hung in the smoky air for a few moments, then melted into nothingness. It was replaced by more and more.

"Ring! The ring of fire!" Bertha screamed. The flamethrowers roared, spewing flames.

Olga did not look around, did not look up, and was afraid to look down, under her feet. She stared into the window of the pressure gauge on the cylinder behind Crybaby's back, shuddering at the shots from Luke's shotgun, which struck her ears with the evenness of a metronome and the force of a sledgehammer. Servitor, like a real combat robot, sprayed one by one the creatures that tried to break up the squad's formation. Very quickly the turret-shaped shotgunner was joined by Demetrius and Crip, who got a Mauser-like long-barreled pistol from somewhere. The good thing was that the gray ghosts would dissolve with just one bullet, so Demetrius put the submachine gun into single-shot mode and handled the weapon surprisingly deftly. The enemies, however, were not ending. They were pouring into the street from windows and alleys as if the cursed place itself were relentlessly generating them.

Almost everyone except the flamethrowers, the Priest, and Olga had some other pistols, so the team shot back vigorously. The balloonist had already partially lost her hearing and paid no attention to the servitor's shots. The black arrow on the white dial of the pressure gauge was creeping toward the end of the scale, marked by a strip of scarlet.

"Where's the acid?!" Bertha yelled. Her voice was so high-pitched that even Olga, who was half deaf, sat down, wrinkling painfully.

"It won't help!" The monk yelled, straining at his torn throat. "We'll die from the fumes! The masks are all gone!"

The Mentor growled unintelligibly as she reloaded the combi-shotgun. Bertha had just kept her respirator.

"Execute!" the Mentor promised. "Every other one! Loss of government property, violation of regulations and Statutes! I'll burn them in front of the ranks, you bastards!"

"The threat multiplies," the servitor repeated monotonously. "The threat is multiplying, it can't be counted."

Another shadow hovered in a long, slow leap, aiming again somewhere in the middle of the group. Crip took down his adversary with one shot and blew the blob apart with a second bullet, just in case, before the ghostly jets descended on Crybaby's head. Smoke and fire kept increasing, so the enemies couldn't break through the curtain of fire, and so they changed tactics. Now they attacked from the upper floors and rooftops, planning like flying squirrels.

"More fire! More!" Bertha commanded, and in her voice, perhaps for the first time, there was a note of underlying fear and hopelessness.

Walls, rusty car wrecks, benches that had fallen into themselves, caught fire badly - a lot of water, a lot of molds. But the infernal mixture of promethium and reagents stuck to everything like syrup, first the fire evaporated the water, and then cheerfully devoured the dried fuel. Even the peeling paint caught fire, spewing streams of black smoke and flakes of soot. Gray-white clouds of steam rose to the dead, motionless sky. It must have been beautiful from the outside-the brightest torch, shimmering red and yellow and orange, the only spot of light in the eternal twilight. The hot flames seemed to be beating the sullen gloom to death, and the desperate battle was at an unsteady point of equilibrium where neither side could prevail.

The arrow on the pressure gauge hit the limiter pin, and Crybaby's flamethrower hissed and emitted a couple of drops of flame retardant for good measure. All that was left was the bluish glow of the ignition torch. Olga only now thought that it would be better to remove the spare cylinder in advance, and her hands were already performing a memorized and repeatedly practiced sequence of actions. Open the spring locks-holders in the machine behind the flamethrower's back, yank the empty cylinder, allowing gravity to drop it. In time to get her foot out from under the heavy metal. Then the bearer got tangled up in the harness and couldn't move the spare tank quickly from behind her back.

Everyone seemed to be yelling, and personally at her. If the girl had had a pair of spare hands, she would have clamped her ears shut, because the savage screams penetrated even through the absorbent cotton of partial deafness. But as it was, Olga only clenched her teeth and twisted inhumanly, tearing either the tarpaulin straps or the overalls, or her skin and all together. At any rate, there was a crunch and a stab of pain under her ribs, closer to her back, as if some ligament had been torn. A stuck 'cradle' with a cylinder, which looked like a frame backpack, moved to my shoulder, and then broke off completely. It turned out that the carrier had broken not a rib, but a clasp that looked like a fastener.

Olga lifted the bulky cylinder with the flammability badge in her arms so easily, as if she were carrying not nearly thirty kilograms, but a light cushion. Slide it in, secure it with the hook, click the locks. Crybaby stood all the while, crouching a little for the comfort of her short helper. And was silent, perhaps the only one in the squad. Either he believed in Olga, or on the contrary, did not expect anything from her. The girl felt herself in tears - it was very, very scary, and the acrid smoke burned her unprotected eyes.

Connect the hose, turn the coupling five turns, no more and no less, or the connection will be loose or the worn thread will break. Fuel can go out, leaking in droplets before the first spark. And there were enough sparks. The squad surrounded itself in a ring of fire, becoming the center of a man-made fire. It was getting hard to breathe, even harder than before, to be exact. The dead air tasted like lead and settled in my lungs, like volcanic ash, cementing the alveoli.

"Fire! Fire!"

Someone yelled in a deaf ear and seemed to be punching the girl on the shoulder. Olga bit her lip until it bled and lost count of how many clutches turns there were. According to the instructions in such cases, it was required to immediately unscrew everything to zero and repeat according to the instructions, strictly on five, regardless of the circumstances and conditions. Because the explosion of the cylinder could easily kill everyone. Olga bit her lip even harder and decided that the Emperor was with her, and if not, let the team have some luck. And she did not change anything.

A valve hissed, a whistle, fortunately far from the piercing sound of a loose connection. The arrow on the machine gauge behind Plaksa's back jerked to the beginning of the yellow bar.

"Done!" In turn, the loader shrieked and slammed her fist into the flamethrower's shoulder. Crybaby squeezed the trigger, and the girl wiped an equally dirty, soot-covered face with the sleeve of her overalls. Waves of heat streamed in from everywhere except, perhaps, the gloomy sky. It was about time the troopers burned before they could get the 'pocket' to spit out the loot.

Let them execute, thought the girl with weary hopelessness, and took off her helmet, cocking her head to catch at least a drop of coolness or the shadow of a draught.

The Emperor's grace must have been with Olga because Demetrius shot another shadow before it swooped down on the humans. But most likely, the God of Mankind judged that the little handler was still laden with considerable sins, so He measured His mercy rather sparingly. A 'drop' that had almost dissolved at the last moment of existence touched Olga's face at the moment when she took off her helmet and raised her face upward.
At first, nothing happened, and then, as if a red-hot needle had been poked into her pupil. And Olga was instantly blind in her right eye. She shrieked shrilly and, grabbing her face, rushed out without knowing where. To get away from the utter terror around her and the terrifying pain that ricocheted around the back of her skull and into the back of her head. The servitor did not fail here either. At the second step, he caught the girl and hit her in the back of the head with the barrel of his shotgun, then literally tossed her flaccid body into Demetrius' arms.

"Closer ranks, friends," the Priest said almost calmly. He raised the barrel of the chemical cannon vertically and turned the regulator wheel with his thumb. "This is going to hurt. But it will be over quickly."

The monk was clearly going to cover all his colleagues with an acid fountain. The Savlar wailed hopelessly, cooler and more bitter than Crybaby, squelching his nosehole. Sinner lowered his empty flamethrower and folded his arms across his chest, head bowed, clearly awaiting a glorious doom. Olga moaned in unconsciousness, beating like a caught sparrow in Demetrius' arms, who poured the contents of some medical bottle into her eye socket.

"It's work!" Kryp screamed. "Look, it's work!!!"

Around here, there was really... something going on. The city had looked like a set, built specifically for some mystical act, inanimate from the start, empty. Now it looked as if some force had drained the life and dull colors from the houses and streets around it. The three-dimensional picture had become flat, and it seemed that it was enough to take a couple of steps to get out of the frame, leaving the squalid image. To top it all off, the walls trembled.

"His Grace is with us," the Priest wheezed, lowering the sprayer. The black chainmail creaked loudly with every movement.

Grace or no grace, the 'pocket town' faltered, like a disturbing image on bad television. Bertha, holding the shotgun with one hand, stretched out the other and looked at the fingers peeking through the gaps in the torn glove. The jumpsuit had turned from yellow-green to brown, covered in soot and dirt. The fingers ached from the cuts, and blood droplets stained thickly on the rubberized leather of the gloves. But the hand was tangible, real, unlike the asphalt and sidewalk that served as its backdrop.

Mentor clenched and unclenched her fist, feeling the pain of a torn fingernail. The grating of the spillway, on which Bertha stepped with her mighty boot - trembled, vibrating and blurring into a single gray smear. The sounds of the long-dead neighborhood faded, disintegrating into individual notes, which in turn faded like sparks in the darkness. Another shadow lunged at Savlar and passed through the convict without consequence. The noseless man shrieked in fear and was silent almost immediately, realizing that he was alive and in moderate health.

"It worked," someone whispered almost reverently. "It worked..."

In the statement lurked the question - had it really worked? Would the change that had begun not spill over to the guests who had uninvited them into a folded part of the world that had kept the frozen past frozen for God knows how many centuries? But then creation itself answered the fearful plea.

The 'pocket' did indeed collapse. Very quickly, very rapidly, on a large scale - the edges of the visible world wrapped up against the starless sky like a tablecloth being removed from a holiday table with all its contents. A few moments and the city curled into a sphere, like a planet turned inside out, with life on the inside. A few more seconds and the sphere began to shrink toward the center, where a scarlet dot erupted, literally burning through the retina. It was completely silent, so the grandiose effect seemed chamber-like, completely unimpressive, not even scary.

Bertha inhaled...
... and exhaled a cloud of steam into the snowflakes dancing in front of her nose.

A jubilant shriek burst into my ears. First, a one-voice shriek - the Savlarr cried out over emotion and general happiness - and then a chorus, as the others became more aware of what had happened.

"Saved, saved, saved," the Holy Man repeated monotonously, kneeling, raking the freshly fallen and dry snow.

Crybaby clicked the lock slowly, tiredly, and let the flamethrower itself fall. The useless weapon slammed its metal against the frozen ground, hard as a rock. Though no... not the ground. Solid ice. The company seemed to be in an endless field of ice, jagged, with humps of hummocks and crevasses of cracks.

Luct nonchalantly cracked his shotgun and loaded the only barrel with the last round. Then reported:

"Threats are not observed. Negative temperature. Negative temperature. Negative..."

Kryp did the odd thing; he walked over to the half-dead servant and leaned his forehead against the servitor's shoulder for a moment, clapping Luke on the back. The gesture would have been appropriate as a token of gratitude to an alive companion, but it seemed silly in the case of a half-robot. But Bertha found it touching and fitting in its own way. Without the iron-head and his precise firing, they probably wouldn't have died in full, but they would surely have lost someone.

"Communication," the Mentor, as usual, went back to her pressing concerns before anyone else.

"Yes, I am," replied the radio operator, rising from his knees and rubbing his frozen hands together.

"Is it as you expected?" the monk asked Kryp. The inquisitor was torn between the call of duty and concern for the fate of Olga, whom Demetrius was dealing with.

"Well... Not really," Fidus admitted honestly. "I was expecting it to collapse with us. And then..." he looked around.

The scenery was dreary and joyful. Dreary, for it was a typical picture of the Ice Beacon. It looked like the company had been thrown out in the middle of a frozen ocean, on an ice shell that hid a dark abyss up to fifteen kilometers deep. Joyful for the same reason.

"It's a kind of miracle," Kryp shook his head with a look of endless surprise on his face. "It's like we're not just strangers, but total strangers."

The young inquisitor twiddled his thumbs as if he couldn't find the right words.

"So 'poisonous' that... that this... 'pocket' didn't grind us into mush, but threw us through itself?" The Priest suddenly came to the rescue, and Fidus nodded appreciatively.

"Yeah, that's about right. And I don't understand how it could have happened. What could have made us so..."

He was silent and threw a quick glance at Olga, but immediately turned away, as if he wanted to hide his outburst of interest.

"No, I don't understand," the inquisitor finished his thought firmly.

"Well, well," the Priest said profoundly, clapped his mighty hands together, and jumped up, warming to the movement. The minister now looked like a
dwarf - broad, stocky, and obviously flightless.

"What about communications!" He asked the Holy Man.

"I do, I do," muttered the radio operator. "Everybody's in a rush, everybody's in a hurry... And how to give it properly, if there's no tracking, no triangulation..."

After a bit of fiddling with the transmitter, the Holy One lifted his head and reported:

"We're at the Beacon. But it looks like we're on the other side of the planet. We don't have enough range. If a satellite passes over us if it picks up our beacon signal..."

"I see," Bertha smiled with the sour expression of someone who'd filled her mouth with vitamin pills. "We have nothing to burn, so we have to dig ourselves in. The snow is a good insulator. We'll make a group and warm ourselves like polar Grocs with shared warmth. If the wind doesn't increase, we'll last about twenty hours."

"How is she," asked Fidus quietly.

"The eye seems to be gone," Demetrius said just as softly. "Completely dead flesh."

"The touch of another side," the inquisitor said with restrained pain in his voice.

"Yes. Lucky."

Olga was still faint, lucky for her. The pain from the single touch of the transcendent entity was such that it pierced even her clouded consciousness.

And the painkillers in Demetrius's medicine cabinet were very nominal. The skinny girl moaned and convulsed.

"Let me hold her back..." Fidus suggested.

"Yes, I'm going to give her a double dose of tranquilizer," the orderly continued.

"What about the heart?" The inquisitor questioned, taking Olga's hands gently, with great care, but firmly.

"It might not endure," Demetrius squinted, trying not to drop the ampoule with his frozen fingers. He couldn't work with gloves on, so he had to take them off. "But it's still better than..."

He didn't finish, and Fidus just nodded silently in agreement.

"Pull up the sleeve," Demetrius tore open the sealed bag of alcohol wipes with his teeth. His frozen lips moved with difficulty, his words muffled and slurred.

The sky was already gloomy, but the storm front stood out against it as a coal-black streak and promised a storm within just a couple of hours. In such weather, no one would even take the planes up to search, and the machines that had already taken off would be turned back. A strong wind multiplies the cold by one and a half, and no one would make it to dawn. Then the wind and ice crumbs will sweep the dead to the bone, abandoned as a monument to human failures, which no one can find anyway.

Luct silently and measuredly fumbled with the metal butt of his shotgun. The Wretch and the Sinner stacked the rubble into something like a low wall on either side of the big snowdrift so that it would provide some sort of shield against the brutal wind.

The Savlar, scooping snow with his helmet, lamented another mournful song about the hard fate of an honest prisoner, who will first endure the guards, then be cremated. Mother would receive an envelope with ashes, a glazed finger, and a lower jaw (for identification and fingerprint confirmation), after which, of course, the old lady's heart would burst with grief. The noseless freak took advantage of everyone's fatigue and whimpered without fear of a beating. The anti-wind protection was worthless, the snow was dry and not sticky, but crumbled like glass chips. But better than nothing, maybe a few more hours of life.

Luct finally broke the buttstock, even the steel frame failed and cracked at the weld. The Sinner silently handed the servitor a small hatchet converted from a Guardsman's hatchet. The blood that slowly oozed from his pierced lips dried, mingled with the dirt, then froze and turned his face into a horrifying mask. Demetrius wanted to help, but the Sinner refused the bandage, shaking his head silently.

A cold wind peppered the handfuls of snowflakes that looked more like razor-edged ice crystals. The crew built shelter with the tenacity of doomed men clutching at the last straw. Until the moment when the silhouette of a winged machine flashed in the thundering twilight and the searchlight beam scrambled blindly, targeting the small group of men who had gone to hell and come back.
* * *

RiP · Nov 27, 2021

Chapter 17

* * *

"He's alive," Essen Pale thought for a moment and clarified just in case. "They are alive."

"Yes," agreed Schmettau. "But, to tell you the truth, that's the second thing I'm worried about right now. Or even third..."

Such thinking aloud had become habitual for an inquisitor many years ago. To speak out a question, to deconstruct and dissect a problem or a difficult subject. Moreover, be sure that what was said would never, under any circumstances, escape to the side, not even a half-word.

"I had planned to celebrate the end of Kryptman's life... But the Emperor," Shmettau raised his index finger meaningfully. "The Emperor."

Pale, as usual, stood at attention with his hands at his seams. Now that the inquisitor had removed his wig, the patchwork of scars covering his perfectly bald head became visible. Essen listened intently, knowing precisely his primary duty - to be a mute witness to the great man's great thoughts. To make pertinent remarks from time to time. And, in exceptional cases, to act as an opponent.
Kalkroit sat up, literally sprawled out in a chair perfectly suited to the anatomy of an old and sick man. He exhaled heavily, relaxing. It was not often that he could find time to rest his worn, but still native spine in peace, without unnecessary haste. And to think a little about a curious mishap.

The white tones of the small cabin were peaceful, the porthole overhead offered a view of the immensity of the universe and helped broaden the inner horizons.

"So what do we see..." The inquisitor continued to reason, both for himself and for the patient Essen. The apprentice listened patiently, understanding that the question was purely rhetorical.

"We see a planet without a name, but with the nickname Ice Port. Or the Beacon."

Schmettau raised a second finger.

"The dying sun, the only planet. Cold. Nothing useful. However..."

Third finger.

"The system is a navigational center of sectoral magnitude. Beacons, as well as astropathic towers, are placed on artificial satellites and asteroids. But the control center and all the accompanying structures are planetary. So this squalor is more populated than it justifiably deserves. And...

Schmettau paused for what looked like a theatrical pause but was not. The inquisitor was just thinking.

"And we see the clearest example of duality. One could even say the dialectical opposite. Why the beacon? Because here, due to the well-known events, the Materium's substance has thinned. Is it a good thing? Undoubtedly. Navigators, Imperial Tarot operators, and astropaths will cling to the Ice Port with their hands, teeth, and other parts of their bodies that suddenly grow occasionally. But is there a downside?"

Schmettau looked at Essen, who correctly interpreted the patron's gaze and said:

"Yes, it is."

"Exactly!" Kalkroit raised another finger. "Where Materium diminishes, increases accordingly... the other side. This means there's a lot of hostile forces, and the local services are working very hard. They've even tried to recruit me, and they're sure to try again. The cultists, the hosts, the rituals, the experiments of self-taught sorcerers... All are two or three or five times more frequent than the standard manifestations for planets of this class and level of population. But that's the price you have to pay for transport connectivity. Especially now, when the Sabbath grinder is just gaining momentum. Everything seems to be as it should be."

The Inquisitor pressed a lever, and with a quiet whirring sound, the chair turned into a couch. Now Kalkroit was almost lying there, staring up at the transparent ceiling.

"What do you think, my friend, is troubling me?" The inquisitor inquired, enjoying some peace for his worn backbone.

If he wished, Schmettau could have replaced the spine long ago, either partially or entirely. As time passed, however, Kalkroit shrugged off the euphoria afforded by highly advanced medicine.

Yes, it is possible to live long, it is possible to recover from such wounds as were fatal to the primitive people of antiquity. But by virtue of the same dialectic, when you acquire something, you inevitably give something in return. And already not young inquisitor began to appreciate humanity, expressed in quite real kilograms of living flesh. Too many prostheses, too much alien matter in his body... So much so that at times the Inquisitor wondered if he would ever cross the line that separates humans and 'cogs'.

"I think it's a haphazard fluctuation in the manifestations of the Immaterium," Essen allowed himself to speculate.

"Exactly, exactly," Schmettau nodded in time with the words. "Everything in the world develops in a sine wave, with ups and downs. But when we see an anomalous pattern..."

The Inquisitor looked in the direction of the only table piled with printouts and individual picts. All of them displayed intricate graphs of varying degrees of detail. All of them repeated in various variations the same picture - a jagged line like a curved saw, then a sharp drop with a flat plateau and an equally sharp rise, much higher than the previous peak.

Everything in the world has a cause. If you know the cause, you know the consequence. If you understand the consequences, you will prevent trouble," Schmettau freely quoted the 'admonition of the young inquisitor'. "And, I must say, I have a certain uneasiness..."

The Pale made the appropriate expression of concern, coupled with the utmost attention.

"... Because I see an anomaly that does not fit the statistics. First, a stable period of typical chaotic presence with ups and downs," Schmettau marked the movement with his palm, as if he were smoothing out invisible small waves. "Then the climax, when the Squad lost two-thirds of its manpower so that there is now one squad per radial and even less on the second category lines. The crap crawls out of the ocean, which ended up being disembodied, mobilizing almost half the planet, as well as the Fleet's forces. And then total silence. A drop-in activity to zero. In fact, remission."

Shmettau sharply held up the fingers of his left hand with a closed 'plank,' as if he had cut invisible threads.

"And now a new burst beyond statistical projections. How could it be?"

"The first option is obvious," Essen had studied his commander well, so he knew exactly when to push Schmettau's thinking in the right direction. "This is part of an even longer cycle that goes beyond observable and reliable statistics."

"And it's obvious, really!" agreed the inquisitor, staring out the window. "It makes sense. First a very long, well, by human standards, of course, a long band of ordinary disturbances, then a flash, and then a depletion reaction. Then now we are likely to see a long band of fading oscillations. And the beginning of a new cycle."

He sighed.

"It's a pity that there is little, too little, reliable data... And in their absence, once bitten, twice shy."

The inquisitor was eloquently silent, again giving his student and assistant the opportunity to speak.

"The second option," Essen said. "The unexpected factor."

"Which one?"

Essen spread his hands faintly, showing his empty palms.

"I don't know."

"Exactly," said the inquisitor thoughtfully. "As the ancients used to say, 'Ignoramus et ignorabimus,' that is, 'we do not know and will not know'... But we, like the guards of a besieged house, can only afford the luxury of not knowing, and that's only temporary."

Schmettau folded the chair back into its traditional position. He slapped his broad palms on the soft leather of the armrests, beating out a simple rhythm.

"And I don't like it," the inquisitor said into the white space. "I don't like it at all. The last time I saw something like this, there was a bloody pact on three sides. I don't think it's the same here, of course..."

Schmettau dragged himself out of the comfortable embrace of his favorite chair. The waist immediately responded with a prick of insistent pain. The Inquisitor mentally showed the weak flesh a fuck, recalling where the compensatory belt had gone.

"It seems to me that the Ordos forces in the Beacon system are quite professional and numerous," Essen suggested. "There's no point in doing their work for them.:

"Your problem, my friend," muttered Schmettau, rubbing his kidney area. - Lack of fantasy. And a narrow imagination. Why should we care about any of that?"

The apprentice could hardly suppress a smile. It was very amusing to see the great and terrible Schmettau grunting and massaging his sore back in an old man's way.

"Maybe it doesn't. Maybe none of this means anything," Kalkroit elaborated. - Or maybe it's the other way around. The latter is evidenced by the disturbing movement of the Martians. The pot-heads are up to something, and their activity coincides so well with this... ...fluctuation... How bizarrely and strangely intertwined. The Beacon problem, Kryptman, the Martians. That girl, finally, for whom our conscientious hero has gone for the noose."

"Sounds like the actions of a lovesick man," Essen allowed himself to surmise.

"Oh, don't be silly," said the master. "Fidus had only one love, and we know her name. No. It was his conscience that drove him here. It was a sense of indebtedness. And whatever feelings I had for him, you must admit it was a worthy deed. A very decent thing to do. Though infinitely stupid."

Essen pursed his lips, making a grimace of disagreement and even a slight confrontation. But he remained silent.

"Maybe we were too hasty then?" Schmettau asked himself, walking around the chair as if kneading his joints, bent almost in half. "Maybe he shouldn't have gotten rid of the girl so rashly. Of course, she wasn't a heretic, but there was something about her... Something... ...about her. Strange. Unusual. And everything revolves around this... Olga-Olla. Kryptman is almost ready to perish, but then this little thing appears out of nowhere and saves him. And escapes from the Keymaster and his Soulseeker. If the interrogation sheets are to be believed, and I quite believe them. I also see the Beacon going into remission after a severe outbreak, but a new novice appears in the Squad, and almost immediately the planet is once again plagued by a series of unconventional manifestations. And it's clearly linked by the same network of perpetrators... And no one can tell what they want, throwing ordinary people to Warp without any system."

Schmettau gritted his teeth and straightened, straining his back muscles like a corset around his worn vertebrae.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Essen," the inquisitor chided, once again straight, hard, and looking like himself as the rest of the world knew him.

"I. Not. Believe," he repeated as if to make the student understand even better.

"As you wish," Pale agreed. "My tasks?"

"Here's what we'll do," Kalkroit said. "First, try to pull old records from the local archives. The ones that have not been processed and summarized in the general statistics of abnormal occurrences. You might be able to pull something. I need a summary. Let's try to figure out if it's a 'long' cycle."

Essen nodded, envisioning a long day of work using stims

"Then we should talk to the potheads, but I don't want to, because it is pointless. Finding out the truth from these idolaters is like looking for brains in a servitor and soft-heartedness in a "host". Considering how many ironclads have piled their troops here, they are stubbornly waiting for something. And since they haven't shared their knowledge with the local Ordos, they're not likely to make an exception for me."

Schmettau inhaled deeply and exhaled long as if clearing his lungs of perfectly conditioned and purified air.

"We'll wait, too," the inquisitor finished firmly. "Patience is the lot of the strong and faithful. We'll wait and see how it ends."

"And then? If something does happen."

"Then?" Schmettau looked at the faithful Essen with mild surprise. "Then it's as usual. We'll improvise according to the moment."

* * *

Olga sat and looked sadly in the mirror, which reflected the haggard face of a blond girl with a very short haircut and a deeply sunken eye. The eye was red with tears and surrounded by a thick bruise. In the second eye socket was a black lens with a red dot, just like a terminator. A thin, ringed cable ran from the machine toward the temple and hid beneath the skin like an ominous drip. The temple itched and hurt, the prosthesis pressed against the orbit and hurt, too, and the optics didn't work. Service in the Squad was turning a new side of an asshole on a universal scale.
As the medics in the next carriage the grim 'hospitalers' ladies explained to the girl sparingly, in fact, she was fabulously lucky. Contact with the otherworldly essence instantly stopped all life processes in the affected area, so that if that thing had touched, say, her forehead, she would have been taken to the working chamber of an atomic locomotive, used as a crematorium. To lose just an eye is downright lucky and a clear indication of His mercy. Olga nodded, folded her hands aquiline, and only clenched her lips tighter, remembering that the heretic's tongue was his enemy. Her eye still ached, the camera remained a dead piece of iron. The pills that were supposed to be taken to block the rejection were terribly bitter and caused bouts of vomiting.

"Take it."

With a loud clatter, the Savlar slammed a mug of water on the table. Olga looked at the convict in silence.

"Drink," said the noseless man, and left, hurriedly, as if he feared he might be suspected of something good.

After the maimed girl returned from the hospital infirmary, she was visited by almost all of her comrades-in-arms. Without further ado, with small gifts or just stingy approval. Only Madman and Mentor Bertha avoided the girl, and the monk looked at her strangely. But Olga was used to it.

With a heavy sigh, the girl dissolved a glucose tablet given by Sinner in Savlar's glass. Sinner returned to his home wagon, put on a black pirate bandage, and left his mouth stitched shut, but replaced the unsanitary twine with disinfected fishing line. He took his food through a tube, driving Olga crazy with an ominous squelching sound that was all too reminiscent of the last days of her mother's life when the woman had already lost her mind and her ability to chew.

Olga added a couple of vitamins to the cup, sour but invigorating, a gift from the Holy Man. She drank, thinking of sad things and remembering how the squad had returned 'home' - without honor or ceremony, like obviously suspicious individuals who might have sworn to all the evil of the world wholesale by kissing the devils of warp under their tails. Otherwise, it was as if nothing had happened. The train was stuck for a long time in some complex, very similar to the previous station - solid shops, towers, and towers - officially for the scheduled maintenance of the reactor. The giant steam locomotive was unhitched and moved to a hangar so that the train stood motionless on the spare track as a monument to itself. A dozen more wagons were hitched to the train as if they were preparing multiple increases in personnel, but as a result, not a single man was added.

Even Smoker was said to have been found. By some miracle, he survived and, after wandering in the catacombs for a day or two, came out far beyond the district line, surrendering to the first patrol. However, the scout had not yet returned, apparently was under suspicion of unreliability.

The pain was annoying. It was just strong enough to keep the person from climbing the wall on the one hand, but on the other, not to forget the sad fate of a cripple for a single moment. And it constantly itched where the metal went into the flesh.

"Turn around."

It was Demetrius who came in. Armed with the gifts of the 'Hospitallers' the ward attendant rubbed and smeared some ointment on the affected eye socket every three or four hours. This brought some relief, but little and only for a short time. Behind Demetrius loomed tall Kryp, but did not interfere in the communication, for which the girl was a little grateful inquisitor. She did not feel like talking. Not with anyone.

Demetrius finished, collected the used tampons in a bag, and looked intently at the patient. The girl looked away. The orderly sighed and went to his room, not trying to reassure the cripple, for which she was also grateful. She had learned all the comforters on duty by heart from the hospital attendants. To hear once again that just an eye was a small price to pay for serving God the Emperor and other 'once is not a heretic' things would be unbearable.

"Inexpensive to pay for life."

"Fuck off, Fidus," said the girl, staring into the riveted steel where a window would have been in a normal wagon.

Kryp went in anyway and sat down on the creaking couch against Olga.

Don't you know what the "Fuck off" means?" Still not turning around, the girl clarified.

"I know. I'm also an inquisitor. And I know how people pay for such... ...contacts," Kryp said very seriously. "Believe me, you got off very cheaply."

"I'm so happy."

"Not at the moment. But you will when you get more experience."

"Maybe."

Olga did not want to quarrel or argue, she hoped that Kryp would get tired of one-sided communication and disappear somewhere himself.

"Believe me, it's really not so bad."

This time she said nothing at all, stubbornly staring into the wall below the embrasure with the screws screwed on tightly. Fidus seemed to want to say something else, but then the siren howled. Olga had never heard such a sound before, though she seemed to have learned by heart all the signals of an armored train, from the emergency readiness to the command to stand down. The sound was not as loud as the battle commands, but as dull and ominous as a Chopin march.

"Wow," said the Wretched Man in the hallway.

Olga wanted to ask what it was all about and then decided to let it be another surprise. One more, one less, nothing good will happen anyway...

"Put on your parade suit!" Berta commanded, as usual in a raised tone, with a solemn gloominess. "Everyone to the parade ground, five minutes to gather!"

Olga had not yet been issued a parade uniform, so the handler limited herself to a cleaned jumpsuit with taped rips. Crip and Demetrius dressed in the same way. The others wore uniforms, something they seldom wore. They wore leather boots, gaiters, a sort of uniform without shoulder straps, of coarse cloth, with a canvas belt, a stand-up collar, and very wide breast pockets. Adepto Purificatum death row prisoners were not allowed to wear headwear.

As she was descending the spiral staircase, an incident occurred - a crazed member of the crew, whom she had already begun to forget, suddenly rushed at Olga. The madman rushed at her out of the darkness, groped her, and screamed:

"The baby. baby!

Olga, in turn, squealed in fear, fighting back.

"Back off, you freak!"

It took a few moments to realize that the madman didn't want to hurt her. The maddened poor man clung to the girl and literally sobbed, repeating a single word. He seemed to want to break through some wall, to deliver a very important message, a matter of life and death.

"A baby... A baby!" persistently, over and over again the Madman repeated, grasping Olga's clothes with his bony and surprisingly tenacious fingers, tearing at the thick fabric. "A baby!"
He cried and screamed right in the girl's face. Through the combined efforts of Savlar and Driver, the unfortunate man has finally torn away and shoved back into the dark space between the levels of the wagon, where the Madman usually hid.

"Oh, my God..." Olga whispered, leaning against the wall. She almost crossed herself and held her hand up just in time.

"He's worried," Driver said, adjusting his hat. "He's been acting all weird since you fell in. But he was quiet before. Eh... I don't want to have to put him in a hospital."

Only now, when all the personnel of 'Radial-12' gathered on the parade ground, Olga fully appreciated how small the team really rode on the atomic train. The girl thought that each wagon is at least one tank and a compartment of 'infantry' plus the crew of the actual armored train. The impression was reinforced by the carefully cultivated insularity of the carriages. And only now Olga realize that Bertha's crew was essentially the only combat unit of the 'Radial'. Well, another wagon of 'hospitaliers', whatever that means. Another dozen people of purely administrative apparatus, headed by the commandant, a band, a train crew with stripes in the form of a split atom.

That's it.

Immersed in unhappy thoughts, Olga did not immediately notice that an ugly structure, similar to a gallows cart, was being rolled from the far side of the hangar. Especially since it was being rolled from the side of the blind eye. When she noticed it, she hastily pulled her stomach in, trying to be completely invisible, thanks to the fact that her place was at the end of the line.

Behind the structure, accompanied by guards from the 'arbitres', a man in a prison jumpsuit, badly beaten, was pacing dejectedly. It took Olga a few moments, and a murmur slipped through the formation, to recognize Smoker. The scout - presumably already former - could barely move his legs, and at times he hung on the guards.

Silence reigned over the parade ground. A faint wind chased the snow, freezing her open cheeks. Olga could feel the growing hair on the top of her head. Beside her, a short Crybaby sniffled. A horn in the hands of a train trumpeter sounded soft, and a second musician banged on the drum. Bertha came out in front of the formation with a flamethrower in her hands.

Oh, my God, thought the girl, feeling the shivers spreading through her body. Olga had to imperceptibly - at least, she hoped imperceptibly - lean on the shoulder of 'her' flamethrower. Crybaby squeezed her fingers softly as if urging caution and silence.

The commandant, a tall old man with a wispy beard and lopsided sideburns, commanded something indistinctly. The formation tightened even more and stretched their chins forward in unison. Someone two or three men away from Olga was whispering a prayer. In the meantime, Smoker was dragged onto a wagon and chained to a pole resembling a miniature power pole. The scout moved his lips in silence, looking around as if he could not believe it was really happening.

Bertha turned the regulator and lit the burner. In the silence, the fuse hissed loud and clear, like an angry viper. The commandant still slurred a short speech. Olga did not understand a word of it, concentrating on not falling on wobbly, trembling legs. She kept waiting for them to finally announce that it was all a harsh and fair demonstration, and now everybody disperses, unshackle Smoker, and go to the barracks, to probation. You can't kill a man - burn him to death!!! - just because he took a wrong turn when everyone was running panic-stricken?!

Or it's possible?..

A Priest came forward, holding a bible in his hand. The monk raised the holy book above his head and proclaimed:

"His chosen servants! Praise our Lord!"

"Praise Him!" The formation responded, folding their hands piously.

"This man shows a cowardice," the Priest went on, shoving his bible at Blunt. "He had been entrusted with an honorable duty, and he betrayed the trust!"

Olga wanted to scream at the top of her voice that the priest was crazy, just like everyone else here who was aligned in a single line on the frozen concrete. That anyone could have been in the poor scout's shoes, standing now in chains, licking the blood from his broken lips, under Bertha's gunpoint.

She wanted...

Crybaby, as if reading her thoughts, squeezed the girl's cold fingers tighter. Olga swayed and caught Creep's gaze, piercing, preemptive. The Inquisitor shook his head faintly. The girl bit her tongue for real, to the copper taste in her mouth. The bearer distinctly realized that now - and in the future in general - a couple of unfortunate words were enough to make her lean against the lattice pyramid of burnt metal.

"But his sin will be atoned for in the purging fire! The body will disintegrate into ashes, but the soul will ascend to the Emperor if it is the mercy of the Sovereign!"

"G-g-go..." Olga gritted her teeth, realizing that she could not even utter the word 'God'. And the Lord, whom she prayed for a miracle, had nothing to do with the evil deity of this world and these people.

"Repent, coward!" the monk called, and Smoker finally managed to squeeze out a few words.

"Forgive me," he mumbled softly, his lips struggling to move. "I'm sorry... I... didn't mean to..."

"Die with honor," the Priest urged sternly. "Die with dignity! Die with humility and prayer on your lips!"

He went to the pole and handed the book to Smoker. The condemned man kissed the edge of the bible with genuine reverence. He kept muttering something, the wind whispering isolated words:

"Forgive... mercy... I repent..."

The monk stepped back and nodded at Bertha, signaling. The guards also parted ways.

"Emperor!" Smoker cried at the top of his lungs, his chains clanking as if he could only stand on his feet because of his bonds. "My God, forgive me!"

Without further ado, the Mentor pressed the lever, and a bright jet of red flame pelted the executioner. The liquid promethium immediately turned the executed man into a living torch, and the heart-rending cry of the person being burned alive reverberated over the square.

Here Olga decided she'd had enough and fainted. Right in the arms of Fidus, who managed to notice how the girl's legs were buckling and ran out of the line.

* * *

RiP · Nov 27, 2021

Chapter 18

* * *

The twelve-story white and gray building was a little apart from the main complex of the planetary spaceport. The building was typical of Beacon and stood out only for its restrained decor, laconic even by the standards of the poor world. No sacred symbols were adorning the walls, nor was the building itself a visible embodiment of the Faith in the ascetic style of some Forges who extolled the Omnissia revelations through geometry and proportions of linear size. Just a box of frost-whitened concrete, brick, and glass, only the many antennas of every caliber on the roof indicated that it was not a warehouse or an ordinary official's office building.

It was here that the headquarters of the Adeptus Mechanicus Expeditionary Corps was located. Magos, of course, approved of the visible images of the pillars of the God-Machine doctrines. But in this case, they decidedly chose practicality and inconspicuousness. A brick hangar with a corrugated metal roof and faded-painted gates safely sheltered the 'Dog of War' that had become the receptacle of Doturov's consciousness. Simple automatons - essentially just autonomous tech-priests manipulators - ran communications and power cables through the ventilation ducts, placing controllers as well as primitive communicators where no human engineer could reach if they wanted to. The servitors, combining the two floors, assembled the core of a field cogitator whose operator terminals sprawled across the building like zygotes of orc mushrooms. Doturov needed neither holographic projectors nor even simple monitors to perceive the information received from the entire planet. The data was directly downloaded to the titan's onboard data banks, from where it was read by the Martian's virtual connectors. The image of the frozen planet in Lexik Arcanus' mind was surrounded by many branching graphs. Sliding through them, one could learn literally everything that had been recorded in one way or another by at least one sensor or controller. From the trajectories of any of the eight thousand two hundred and seventy satellites to the weekly fluctuations in the price of wild muffalo wool from the northern continent's PDF expeditionaries.

Such information was overwhelmingly ignored by Administratum officials, perceived as useless. The imperfection of the human brain, even enhanced with Mechanicus implants, did not allow for the evaluation and processing of such volumes of data. Many radicals saw this limitation as a symptom of a severe malady, a sign of the inherent flaw of the Imperium and its control mechanisms. Others pointed out that reasonable approximation of parameters coupled with the use of probabilistic models made it possible to manage enormous social structures quite effectively. Where the Mechanicus deliberately went for fragmentation and reduction in the size of its administrative units, the Administratum managed sectors of hundreds of thousands of star systems, with the ability to concentrate truly grandiose forces when necessary.

It was no mistake or miscalculation that this power might now be useless. Every tool has its limits of effectiveness and its applications. The truth about the hydraulic press and the quantum flaw detector, coming from the depths of millennia, was only proof of this. The strength of Mankind lay in its variability, in having the tools to solve any possible problem.

That was the true meaning of the Olympic Treaty.

Doturov's attention was divided into thousands of parallel processes, which in turn branched off - unpredictably and chaotically from the perspective of an outside observer. Not a single bit of useful data could slip past the Martian's keen attention. It occurred to Doturov that such efficiency, now available only to a few in the highest hierarchy of Mars, had once been commonplace for A.I. during the Dark Age of Technology. A major evolutionary advantage and, at the same time, a major vulnerability.

Those who strive only for machine perfection ignore the undeniable fact that artificial intelligence has lost in the global contest, despite its apparent superiority, noted Martian. The desire to become completely similar to the losing side leads to inevitable defeat. For a mind without a soul is absolute heresy.

"The princepses are requesting schemes of moving," came a message from Logis Theta.

Doturov's consciousness slid up the logical chains, bringing the processed data into a coherent picture. The image of the planet was covered with additional markings, like the bloodsucking little insects that swarm around northern muffaloes in search of areas not covered by thick wool.

Certainly, additional analysis would have yielded even greater accuracy, and ultimately indicated unmistakably the single point in space where the Immaterial would (perhaps) merge with real space, but time... Decision time has always been as important a constraint as the resources available.

"The first maniple - 'Arbogast', 'Dughem', 'Conn', 'Lissajous' and 'Potenot' - remain to cover the spaceport. The reserve of maniple is 'Killing'. The second maniple - 'Bessel', 'Dirichle', 'Krell', 'Runge' and 'Zermelo' - move out to the Lerke district. The reserve of the second maniple is 'Kronover'. Legion 'Etwesh' is deployed to the supply bases along the specified perimeter. Geller drones are distributed to the centurions of the legion, in the operational subordination of the tribunes. The full readiness for the blockade of the capital and the port should be achieved within forty hours from the moment the signal is received."

"Is a riot expected in the city?"

Doturov sent Logis an encrypted infodump with an extract of the transgressions of planetary governance. Illegal financial transactions, advertisements on closed channels, pornography, drugs, forbidden services - all the things that inevitably germinate in the shadows of any human community from its inception.

"This is the standard background of highly organized crime in a segmentary society with elements of polycracy," Logis allowed himself to object after reading the data. "However, there is not the slightest reason to believe that there is any meaningful opposition here, ready to challenge the legitimate authorities of the Imperium. Are you suggesting that the analytical systems of the Administratum have missed something significant?"

Forming his answer to the Logis, Doturov concurrently thought about the philosophical aspect of the problem of data analysis.

Cogitators of Abominable Intelligence was the unattainable pinnacle of computational development, but even then the intuition of people of a certain kind and the decisions they made often surpassed the capabilities of machine worlds. For in a crisis there is always a 'jumping off point' into a dark future that even artificial intelligence cannot adequately predict. Yes, based on past and present data, the cogitator models the future with a more or less acceptable probability. By making a decision based on the data presented by the cogitator, the operator changes the process of development of the situation and, consequently, the distribution of probabilities. A new calculation is made, a new forecast is made, which prompts a direction of a different choice. It is possible to determine this direction by the method of successive approximation in a zigzag manner, by the type of 'Brownian' motion

But in some cases, what people call 'intuition' detects the 'shortest path' more quickly and accurately. In this case, losses are usually minimized. Reality consists of countless large and small, different in amplitude and speed phenomena, which, mutually influencing each other, form a giant system of unimaginable complexity. No calculator will ever be able to contain all the possible and accounted for components of reality. And if it does happen, there will still be unpredictable dark regions of unaccountable excesses, as the 'Laplace demon' points out.

But not today.

Doturov sent Perseus the following infodump. Astropath data, paired with Arbitrator reports, reports from Inquisition investigators who have visited the system six times in the last two centuries, visual images of Navis Nobilite, and threat models of Adeptus Astra Telepathy.

"Pairing of Immaterium?"

"Correct."

"Unpredictable consequences?"

Predictable with the appropriate array of inputs, which at the moment we do not have. So we will limit ourselves to stating 'inevitably destructive'.

"Will the metropolis be evacuated?" Theta asked persistently.

"Only after the commencement of conjugation. There is ample reason to believe that the specific parameters of the event in question may have noticeable deviations due to the deliberate actions of the renegades. And, since the renegades can adapt their strategy based on anticipated opposition - the Mechanicus forces will be waiting. Invisible to possible infiltrators in the structures of the Administratum."

"Do we need to be prepared to confront the Dark Ones?"

"I have not met any techno-heretics capable of avoiding my attention. And I don't see them now."

"I'll give this task a medium priority," noted Perseus Theta. "Within one hundred and forty minutes the Kronover will be ready to move out."

Doturov was pleased. His protégé did not dismiss the unlikely danger on the basis of a high-ranking magos's assertion, but he did not devote too many resources to countering it, diverting them at the expense of the main tasks. Perhaps the results of the operation would show Theta to be effective enough that the benefits of his existence would outweigh the possible costs.

Magnos Omicron's majestic titans lined the main highway in a single wall. No war flags were hanging from the gun drives of the 'Dogs of War,' as they were accustomed to from official Picts and ceremonial releases of the allowed imperial news. There was no symbolism to indicate the types of godlike machines, their arms, the triumphant banners of victorious campaigns, or the number of victories. The titans who landed on 140101-55524-R54024-52928P10 had not yet experienced the fury of battle and the thrill of battle. And what's more, they weren't even formally part of any Legio. The twelve 'Dogs of War' requisitioned by Doturov remained a nameless operational unit of the Collegium Titanica.

From a certain point of view, the decision of the Lexic Arcanus was defined as a blatant violation of protocols. The deployment of Collegiate manipuli without secturian foot cover was not allowed in peacetime and was categorically forbidden in war. Just as a giant beast can be stung by a swarm of individually insignificant insects, so sudden attacks by heavily-armed infantry at close range pose no small threat to titans. However, the formal nine-hundred-kilometer march of the second manipula to Lerke was declared a 'cycle of field trials' in a neutral environment, and there was no one in the entire sector who could challenge Doturov's decision.

The cannon limbs of every second ''Dog'' lowered in synchrony. A long siren sounded over the frost-covered steppe, and the stunted shrubs seemed to tremble in terror, shaking their thorns. Six machines resembling wingless birds lifted on bending backward legs and stepped forward in unison, shaking the frozen ground, kicking up clouds of snow. The roar of the rapturous crowd from the city and port side seemed to fill the entire space. The divine machines of Mars were treading on the ground of Beacon, and that meant that the planet was safe.

The 'Dogs' stepped forward, looking like ravenous lizards searching for their prey's trail, and then moved forward in giant strides, incredibly agile and fast for a machine of this size.

The six titans were rushing across the snow-covered steppe at about forty to fifty kilometers per hour. Of course, the word 'rushed' might seem inappropriate to describe the machines, each of which rises to a height of fifteen meters and weighs nearly five hundred tons. The power and majesty of Mars are undeniable, but the laws of physics rule even over its creations. And yet... From the outside, it seemed that the titans were not subject to the constraints of mass and inertia. The 'Dogs' movements were characterized by a perfect precision, a smooth slowness that turned the movement into a dance, a rapturous hymn to dynamics and coordination.

The route was far from the main traffic arteries and settlements. It was here, on the empty plains, away from the eyes of outsiders and cameras, from the eyes of servitors and securities, that another miracle of the God-Machine was to take place.

The 'Krell' ahead, which kicked out tons of frozen dust with every step, suddenly turned its hull, aiming for the 'Kronover' chosen by Doturov. At the same time, the turbolaser barrel assembly turned, indicating readiness for an attack. The movements of the hull and undercarriage did not match, confusing the opponent.

However, Doturov, foreseeing this maneuver, reacted already at the moment when 'Krell' began an unmotivated U-turn. Continuing his stride, the 'Kronover' crouched deeply, bending his legs backward with his joints, and took a powerful leap to the side. Already in heavy flight, Doturov's megabolter found the enemy and struck it with thirty-eight projectiles in a vulnerable spot where the fields of the two void generators overlapped, forming an unstable overlapping zone.

Conditionally struck.

The Titans moved slowly from a human perspective, and incredibly precisely, gracefully for giants of their size and weight. The earth trembled under their iron gait. And even the air seemed to ring with the intensity of the radio exchange of the training battle. Doturov enjoyed every millisecond and was only saddened by the fact that hardly any of the crews were aware of the truth. The true birth of their titans was not in the shops and smelters of Magnos Omicron, but here and now.

The newborn Spirits of the 'Dogs,' who realized themselves incarnated in metal, ceramics, and the flames of material bodies, finally received the bits of real experience, the first at the beginning of a glorious life. The very one that would multiply with every battle, so that centuries later princeps and moderati would call it Shadow, an echo of its own desires of a godlike machine. Lexicus Arcanus perceived the body of 'Kronover' with crystal clarity, in fact, Doturov was now a titan. He could feel the weight of the ammunition in the megabolter's charging machines, the rustle of snow and sand on the hull inaudible to the human ear, even the pulse of Perseus Theta sitting in the cockpit of the moderati.

Doturov heard the mindless recitation of the gun servitors wired to the titan's 'arms' and the endless meditative vigil of the trusted tech-priest in the armored reactor control room. He felt the rhythmic pulsation of the power plant and the icy flow of the turbolaser cooling system. A running beam of the auspice illuminated the five other 'Dogs of War', and his own databank calculated their most likely maneuvers.

Somewhat like young predators, the divine machines were learning, learning what biological organisms call 'instincts. They emulated surprise attacks on each other, ambushes, solo and paired hunts, recording their own and others' successes as well as failures without the risk of permanently losing all recorded information. Doturov hadn't driven a combat vehicle in years, but his unattainable fusion with a titan for other crews, and most importantly - experience! - allowed him to win one-on-one or two-on-one battles with ease. There was no narcissism or petty assertion in this; on the contrary, Lexic Arcanus generously shared information, demonstrating tactical schemes of high complexity.

The princepses of 'Bessel', 'Dirichlet', 'Krell', 'Runge' and 'Zermelo' quickly moved on to practice corralling the enemy with the entire manipuli, coordinating intense movement and mutual cover fire. The only great experience allowed Doturov to prevail over the combined enemy twice in twenty-one attempts. The unknown princeps, who supposedly was now controlling the Kronover, commanded the deepest respect of the other crews and the respectful attention of the spirits of the machines.

It was eight hundred and thirty kilometers to Lerke's district, and the manipula had finished the first act of combat training and regrouped in marching formation, in two columns with the guards moved forward. Doturov thought that technical stagnation had its own beauty and undeniable benefit - the skills acquired thousands of years ago do not become obsolete, but only get better, like well-seasoned alcohol. After a hundred kilometers of rapid marching, the drill resumed, simulating a surprise attack. The Kronover again 'attacked', shooting the enemy literally at point-blank range.

"There is one aspect of the plan in progress, the available justification for which, in my opinion, is insufficient," Logis Theta reported. "In order to perform the tasks assigned to me more effectively, I would like to obtain additional information."

"Accepted."

"My confusion concerns the removal of the novice of the Purification Service known as 'Olga'."

Had Doturov now had a body and a face with the ability to display facial expressions, he would have smiled at Theta's subtlety. Logis used wording that formally displayed incomprehension and doubt, but elegantly emphasized the priority of the lack of information. A sort of 'I could have done better if you had...' but without even a hint of reproach.

"Certainly she has shown the highest efficiency with the cogitator," Theta continued. "But everything she did was recorded and thoroughly researched. Isn't it enough to translate the data into communication patterns and improve overall efficiency?"

"Enough."

Doturov paused for nearly five seconds - very, very long for the information exchange through which the 'conversation' was conducted. If this were ordinary human communication, the analogy would be something like `keep silence, stand up, walk around the table, pour a glass, and look thoughtfully out the window'. But Theta stoically withstood the pause, showing commendable patience, and Doturov continued:

"Parliament is inclined to believe that Olga's value lies not only and not so much in her demonstrated skills. With a very high level of cognitive ability and flexible thinking, she is capable of giving Mars new aspects of understanding the Omnissiah."

"I'm afraid this kind of reasoning... is, in my opinion, not sustainable enough."

"I have come to the conclusion that for a true understanding of my motives, as accepted and approved by Parliament, you must learn a few facts from the past. To gain indirect experience, which for the last thousand years many, in their pride, have chosen to ignore."

"I will do my best not to repeat their mistakes," Theta's Perseus was absolutely serious.

"I did not witness the time of the Heresy of Horus, which destroyed the Imperium, nor the birth of the Great Schism," Doturov said. "But I saw the Schism itself. I saw the light of my home star eighty years after the Legions of the Apostates were expelled from the Solar System. I was born among those whose Forge had been razed to the ground and whose good name had been turned to ash. By and large, we had become a feral tribe that had forgotten the past and had no aspirations for the future."

"Did you live in the ruins of Forge? But if the reactors were destroyed, how did the hydroponic complexes, desalination plants, and thermal control systems work?"

"Isn't the Path of the Machine binary?" Doturov's counter-question was riddled with benevolent irony. "Doesn't the Omnissiah teach us that without destruction there is no perfection and that everything destroyed can be restored and improved for His glory?"

Theta was ashamedly silent, listening.

"Our stronghold was an old shelter," explained Lexic Arcanus. "It was more like a small warehouse, once built to supply reconnaissance parties. To reach it from the ruins of the Forge, you had to follow the stream bed that wound its way through the mountain."

Consciousness, which existed only in the form of quantum entanglements that filled the titanium's calculators, allowed conversations to take place in parallel with the solution of the main tasks. Just now 'Krell' and 'Zermelo' were trying to conditionally disable the undercarriage of 'Kronover'.

"My main task was to deliver construction materials. Three hundred and sixteen meters from the tunnel entrance were the ruins of the Magos Biologis research block. The equipment had long since been looted or destroyed, but the walls, composed of chemogenic limestone, lent themselves well to ultrasonic cutting. The servitors sliced the blocks, which were loaded onto pallets, and I guided them down the creek. Monotonous and monotonous labor that left a lot of marks. But these blocks went to repair, insulate, and reinforce the walls so that the shelter could be kept at an acceptable temperature and survive a serious bombardment if necessary. Sometimes we found large metal structures in the ruins and had to dismantle them with plasma torches, but as a result, we had enough metal."

"At some moment the raiders tracked us down. Of course, the crawler couldn't make it across the creek, so the renegades walked light. They appeared extremely confident, believing that combat implants, built-in auspices, and long-range weapons would ensure victory. But in narrow, icy passageways, a simple vibro cutter becomes just as dangerous as a bio-coded stabber. In addition, when we managed to get some batteries from the sand crawler renegade, we placed two blocks of self-contained bolters in the tunnel."

"The dangers that can come from complex biological organisms should not be neglected," Perseus agreed. "Katachan's bioforms are a vivid proof of that."

"That's right. Thus, having a formal superiority, the renegades lost their advantage, and then their lives. Our group received nuclear batteries, cogitators, some serviceable servos, and spare parts. It was these that enabled us, six years later, to locate and reactivate the cryo-lab, the last that remained functional in the ruins of the destroyed Forge. One of the magos we retrieved from the sarcophagi was frozen before the Olympic Treaty. His knowledge proved truly invaluable and allowed us to be restored. And for me, to see the true path. For the human mind, though formed outside the confines of the Cult of the Machine, is capable of great exploits in the search for Knowledge."

Theta pondered the phrase 'allowed us to be restored'. It was very complicated and allowed for many interpretations.

"But weren't you already privy to the Omnissiah cause?" he asked, after all.

"I am referring to the career of Biologis. For many centuries I specialized in the study of higher nervous activity."

It took Logis a long time to comprehend the information he received.

"I assumed that your path began differently. The infosmith-programmer... It seems more natural for someone who has ascended to existence as pure consciousness."

"And, accordingly, did my attitude toward the citizens of the Imperium deprived of the blessing of God-Machine appear to you to be a mistake, a deviation in the formation of consciousness?"

"The unconventional way of deep behavioral analysis," Theta replied diplomatically.

"Binarity," Doturov repeated admonishingly. "What people call the 'unity of opposites,' the union of darkness and light that exists only in a relationship, giving rise to one another. It was my deep understanding of humans, the processes of biological constructs, this rather crude but incredibly effective self-adapting and self-adjusting structures that allowed me to lead the project that resulted in the technology of full transfer of consciousness to machine carriers. That is, to take another step in the service of the Omnissiah."

"In essence, you are both the service of Mechanicus and the embodiment of it," Theta stated. "This is also an interesting aspect of binarity."

"Right. Mathematics was once thought to negate philosophy, but that was a mistake. From the height of my ministry, I see that the Truths' prescribed tendency to simplify, to segment the constituent structures of knowledge, leads many of us down the erroneous path of primitivization, to ignore whole areas of knowledge!"

"And as a result, to techno-heresy?" Theta dared to guess.

"Exactly. When magos begins to discard those facts that do not fit his convenient theory, he distorts the teachings of Omnissiah. Distortion leads to deviation, deviation pushes to heresy. This is the fundamental difference between the Omnissiah way and the primitive religions. They are forced to appeal to mystical entities, deny logic and demand blind acceptance of dogmas. We, on the other hand, deny unexamined knowledge; only strict and balanced truth brings us closer to God-Machine."

Perseus thought about it. The knowledge he gained should be analyzed in detail and taken into account for further work.

"Am I right in assuming we're talking about what people would call an 'influx of fresh blood?" Theta asked cautiously. "The multiplication of genetic diversity to avoid stagnation and degeneration in closed biosystems? Olga's value is not only that she is favored by the sacred cogitator, but that she is different? Her way of knowing the world and analyzing it, for all its apparent naivety, is shaped in other conditions, it goes beyond our patterns of information processing. By scrutinizing her pattern of behavior and thinking, will we thereby discover a new aspect of knowing the world and serving the Omnissiah?"

"I'll leave it to you to find the answer yourself," Doturov said with the same irony, at the same time performing a tricky maneuver with a sideways step, a forty-five-degree turn, and a crouch. The Kronover missed a conditional burst of bolter shells over its flattened hull like a turtle shell and simultaneously stood up so that the nearest 'enemy' titan was now blocking its line of fire. Simultaneously with the action, Doturov sent a data packet to the general manipuli network, which deciphered as a predatory admonition 'always pick and hit a straggler from the main group, cover by his hull' plus a set of instructions on how to do it in the best way.

"And, getting back to the original question," Lexic continued. "Give an assessment of the fact that selected techno-adept Jennifer Wackrufmann is currently reviewing episodes of 'Knights of the Zuen world'?"

"I suppose general familiarity with entertainment content would be a better subject for conversation with Olga than discussing aspects of tensor analysis," Theta gave his verdict almost without hesitation.

Doturov thought again that sometimes pure consciousness still lacks a face. Alas, no digital emulation can capture the richness of such a seemingly primitive act as a human smile.

* * *

RiP · Nov 27, 2021

Part 4
Sacred duty
Chapter 19
* * *
"Hey, get up."

Olga crawled out of her half-slumber like an insect after a molt, that is, slowly, heavily, and sadly. Now she wanted to sleep all the time, chronic fatigue firmly entrenched in her muscles. The girl glanced apathetically at Savlar from under a blanket that looked like a fleece blanket that had thinned into a handkerchief. Many generations of purificators must have slept under it...

"Get ready," he muttered. "They're calling for you."

To be more convincing, the noseless man kicked the leg of the shelf where the girl lay down. Olga looked critically at the old coat of brutally murdered young fabrikoid, then asked:

"Look, aren't you tired of it?"

"What?" Savlar was confused.

"Well, that, making an experienced 'convict' of yourself? You're not a convict," Olga suggested honestly. She was already in a bad mood, and her new eye was weighing heavily on her orbit, her body did not want to get used to the new part.

"I am!" He was about to cry out Savlarets, but under the calm indifferent gaze of the girl, he stifled.

"I stomped out all the Moons," he muttered without much enthusiasm.

"Come on," she smiled crookedly, without anger or criticism, maybe that slowed down Savlar, preventing him from exploding into another scandal.

"I've seen prisoners. If they were in jail on a case, they had... ...bad things in their eyes. They're bad people. You're not."

"Am I the good guy?" The noseless man asked in a puzzled manner, and all his patterns broke at once; even his speech changed, and the shrill tones of a hysteric with a soul in squares disappeared from it.

"Yes. You're mean and scandalous. But you're good in your way. I guess so. And you know poetry. Real convicts don't read poetry, they have other things."

The Savlar twitched his cheeks, his lips twitching like those of a hurt child about to cry.

"But I won't tell anyone," Olga promised confidentially and quietly.

The noseless man raised his fist and waved it in sad despair.

"The hell with you!" he blurted out with unconcealed resentment. "And that's just the way you are!"

"Yes," the girl agreed. "I'm a good one."

The seasoned jailer only waved both hands, flapping his rust-colored sleeves, and jumped out like a klutz and cackled one last time:

"Third wagon! Now! They're waiting!"

And almost ran down the corridor.

Olga sat on the shelf for a while, like a schoolgirl with a toothbrush in front of the sink, realizing that the backpack and the school bell are inevitable. After the burning of Smoker, the girl was not
only tired but was freezing all the time. The girl had just enough energy to work off the assigned workouts, ensure minimal functionality, and listen to the Priest's lessons (which had become very rare). In her free time, Olga preferred to wrap up in a blanket, pull on a sweater beforehand, and sleep. Well, or at least doze off. Waking life was too frightening, and in her sleep, the panic was gone, the permanently stuck expectation that now she would be dragged to the bonfire. But the nightmares came, in which the unhappy scout stretched his burnt arms with grown claws, trying to drag Olga into the awful warp. Often the Madman was nearby as well. The quiet madman died the same day as the burned Smoker, passed away quietly and unnoticed, from a heart attack.
However, everyone had nightmares now, even the God-fearing Sinner, mute and demented for the sake of his emperor. A couple of times, too, Kryptman woke up screaming to save some Tanzin, after which Fidus looked at the girl confused and askew.

Third wagon...

The girl finally slid off the shelf and staggered off to wash, dragging her legs, feeling her joints ache as if she had a fever. After a symbolic splash of cold water on her face, she changed into her work overalls and put on a pirate-like blindfold, made from a long handkerchief to cover her artificial eye. The prosthesis, though it formally produced an image, in practice hindered more than it helped. The combined image was poorly colored and blurred, and I could distinguish light and darkness with it, but at the very most I could orient myself in space. In addition, I quickly became dizzy with all the effects of spinning on the Ferris wheel. So, as the girl bitterly thought, she was still disabled in the end, only with an extra handicap that hurt and itched and left her with the ever-present feeling that her face was a quarter full of lead.

As she pulled herself together, Olga staggered downstairs just as leisurely. The Wretched man was listening to the radio with music and hymns, and the others were draped in their closets, even Kryp. As she descended the stairs, Olga saw the tank, in which Driver was again rummaging, hanging his hat on the antenna. Some complicated operations with the machinery were supposed to be carried out strictly by 'cogs', but the old machine often needed minor repairs, and he always invented a technical activity for himself. The mechanic looked at the sprayer from under the tank helmet, hatched up to his eyebrows, nodded, and remained silent, returning to the interrupted activity. Olga pulled up higher the collar of her sweater, pulled on her fingerless mittens with flap pouches, then went into the small vestibule.

For three days after the burning of Smoker, there was a severe snowstorm as if nature was angry at human injustice. But then the weather cleared, and now it was moderately sunny, for a change, as if in feeble compensation for the past. Servitor Luct was leisurely and measured. He did everything just so, without haste, thoroughly - he swept the parade ground. The zombie robot saw Olga off and remained silent, like Driver, though he usually greeted the girl.

The world around was almost unchanged, only a little brighter and homeopathically cheerful under the yellow sun. The wind died down, and the temperature felt like five or six degrees, hardly more. Olga breathed a little fresh air, lifted her blindfold, and was saddened. The prosthetic eye worked even worse outdoors than indoors. The picture became completely blurred like a black and white watercolor in which a cup of water had been knocked over.

Olga put on her blindfold, slouched down, shoved her hands in her pockets, and walked to the third wagon, dragging her feet so that her feet scraped against the concrete. The train - after several wagons had been unhooked and the locomotive had been driven away for maintenance - seemed very short and disproportionately tall. Like a strange toy. The girl paced without haste, wondering what had gone wrong. Why hadn't she asked Savlar where to go and why? Who had told her to go through the masquerading poet? And what would some psychologists say about it. She remembered the test to determine personal freedom and autonomy, the one where a non-smoker was offered a cigarette. Having realized that it was as if she had no will at all, Olga felt even more bitter. At a certain point, she began to feel that her legs were dragging her very heavily, with a loud scraping sound.

The girl stopped and realized that it was not her making noise, but something approaching from the side, weighty and noisy. It was coming pretty fast. Olga looked around, just in case, and found no sign of panic. No one had sounded the alarm, no one was running with guns, so everything was going as it should. Still, what was buzzing like Godzilla? Just to be on the safe side, the shepherdess moved closer to the wagon, so she could duck behind the wheel, which was a meter and a half in diameter, just in case. Godzilla drew nearer, panting and making noise, until, at last, something large, grayish-black-and-white, of distinct geometric outline, flashed over the roof of the distant warehouse.

"Wow," she exhaled, not surprised, though. She was used to the fact that 'here' regularly happens something amazing and unseen. For example, a walking machine the height of a five-story building. Why not, after all?

The machine was bipedal, like a hybrid of a chicken and a tortoise. Its mighty 'legs,' which seemed to have a lot of joints, carried a wide, flattened body like a hypertrophied body of a bodybuilder. A cockpit protruded from the hull, making it look like a lizard with its muzzle down before lunging at its prey. The powerful 'arms' had no fingers or anything like that, but rather manipulators to hold the gun barrels.

The artificial beast seemed both slow and dangerous. There was a predatory fluidity to its movements, like that of the Tyrannosaurus from the Spielberg movie, where someone else was eaten right on the toilet. The car thundered with its iron shoes leaving deep indentations in the concrete with a fine network of cracks; jets of steam or some gas spurted from its joints; lights on its shoulders swirled like parking lights. Each part of the amazing mechanism sounded different, and together they created a bass-like melody, like a rhythmic breath. Above and behind the car, the air was shaking, probably the exhaust from the engines.

The giant was walking quite purposefully toward the train, and for a moment Olga thought that the machine was about to step over the wagon... No, the legs were too short after all. Mecha-Godzilla, as if listening to her thoughts, crouched down a little, so Olga thought: now it will jump over! And again she was wrong - the machine was just changing course. The girl looked after the terrible monster, made sure that indeed, on the iron ass blowing heat bars of the giant radiators. It must be really hot in there...

Olga hunched over as if that could save joules of her heat. She wanted to run next to the walker, climb on it and warm herself against the warm, probably even hot metal. Olga sighed and went to the third wagon, where she had never been before.

The third wagon was no different from the first, second, and others, the same two-and-a-half stories, the hinged ramp for machinery, the narrow slots of windows with flaps. Olga climbed the gangway with a thin railing and knocked on the door. Nothing happened. She knocked again, with the same result. When she brought her hand up a third time, curving her lips in displeasure, suddenly something clicked, and the door said:

"Come in."

In surprise, Olga swayed and almost fell from a height of two meters.

"Come in." With the same mechanical intonation repeated the hidden speaker.

The girl shook her head and turned the lever with effort.

The third wagon, judging by its decoration, was for maintenance. There were no vehicles and no fire-chemical supplies, but the instruments were piled up like archaeological layers, literally one on top of another, all different, and each as if it had been assembled by hand, from whatever was available, without a blueprint or template. It was so much like Jennifer Wackrufmann's workshop that Olga was not even surprised at first to find Jennifer herself.

"Hello," said the 'cog'.

"Hi," the girl replied, thinking about her own thing. "And who here is... Oh!"

For the first time in the three days since Smoker's execution, Olga felt alive. She was genuine - just like a close friend - pleased with the metal woman who did not consider herself a woman.
"Hello!" Olga wanted to jump on Jennifer and hug her tightly out of sheer emotion (and the mechanicum were warm), but she held back. A needle of suspicious mistrust pricked her heart - the purificators seemed like decent people, too, until it turned out that they really had a habit of burning living people. Who knows what the 'cogs' will do?

"Praise to Omnissiah, we meet again," Wakrufmann indicated a ceremonial bow, and then the sine line on the screen that replaced the mechanicum's mouth folded into a smile. "I'm glad."
After the Priest's lessons, Olga already knew that Omnissiah, aka God-Machine, is one of the hypostases of the Emperor. He is worshipped by a caste of special technical priests who - and no one else - are allowed to work professionally with machinery more complex than a tractor. Wackruffmann was one of them.

"But how... what are you... here...?" The girl fluttered her arms, unable to find the right words.

"Your train is in an undignified state," the priestess explained. "Lots of work, increased wear and tear, sparse staff. The spirits of the machines are sad and weak. I will shine a brighter light of Omnissia."

That's a good thing!" The girl decided it was rather good news after all. "I'm glad!"

"Me too."

Now Olga could finally examine the priestess of the mechanical god carefully and without haste. The mechanicum was slightly taller than the earth girl. The details of her build (or should she say construction) could not be discerned because of the simple red robe that fell to her heels. On the one hand, the look of the priestess caused a smile and strong associations with children's movies - the metal arms and head seemed deliberately simple, no markings, no complicated connections and details, like, for example, in the terminator. Smooth metal and glass, polished seams, corrugated rubber in the joints, just some kind of Tin Man, only small and very neatly made. On the other hand... Jennifer's plasticity, the barely noticeable inertia of her movements, the slight creak of metal under her feet, indicative of solid weight, were all extremely far from toys and movie props.

Also, as far as the girl remembered, somewhere under the cloak lurks a tentacle with claws, which is very usefull at burning brains.

"Did you fix that... What's its name..." Olga wrinkled her nose, trying to remember.

"A hypersonic torch with a magnetostrictive material working part," Jennifer clarified. "No, I disassembled the base and replaced it with an acoustic screwdriver. And I also brought a magnet."
"Yes, that's right, the second magnet," Olga smiled.

"Sit down," Jennifer pointed to a ball of wire with sticks sticking out. Olga didn't understand at first, but then she tilted her head and realized that, at a certain angle, the bundle looked like a chair.
"So it was you who called me? - the girl asked, cautiously sitting down. The 'chair' looked suspicious and dangerous as if a sharp end of the wire would stick into her skinny ass at any moment.
"Yes. I perform an inventory. I'm evaluating the effectiveness of the prayers and the sequence of rituals. I found a surgical entry in the logs. Basic novice augmentations are not of outstanding quality. Your functionality is probably partially restored, but accompanied by discomfort and side effects. Is this true?"

"Yes," Olga wanted to sob in a self-pity fit, but she held back. "It hurts. It hurts all the time. And it presses on the eye socket. And it itches."

"I thought so."

Jennifer hovered over the seated patient and suddenly froze, emitting a modulated buzzing sound. The line of her 'mouth' bounced in sharp peaks. Olga cringed, looking suspiciously at the priestess.

"What are you doing?" The girl cautiously asked after a minute or two.

Jennifer hummed some more and then suddenly answered:

"I pray."

"I thought you were checking the eye," the patient said disappointed.

"It's the same thing," the priestess said briskly and touched Olga's temples with her warm, hard fingers. "Keep still. You may speak."

"The same thing?"

"Yes. We serve the Omnissiah, and our service is work. All that is done with reverence and respect is a service to the Machine, all prayer to Him is an act for His glory."
Olga did not really understand this tirade, but risked to clarify:

"And when I turn on the light, I pray too... To the Machine?"

"No. You just turn on the lights. But when you need to fix a rheostat, it's prayer embodied in action. Or an action that is itself a prayer. It's hard to explain," Wackrufmann suddenly complained.
"Human language is very poor. A scarce set of symbols, a limited conceptual apparatus."

Olga thought that there was nothing complicated about it, it sounded logical and in line with everyone's religious craziness. But she decided to keep it to herself and clarified:

"I don't feel anything. Is it supposed to be like this?"

"Yes."

"What about it?"

"Rough work. Painstaking, but unsophisticated. The lowest level of worship, functionality without grace or beauty."

"The beauties..." repeated the girl. "And I thought you were not about beautiful things..."

"Who do you mean by 'you'?" Wakrufmann was still touching Olga's head.

"Well... you, those who serve the Omnissiah."

"We love beauty. We appreciate beauty," Olga thought the priestess's synthetic voice became a little harsher and sterner. "But this is a different beauty. It largely coincides with the understanding of ordinary people who are not blessed by Omnissiah, but it goes far beyond that understanding."

Again Olga wanted to object, but the girl literally caught her tongue.

Jennifer withdrew her hands and straightened up, looking at the girl with green eyepieces.

"The micro-movements of your face and neck muscles are indicative of the words being spoken. You want to say something, but you are silent. From this, I deduce that you think words are inappropriate. Usually, people are silent for reasons of tact or fear. The emotional connection between us defines a lower threshold for communicative assumptions. Thus, I assume you want to say something, but are afraid. Does this have to do with the public execution of the deserter three days ago?"

Olga stubbornly pressed her lips together, deciding for herself that a fly would not fly into a covered mouth.

Jennifer let out a strange high-pitched squeak, a little like the modem sounds from the movie 'Hackers'.(*) From somewhere above, two servo sculls came down at once. One was quite traditional, with a red lens and funny handles. The other was more serious, with a long cable and a battery of instruments that looked suspiciously like surgical instruments. From behind the priestess, clanking metallic horseshoes, a dubious robot emerged, looking as if it were a coat rack. It was a robot, not a servitor, which was unusual.

"I'll help you now. It gets better," Jennifer promised.

"Will I be able to see normally?" the girl asked hopefully.

"If you mean 'as before' - no."

Olga exhaled disappointed.

"Functionality will be brought up to eighty-six percent relative to the original state of the eye. Some special features will also become available. I will tell you about them later."

The robot-hanger stepped closer and suddenly gripped the patient's head firmly in its grip, securing it for surgery. The skulls moved lower, snapping and twitching their claws bloodily. Well, at any
rate, Olga sensed the bloodthirstiness, the flying heads seemed very sinister.

"Don't be afraid," Wakrufmann advised.

"How about a shot?" the patient timidly suggested.

"It will," the priestess promised firmly. "By the way, this 'don't be afraid' was not just about expecting physical pain."

The girl was silent, not knowing what to say here. The hanger intensified its metallic grip, but without stiffness. Then followed a sudden pinch under her sore eye. Olga twitched and cried out.

"Anesthesia," reported Wackrufmann. "It takes the pain away."

"Thank you," the patient grumbled. The pain didn't disappear, but rather became more distant, farther away than it had ever been before. Now it felt like an ongoing mosquito bite, not painful, but very unpleasant.

"I'll say it again, don't be afraid."

"With these words Jennifer began humming again, this time fading quietly, somehow soothingly and softly. Olga remembered (and immediately forgot) the word 'infrasound' she had heard a long time ago."

"What are you talking about," the girl muttered, listening to her condition. The sting of the mosquito seemed to melt away, dissolved by the gentle pressure of the drug and the humming of the priestess. Warmth poured around the damaged eye socket and went further under the skull as if enveloping the brain. Her thoughts cleared, becoming surprisingly clear.

"Assessing your behavioral pattern and reactions, I come to the conclusion that your homeland belongs to the medium-developed worlds, where reverence for the Emperor is weak and Omnissiah is not revered at all."

"The Emperor protects!" Olga reacted in a rote manner, imitating an aquila. "I love him with all my heart! He is the father of all men, the giver of blessings, and the merciful protector!"

And the bloodthirsty dead man, may he go to hell with all his admirers.

But as if Jennifer didn't hear the energetic declaration of love for the Imperium deity.

"For people of this kind, the encounter with the more energetic forms of worship of the God-Emperor of Mankind has a demoralizing effect," the priestess paused and added, apparently in clarification, "Depressing."

"I know what 'demoralized' means," the new, enlightened Olga easily recalled words long forgotten. She wanted to talk to an intelligent man, even if she was made of steel and weighed two kilograms. But it was still a little scary.

"I honor the Emperor!" she repeated, just in case. "And probably Omnissia, too, for he is one of the faces... or guises... He is part of the Emperor. Or a side of the Emperor."
Olga was completely confused and embarrassed, but the priestess did not seem offended or angry.

"That's normal," Wakrufmann reassured her. "The concept of several hypostases of a whole and incomprehensible force is not easy to understand. I understand what you mean, and I appreciate the respect you've shown Omnissiah. But back to the old question. I repeat: don't be afraid. I am not going to do anything to harm you, much less to punish or kill you."

Only now Olga suddenly realize that she could not feel half of her face, and strictly along the midline, passing through her nose. No feeling at all, and it happened quietly, unnoticed. The girl leaned back comfortably on the wire seat, letting out a sigh of relief. She felt decidedly good and relaxed, as well as warm and safe. Olga glanced suspiciously at her companion, just in case.

"Are you sure you're not going to?" the patient sternly clarified.

"Exactly," Jennifer promised.

"Well, okay," Olga agreed, and exhaled once more, enjoying the feeling of warm air washing over her palate and tongue. It felt good to inhale, even better to exhale. Each gulp of air felt like it was clearing her lungs, drawing pain and fatigue from her body. And if she concentrated on the process, she could feel the breath rushing further, almost to the heels, widening the tiny capillaries on its way.

"Will you give me a tooth?" The suspicion almost melted away, but still remained somewhere on the edge of consciousness.

It's a kind of idiom. When 100% sure in something you put your tooth as a bet. But proper translation spoils next frases.

" I have no teeth," Jennifer admitted honestly. "I don't have a vocal apparatus at all. I got rid of it a long time ago. It's inconvenient and impractical."

"But how do you eat?" the girl is amazed.

"I don't eat. My biological part needs nutrients, but I get them in a concentrated form and optimized for my metabolism."

"Oh, poor..." the patient was upset. "You can't even munch properly."

Then she thought that 'munch' was not a word that should be used in decent society, giggled, and covered her mouth with her palm. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Jennifer reassured her. "The advantages of diffusion nutrition may not be obvious to the average outsider."

Olga was quiet for a while, concentrating on the sensations, trying to understand what was happening to her eye, but no avail. However, there was no blood (at least in plain sight), already good. As if reading her mind, Jennifer commented on the operation:

"Removing the prosthetic."

One of the skulls swayed. It looked as if the flying head nodded in agreement. It was very funny, and the girl smiled with one side of her mouth; she couldn't feel the other. Meanwhile the second servo skull handed the priestess something that looked like a drill, the machine looked ominous, the end of the 'drill' was flashing multicolored sparks that looked like electrical sparks.

"I'm scared," she suddenly admitted.

"It's safe," Jennifer reassured her. "It's necessary to disconnect the contacts without traumatizing the nerve tissue."

"No... I'm really scared. Well, not right now... in general. Very, very."

"This is the natural state of man, programmed by evolution. A living subject must strive to survive. Survival must be motivated. Feeling fear and wanting to get rid of it are good motivators."
Jennifer was silent for a moment as if to make sure that her interlocutor had understood what was being said.

"When I was human, I was often afraid too," the priestess said confidentially.

"And then you became a machine and stopped?"

"This is a simplified view. But it is generally correct. As mentioned above, fear is an element of a complex mechanism that ensures the survival of the population. Fear gives life. And it also poisons it."

"Some kind of ambivalence," Olga remarked. She felt warm and very good. The barely perceptible humming of the Wakrufmann was soothing, as if in a cradle. There was an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling of calm vigor, a peacefulness that energized her.

"It's called 'dialectics,'" Jennifer said. "And when one becomes a servant of God, one throws off many shackles of the flesh. Fear is one of them."

"All religions promise salvation and goodness," Olga herself was surprised at how cleverly and beautifully she could articulate it. "Serve and you will be saved!"

"That's true," the priestess agreed. "But they all promise salvation someday. Later. In some indefinite future, usually beyond the boundaries of physical existence."

"And... the Emperor?"

"And so is he," Jennifer confirmed without hesitation, in a way that made Olga's jaw drop. "Belief in God the Emperor is constructive and effective. It serves the interests of the whole, that is, humanity as a multiracial and multicultural community. However, it is dialectically ruthless to the fate of the basic elements of unity."

"Wait... I'm confused..."

Olga tried to somehow organize Jennifer's words and fit them into her mind. The state of intellectual euphoria expanded into a stage of burning desire to think, to search for truth, to argue. Wakrufmann waited patiently, the medical skulls continuing their work, chirping softly, apparently conversing in their machine language.

"Are you saying that the emperor's church supports the existence of people as a whole, but easily tramples on people individually?"

"Exactly."

Olga recalled that the Priest had said similar things before, only in different words. A million worlds, perhaps billions. Infinite thousands of cultures, traditions, and customs. And a faith as the only standard in which to fit this unimaginable multitude. The girl shared these insights with Jennifer, referring honestly to the author. And ended with a critique:

"But it's still wrong... Here's the Smoker, for example... he didn't do anything! He was good and honest. Anybody could have been in his place! Anyone, even our commander. And he got burned."
It became so sad that the girl sniffed her nose and an unwanted tear rolled down her cheek. One of the skulls immediately wiped the tear away with a piece of gauze. The flying head's concern reminded her of its counterpart, who had been swept away into space, and of the Machine. Not the Omnissiah one, but the ancient cogitator computer. She wanted to talk about it too, but she intended to discuss the organization of the Imperium first.

"This is a characteristic of large systems," Wackrufmann mentored. "Managing them requires impersonality, protocol, to reduce the level of entropy, energy losses in large-scale communications. A side effect is statistical neglect of the fate of those who fall out of protocol and pattern."

"I understand," Olga agreed, after thinking for a while. "And I don't agree with it."

"So are we," Wackruffmann said briefly.

"Am... what?"

"We'll talk about that another time."

"The other one? Will you be here for a long?"

"For a while. That's it, it's over."

The "hanger" opened its strong embrace and obligingly handed her a mirror. Olga quickly looked into it, biting her tongue with impatience and expectation of a miracle... and could not refrain from a sigh of disappointment. Wakrufmann did not even remove the prosthesis, only placed it somehow more accurately, removed the protruding parts, treated the edges of the inflamed eye socket with some ointment, taking away the pain. The cable was no longer sticking out of the temple, but went under the skin and was hardly felt. And that was it.

"Thank you," the girl said sadly, struggling to keep from crying.

Now I'm a total freak...

She wanted to hurry away, to crawl under the wagon, behind the huge wheel, and cry there, so no one would see. It would probably hurt again, though, and even worse.

"I detect a change in an emotional state, which can very likely qualify as resentment and frustration."

As usual, when Wackrufmann switched to high-sounding machine slang, it was unclear whether she was being serious or mildly ironic. A skull with arms flew somewhere in the depths of the workshop. The other moved over to the nickel-plated cauldron with a lid and began busily dropping tools inside, probably for sterilization.

"Olga," the priestess seemed to call her for the first time by name, with perfect accuracy, no 'olla,' and the right accent. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Really," the girl slouched down again, as good spirits and feeling of warmth and security melt away irreversibly.

"I'm a Martian," this time the artificial voice had something like pride with the slightest hint of arrogance. Not an overt superiority, but rather a sense of objective superiority, like a person with a passport of a real country among the Papuans.

"I am Mechanicus. The Machine God does not approve of silly jokes, deceived hopes, and senseless cruelty. Unlike others."
It seemed to Olga that Wakrufmann had put special emphasis on 'others', but she had no time to think it over. The first skull was already returning, the dead head dragging a kind of box, strangely similar to... yes, a gift wrapper.

"Surprise," Jennifer again painted a smile that surprisingly enlivened her glassy-metal face.

"What is it?" asked the patient as the skull put the box down on the palms of her hands.

Olga felt feverish and excited impatience. She had not been given any gifts for a very, very long time. I mean, gifts and favors had happened, for example, from associates in their hard work, but a special present for her... Mars doesn't cheat and doesn't joke, I think that's what the priestess said. Could there be a real new eye inside?

"Open it. I think you'll like it. By the way..." suddenly asked Wakrufmann, while the girl hurriedly rustled the wrapper. "Do you understand how visual prostheses work?"

"No."

In the box, on a rolled-up handkerchief, there was a strange thing that looked like glasses with one eyepiece. Like in 'Universal Soldier' with the handsome Belgian guy whose name Olga had completely forgotten.

"What is it?" The girl asked with curiosity, carefully taking out the object.

Jennifer took the glasses from her hands and put the device on the girl's head.

"A personal calibration needed. It will take six minutes and fifteen seconds. In your case, the main factor in the blindness was the cessation of retinal function. The retina is an organic sensory photomatrix that forms signals and transmits them to the brain. The sensory diameter of a single monochrome photoreceptor is averagely two-thousandths of a millimeter. Thus, approximately one hundred million matrix elements are involved in the active human visual field."

Jennifer tilted her head and looked at a confused Olga.

"Pixels. Got it?"

"Nope," the novice answered honestly.

"In the basic implant that you had, the active matrix consists of four million single elements."

"Four is less than a hundred," the girl suggested.

"Yes. Also, because of the higher response threshold, these elements need about one thousand one hundred and eighty times the amount of light for the organic optic nerve to perceive it as a signal. In other words, this matrix is practically useless in normal light. There is a solution, of course, and it consists in combining the elements in clusters of two thousand units, which bring the received signals to one nerve, connecting the matrix with the brain. This is analogous to five thousand single elements working instead of the average hundred million. In other words, the quality of the implant was twenty thousand times worse than before the injury."

Olga nodded in agreement. The mysterious 'pixels' and 'sensory matrices' were still incomprehensible entities, but the numbers were quite clear. So her living eye saw a hundred million dots, but the prosthetic eye saw five thousand. That difference explained the disgusting quality of the artificial vision and the headaches.

"For you, I developed a different solution, optimized for your problem and needs, taking into account the interfacing of the already installed element base. In fact, I used myself as the basis, but in your case, there is no possibility to place the computing units and energy cells inside your body, so I improvised. The part of the glasses that are placed in front of the damaged eye is essentially a light amplifier. It is controlled by a miniature cogitator, so as not to cause coagulation of nerve tissue proteins from overheating."

Very primitively, the device does not transmit the light flux to the matrix but forms such an image at the input that when it is perceived it will transmit the desired picture to the brain. The built-in battery is enough for eighteen standard hours of continuous work, but there are also adapters for typical power sources, including batteries of handheld laser weapons. And by pre-calculating, the light flux, the quality of your eye, in general, will only be reduced by a factor of three, and only twenty-three percent in the center of the field of view.

"And I will be able to see normally?"

Only in monochrome, but yes. Somewhat later, we will remove the prosthesis and replace it with a better model, which will be quite consistent with the original. But not all at once. I've also added datablock slots so that you can record an image and view the recordings. Just in case, let's set the ability to quickly lock the playback mode, so as not to be distracted unnecessarily while working. I set them for myself all the time.

"I don't think I want to review my... life..." Olga did not understand much from the priestess's detailed explanation, but the main thing she understood was that the amazing glasses would not replace her lost eye, but they would be better than a prosthesis, and they also had a recording function.

"Especially during work."

The shifting safety shutters on Jennifer's eyepieces gave a strange impression that the mechanicus was squinting.

"Who said anything about reviewing? Have you heard about "The Knights of Zuen World"?"

Here came Olga's familiar tentacle. It slipped out of the folds of the cloak, a harmless segmented arm clutching something rectangular, matt and translucent in its claws. The thing looked like a small keychain made of hardened resin, only instead of the usual insect, there were sparks of electronic parts frozen there.

"This is my favorite ark!" This time Jennifer spoke with genuine enthusiasm. If you closed your eyes and didn't see the mask that replaced the priestess' face, it was easy to imagine she was just a young woman with a strong accent.

"I recorded for you the first one hundred and thirty episodes!"

"Knights... Zuen?"

"It's a story about the Questors and the conflict with the Forge, located on a satellite of their planet. In the end, it ended in a war, and they sort of destroyed the Forge, but then when the techno-heretics came, the Questors' powers weren't enough, and it turned out that the Forge was actually... But you'd better see for yourself, it's very interesting!"

"Wait, wait!" Olga put her palm forward like a player taking a time-out. "What is this, a TV show?"

She was used to the fact that in a world of a bleak and brutal future, the pinnacle of public entertainment was radio plays like 'The Emperor's Chosen Warriors', 'The Commissioner's Life', 'Die or Fight', interspersed with production novels about melting a billion tons of steel and a "burning" plan to produce armored vehicles. All the conflicts were built around the confrontation between two specialists, one of whom just wanted good things and the other wanted even better things. In the finale, the conservative and the radical invariably united, smelted the metal, tightened the last nut themselves at the last minute, and solemnly escorted a batch of laser rifles, tanks, and so on to the abstract front.

And now Jennifer just hands her a gizmo that would pass for high-tech even by the standards of her native twenty-first century. And it comes with a flash drive with a real soap opera on it! A soap opera, damn it! This Mars is a sanctuary of progress and culture.

"Yes, the work is divided into separate series. There are several main plot lines, and there are love lines too, although they are not the main ones, and a lot of gene ones," Wackrufmann answered.

Olga laughed heartily and sincerely.

"Jennifer, how old are you?"

"In ninety-eight standard twenty-four hours it will be fifteen," replied the 'cog'. "Does the age of your interlocutor matter to you in any way?"

"No," Olga clutched tightly at the 'flash drive' with one hundred and thirty episodes of knights, adventures, love lines, and the mysterious 'jen'.

"Not at all..."
* * *
1. There is an Authors note that Wakrifmann forgot to mention that 15 years is Martian years. But I think the cunning "cog" did it for a purpose. To establish more close connection to Olga.
2. Olga is quite too young to watch that films. I think there is an Author and MC a bit mixed.
Anyway

RiP · Nov 28, 2021

Chapter 20
* * *
Close people are the most annoying. A stranger can be unpleasant, harmful, dangerous - anything. However, it is only those who are near, at arm's length, and closer that truly infuriates. Inquisitor Schmettau had pondered this paradox on more than one occasion, having been forced to tolerate the Pale's company. Yes, Essen was useful, efficient, comfortable, after all. And yet...
Annoying! Especially since the inquisitor's back hurt again, so much so that mild anesthetics did not help, and strong drugs Schmettau postponed for the time being, intending to maintain a crystal clear view of the situation. Kalkroit habitually put on a mask of bored indifference and prepared to listen to another batch of 'nothing' from the executive, though not shining with imagination assistant. And then asked him caustically what vicious demon had possessed Essen to waste time and resources on a voyage from planet to ship (and with a view to his imminent return) without newsworthy of attention. He must say, at first the faithful confidant went strictly in line with expectations, but then he twisted the report in an unexpected direction.

"So... and what is it?" The inquisitor asked. He already had a rough idea of what it was about, but now he was waiting for a detailed explanation.

"The expenses of the extensive and complex bureaucratic paperwork," Essen explained pompously. "The fact is that the manifestations of... uh... hostile manifestations are recorded by several departments at once. And they have reflected in the reports accordingly."

"Manifestations are manifesting," muttered Schmettau. - Of course, they are. And?.."

"I started checking all the planetary reporting forms."

"So-o-o-o," stretched out Schmettau. "Next."

Now the inquisitor was interested. Yes, Pale's imagination was very, very poor, but his inhuman stubbornness and head-on pressure often yielded results, as if no more effective than cunning analytical combinations.

"Law enforcement officers tend to keep their documents secret, to withhold information for reasons of investigative secrecy and inter-corporate rivalry. But I discovered that there is an agency that also reports regularly on matters of interest to us, and its reports are the most comprehensive and up-to-date."

"The power supply system," Schmettau thought aloud, looking at the thick folder Essen had delivered from Beacon. A poor, hastily made copy, printed on old hardware and recycled paper. But a lot and fast. Looks like Essen managed to pull quarterly, annual and special reports for a hundred years or so.

"Yes, sir. Since Beacon is a planet of strategic importance, its power supply is managed centralized, and planned. All sources, transmission lines, and reserve capacities are inventoried, accounted for, and written into mobilization plans. If an insidious enemy were to strike..."
"...planetary defense will wipe their asses with these plans and begin heroically overcoming. As usual," Kalkroit continued for him. "Next."

Even the inquisitor's back stopped hurting, the inquisitor had already understood in general terms, where the assistant was leading, and a predatory flame of excitement lit up in his soul.
"Accordingly, any unscheduled outages, accidents, and other malfunctions are always investigated and summarized in regular reporting forms. However, since electricity is hardly relevant to departmental struggles and investigations by authorized agencies, the usual rules of secrecy apply to the document flow."

"So minimal censorship?" The inquisitor straightened up, disregarding the prick of pain. Kalkroit was too curious.

"That's right," Essen showed appropriate deference and admiration for his patron's intelligence.

"And as a result?"

Essen unfolded the very first sheet in the monumental folder with a majestic look. It was of very thick paper, more like thin cardboard, and folded several times. Essen unfolded the very first sheet in the monumental folder with a majestic look. It was of very thick paper, more like thin cardboard, and folded several times.

"Well, well," muttered Schmettau with an uncertain intonation, squinting myopically.

From an outsider's point of view, the text was unreadable, representing something like a summary metric, some were printed by a portable typewriter-stamp, some were handwritten (although quite legible), the illustrating diagrams were also mostly drawn. However, Schmettau had worked with documents for many, many years, and was used to analyzing, 'covering' the text with his eyes, immediately picking out the key points.

"So," said the Inquisitor softly. "So... Is this as of...?"

"Three o'clock in the morning, today's twenty-four hours. I went to you, sir, as soon as I received it. The report is traditionally made at the moment of minimum load on the planetary system.
Although this is rather arbitrary, the power is mostly consumed by the factories, the spaceport, and the astropaths, and their rate fluctuates only slightly."

"Interesting," summed up the inquisitor. "Very interesting. So we can safely add new data to our graph. And, from what I see, the attenuation of chaotic disturbances does not correlate with the energy problems of the Ice Port."

"The lines are roughly the same..." the assistant pointed out. "Up to this point."

"Yes, and then they diverge... Chaotic manifestation drops to insignificant values, but the problems of energy networks, on the contrary, multiply with clearly visible progression... And now suddenly there is a spurt in both directions. Very interesting! Do you know what it's like?"

"No," Essen said. In fact, he had a hunch, but that's not what was required of the assistant at the moment.

"It was as if someone was stealing energy for something..." thoughtfully, with long pauses, the inquisitor pondered aloud. "Or they were performing some... action, the side effect of which was the problem of energy. After all, as my teacher used to say, in every socket there is a demon. And then, for some reason, we stopped seeing the process... perhaps it was well camouflaged, or perhaps it had entered a stage of concentration, like a fighter's before a decisive blow."

"The drop of chaotic perversions?"

"Exactly. But it was not possible to disguise the theft of energy. Or, if the second version is true, it failed to isolate the side effects... Although we now miraculously saw some connection. Maybe the mysterious 'they' didn't notice it either, that's why they didn't hide it."

"Perhaps the processes are not related," Essen suggested honestly. "You can always find some kind of correlation in a multitude of variables."

"Yes," Kalkroit agreed. "We can. But it's a string. It's like a string from a bell that invites us to pull it."

"We can pull it," Essen suggested. "Parallel investigations are neither encouraged nor forbidden. It's a question of the outcome."

"Yes, we can," agreed Schmettau. "The question is, do we need it? More specifically, do we need it now?"

"Before, you didn't reject this kind of..." Essen hesitated, unable to find the right word.

"My friend," Schmettau tapped his fingers on a large sheet of paper. "Before, we were investigating, and, accordingly, we were either hindered or assisted. Both directions implied active assistance. In the first case, it was necessary to cooperate, in the second to help the opponents stumble. But now the situation is different, we stand apart from other people's operations, in which we are interested solely on general grounds, as the Emperor's faithful guards. As inquisitors, we must intervene and help. On the one hand. As inquisitors, on the other hand, we must weigh the consequences of such an intervention. On the other hand. To publicize the fact that the energy map of the planet in dynamics gives an accurate reflection of all accounted manifestations of hostile forces? And no one even thought that it lies practically in the public domain, among the typical reports of the Beacon's utilities? That is, while Inquisition investigators and Arbitrators were scheming, hiding information, and vying for influence, the average energy clerk could know more than the elected guards of the Imperium put together. And with whom would he share this information? Were you the first person to get into this archive? And who, personally, was responsible for it?"

Essen smoothed the hair on his carefully brushed wig. He nodded silently, admitting that he hadn't thought about the obvious things and questions. The Inquisitor, weary from his unusually long monologue, leaned back again, relieving his aching lower back, and finished his thought:

"That is why it is worthwhile to deal with the problem. But what to do and how to do it, so as to serve the common good and not to multiply the ranks of ill-wishers... That's the question. Eh..."
Schmettau sighed sincerely and heavily.

"Eh, if service to the Emperor and to humanity could be purged of the imperfections of human nature. Without intrigue, without struggle. A pure, distilled consequence, where only truth and just retribution matter..."

Pale sighed, too, just in case, showing the solidarity of grief.

"By the way, it occurred to me," Schmettau finished a moment of sadness about human imperfection and went back to work. "Surely there must be some kind of geological exploration here?"

"Yes, I think so," answered a slightly confused Essen, but immediately picked up the thread of thought. "Seismic sensors?"

"Yes. There probably aren't many, the Port is very old and stopped shaking a long time ago. But there must be. If the reports of the power engineers lie so freely here, maybe the geologists will share something interesting, too...?"

Schmettau's gaze suddenly trembled and faded into a haze. The Inquisitor bowed his head and brought his fingers to his ear in an unconscious motion that gave off a hidden speaker. For a quarter of a minute Calcroyd listened in silence, then just as silently flicked the lever on the cabin's control panel. The white curtain covering the porthole thinned lost color, then disappeared altogether. In the huge circle, the Beacon was visible. The planet occupied three-quarters of the view, shifting quietly in step with the ship's rotation. Night reigned below so that one could see the extent of the Ice Port's power. The yellowish-orange lights scattered in thin strings, forming a sparse web with occasional nodes of more or less large centers. The picture demonstrated that the Lighthouse was quite developed and civilized, but it did not stand up to any comparison with the Forges or the big beehives, where night and day sides were almost indistinguishable.

"What's going on?" Essen looked at the master's slumped shoulders, appreciated the attentive tilt of his head, and realized that now the inquisitor had better ask a leading question.
Schmettau raised two fingers in a gesture of silence and said:

"Something incomprehensible is going on..."
* * *
While Olga was chatting with Wakrufmann, a new locomotive was brought up to the 'Radial', apparently for maneuvering while the regular one was undergoing routine maintenance. The locomotive looked more like a railroad car, only very large - a wide platform, on which a similarly giant cylinder with rivets, valves, dials, and other machinery was suspended. It had no walls or roof, only a tarpaulin to protect it from wind and snow. The structure was asymmetrical, with a cylinder taking up the entire left side of the train, and a smoky chimney sticking out from the top. A locomotive seemed to be a steam locomotive; at any rate, there was a wagon or carriage, filled to the top with black gravel. Gray-white smoke billowed from the chimney, and several scrawny servitors wandered along with the cylinder with shovels and wrenches.

As evening approached, life on the train, and in the whole neighborhood, faltered by itself, as if it were stuck in syrup. A wistful apathy seemed to bend even the unyielding, the mentor and the monk. The afternoon's training had gone so well that they might as well have been wandering around the parade ground, and the strange thing was that no one got punched in the face for it. Bertha only waved her hand sorrowfully, ran everybody in circles, and promised a full marathon across the tundra tomorrow in full gear, and without transport, those who lagged froze. In general, there was no comparison with the hellish exercises of the recent past, when we exercised on the roof, and on the move. At the same time, the sluggish and general laziness seemed hardly more excruciating than the brutal training. There everything was simple and clear: the pain in the muscles, frostbitten face, stone fatigue, an honest, well-deserved rest with plenty of food. And now... not life, not death, but some viscous purgatory.

However, one could not say that life was so hopeless for Olga. There were two bright moments in it. The first, of course, was the new glasses. The field of view was strange - black and white, with three distinguishable zones, a circle in the center gave an almost undistorted picture, then there was a wide band of gray, and finally, almost black periphery, where only the contours of objects were distinguished. But still, the glasses worked, and worked well, at least, much better than the prosthesis. The Driver attached a wide band to the temples so that the frames would be secured to the back of her head without the risk of falling off her nose.

Bertha, Driver, and Kryp were very interested in the new thing, or rather more interested than the others. Bertha and Driver were clearly delighted, asking Olga at length about the techno-girl. Judging by their tone, 'Radial' was very lucky to get a real mechanikum (or mechanikus, the girl did not understand) at least for a while.

At first, Olga thought that serving the Machine was a figure of speech, but now she realized that no, it was real faith. It is amazing, however, that seemingly grown-up people sincerely believed that in every mechanism there is a real spirit, which actually drives the machine. Therefore it is not enough just to screw in the necessary and unscrew the superfluous, it is necessary to do it correctly, with a proper ritual and obligatory prayer. And reassembly of the engine was not an end in itself for the Driver, but a way to cheer up the machine spirit, to make it happier and, as a consequence, more capable of working.

What savages...

Or is it? The glasses are there, they work. And Olga had already seen for herself that demons existed. After the conversation with Berta and Driver, the girl began to look suspiciously at any mechanism, trying to understand if there really was a house spirit inside.

Maybe leave a cube of saccharin next to the glasses at night?

Fidus's interest in the priestess was also very practical. Though the Luct was solidly built, with a good margin, it still, like any machine, required regular maintenance. Naturally, the demoted inquisitor wanted to maintain the servitor in a good repair shop but assumed that the priestess could easily refuse. Still, the half-robot was not a train property. Olga thought Wakrufmann could handle it but vindictively suggested that Fidus go make the arrangements himself.

The pre-dinner prayer was also uneventful, and the priest, who usually lights hearts, muttered mumbled mundane stamps and seemed to be very nervous about not being able to get anything more energetic out of himself. Instead of munching on their usual fast and plentiful, purificators sluggishly mashed the rich porridge onto iron plates.

Savlar and Demetrius got into a small fight. Neither of them could explain later what had caused it. Bertha gave each of them a bruise, symmetrically, to the orderly under the left eye, to the noseless one under the right eye, and the incident was over. Olga waited for the Priest to drop by again with a new lecture on the world order, but he did not show up. The Sinner banged his head against the wall in the red corner for a long time, and then simply cried; there was no point in asking him about the reasons for such sorrow, for obvious reasons.

Fidus wandered in for a while and tried to make the neighbor talk, approving the new eye, but it looked forced and stilted, like a useless chore. It was like the whole of the past day. Olga and Kryp sat for a while, suffering from mutual awkwardness, then Fidus muttered something about taking care of Luct and went back to his room, curtaining the compartment tightly.

Here the novice Olga had a great time with culture, having been hooked on 'Knights' almost till late dawn, having slept for a couple of hours at most before her morning wake-up. To Olga's good fortune, the next day almost minutely repeated the previous one, only passed even more sluggish and dull. As darkness fell, the symptoms that had previously been banished-unaccountable fear and constant chills crept up. In the shadows, the burning grin of Smoker seemed to appear. Olga was afraid to even cough, any sudden movement sent cold claws through her joints. Anxiety gathered little by little, like thickened syrup in a pot, reminiscent of Satan's house, painted with ultraviolet ink. A distant, hopeless wailing sounded in my ears and it seemed that somewhere in the distance an unhappy and mad novice was crying out, 'Baby! Baby!!!!

Going to the infirmary for some pills made no sense; all train medicine was designed for rough and functional surgery. Nonsense like anxious moods and headaches amounted to attempted desertion, and insomnia would surely be considered a symptom of laziness, a sign of bad training of the purificator. Olga scrolled through a few more episodes of 'Zuen' and then decided that she needed to repeat the already proven remedy. Besides, the girl had accumulated questions about the series.

Before she knocked on Bertha's door, Olga wanted to cross herself discreetly, but her hands folded themselves into an aquila, so affected by the hundreds, maybe thousands of mechanical repetitions that quickly form a habit.

"What?" Bertha barked unfriendly, and the girl thought she saw her mentor quickly hide something small and rectangular in her pocket, like a photo card or, in local parlance, a 'piсt'. The menacing growl made the girl feel like a little dog who was about to puddle in a pool."

Despite the harsh start, the negotiations took a few minutes and ended surprisingly easily. Olga modestly asked permission to go to the third wagon again to put in a good word with the tech-priestess about the servitor and the tank. Bertha agreed at once, however, sternly warning her to return before the siren. That was all, really.

Quickly putting on her sweater, Olga tormented herself with the question - what was the picture of her mentor? Clearly personal and important. Picts with the divine face of the Emperor don't hide like that. Maybe, the angry woman has some family or even a comrade? Or maybe someone more intimate...?

The enthusiasm and slight shaking as she talked to the commander even made her forget about the voices in her head for a while. Those, however, did not wait long and returned under the open sky, in the cold breeze. Olga noticed that the lamps and lanterns were blinking strangely as if there were power outages in the neighborhood, weak but noticeable.
* * *

"There!" The inquisitor's short thick finger pointed to a certain point where, from Essen's point of view, nothing was happening. And... nothing again. The assistant was about to ask a leading question, but then it began.

In the scattering of yellowish lights, one flickered, so faintly that Essen thought, no, it was an illusion. Too much work and not enough sleep. For a moment the thought flashed through the assistant's unimaginative head that the elderly inquisitor had entered that age when honored grandfathers begin to go crazy, their eccentricity turning into foolishness and crankiness.
But then the orange-red dot flashed again. And went out.

"The Emperor's Wrath," Kalkroit whispered, clenching his fists.

And another dot blinked, flickered like a candle flickering in the wind, then disappeared. Then a third. A fourth. The black spot slowly and inexorably spread away from the center of the capital, like a grave blot.

"What is this..." whispered Essen. He had already served his patron for many years and had seen a lot, but this was the first time the picture of the disaster was so large, so rapidly evolving.

"I think the process has entered a stage where it needs more energy," the Inquisitor suggested with murderous equanimity. "Or there's been a blow up in the center of the capital, a reaction that's been going around in circles."

'A blow up' Kalkroit said with such an expression that it was immediately clear the inquisitor was not referring to an explosion.

"Sir!" Essen exclaimed. "We must...!"

"Don't," Kalkroit raised his hand imperiously and held his palm out against the edge of his hand. "Once again the Emperor calls us to service and exploit, and we will, of course, obey the call. But let us hasten slowly."

"But..." Pale hesitated, remembering his place and his duties. The master is intelligent and experienced, he knows better than to say that if he says not to rush into something, then there is no need to rush into it.

"Now our intervention will multiply the confusion without demonstrable benefit," Kalkroit explained nonetheless. The Inquisitor spoke smoothly, very calmly as if he were watching a tape recording rather than witnessing a picture of some terrible calamity. "And it will harm."

"...?"

"Sabotage, or a side effect of the ritual, or something else, either way, we are not facing the improvisation of a lone sorcerer or a subversive group of xenos. The Guardians of the Beacon have missed a well-organized cult, perhaps a community of cults or a powerful Tau network, or maybe even the Eldar. The local Inquisition is now plunged into a puddle of epic proportions. No need to rush to jump in with them for company. Not to mention that victory comes from acting wisely in the execution of a good plan. And a good plan requires an understanding of what is going on. So let's be quiet and observe to get to the bottom of things. Let's wait to be asked for help. And then we'll show up fully armed to save the day. So first, bring up the entire radio intercept team. Also... yes, tell the captain to adjust the orbit. I want us to get as close to 'Radial' number twelve as possible."

"But, sir..." took the risk of noticing Essen. "Can we expect Kriptman to be so quickly involved in the investigation...?"

"Eh, my friend..." the old inquisitor sighed heavily. "It's hard to communicate with you sometimes... You are like a tank, you break everything strictly on the way and are blind to what is not visible in the triplex. Naturally, Fidus will not be involved, most likely he will not be remembered, at least at first, and then it will be too late and useless. The question is..."

The Inquisitor's finger pointed at the ink stain, which continued to expand, slowly and unstoppable.

"As I told you not so long ago, Kryptman Jr. has a unique ability to get into trouble. And with him that strange girl... Two people attracting trouble like a good fight attracts orcs. Let's watch from around the corner to see what Tarot cards come out for this amazing couple today. Maybe we'll find something of interest. In the meantime, wok and vox and only vox. Right now, there's an ocean of panic, terror, and confusion down there. We have to filter out this cacophony and draw, as much as possible, an objective picture of the disaster. We must do this very quickly. Let's do it!"
* * *

RiP · Nov 29, 2021

Chapter 21

* * *
Wakrufmann was definitely not expecting the girl, but she welcomed her with quiet cordiality. Although 'cordiality', apparently, was not the right word. Sitting down next to the heater (she wonders who it was on for, were other guests here, or did the priestess and her appliances also need outside heating?) Olga thought that Jennifer's attitude should be called polite benevolence. And that was probably the best thing right now. The girl was already used to the fact that personal attention to her brought only trouble, so it was better this way.

"I have... questions!" Stated a newly minted content consumer. "Lots of questions!"

"That's interesting," Jennifer remarked. "Are they conceptual or detailing?"

"What?" Olga was confused.

"Do you not understand anything? Or is the overall plot clear, but you need to clarify certain aspects?"

"Well... more like the second... I guess. Yeah. I've only watched part of the first season, of course, and maybe it all reveals afterward, but..."

Olga was embarrassed.

"Ask," Jennifer interrupted her rant.

The girl sighed as if she were gaining air before jumping into the deep sea.

"Why did Hold continue her research on the Eldar ark ship? Didn't the Lords of Zuen expressly forbid such work? Wasn't she in charge... what's-his-name... magician..."

"Magos," Jennifer corrected.

"Yes, the chief magos of the Forge! And acted like an ordinary technician."

Jennifer wanted to smile again, both in the encouragement of Olga's mental exercise and for her satisfaction. The choice of educational content was the right one, one could say - a perfect hit.

"Because the quest for Knowledge is the highest form of service to Omnissiah," Jennifer said ceremoniously.

"But Lord Xillag referred to some 'ninth truth' when he approved the edict!" Olga wrinkled her forehead, remembering. "Something along the lines of 'The Xenos Technique is inherently heretical,' right? If it's heretical, then you definitely can't research it, or they'll burn everyone? Isn't that right?"

Jennifer made a strange sound. If Wakrufmann were an ordinary person, Olga would have thought she was just snorting. Although... The girl could not get out of her mind the fact that her companion was in fact under fifteen, which means that technically the Martian was younger than the Earth girl. She wonders if everyone here grows up so quickly, or is it purely a Martian acceleration?

"Xillag misunderstood the wording of the ninth universal law," Jennifer began her elaborate explanation. "And there's a small digression to be made here. As I'm sure you know, all the Imperium and Mechanicus worlds use the same standard language, Gothic, to communicate with each other. Why? Because adverbs are formed based on the specific conditions of a particular world. For example, the language of the world Valhalla has seventy-six words to describe the various variations of white, and red and green are designated as shades of blue, 'siny'. That is, literally, red is 'hel'siny' and green is 'tumf'siny. Bright blue and dull blue. Any translation will carry inaccuracies and errors, and the more translation cycles the message goes through, the more errors will accumulate. Understand?"

"In general... What does this mean for the lord?"

"All of the above also applies to the universal laws of Adeptus Mechanicus. They were formed, stated, and continue to exist in binary form as a mathematical formula. In their original form, they cannot be distorted, just as you cannot tamper with zero or one just a little. A symbol is a symbol; when changed, it either changes its meaning or loses its meaning entirely. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Olga scratched her nose and ear, frowning in intense thought.

"However, what is obvious and understandable to Adeptus Mechanicus in its original form must be translated into Classical Gothic. This is an arduous task, and here a problem arises which has, at least for now, no correct solution. The translation largely becomes a retelling using understandable analogies. One can interpret the content as carefully as one wants, but it will still not be a law, but a story about a law. Understand?"

"Well... it kind of makes sense... It's like a poem, right?"

"Nice analogy," Jennifer approved. "So, in all human-populated worlds, including Questor Mechanicus, our laws are carefully interpreted in Gothic and local languages to avoid misunderstandings. However, locals often forget that their dialects change over time. And instead of revising the interpretation according to the changed conditions, these people prefer to memorize the wording by heart. This is how the trouble happens--the meaning of the action gets lost behind the ritual. Is it clear yet?"

Olga scratched her other ear as if wanting to warm it and increase the efficiency of sound transmission. The girl looked at Jennifer warily, squinting, rubbing her palms, or rather her fingertips, sticking out of the long sleeves of her sweater.

"Clarify the obscure," Jennifer recommended again. "It's not dangerous."

"But..." Olga shook her head. "Everything is ritual... Everything is as the ancestors ordered. Thousands of years and all that. And now you say..."

The girl gulped.

"Go on," Wakrufmann tried to put a maximum of benevolent encouragement into her artificial voice.

"Well, I mean, I don't want to teach you your faith, but, you know..."

"Yes?"

"And you say the ritual may not be useful. Is Lord Xillag a fool, then?"

"Look!" Wakrufmann turned her whole body toward Olga so that her fluttering robe filled almost the entire room for a moment. The metal arm pulled from somewhere in the depths of the red robe a sheet of paper with typewritten lines. The girl would not have been surprised to find that the fifteen-year-old 'cog' was printing them out right now, somewhere in a mechanical body crammed with amazing gadgets.

"Here are the universal laws of Adeptus Mechanicus, canonically translated into Gothic. Read them carefully."

Olga looked at the lines, which, unlike the Priest's folio and the Squad's pamphlets, were in a very simple, chopped font. The style was reminiscent of the Machine cards at the Ballistic Station.

00. Life is Directed Motion.
01. The Spirit is the Spark of Life.
02. Sentience is the ability to learn the Value of Knowledge.
03. Intellect is the Understanding of Knowledge.
04. Sentience is the Basest Form of Intellect.
05. Understanding is the True Path to Comprehension.
06. Comprehension is the Key to all Things.
07. The Omnissiah knows All, comprehends All.

08. The Alien Mechanism is a Perversion of the True Path.
09. The Soul is the Conscience of Sentience.
0A. A Soul can be bestowed only by the Omnissiah.
0B. The Soulless Sentience is the Enemy of All.
0C. The Knowledge of the Ancients stands Beyond Question.
0D. The Machine Spirit guards the Knowledge of the Ancients
0E. Flesh is Fallible, but Ritual Honors the Machine Spirit.
0F. To Break with Ritual is to Break with Faith.

"Why are they divided into two parts? Is it done that way on purpose?"

"Good for you! It took me seven years of education to get to this point. The universal laws are divided into two parts. The first eight are Revelations. The second is Warnings. Once again, Warnings. Not prohibitions."

"But it says here that the mechanisms of other races are a perversion of your True Path, right?" The girl didn't understand. "So the Eldarian mechanisms that Magos Hold studied are a perversion?"

"Exactly."

There was silence, interrupted only by the background sound of all the devices that were stuffed into the tech-priestess's dwelling. Olga felt as if her brain was about to boil. The girl felt like she was taking an exam.

"I don't get it," she finally admitted. "Ok, it's not a ban, but a warning. There's no word 'heresy,' and it's not written explicitly that 'you can't". But it's still canonical to say that xeno machines are 'bad'. So what's the difference?"

"It's very simple. In the same Valhalla there is a proverb 'Shtudirat an meian oshibkritt'."

The words sounded familiar, but it was too hard to try to make them out. She needed to switch her mind from the previous task to the new one. In general, Olga often caught herself that, despite the obvious 'Franco-Germanic' nature of Gothic and its offshoots, something Slavic often slipped into the words and phrases. Perhaps Russian was also one of the progenitors of the modern languages of the Imperium.

"Hold did not study Eldar technology to reproduce it. And not to satisfy her curiosity. But to understand their deviations from the True Path. In order not to create perverted machines while creating mechanisms of similar functionality. One cannot adhere to a benchmark without understanding the concept of error. To resort to a simple analogy, this is how a child learns to write. Literacy and blunders follow hand in hand. And spelling is learned only with the development of skill, with the understanding and comprehension of errors."

"A smart man learns from other people's mistakes, a fool from his own," Olga quoted without hesitation.

"That's right! And Hold, as you note, is shown to be a very clever magos, isn't she?"

"Wait, but then why didn't she explain all this to the Lord Knights of Zuen?"

"Because she was proud, stubborn, and arrogant. This is the tragedy of Magos Hold and the whole Zuen system. And the basis of the cross-cutting plot. 'Knights' is not a story of pathos overpowering, though there is plenty of that there, too. It is a tale of the tragic mistake of mutual misunderstanding when Ritual was uncritically opposed to Knowledge, and Knowledge proved too arrogant to condescend to communication."

"So Zuen's misfortune came about because the two forces simply refused to listen to each other?"

It took Olga some time to realize the fact that in 'Knights of the Zuen World' the characters are not as black and white as in the Beacon Imperial entertainment shows available to her.

"It's a fictional story, by the way" Jennifer reminded her, just in case. "However, the tale is enlightening and instructive for the young inhabitants of worlds under the hand of Mars. It teaches us that when our superiority turns into arrogance, the consequences can be varied. They may not even lead to disaster. But they can never be good."

Olga thought deeply again. Jennifer waited patiently. The servo scull hovering over her left shoulder was laboriously weaving the wire 'pigtail' of the future cable, the metal fingers moving with incredible speed and precision. A large machine in the corner, looking like a gutted refrigerator that had a washing-machine drum with vertical slots hammered into it, buzzed

"I have one more question," Olga finally made up her mind. "About Mars..."

"You can ask it, but I don't think I'll have time to answer it before you have to go back," Wakrufmann remarked. And she added encouragingly. "Your questions are interesting, they require extensive, complex answers."

"How are you different from the Empire?"

Jennifer was quiet for a moment, covering her optical lenses. Then she clarified:

"You want to know the difference between Imperium and Mars?"

"Well... Yes," Olga bowed her head and gave out in a hasty, stifled voice. "You look more decent somehow, though you also have snakes in your heads... You seem to be for progress and knowledge, but it is strange, unusual. Knowledge with prayers. Communication with ritual. And Machine complained that he is not communicated with, but prayed to, and he does not like it. Here..."

"It's not a question," Jennifer stated. "Rather, it's a request for a series of educational lectures that should talk about the history, the culture of Mars. About the fundamental differences in the approach to collecting and structuring knowledge. About the concept of divided humanity that holds adaptability and conservatism in different hands. And much more. I'll think about how to enlighten you in the best way possible, but it won't happen today. Ask a different question. A shorter one."

"Well... ok.

Olga cheered up. Jennifer took her completely seriously and seemed to really want to share her knowledge. Like the Priest, but better. By combining the lectures of the monk and the pinions, it would probably be possible to compose in her head as soon as possible a complete image of the dual Empire of humans and mechanicus. And then, perhaps, find a better place for herself in it.

"I wanted to ask you something else," Olga began. "So, about Omnissiah... He, the Machine, the Machine God, are all the same?"

"Yes and no," Wakrufmann's mouth smiled sinuously. "They are hypostases of the Demiurge. But at the same time, they are different cycles that we are aware of. I'll explain with the simplest example. You imagine... for example, a machine to toast slices of bread?"

"Toaster? Of course!" The question couldn't have been that simple, and there must have been a catch somewhere, but...

"The first cycle, the first hypostasis of the Demiurge, is the Driving Force. The aspect of the will of the Universe is embodied in the law of physics. In its most simplified form, it's like this."

Another card flew out from under the red robe right into Olga's lap with a rustling sound.

I=U/R

"The current in a circuit section is directly proportional to the voltage and inversely proportional to the electrical resistance of that circuit section. Is that clear? Not a formula, but the fact that there is a law?"

"Well... The fact that there's even such a law of physics? I see."

"This is the will of the Driving Force. The existence of a phenomenon that can be realized."

The next card showed a dissected toaster - separately the body, heating spirals, all sorts of electrical parts, screws, nuts, washers, and some other insides and wiring, surrounded by incomprehensible abbreviations and symbols.

"General blueprint. How an objective phenomenon can be used to produce another phenomenon. Transformation of electromotive force into directional thermal radiation."

"How do you make a toaster based on the law of amperage?"

Physics has never been Olga's strong point, nor has any of the exact sciences, but in Jennifer's interpretation so far it has been relatively clear.

"Right. And this is the will of the Omnissiah. The next cycle is a phenomenon materialized in Knowledge."

"First the law of physics, and then the knowledge of how to use it? And the third step, which is Machine God?"

The Tech-priestess bent incredibly, seemingly even lengthening in size, and... She pulled out the most ordinary toaster from the shelf and solemnly handed it to the girl with the words: "And here you have Knowledge materialized in a mechanism. The embodied will of the Machine God of the Cult of Mechanicus."

'Cult' didn't sound good. Olga was used to the fact that 'cultists' were very, very bad, but she decided to leave the clarification of the slippery subject for later.

"I'll write that down... Later," she said, twisting the 'bread crisping machine' in her hands and wondering what the toaster was for. After all, a tech-priestess doesn't eat human food.

"I'll write it down and think about it. I have to figure it out... Carefully."

"Reasonable intention," approved Wackrufmann. "Let me take the device."

"And I knew one comp... cogi... coggi..." Olga decided to flaunt her knowledge and involvement in important matters one last time.

"Cogitator?" Jennifer came to the aid.

"Yes! The Cogtitator. He called himself the Machine, too. But it must have been a different Machine, just a consonance..."

Olga became confused and silent, putting her thoughts in order. She felt hot as if a jug of warm lard had frozen in her stomach - heavy, unpleasant, rising with a greasy taste to her tongue. The blood pounded heavily, almost to the point of pain in her temples, and the otherworldly, grave wailing wouldn't stop, drilled into her ears.

Wakrufmann looked intently at her companion. Olga was sitting on the edge of a chair, bent and hunched over, like a little animal, hiding the last crumbs of warmth in the fur on her belly. A quick diagnosis showed a rapid increase in heartbeat and a simultaneous drop in her outer coat temperature. Increased sweating and five other abnormal imbalances of the fragile body.

From the medical point of view, Olga was in a deep fainting state with massive blood loss, while being conscious, at least conditionally. And she went into this state in less than a minute. While Jennifer was calculating her options, from paramedical measures to an emergency evacuation signal, the girl woke up as if at once. She jerked her head so sharply that her marvelous glasses flew off, despite the safety strap, the priestess managed to pick them up with her mechanodendrite.

"Baby," the girl whispered so softly that a human could not hear her; only the priestess' sensitive microphones could do that.

"They did it," Olga blurted out even more quietly. Almost immediately the girl said something to the contrary. "They didn't make it."

And she lost consciousness for real. Jennifer managed to pick up the girl as well, like the glasses before. The urgent request was already gliding through the electronic networks, transforming into radio signals, bypassing the encryption blocks to reach one single recipient.

As Wakrufmann carefully placed the precious burden on the warm floor, the alarm siren howled. Not a train siren, but a stationary one, five times louder than the locomotive siren. A general alarm, at least on a city scale. Or perhaps even continental.

* * *
"Mr. Commandant," said Bertha Konvasquez softly, respectfully, and at the same time harshly.

The train commander leaned back in his austere chair, upholstered in real leather, and looked at the troopers standing in front of him. Though the commandant was seated, he seemed to be looking down from a very high spire. But the Priest and Bertha were not shy, though perhaps they should have been.

"W-w-well...?" The skinny, bald man with a wide scar across his jaw, a reminder of the too-short visor of the helmet that didn't cover his whole face, gritted through his teeth.

Because of the peculiar organization of the Earth Regiment - the part of the Sanitary Epidemiological Squad that was based directly on the planet, unlike the spatial cleansing services - the main tactical leaders combined several hypostases and positions at once. Baldy was both company commander and commandant of the train, and also had a rank in the system of Ecclesiarchy, although he wore a cassock in exceptional cases. That is, whichever way you look at it - the king and god of everything on 'Radial-12'. However, the monk and mentor were determined to ask certain questions and get answers. Though the two men stood erect, as they were supposed to, there was a sullen determination in their postures.

"Are we being disbanded?" Bertha asked straightforwardly. "The locomotive is gone. The train is almost disarmed, the section with the rocket battery is disconnected. The hospitalers left yesterday. My squad is the only one left with a full combat unit. Anything happens, we can't even call fire on ourselves now."

The Priest was silent but gave a comprehensive demonstration that he shared his colleague's thoughts. Instead of answering, the commandant interlocked his fingers in an unconscious gesture of protection. The Mentor and the monk didn't need to look at each other to think the same thing. The commander was not at his ease, though he successfully concealed it. He looked at his subordinates, almost forcefully, with a long stare that suggested an unmistakable desire to dismiss them all with disciplinary consequences.

"Yes," the commandant finally reported forcefully. "The system of radial and concentric armored trains has been rendered ineffective. The railroad materials is likely to be removed to Sabbat worlds. Personnel will be dismounted and withdrawn to resupply the Second Regiment, to orbital facilities and astropathic stations."

"And who will remain to serve and protect here on the surface?" Bertha asked perplexedly.

"Another service would be created, under the aegis of the Arbitrators and without armored trains. Special Response Teams, organized like the airborne units of the Guard. With air transport."

"But that's...!" Bertha was almost indignant, but the Priest quickly and firmly grasped her hand and squeezed her fingers.

"We get it," the priest briefly summarized.

"The planetary part of the Squad has suffered too many losses and is costing too much... from the point of view of the Administratum. Self-propelled sanitation centers are not mobile, and in order for them to intervene promptly, dozens of trains have to be kept on the move at all times. With the appropriate service structure."

"But..."

Bertha faltered. What the Commandant had said was impossible, unrealistic. Armored trains under red and white flags were a given, as much a symbol of the Ice Port as the icons of the Emperor, as the images of Astra Telepathic and the rituals of the Ecclesiarchy. They have always been and should continue to be, as long as the system exists and people live in it. Everything that was going on had the shadow of a joke, too silly and deliberate to be funny. Something akin to farting in the middle of a dinner party. But the commander was not joking.

"The High Command plans to organize no more than ten bases to cover the entire continent," continued the commandant. "Now the tasks of purification will be performed by compact, small forces, which can be quickly transferred by air transport, and in special cases landed directly from orbit."

"Does the High Command have any idea how much it would cost to build and maintain at least two or three operational military airfields?" Monk asked sarcastically, and it was obvious that the question was clearly rhetorical. "Not refueling and hopping sites, but real ones, with all the services and personnel? Not to mention geostationary orbital stations? А!"

The priest grinned bitterly.

"I think I understand. The bureaucrats have made beautiful plans about how to optimize unused space? Old runways mothballed orbital points on asteroids. And equipment reclaimed, from scrap that's been written off after all the storage and repair regulations are worked out. Right?"

"Is this new to you?" The commandant grumbled. "All the Squad's equipment has been in service for centuries."

"Yes, 'armor' that is on the move only by the grace of Omnissia. But not planes, which should be ready at any moment, in any weather, to drop a landing force hundreds of kilometers away. Or thousands."

"Enough arguments, my friend," the commander said in an unusually soft, almost friendly voice. "It's already been decided. The Sanitary Epidemiological Squad... is obsolete. And no longer needed."

"It's a mistake," Bertha squeezed out, aware that she was close to heresy but unable to remain silent. Now her life, her faith, and her principles, long and carefully constructed in the struggle against doubt and hesitation, were crumbling. Gone was the purpose of life that had allowed the mentor to survive several terms of obedience as a volunteer.

"I know all the things you can object to," said the commandant with a weary doom. "About the armored vehicles, the heavy weapons, and so on. I was against disbanding, but it doesn't matter anymore."

"A hundred years of vigil and watchfulness..." said the Priest sadly. "Thousands of victories. We shouldn't..."

A lamp with a glass lampshade in the shape of an exotic flower, the only decoration of the austere office, flickered. Bertha inadvertently thought that from here, from the third floor of the staff wagon, there must be a beautiful view. If, of course, the steel shutters were pulled down. The yellow light flickered like a fly in a spider's web, chirping the incandescent bulb like a dragonfly under a hood, then everything settled down.

"Of course we should," replied the commandant bitterly. "The great accomplishments of the Squad will continue to inspire great feats, to fill hearts with the fire of sacred duty and fury. It's just..."

He sank and lowered his eyes.

"It's just that it will be a different squad," the monk finished.

The commandant was silent, still looking away.

So a quarter of a minute, maybe a little more, passed while three people of very different backgrounds and positions were silent, thinking about their things, united by a common sadness.
"May I ask you two questions?" sullenly, with an unconventional, but restrained, yet unemotional attitude, Bertha asked.

"Permission granted. And then, if you would be so kind as to remember that you are respectful servants of the Ecclesiarchy. Behave yourselves appropriately and do not think of forgetting that again. Consider this hour as a mercy for your long and blameless service. It is unlikely that the new leadership will be as patient and tolerant."

The Priest nodded silently. He thought for a while and then saw fit to add:

"We sincerely apologize. We apologize for... loss of the chain of command. It's just that the news has been... a little out of character."

"It won't happen again," added the mentor grimly.

The commandant shook his head, and moved an eyebrow, suggesting that questions be asked at last.

"First," Bertha began. "Can we find out who this girl is who's been transferred to us for reinforcement? She's not a prisoner or a volunteer. She can't do anything. Why is she here?"

"Just to die," the commandant said indifferently.

"But she's just an uneducated savage from a relatively developed world," the Priest remarked. "She's only to blame for the bad mentors on her planet who didn't bring the Emperor's light to the flock."

"Isn't that enough?" the commandant grimaced. "Since when does sinfulness necessarily require intent and meaningful action?"

The Priest and Bertha looked at each other understandingly and silently.

"The second question," the commandant reminded me with obvious irritation, indicating that the moment of unity between superiors and subordinates was coming to an end.

"I'd like to..." Bertha hesitated, stumbling, seeing the light flicker again. This time the yellow light was deadly pale, almost white, like a lamp in a morgue, where the light reflected off the white tiles.
"Something's wrong," the monk muttered. "There's something strange going on with the light... Since this morning..."

For a moment the light shone so brightly, it was as if a tiny sun was shining in the office. The blinding white light stung the eyes ahead of the reflex, and the mentor felt as if she'd missed a stiletto to the head before she could defend herself. She staggered back and covered her face, hissing through her teeth in surprise. She glanced cautiously through her fingers, noting that the lamp hadn't even burned out, though it should have with all the surge. Surprisingly, her eyes didn't hurt at all. Berta felt no discomfort at all.

Alarm bells rang distinctly in the head. The Ice Port was a strange place, it was whispered that long ago there had been a terrible battle in a nearby star system, where unholy sorcery on a vast scale was used, so that the planets crumbled into dust and the star from which the enemies drew their energy had aged millions of years into a red giant. Reality thinned for many parsecs around, making the Port system so convenient for astropaths. A side effect has been the frequent breakthroughs of the Other, which is what the Squad was created for. The nearby Immaterium often manifested itself quite harmlessly, with these effects. But...

The Priest was right, something wasn't right.

The commandant bowed his head and mumbled something, then slammed his hands sharply on the glass plate on the metal table.

"Yes, I would like to," Bertha began again, and suddenly the Priest sharply grabbed Bertha by the sleeve and yanked her back a step.

The Mentor unwillingly took a step after her massive companion and then wanted to be indignant, but did not. There was something wrong with the commander of the 'Radial', something very strange. The Commandant had his head low so that he couldn't see his eyes, and he was pounding the table with his hands, one hand outstretched, the other clenched into a fist with his forefinger outstretched. And so on and on, changing hands. The muttering intensified, something scarlet dripped on the edge of the glass

"I think we're in trouble," the Priest whispered.

The commandant raised his head sharply and chuckled, pursing his biting lips.

"Six wagons, six trains, six stations, six cities," he hissed. "Six planets and a total of six! Armored train number twelve, that's two whole sixes! We are doubly happy, doubly blessed. And who is against us? Who doesn't understand the meaning of Six? Who can't add up one and five, two and four, three and three?!"

There was a loud sound from below, piercing and inappropriate in this setting. Someone struck the kettledrums, the ringing had not yet subsided when the dying note was supported by the howl of the trumpet. A third invisible man played the bassoon, bringing out a pure saxophone tune, cheerful as a holiday evening diner, nothing like the stern and solemn marches that the company band played.

"Six!" shouted the commandant. "There should be six of us too, Three is not symmetrical, not harmonious, not aesthetic!"

Bertha carefully, trying to be inconspicuous, put her hand behind her back. The commandant fell silent, his head tilted strangely, and continued to move his bloody lips, dropping flakes of pink foam onto his chest.

"Baby," he whispered. "Baby..."

Bertha pulled a small six-shot pistol from a concealed holster behind her waist, almost a toy, indispensable, however, for finishing off the wounded. Also, in such force majeure circumstances. Many people have made the mistake of believing that a possessed man's strength could be determined by his build and muscles, a misconception that usually proved to be the last. So Bertha, despite her strength as a native of a planet with one and a half times the force of gravity, was not about to wrestle with the insane commander on her fists.

But the Priest was ahead of her.

The monk had no pistol. But he did have a long, narrow knife without a guard. Pastor drew it from a pocket disguised by the stitching on his uniform pants and stepped toward the commandant, drawing the blade. The movement came out smooth and cohesive, giving off a good experience, and the knife entered the commander's neck all the way through. The Priest swung back at once, jerking the blade toward him, turning the stab into a terrible wound, part cut, part lacerated. The blood poured out in a steady stream, and Bertha thought for a moment that the mortally wounded commander's eyes made sense, reflecting endless wonder and incomprehension. A second later the commander rolled his eyes and collapsed on the table, snorting blood and collapsing further, knocking over the lamp.

The monk wiped his splattered face, the assassin's hands trembling slightly. Bertha clutched the hilt of her pistol, watching her companion anxiously. The Priest answered her with an equally attentive, wary gaze, and said firmly: "Fuck the six!"

The Mentor took a breath. The monk seemed fine.

"We were attacked," she quickly surmised.

"Not the train," the monk answered just as emphatically, listening. "The range is wider."

Bertha cursed, saving time, making up for the brief words with energy and hatred. Behind the walls of the staff wagon, there was indeed a sound. The sirens of the various services, giving off the onset of all possible disasters at once, the rumble of machinery and engines of heavy vehicles, the firing squad, seemingly several in different directions at once. And the screams. Heart-rending screams, almost indistinguishable because of the thick armor, but seasoning the general noise with a note of insane terror, like a few peppercorns - a ready meal.

"And we don't even have missiles," whispered Bertha, feeling a treacherous shiver in her knees and fingers.

"Pull yourself together!" the Priest barked at her. "The Emperor will protect! The Emperor will direct! Command for His sake! For His glory!"

The monk smacked the mentor across the face with his free palm, knocking out the creeping panic. Bertha shook her head and looked at the shepherd almost sanely.

"Yes, of course," the woman murmured, clinging to the monk's words as if they were the only solid support in a universe gone mad. "For His sake, for the sake of the Emperor... one must be strong. Strong!"

"Special circumstances," the priest thought aloud, nodding approvingly, fumbling in his pockets for a handkerchief. Bertha held out hers, and the monk wiped the knife. A premonitory convulsion twisted the dying commandant's body, his heels clattering on the thin mat covering the metal. But the dying man was no longer of interest to the living; it was only an empty shell, temporarily in the service of evil, now useless and harmless. And the commandant's soul would still have time to mourn. But afterward.

"Yes," Bertha agreed, regaining her determination. "I'll take command, and you'll be the commissioner."

"Don't disappoint me," the Priest grinned. "If anything, my hand won't flinch."

"Already flinching," returned the crooked grin of the mentor, the self-appointed commandant of the 'Radial'. "So... An announcement first, or into our wagon?"

"A wagon, I think," suggested the monk, curtly, "if it's the same there..."

Both thought the same thing at the same time - why had they not been touched by the hostile influence? Bertha decided that she must have been protected by the proximity of the holy father, and the commandant was not so firm in his faith. The Priest was left puzzled, for he did not consider himself so blameless that he would not even get a headache where people went mad and turned to filth in a matter of seconds. But he decided to think about it later - all in the Emperor's hand, and if He had kept his servant sane, there must be a reason for it.

Meanwhile, the cacophony of atonal music on the first floor was gaining power. It was as if each musician was making his or her own torn, meaningless melody that couldn't even be called music. It seemed as if a herd of gretchins had gotten their hands on the instruments. Together, however, these squeaks and howls formed a bizarre rhythm, surprisingly cheerful, penetrating to the deepest and most secret parts of human consciousness, inherited from reptiloid ancestors. The music of exhilaration, triumph, and happiness stirred the thoughts, demanded surrender to the frenzied feelings. The monk furtively poked himself in the thigh with the tip of his knife to clear his mind. The prick of pain really distracted him, allowed his mind to regain control of his desires.

"Let's split up," Bertha decided. "Speed is everything. I'll go to ours, you go to the microphone. And make sure no one breaks into the command center."

The Priest grimaced and made a dissatisfied face. He didn't think it was the best, or even the most damaging, but since Bertha was in command, she had the tactical upper hand.

The monk began to quickly search the study in search of more serious weapons. "First let's deal with the orchestra. This is the music of heresy, and it must stop."

* * *

RiP · Dec 3, 2021

Chapter 22
* * *
Olga was drowning in the lilac fog, dissolving like a sugar cube in warm water - slowly and inevitably at the same time. The brain seemed to work like a broken computer with a shrunken memory. The consciousness was enough to understand fragmentary moments, but when one tried to put the mosaic together into a coherent memory, there was invariably a glitch. Even an attempt to pull oneself together, to clench one's will into a fist, and to concentrate was beyond, beyond the hardware capabilities of one's mind.

There was something... something bad... Or not bad, just unusual. Yes, something happened. Something was... It turned out that if you didn't try to comprehend, fragments of memory were easier to catch. They melted, disintegrated into fragments, like decayed leaves, but still...

A bright, dark purple flash. Or not purple, the color was more complex, more interesting. As a former beauty salon worker, Olga was more or less familiar with the color scheme, and she hesitated, choosing between dark purple and Persian blue. No, dark indigo was more likely.

So there was an explosion. There was a flash.

The girl did not see it, but rather felt it, saw it, but not with her eyes, but as if the image itself appeared on the retina, maybe born in the optic nerves, or perhaps...

No, too many thoughts at once, everything swam, the rate of decay increased.

The Flash. Purple... Indigo...

It was like a special effect from a movie when you have to show a shockwave beautifully and spectacularly, whether it was nuclear or magical or something else. The hemisphere expanded rapidly, leaving only fire behind it. Or rather, light, an indomitable, divinely beautiful glow that united all the colors of the rainbow in a harmony beyond words.

Olga saw it through the metal of the wagon armor, through the concrete of the heavy, sullen buildings of the railroad terminal. The light was both an energy and a gateway, a pathway open to one and everyone to some wondrous place. And this delightful essence was expanding, consuming the world. The girl wanted to raise her hand and point out to Jennifer the infinite beauty of what was happening, to warn the priestess to be ready and not miss a second to enjoy a moment of perfection. She didn't have time, however.

Light engulfed the world, and the world became the light of dark indigo. It warmed like a living fire enclosed in an exquisite fireplace. It brought a welcome coolness, like a light breeze at a hot hour. Filled the crippled soul with peace. Made Olga happy, just like that, without any conditions. Because happiness is what lilac light was ready to bestow without counting, just like that. Because he could and wanted to.

Foolish people think that happiness is like an ordinary resource. It must be mined through hard work, and it certainly is limited. Happiness can be traded, given away gratuitously or for a fee, shared with someone, or taken for sole possession. But this is not true at all, for happiness is infinite. All you have to do is stand up, roll your shoulders, and realize that you have lived as a gravely ill person - in pointless suffering, in excruciating hopelessness. And then you have to start living differently, that's all.

Happiness overwhelmed the girl, permeated every cell of her body, warmed every thought with sunlight. It was amazing, and it didn't end. After all, happiness...

No, Olga said.

The dark indigo turned to wisteria with a dash of gray, like clouds on the horizon ready to bring a storm. A refreshing chill sparkled with the sharp blades of snowflakes, and warmth thickened like red-hot desert air. The world around Olga froze in a mute question, and the question concealed something sinister, hidden for the time being, like a sharpened nail in a sleeve or a hammer in a bag.

Olga collected, restored her soul from the shards, dispersed the fog, concentrated, and snatched pieces of her former self out of the dreamlessness. It wasn't easy, but the main thing was to begin, to concentrate consistently on thoughts and feelings, attaching them to the backbone of consciousness. To the point where you can finally ask yourself a direct question, and then the next:

"What's wrong with this?"

"Where have I seen this before?"

Too much, you scum of a thistle! thought the girl to the light. I've been caught on that before.

Yes, what was going on had nothing to do with the three-armed monster that nearly caught the girl at the Ballistic Station. Everything is better, brighter, more honest. But the essence - if you peel the phenomenon, like a cabbage head, leaf by leaf, down to the core - the essence is the same.

The promise of everything for nothing. No obligations, no conditions, no labor, no effort. Happiness for everyone, and no one leaves offended.

Happines for everyone. For free. And no one escape offended. And if someone doesn't want to, we'll line them up against the wall. (Execute!)

But it doesn't work that way, and Olga knew that better than anyone.

It doesn't happen that way.

Never.

Happiness for free costs the most in the end, and when it comes time to pay, the price is not asked but taken.

The memory of the great Russian language came back instantly, the whole pseudo-Latin 'Gothic', which looked like a wild mixture of French and German, jump out of her head at once. Olga did not say, but thought, distinctly, hoping that lilac understood everything:

Fuck you, asshole.

The girl had the strange feeling that in front of her, around her, and in herself was not a living being, but some kind of element. It was like an ocean that moved, obeyed some rules, existed in an infinite number of interconnected elements but had no independent mind. And she feared that what she was thinking would be unheard. Or misunderstood. Or misunderstood, which would be a shame, considering how much emotion Olga put into three short words. But she was well understood, and her understanding was followed by surprise, which was followed by inevitability. And there followed an answer that was inexpressible in words, but as clear and understandable as Olga's message.

Whoever doesn't want happiness seeks its opposite.

The one who rejects heaven longs to be cast into hell.

The one who doesn't want peace welcomes pain.

The lilacs darkened, even more, icy needles pierced the body, the heat scorched the nerves, barely at first, as if preparing for further torment. The breath of decay and death drank precious drops of will and energy from the soul. And then Olga heard something that was not and could not be here. The most terrible sounds in the world, which were repeated enough to be permanently imprinted in her memory for the rest of her life.

Door creaking.

The clatter of a bottle was placed on a crooked, rusty table. Regular, zero-five liter, priced at forty-seven rubles. Always filled to exactly a quarter to polish up afterward. A very distinctive clatter, it is quite different from that of a bottle, empty or full of, say, half.

The long grinding of the lock being locked, very diligent. The creak of the door boards, pressed by a strong hand, checking to see if it was secure if it wouldn't open at the most inopportune moment.

Olga cringed, whimpering softly in horror. The memory, like a digitized photograph, was rapidly becoming reality, gaining color, volume, and smell. The smell of damp dust - it had rained too much that fall - of street dirt on badly wiped boots. Very bad vodka, so cheap that they don't even dilute it with water to make it bulkier because water would cost more.

It can't be, it can't be, it can't be!!!

And then a familiar and infinitely hateful voice said somewhere over the head:

"Who's the best today? Who was waiting for her beloved brother?"

A firm palm came down on her neck, and Olga screamed, realizing that she was in hell after all.

* * *

Bertha had expected anything from slaughter to a bloody orgy, but her squad was quiet, disciplined, and ready for action. The flamethrowers were ready, the equipment on the move and checked, the personal weapons issued from the safe on the Holy Man's personal initiative. Strictly speaking, the fireproof cabinet was simply broken into, but the mentor decided to leave the decision for later. And so was her reflection on exactly why her team was beyond the reach of the rapidly spreading madness.

"What orders?" The Holy Man asked cheerfully, and the question stunned the mentor.

Indeed, what now? But the Emperor is always on the side of the righteous, and then the Priest came to the rescue. The speaker of general communication turned on, emitting a series of wheezes, hinting at the need to update the equipment. And then it cleared its throat and reported:

"My brothers and sisters. We are under attack. Let us be firm in our faith and...'

The Priest described the situation briefly and quite exhaustively. Berta, meanwhile, was thinking intensely. At the same time, the new commandant tried to stifle the sprouts of schadenfreude. 'That's for you, not disbanding! The armored train will show itself yet!'

By the time the Priest encouraged everyone to be strong and brave, and to strike the wicked with both hands, the Mentor already had a rough idea of what to do next. She quickly assigned the duties, ordered the mechanic to sit in the tank, keep the hatches open in readiness to receive the entire crew, and, if necessary, ram the wagon from the inside.

"We'll roll over," Driver remarked melancholically. "Too high. Then we'll have to keep the ramp extended."

"The Emperor will help," said Bertha significantly. "Now, where's the brat...?"

A sharp knock was her answer. The pounding came from outside, and with such force, it looked as if there was at least a servitor on the other side of the door. Without a command, Luke and Kryptman raised their weapons simultaneously; the flamethrowers regrouped, aiming at the doorway. It smelled of gun oil and flamethrower chemicals. To complete the composition of 'the Emperor's servants holding up a heroic defense,' the turret drives hummed. The small-caliber cannon turned, and the bolt clanked loudly, so audible even behind the armor.

Well done, Driver, thought Bertha, taking her own shotgun off her shoulder. She noted that Kryptman had made sure of the density of possible fire and turned in the opposite direction, taking aim at the spiral staircase. Smart guy, really, we should be prepared for an attack from the rear.

The knocking was repeated, demanding, and loud.

"Open up," commanded Bertha to Wretches Man.

Wretches Man licked his parched lips and stood at the side of the armored door, crossed by steel strips with round rivet hats. He licked his lips once more and twisted the locking wheel with one hand. The hinges, well lubricated with frost-proof grease, barely squeaked when the door opened.

"Ah, a hundred thousand fucked-up Warp demons," Bertha squealed as she lowered her shotgun.

"Where's the medic?" the tech-priestess asked as she stepped inside.

Above Wakrufmann's left shoulder hovered a servo skull, glistening with a red lens and waving its three-toed limbs. A long antenna protruded from the yellow and white parietal bone, almost touching the metal ceiling.

"This is becoming a tradition," remarked the Holy Man, looking at the limp body of the blonde, who was being held tightly by the mechanic. The little one won't get out of her hospital bed. That'll make her the most veteran we've ever had."

Demetrius didn't say anything, he silently flipped open the medical shelf aboard the 'Chimera,' designed to transport the wounded. The accessory had not been used for a long time (most likely never), but should have been present by regulation, just in case. And, finally, it came in handy, once again confirming the wisdom of the statute.

"What's wrong with her? - The young man asked curtly, sliding a large bag of medical supplies over his chest.

Jennifer gave out a quick succession of some medical terms, which Demetrius, judging by his reaction, understood perfectly and darkened with each word.

"I'll try to stabilize her," he promised grimly. "But there needs to be help from a good hospital. And... " Demetrius looked up as if he could pierce several levels of solid metal with his eyes. "And probably a good psyker, too."

The Sinner recoiled, making a gesture to ward off the evil force, and the rest of the squadron swayed involuntarily to and fro, like the grass in a mighty wind.

"Move apart," Kriptman ordered with unexpected authority.

The Inquisitor quickly stepped toward Olga and placed both hands on her forehead. Fidus frowned and silently moved his lips for a couple of minutes, while Demetrius put the girl on glucose and physiological saline drips.

"You got it," Kryptman finally said quietly, turning to the orderly. It sounded like a question and a statement at the same time. Demetrius nodded slightly and answered just as quietly:

"Yes. Can we help here?"

Fidus bit his lip and furrowed his forehead, shifting his eyebrows. Then he said:

"Probably. But it would be dangerous. We need someone to go after her. I'm not a psyker or a psychonaut, I can only help and hold her."

"I..." Demetrius hesitated but continued with apparent reluctance as if recalling something he wanted to forget forever. "Sometimes the Emperor's light shines on me. Sometimes... and in strange ways. That's why I'm here."

"Are you ready or not?" Fidus said curtly, still with his hands on the girl's head. "There's no time to lose, she's getting deeper with each passing minute. If you can't do it, I'll try."

Now Demetrius bit his lip and lowered his eyes without stopping his medical manipulations. He adjusted the dispenser wheel on the antihypoxant packet, and then said a single word with discreet determination:

"I will."

"A psychonautics session organized not by a conditioned psyker, but by a person with a weak gift tag, would require special equipment," Jennifer spoke with her usual boredom of mechanicus, and the squad had already forgotten about her. "The equipment is in the process of being assembled. I had to improvise from what was available, but there's a good chance it might help."

"You'd better mind your own business," Bertha looked at the tech-priestess critically, without a trace of deference. "You're chatting..."

"I don't need to look at the mechanical servants to operate them," Wakrufmann replied haughtily. "The instruments will be delivered in fourteen minutes and forty-nine seconds via the internal pneumatic transmission network."

"I'm afraid we don't have fifteen minutes," Kryptman shook his head. "If we delay, she'll go mad, get lost forever in the maze of the distorted subconscious. We'll have to take a risk."

In contrast to the mentor, the inquisitor treated Jennifer with respect. Demetrius was silent and clenched his fingers nervously, like a swimmer about to dive into murky water with rebar sticking out of the bottom. Whatever the novice was about to do, it scared the hell out of him. The mechanicus turned the mask that replaced her face toward Fidus.

"Trying to use a bit of his gift under the circumstances will probably kill him," Jennifer stated with the straightforwardness of a real machine, pointing to Demetrius. "At best, we'll get two irreversibly insane people. At worst, we'll be left with two shells filled with an alien and utterly hostile consciousness. Better to lose some time, but go on the journey armed. I intend to help according to protocol A-nineteen-eighty-three, you should be familiar with it."

"Eight hundred and three..." muttered the inquisitor. "Electroshock..."

Fidus rubbed his neck and said with evident reluctance:

"Yes, that might help. We'll wait."

Demetrius looked at Fidus with painfully dilated pupils, pale as death, but he kept silent and refrained from arguing, apparently deciding that his more experienced colleague understood the situation better.

"Hey, pinion," Bertha called out. "Don't even think about it! A full-fledged fighter and a whole orderly, I won't give them up. And you have something to do, too!"

"I'm on it," Jennifer turned her whole body toward her mentor. "The dignity and good of the children of Omnissiah is in multitasking. And now I'm going to try to get the locomotive up and running so Radial-12 can get going. It's best for all of us to get as far away from any populated areas or human gatherings as possible."

"There were... yours." Came to the voice of the Wretched Man. "I saw it."

"Not anymore," Jennifer retorted. "My fellow has been irreversibly disabled and has effectively ceased to exist."

"Let it be." Berta summed it up. "Go about your business and these..." She nodded toward the inquisitor and Demetrius. "They will do their duty."

The tech-priestess took a step toward the mentor, and Bertha shuddered. Like most ordinary people, Bertha was used to the stately slowness of Omnissian servants, but Wakrufmann moved with frightening speed and looked more like a servant of the Officio Assassinorum.

"Who are you? - Bertha asked, hovering over the tech-priestess as if she were preparing to smash her iron head with the handle of a shotgun. She might as well have been scaring a rock or a statue. "Why do you want this girl?"

"Correction," Wakrufmann added nonchalantly. "We all need the girl. I will draw your attention to an important aspect. This event has the hallmarks of a large-scale psyker attack, either deliberate or spontaneous, acting as a side effect of some kind of action. Both humans and Adeptus Mechanicus are equally affected. But you have kept your sanity and are immune to the hostile influence. Only your department, no one else, including the commandant and staff personnel. They are God-fearing people and objectively far from unbelief. Why do you think that is? What factor protected you and only you?"

"Well..." Bertha looked at Olga in confusion. "Oh, that's nonsense! You're not wrong in the head, are you? Even though you have an iron head."

"This is a fact, and I was in direct contact with your subordinate at the time of the attack. The exposure overloaded my circuits and heuristic systems but was generally tolerable. At the same time, my fellow of the locomotive brigade dismembered himself, broadcasting heretically distorted prayers on all frequencies, as well as a code of awareness of the meaninglessness of existence in a modified body that cannot indulge in the usual human hedonistic vices."

"Nonsense," Bertha repeated, shaking her head. - "Nonsense! We can't take that risk. A soldier has to be on guard duty. A medic has to be on standby to cure. And the girl will lie there until she regains consciousness or until the fight is over."

"Following such a course of action will cause you to lose face and some credibility with your subordinates," Jennifer warned. "If you don't want to voluntarily coordinate your actions with me and take into account my recommendations, I'll force you."

"Yes, I don't want to. Or what?" Bertha grinned angrily, gripping the hilt of the combi-shotgun tighter.

"I had already asked the spirit in 'Chimera' to ignore the commands of the driver, and the request was met with understanding. Spirits don't like those who disregard the advice of the Mechanicus. Now you won't even start this vehicle, let alone do anything more complicated."

"You..." Bertha gasped.

"Besides, an armored train needs a locomotive to move," Jennifer continued with firmness. "One hundred and thirty-seven technical operations must be performed in strict sequence and perfect adherence to the canon of service to get it running and achieve stable traction. It is also necessary to say litanies in praise of the boiler and the steam distribution mechanism. It may not stop there, the spirits of steam-powered machines are conservative and distrustful of new users. The steam engine may not accept machinists without proper recommendations, and a call to the Omnissiha will be necessary. If you can do that, it's time to get started."

Bertha was ready to swear that the thin iron arm of the servo skull folded into a fuck you gesture for a moment.

"If you can't, your train is not functional," Wakrufmann stated ruthlessly. "And you are useless and the antithesis of the ideals of the Communist Sanitary-Epidemiological Squad under the patronage of St. Clarence, may he rest in glory at the foot of the Golden Throne."

Jennifer folded her metallic hands in the sign of an aquila, like a true and faithful servant of the Imperium - a human servant of flesh and blood. The sinusoid on the 'mouth' screen folded into a line, very expressively conveying the sardonic curve of the thin lips. Bertha clenched her teeth, an incredible effort to suppress the outburst of anger and the desire to shoot the pot-head that stood between the Squad and its mission.

No one knows how this nervous dialogue would have ended, in which a bone found its place if at that moment there was not a loudspeaker of the intercom.

"Commandant!" called out in the distorted voice of the Priest.

Bertha hesitated for a few seconds, then pulled the intercom box off the bracket on a long wire and flicked a button.

"I'm listening!"

While the purificators and the mechanicus were figuring out who was in charge, the Priest was wiping away the knife. There was more blood on the clergyman's clothes. More specifically, the red liquid soaked the monk from head to toe, soaking every thread down to his socks and underwear. The orchestra and the staff showed remarkable resilience, resisting to the end the unyielding will of the Emperor, carried out by the hands of His servant. But the Priest managed, though it was not easy.

Cleaning his blade, the monk looked at the large, massive thing that stood in the corner of the command post. The structure had the appearance of a column on massive support made of the mortarboard. The column was converted into an intricate structure of several dozen concentric rings, marked with risks, colored symbols, or even just hand-drawn notches. All of this was in constant motion, with whirring electric drives and squeaking gears.

The thing was an analog model that allowed the tracking of armored train movements within an area. A very old thing that worked crudely and inaccurately, but would always work if there was electricity in the batteries and a radio signal. Useless for many decades and irreplaceable now that one by one the surveillance satellites were failing, the staff servitors had become useless stuffed animals, and the regimental command was either dead or had disappeared somewhere in its entirety.

The Priest angrily slipped the knife into its sheath and took a long-stemmed intercom from the Commandant's table.

"Have you seen a tin can?" The commissar of the armored train asked curtly, without giving any foreplay.

"We saw," answered Bertha, glancing at Wakrufmann.

"We need a move," said the monk, his voice muffled and interrupted by the wheezing of the old, worn-out system. "And it's urgent."

"Trouble?"

"Here comes the 'sixty-fourth' at full speed."

"Radial-64?" Bertha couldn't help smiling, rejoicing in her soul. Here it is, backup!

"Yes. Only they don't respond to inquiries and have disabled the tracking system. They shut it down themselves. The last message on the net was a report. More like a cry for help. 'Someone is breaking the seals and breaking in the doors of the arsenal wagon at the missile battery'."

"So this isn't the help?" The commandant gritted her teeth

"It doesn't look like it. I think they're coming to intercept. Find an iron head and have him start a steam train."

"Gotcha."

Bertha flicked a tangent and looked at Jennifer, then mouthed angrily:

"It looks like you'll have to light the furnace after all. Or we'll all die. Along with the little brat."

"If Radial-64 comes to intercept us, we will die. If a wave of chaos reaches us we will die. If 'Radial-12' leaves the danger zone, but novice Olga stops acting as a possible stabilization agent, we die. In different ways, we arrive at the same ending, which to me is unacceptable. Therefore I see no reason to renegotiate the terms. The train will move on my terms or not move at all."

Wakrufmann waited a few moments, carefully monitoring Bertha's condition, calculating to a hundredth of a second the time for the mentor to realize the point, but not in time to explode with spontaneous, impulsive action.

"Are we going to haggle further, or are we going to do business for the glory of the Emperor and the duty of the Squad?" Jennifer asked. "I would prefer the second option. If we accept it, novices Kryptman and Demetrius will take care of novice Olga, and I will go to the locomotive, giving you tactical control of the situation beyond these inputs."

"You will answer for this," Bertha promised very firmly.

"I am not encroaching on your credentials and prerogatives," Wakrufmann said. "I need to keep the girl alive and sane. To achieve this in the circumstances can only be achieved with the help of your fighting squad. Our goals are the same."

"All right. Let's get down to business," the mentor gritted her teeth.

Bertha may have lacked the experience of real, big command, but the mentor was no fool. 'Radial' needed technique, the technique could only be provided by a mechanicus, and pushing the pedal to the end in a 'who's the most principled here' clash was fraught, because the cog could win, and time was disappearing minute by minute.

We'll settle up later, Bertha mentally promised, and for a moment she imagined what a luxurious report she would create, and Savlar would write it out in his perfectly calligraphic handwriting. Not a word of lies that would be displeasing to the Emperor and offensive to the purificator. Only the pure truth about how the cog has actively interfered with his work, turned her duty into a blackmail tool, and dared with blatant impudence to dictate his will to the Ecclesiarchy in the person of Adepto Purificatum.

"Communication will be through my assistant," Jennifer announced and pointed to the skull with the antenna, then turned again to Fidus. "I recommend that you perform the operation in the 'Chimera' or an isolated compartment. Possible..." Here, perhaps for the first time, the tech-priestess modulated voice trembled slightly. "Excesses."

"I understand," the inquisitor touched the hilt of his pistol in his holster.

"Hey!" Bertha shook her barrel. "Will yours help us? Maybe they could at least drop a gun on us?"

"'Mine,' Wakrufmann smiled unpleasantly again. "Those who escaped the psyker strike are now fighting a battle and have no extra artillery. They will help but under the circumstances."

"We don't have shit," someone from the squad said quietly.

"Doesn't the Emperor protect? - Jennifer queried and moved toward the exit, looking like an angry mannequin in her red robe. Finally, she tossed over her shoulder:

"Prepare for battle."
* * *

RiP · Dec 4, 2021

Chapter 23
* * *
Inside the 'Chimera' was unexpectedly spacious. In a compartment designed for a dozen soldiers with ammunition, there were only three people, of which only one - Kryptman - was big. Olga was placed on three blankets stacked on top of one another. Kriftman silently wrapped duct tape around her wrists.

"Is that really necessary?" Demetrius asked.

"Yes," the inquisitor said briefly. "We don't know..."

He hesitated, glancing sideways at the orderly. Demetrius couldn't help but smile crookedly, thinking what he hadn't said: No one knows who or what will wake up in the girl's body.

"So..." Fidus laid out on the metal seat the equipment sent by Wakrufmann. "So," he repeated.

"Need any help?" The Driver looked through the hatch from the control compartment.

"No," said Fidus, then added more politely. "You'd better go... outside. Anything can happen here."

Demetrius grimaced in anguish at this but said nothing. The Driver only smirked.

"Well, that's up to you," said Fidus, taking a screwdriver from the pocket of his baggy overalls.

"You can die anywhere and any way you," Driver remarked with an unusual verbosity for himself. "And you have a circus for free. So I'm both on duty and entertained."

"Aren't you afraid of being defiled?"

"My friendly pie," said the Driver with good-natured patronage. "I'm the longest-serving man here, I've got indefinite exile. Even our mutterer hasn't dragged it out as long as I have."

For a 3% chance of surviving docility in this unit too many veterans. Bertha - 3 terms, Holy Man more than one, and now Driver.

Fidus frowned but immediately realized that it was about a radio operator.

"If heresy could penetrate my eyes, I'd be tapping my mutant hooves," Driver continued. "So you do your work, and I'll take a peek, for fun. I'll never see such a thing again"

"Yeah," Fidus agreed, rattling the complicated hardware that Jennifer's new servo skull had brought. "That's how it starts. First, it's 'I only got one look'. And then 'what's this fire for, where are you taking me?"

The Driver grinned even wider, which looked comical with his red-skinned face, and put his famous hat on top of his tank helmet.

"For luck," explained the Driver, intercepting the inquisitor's surprised look, and added, returning to the original theme. "You're not used to it yet, and we're very boring."

"Boring?" Fidus caught himself that the conversation was quite appropriate. His hands were familiarly connecting contacts in a familiar pattern, and his head was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by an unnecessary conversation.

"Sure," Driver shook his head, and the silver beads tinkled softly in his long strands. "It's scary to the point of yellow underpants at first, but it's curious, too. Horrors and variety! And then just horrors, the same thing, day after day, year after year. Mutants, cultists, festering, scorching. Give them an acid tank, measure the level of pollution, organize mass incineration. And they have all this," Driver waved his thumb, obviously symbolizing the other squads. "I'm sitting in a tin can all the time. Ugh. Only fun if I have to shoot with a cannon. Or talk to the machine spirit."

"And he answers?" Kryptman became interested.

"No, of course not," smirked Driver. "I'm not a cog. Spirit only listens. And rumbles like a diesel. But it rumbles in different ways, like a cat. I've learned to tell when he's happy and when he's about to burn the pistons out of spite."

"You've got the wrong job," Fidus commented inaudibly, his teeth clamping down on a thin wire, his tongue tingling with the faint electric shocks. "You should have put a pot on your head, too."

"Maybe... You do it, do it, I'll be quiet, I won't interfere. And if we get out, there will be something to remember." He paused for a moment and then added philosophically: "If you don't survive, I'll remember you and speak well of you. Or you of me, as the case may be."

"You're a goddamn optimist," Fidus muttered as he tightened the last nut.

"What are you in for indefinitely?" Demetrius suddenly asked, rubbing his wrists quickly and nervously, as if he wanted to get the blood flowing in his frozen palms.

I got into an argument with a factory priest when I was young and foolish," remembered the mechanic good-naturedly. "The Emperor is God or a superhuman of divine power."

"It was unwise," commented Fidus.

"Yeah. We went together under the church investigation. He went straight to the bonfire, because he was a religious person, and I went to jail and then came here. That's how I settled in."

"Here is the place that waits for the man, and the man that has taken his place," Fidus quoted. "That's it, now stay out of the way."

"I got it," the Driver spread his palms black with oil and grease. "I'll shut up."

* * *

The sounds of gunfire were getting closer. Jennifer wasn't a skitari and didn't know much about tactics, but ordinary logic was enough to understand this wasn't a fight in which the opponents were at least conventionally divided and organized. This is chaos and senseless violence. The problem was that the chaotic violence was coming, and fast, and the hulk of the techno-priest in charge of the steam engine was swinging on a metal cable in the sharp gusts of the night wind. The mechanic's brain was dead, but the electronic circuits were still drawing power from the built-in batteries, crying out sadly to the ether. The servitors, who had destroyed the operator on his own orders, lined up in a circle and went into power-saving modes, like immovable statues. They appeared to be very old specimens, capable only of the simplest of operations, the remnants of consciousness in their brain matter insufficient for a crushing psyker attack to get a grip on anything.

Wakrufmann turned on the backlight, making the optics glow bright yellow, like little spotlights. The priestess could see in infrared as well, but she preferred the ancient, conservative style. The work was not easy, and the first thing the techno-priestess did was to bring the servitors back to wakefulness.

Of course, Jennifer did not believe in spirits sitting inside machinery, cheering prayers, and drinking machine oil out of saucers. As the popular and ancient saying of Mechanicum put it, 'it doesn't work that way'. Machine spirits- as propaganda interpreted and described them - are just a useful superstition. The truth was much simpler - there are no spirits. And at the same time much more complicated - there are Entities.

Any mechanism more complex than a stick with a wheel is a Construct. It is built, it exists, it serves, it is repaired and upgraded. Every minute of operation, every manipulation of the operator adds a little bit of Influence to the machine. And each machine thus acquires an Individuality, a unique imprint, comparable to life experience and even character. In a world where devices serve for centuries, even machines have a soul. It has no self-consciousness but can display character and personal habits, i.e. programmed reactions to external actions. A machine that has served in harsh conditions will be harsh and demanding, the operator will first have to prove that it is worthy to be a companion and master. A machine that has been mistreated by denying it decent care will acquire the stamp of defectiveness, even vindictiveness, which is difficult, often impossible to remove. And so on...

Jennifer knew at a glance what was in front of her, so referring to the form only confirmed the knowledge. An ancient steam locomotive that once hauled heavy rockets and trusses to mount launch pads very, very far from here. Then transferred to a more peaceful service due to the specific design of the undercarriage - the axles could be adjusted to the width of non-standard tracks. Distinctive characteristics - excessive even for military vehicles safety margin (and therefore weight), especially for operation in wittingly destructive conditions. Primitive boiler, especially simplified to be able to feed on solid fuel of any composition, including wood and peat. The old, very reliable design, for which a good look after. And... it's a problem. Or maybe it's a virtue, as you can see.

Military equipment was difficult to work with, it was notoriously bilious, prone to petty regulation. It was doubly difficult with conversion equipment, the machine aura was 'accustomed' to a certain reverence. Accustomed to the fact that the thoughts of the crews were full of hope and gratitude for the loyal iron. Deprived of this, moving to a more peaceful service, the machinery was like a resentful veteran, whose services are consigned to oblivion. The old steam locomotive remembered the fire raging in the combustion chambers of giant missiles, the sizzling flashes of atomic explosions, the deadly raids through wastelands poisoned by radiation. The present labor of the shunting cart was insulting to him. The machinery did not trust the new operator.

Unless...

If Jennifer could, she would have smiled. Book experience threw up a comparison of a steamroller to an old, mighty dog. A hunting dog, more like a fighting dog, accustomed to walking side by side with man against the fiercest foes, now living out his days in a warm kennel, munching bones with toothless gums, occasionally letting himself be ridden by the grandchildren of the same old master.

Well, why not?

Wakrufmann walked along the wheels, quickly checking the condition of the water pipes and the quality of the felt covers on the oil pipes. At the same time, Jennifer addressed the machine 'spirit,' carefully, with due deference, so that the complex aura woven around the mechanism would not bristle in denial, sensing the pressure. Wakrufmann did a very simple thing - she invoked the huge machine's glorious past. She promised to quench a long-standing longing for deeds of which legends and army reports are written. She showed images of the war and destruction through which they would have to walk. The tech priestess promised the machine a return to the hour of glory and the real work for which it had been created. Such work, after which death is no longer a tragedy, but a dignified and welcome end to a very long existence. Or perhaps an excuse to return to military service. The machine 'thought'.

Jennifer still didn't understand why the steam locomotive didn't get a normal cabin on the Beacon, with insulated walls, solid glass, and furs connecting the main platform and the tender. The open design would have been logical in hot climates, but not in the tundra with constant cold winds. Losses on insulation must have been enormous, but there must have been some reason for that. However, they did not help to warm up the steam locomotive.

Drain the condensate from the grease nipple until the oil comes out instead of water.

Check the condition of the mineral wool around the cylinder block.

The servitors, awakened by their new master's will, moved in silent shadows, like fingers on a hand, performing thousand-fold repetitive actions. Judging by the design and degree of wear and tear, at least five of the seven were the same age as the steam engine, most likely having come with the machinery from its homeworld. The Psyker attack had affected them as well, the machine men could now function normally only with constant monitoring by the operator. Still, the servitors worked.

Open the cylinder valves, pull the handle all the way to the stop.

The protocol was helpful in indicating that the spool rod should be locked in the middle position. Wakrufmann racked her brain for the best way to do this. After that, she had to tear off the arm of one of the servicemen, using the limb as a block to hold it in place. The original was lost; there was no time to look for a replacement. The action was met with an understanding of the machine 'spirit', he was convinced that the new operator is similar to the commanders of the distant past - decisive, stern, ready to do anything to fulfill the order. It was not yet a collaboration, a symbiosis of the priest and the invisible substance that penetrated every cog of the complex machine. But, at any rate, the locomotive did not resist, showing something like interest, and a couple of times even suggested the best way to do it.

Reverse to center and lock, check the regulator, it should be in the 'closed' position. Jennifer had no idea what that meant, but she knew which levers to turn. Then there was a hitch - there was no coal-polishing hose of at least ten meters in length. Jennifer thought conscientiously about how this could be fixed but concluded that there was no way, so if the coal on the way ignited, so be it. She looked at the dead Martian and decided that this fellow was not worthy of remembrance and kindly admonition, for he had clearly kept the machinery in improper conditions. The mighty locomotive deserved more and better.

The sensors replacing Jennifer's vestibular apparatus noted a distant concussion. Something rumbled toward the sea, heavy and very massive. Apparently, some sort of thing was coming up out of the ocean again. The Ice Beacon was definitely going through a bad time. The servitors, meanwhile, continued their work. Most of the crew was now pouring distilled heated water into the boiler. One, the toughest and most sturdy, was preparing to fire up the furnace. With jerky movements, he connected the pneumatic line to the compressor. Here the steam engine had already openly suggested that the hose was very similar to the brake line; the two should not be confused. Jennifer checked the connection, corrected the fault of the servitor, whose optics were too old and muddy. Another failure of the late fellow who didn't keep the locomotive crew in proper condition...

The compressed air hissed, accompanying the approaching shots. A machine gun dragged out on top of one of the wagons, rattled off a short burst. Wackruffmann moved across the platform along the huge cylinder with its hinged shroud panels. The wind was increasing, promising a midnight storm.

When it was time to light the holy fire, one servitor hauled a wagon of coal along tracks buried in the platform and began to load the firebox, scattering black crumbs over the grate. The other went to get a bucket of firewood chips. Jennifer quickly offered a prayer to Omnissia, who, seeing her follower's weakness and little experience, eased her way, bringing together the tech-priestess and the honored, venerable machine. At the end of her prayer, Wakrufmann remembered to thank the machine 'spirit' and felt the memory imprinted in the metal of many generations of operators, as well as incredible events, echo with a satisfying vibration.

The stoker picked up a shovel with shreds of mineral wool soaked in used oil, turned the dead gaze of old lenses on his mistress. Jennifer lit a light on one of her fingers and allowed herself a full three seconds to admire the red tongue that danced in the wind. At moments like this, Wakrufmann imagined herself as the man who had gotten fire hundreds of thousands of years ago and, unknowingly, had become the first servant of the Omnissiah, because the Way of the Machine had begun with the wheel and the fire.

The fire began to burn almost immediately, oozing white smoke without soot, a good sign. Jennifer put her hand on the thick metal, feeling the fire rouse the mighty body of the self-propelled machine to action. And as usual, on such occasions, she sincerely pitied ordinary people, so miserable in their ignorance, deprived of the opportunity simply to see the beauty and harmony of the Machine, let alone to understand the Forma Divina Apparatus.

* * *

Now the head of the unconscious girl was encased in a crafty construction that resembled a cage, a sports mask, and a cyber muzzle of a cyber mastiff at the same time. A bundle of different-colored and different-caliber wires ran from the muzzle to a box-like battery. The box often blinked red and blue lights, and there was a green one, but that one was still dark.

"And now what?" Demetrius was already gnashing his teeth in a nervous chill, but for now, he held on.

"Now," echoed Fidus. "Add some heat," he said to Driver.

"One moment," he nodded and disappeared from view.

Something rattled outside, but familiarly, technically. It looked like colleagues were dragging something massive across the carriage. The train jerked through the train with a chain of knocks and the repetitive clanking of wagon couplings. The 'Chimera' swayed on its shock absorbers. Fidus remembered that this model had leaf springs - a bit heavy, but firm and reliable classic tried and tested for thousands of years.

"What now?" Demetrius repeated with trembling lips.

"Now we should pray," said Fidus, businesslike. "But we don't have time, so I'll pray for all three of us later. For now, you must be undressed and have this stuck in your skull..." The inquisitor showed a vanishingly thin needle on a long wire.

This time the orderly couldn't refrain from swearing.

"It's necessary," Kryptman repeated sternly. "It's for better synchronization of the delta waves and so I can, in case of need, disconnect you."

"Disconnect?" Demetrius didn't understand. "What would that be? What do you mean... will be? What do I have to be ready for?"

The train jerked again and moved forward ten meters and stopped.

Kryptman was about to angrily reproach the young man that he should better understand the nature of his gift, but he looked at the trembling lips and fingers of the orderly, sighed heavily, and changed his tone.

"How does it manifest itself to you?" asked the inquisitor, attaching a cobweb made of wire and foil with rubber bands to Demetrius' head to fasten it behind his ears.

"I... people like me. It's hard to control. And it's hard to describe. When I find someone... attractive, I feel as if a golden light comes from me, a ray of goodness that warms... the person I'm interested in. And they... well, I mean, people... respond. with attention, sympathy..." Demetrius spoke slowly, stammering, and at the last phrase, the young man's voice wilted like a leaf in the blazing sun: "With eagerness... Or even lust."

"I see," nodded Fidus, not stopping his confident manipulations. From time to time Kryptman thought briefly as if remembering something, and quickly reworked what seemed wrong.

"Look. You have to take your clothes off first."

"No!"

"Yes," the inquisitor repeated ruthlessly. "You need as much body contact as possible."

Demetrius was silent, but the young orderly's ears glowed enough to light a lcho. A muffled chuckle came through the hatch.

"Then I'll put you into a trance."

"Hypnosis?"

"Sort of, but easier and faster. There's no time for hypnotic immersion. And then I'll give you an electric shock. If it works, the concussion will allow you to cross the barrier entirely, and your minds will... you know... ...connect, or something. Anyway, it's very complicated."

Demetrius twitched and disturbed the harmony of the foil cap, Kryptman shook his head annoyingly and fixed it. Then he lifted the needle and looked questioningly at the orderly. The young man cast an oblique glance at the patient, who lay in complete immobility, only the rapid movements of the eyeball under the closed eyelids showed some sign of life. Olga looked miserable, very pale, like a real dead man, an empty shell of a person. A single tear rolled down her cheek, gleaming in the dim light of the barred lamp like a tiny diamond. Demetrius bit his lip and looked into Kryptman's eyes.

"Yes. Go ahead."

"Great," Kryptman looked at the orderly with a questioning glance and reminded him. "Tight body contact."

The manipulation ended unexpectedly quickly and almost painlessly, only a few drops of blood came out, and that was it. A green light flashed on Wakrufmann's box.

"What is there to be prepared for?" Demetrius reminded, pulling down the shirt, which was once sewn from an old monk's robe. Or rather, the orderly tried to pull it off, and then both psychonauts realized that the cap and needle were in the way. Driver silently threw Demetrius an army knife, the orderly just as silently began to shred the clothes right on himself, writhing against the needle in his temple. It didn't hurt, but it was unpleasant, like a splinter.

Kryptmann checked the condition of Wakrufmann's machinery once more and began carefully but quickly undressing Olga.

"You can't be prepared for that," he instructed Demetrius in passing. "There's absolute evil waiting for you, and it has only one goal: to get your soul. Hers and yours. It's not even evil as we understand it, just utterly, completely alien to everything that makes up our lives. Like darkness to light. Or fire to water. Anything can be waiting for you, so don't hold yourself back by waiting in advance. Just prepare for the worst."

"I got it," Demetrius gritted his teeth. Even Driver had indeed added heat by turning on the seldom-used heaters, the orderly was shivering. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Her mind is in a labyrinth right now, tangled with fears of the past and the future," Kryptman explained. "She can't escape on her own, she needs a map, a light to go to. But if you fail, it's not her who will come out to your signal, but you will be drawn to her, into the darkness, where there is no God. So..."

The inquisitor exhaled, swallowing nervously. Demetrius, without waiting for a command, cautiously hugged the girl and lay back comfortably, trying not to disturb the cobwebs of wires and the stupid hat. The driver again proved himself to be a generous giver; this time he handed over a thin but warm blanket, part of the military medic's kit. The inquisitor covered the lying couple with it.

"Remember the main thing. Only one 'there' is unchangeable. Only one thing will hold you, like an anchor in the sea," Fidus said curtly. "And light the way."

"Our God," Demetrius whispered.

"That's right. An abyss full of lies awaits you. Creatures that feed on lies and deceit await you. The only thing constant in the ocean of forbidden Evil is faith in the Emperor. No matter what happens, believe, that is your only salvation."

The clanging thunder rolled through the armored train again, and finally 'Radial-12' moved. Very slowly but surely, picking up speed a bit at a time. Behind several layers of armor, the locomotive whistle blew.

"The light that shines on you," the inquisitor said very seriously, looking into the psychonaut's eyes. "If it is indeed a divine spark, light it as brightly as you can. Be like a mirror, reflect the light and love of the Emperor, dispelling the darkness. Do it not to please yourself, not for pleasure, but to save an innocent soul."

"Wait," Demetrius grabbed the Inquisitor's arm sharply. "Another question!"

"Go ahead."

Kryptman took Driver's knife, with which the orderly had cut his clothes, and checked the blade. It was clean, well polished, and reflected the light. Fidus caught the faint ray from the lamp, threw it on the wall of the Chimera landing bay, and nodded to himself - that's it.

"Is it love?" Demetrius asked, squeezing the inquisitor's fingers with unexpected force. The answer seemed to be of utmost importance to the young man, almost a matter of life and death. "Or the duty of His servant?"

Fidus wanted to get off with a cliché, appropriate to the moment and, most importantly, short. But the memorized words stuck in his throat, seeming unspeakably false in the here and now, in the face of the great risk and the great sacrifice the young man with the barely visible shadow of a psyker gift was about to make.

"No. It is not love. It is duty and gratitude," answered the inquisitor. "Once she came between me and death. I survived. And then it was my turn."

"And...?"

"I didn't come between her and... the squad."

"The Emperor is with us," Demetrius whispered, resting his head on the makeshift pillow, clutching poor Olga's skinny body tighter in his arms. "We may forget Him, but He always remembers us. And where He is, there is always His Light."

"And hope," Fidus continued quietly, directing a dim spot of reflected light into the psychonaut's eyes. The Inquisitor put his free hand on the lever, preparing to send an electric current that would either stop Demetrius's heart or send his consciousness to a place where the laws and rules of Materium do not exist.

"And hope..."

* * *

Starting a 'cold' steam boiler without external heating was a difficult procedure even for experienced operators. And, according to Wakrufmann's data banks, could easily take up to two or three hours. The techno-priestess managed it in twenty minutes, and at times she was a little intimidated by the enthusiasm of the locomotive. The machine spirit seemed to be eager for battle, like a berserker impatiently gnawing at a shield. So far, though, it was doing the trick.

Chaos was approaching, and the squad spread out across the rooftops, shooting off the madmen who had begun to appear as a vanguard of a rabid mob. If the 'spirit' of 'Chimera' was to be believed, Demetrius was currently preparing to wander through Olga's clouded mind. The Priest methodically shoveled the dead right onto the concrete, read a short prayer for the repose of the souls, then made a vigorous speech on the intercom about the defeat of heretics. And went to the locomotive, offering Wakrufmann assistance. Jennifer did not refuse.

"What's going on?" The monk asked, pulling his coat tightly over his usual chain mail. Considering the nature of the possible fight, this time the Priest did not arm himself with a chemical cannon and took a laser pistol from the commandant's safe, and a shortened sapper axe stuck behind his belt made of tarpaulin tape. Shepherd was freezing just looking at the techno-priestess with beams of bright light shooting out of her eyes, but the monk was bracing himself.

"According to the scraps of information, something extraordinary has happened in the area of the city center," Jennifer reported honestly. "Something that shook the veil that separates Materium from Empyrea. A wave of reaction spread out in concentric circles, bringing pure evil to the souls."

"Is it as if a rag had been torn? "

"It goes something like this. Now there are influences seeping through the veil that are driving people crazy and also changing them. Other manifestations are possible."

The monk opened his mouth to ask what the chances of a self-tightening ripped reality were, and what to do in such cases, but just clicked his jaw, remembering that he actually represents the Ecclesiarchy here and is supposed to give answers to such questions.

"Let's go," Jennifer said. "If you would be so kind as to watch these gauges. All arrows should fluctuate within the yellow range. It's all right to go into the red area, but if any arrow stays there longer than three seconds, let me know right away."

"Got it."

The priest stared conscientiously at the gauges, which looked more like huge alarm clocks with the same caps on top of their shabby housings. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the image of the silent dance performed by the techno priestess and the servitors. The monk understood that the 'cogs' were controlling the servants by vox, but that did not make the picture any less eerie.

Damn mechanics. Without them, as well as without psykers, the Imperium's gigantic body would be without energy, without any binding threads, but with them, it's always... uncomfortable. They are too far away from humans, too much non-human allowed in themselves. And the otherwise is always a step closer to heresy.

The whistling of steam and pressurized air became deafening, the furnace spewed torrents of heat, the shovel of the stoker's servitor rattled. The Priestess quickly flipped the levers, which seemed too massive even for the Priest's powerful arms. The armored train moved slowly, heavily, like an overloaded wagon pulled by an old donkey. It was hard for the donkey, but it tried, and the 'Radial' rolled forward - jerking, clanking loudly with its huge wheels on the joints of the rails, but it rolled, gaining speed little by little.

"Where to?" The Priest only now realized that he hadn't asked himself that question before, and he should have.

"Straight," Wackrufmann reported with disarming simplicity and directness. "Along the line."

"That is, to the city," muttered the Priest.

The monk simply did not know what to do next. Before everything was simple and clear - here was his flock, here was the task, everything was written down and regulated. In the centuries of Purificators' existence any unplanned situations had already happened, had been described in reports and provided with exact recipes - how to act. And now the monk suddenly found himself out of his place, several levels above the usual and understandable competence. One could only hope that Bertha understood what to do.

"The Five Hundred and Sixty-seventh Maintenance Company and the Radial-12 self-propelled sanitation center are currently of limited and conditional combat effectiveness," the techno-priestess muttered in a nerdy voice. The Priest looked at her suspiciously, trying to figure out whether the iron doll was being ironic, speaking seriously, or prompting?

"Also on board is an object of extreme value and probably protecting the entire crew in an obscure but effective way from hostile influence. Finally, our armored train is probably in pursuit of 'Radial-64'. Considering all the above, now we should depart as far as possible, moving away from both the pursuers and from the settlements. Then assess the situation, re-establish contact with the command, wait for help or at least instructions."

Judging by the fact that the servitors did not cease their rather complicated operations, Wakrufmann continued to control the servants even as they communicated. The Priest cursed, trying to make sense of the tirade the priestess uttered in one sitting, and without changing her tone, one might have said 'in one breath' if the mechanic had been breathing with her lungs. And then he thought that even if the god-awful 'cog' had been making fun of His servant, her words made perfect sense. Indeed, how else should a servant of the Church and a purificator, who is important not just to smite the enemy, but to do so wisely and effectively, act?

While the Priest was reflecting, Jennifer quickly climbed up the coal tender and onto the roof of the first car, clinging to the ledges and faceted rivet hats. The robe was in the way, but Jennifer was in no hurry to get rid of it, given the psychological aspect. The purificators, steeped in superstition, should not have seen the priestess in her true form; it might have caused an unnecessary and harmful phobia in the circumstances.

Wakrufmann needed to assess the situation from a high vantage point, and what she saw did not make her happy. But a new factor caught Jennifer's attention almost immediately. Sensitive microphones picked up the piercing whistles and roars far sooner than the average person could hear them. It took Jennifer a few moments to reach her mentor Bertha via the 'Radial' intercom and outline the situation. Then Bertha grabbed the Commandant's microphone and yelled at the whole train, turning the volume of the speakers up to maximum. Her shrill roar was poorly translatable, but briefly and comprehensively conveyed the simple meaning: 'Alarm! Take cover!'

There was just enough time for the purificators, who had converted to infantry, to leave the rooftops. Some managed to lock the hatch, some didn't, but all were under armor protection when the barrage of fire struck the railroad station. The missile battery from the 'Radial-64' was perfectly accurate, but only minutes too late. A series of murderous shells rained down on the terminal, turning concrete boxes and metal trusses into flaming ruins, mowing down hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unfortunate victims of madness. But the 'Radial-12' had already crawled out onto the main thoroughfare and was gaining ground, and the enemy had no ammunition left to fire again.

Strictly speaking, there was no need for an order to shelter, but Wakrufmann found it useful to strengthen her credibility with the purifiers a little more. Jennifer made only one mistake, forgivable under the circumstances, but no less fatal. The techno-priestess did not consider the factor of ordinary chance, she could not foresee that the explosion of the fuel tank and the destruction of the mooring mast would produce a particularly heavy and long-range fragment.

"Emperor's blood! Goddamn it!" The Priest shouted as the decapitated body of the Mechanist fell before him with a thunderous crash. The head fell with a huge dent in it, rolling, rattling, on the corrugated iron of the platform. The spotlight eyes flashed and went out, the servitors of the locomotive crew simultaneously lowered their arms, frozen motionless in the icy wind.
* * *
They killed Jennifer, those assholes.

RiP · Dec 5, 2021

Chapter 24
* * *
Kryptman sat motionlessly and looked at the pale faces of the psychonauts. Olga seemed to have calmed down a little, at least she was no longer crying in unconsciousness, and Demetrius, on the contrary, was shivering like a freezing man. The novice's face twitched frequently as if every facial muscle had been electrified.

Fidus aimed at Demetrius's forehead with his pistol, then put the weapon away, but not too far away, so that it was close at hand. The sounds of gunfire and explosions had died down, and the train was rolling forward, which was more or less reassuring. He was very thirsty, the thirst was drying out his throat. Fidus only now remembered that he had taken his last sip barely in the morning, and now the time must be nearing midnight. He should ask Driver for some...

As if in response to the inquisitor's thoughts, the disheveled driver stuck his red face into the hatch again.

"Hey, Bertha is calling for you," he said curtly, and his silver dangles rattled against the metal frame.

"I'm busy," snapped Fidus, not taking his eyes off the psychonauts.

"Very much so!" Driver clarified.

"I'm busy," Kryptman repeated.

"Ah," the redskin mumbled in a single syllable. "Well, Ok."

He disappeared, fiddled noisily in his compartment, then slid back in, holding out a speaker on a long leg with a triple wire, apparently part of a plug-in headset for intra-train communication. Kryptman bit his lip, silently cursing the idiots who can't do anything themselves. The speaker yelled in a distinctive and perfectly recognizable voice:

"Aren't you crazy, you convict face?! Should I kill you for sabotage or put you in the furnace for heat?!"

"Do you know what would happen if Brother Demetrius came back a converted man?" The inquisitor gritted his teeth.

"Do you know what would happen if a train full of heretics caught up with us?" The Mentor shouted back and finished in an almost calm voice. "We're being chased by the '64'. So feet in the ass and run to the staff wagon!"

"Got it." the inquisitor gritted his teeth again. "I will."

"And take those glasses that the pinion gave the little one. We need them badly."

The driver nodded, signaling "My task is done," and hid back. Fidus bit the knuckles of his left hand painfully, trying to put his thoughts together and improvise some kind of strategy. The strategy refused to be improvised.

"Hey," Kryptman pounded on the iron bulkhead with the hilt of his gun.

"What?"

"What's the biggest gun you have?" Fidus asked.

"Uh... What?" The tank driver didn't understand.

"I'm going out. Someone has to keep watch," Kryptman clarified. "If they come back as human beings, you can comfort and encourage them. And if they don't..."

The Driver gulped and shook his head.

"Gotcha. Both of them?"

"Yes."

"I'm not going to shoot them," said the Driver. "I'll use a frag grenade. It'll work reliably in this cramped space. And there's not much damage to the vehicle."

"At your discretion," muttered the Inquisitor, pulling himself up to the turret hatch. He didn't want to fiddle with the sliding panel.

"So, what's wrong there," the inquisitor wasted no time in foreplay when he went up to the command post. The blood on his boots and the sight of the dead on the first floor of the staff wagon did not add to his eloquence or friendliness.

"The Emperor's shit...!" he let out at the sight of the headless iron figure seated in the commandant's chair. He hesitated, remembering to whom he was speaking.

"That's what I said," the Priest confirmed. "And then the severed head spoke."

"Mechanicums," summed up the inquisitor, looking at the wrinkled head of Wakrufmann, which lay in the middle of the lightmap.

"Humans," the head said. The synthesizer malfunctioned, and the priestess's voice was drowned in hoarse and grinding noises, but it was relatively audible.

"Is it so hard to accept the fact that we are evolutionarily more advanced?" asked the metal head of the techno-priestess.

"Well, it's hard to accept that you can stick your brains in your belly," the Priest muttered, doing an aquila. "It's all wrong..."

"Well," the inquisitor clapped his hands together. "Let's get to the point. Because we have a psychonaut in the difficult dive. And I have no idea what could appear with him or instead of him."

"Glasses for starters," the headless figure held out her hand, without the former grace, apparently guided by sound.

"Take it."

"Thanks."

From behind Jennifer's shoulder rose a servo skull, which took the glasses with its little paws, put them on its own 'face,' wrapped the handles back and tied the temples together with thin wire. Then flew up to Wakrufmann and grasped the segmented fragment of the neck tightly. A second skull with a toolbox flew up, a sparkle of micro-welding flashed, a rustle of sticky tape.

"Is this some kind of ritual?" Fidus asked.

"This is technology. My optical devices don't work. I use Olga's glasses instead, they will give me back my sight."

"I thought you could see through your technique."

"Yes, but the damage is quite significant. I have to create a palliative."

Skull finished the job. Jennifer got out of her chair and took a few steps, turning her whole body around at the same time. The iron body combined with the real skull over her shoulders looked surreal.

"Nekron is a bit like that," Fidus muttered.

"Who?" Bertha didn't understand.

"Well, it's just a fairy tale," Kriptman came to his senses. "It's old and it's scary."

Jennifer took hold of the skull and shook it, apparently checking to see if it was attached. From the outside, it looked as if the hero of a scary fairy tale was pulling his own head off. The Priest crossed his fingers in the aquila again.

"I'm on the locomotive," Jennifer reported, making sure the scheme was working. "The stoker servitors have stopped, and the furnace should be running. Listen to the head."

The techno-priestess went downstairs, treading a little unsteadily, from metal toe to heel, as if she were unsure of the support under her feet.

"What's the problem?" Kryptman asked, turning, this time, to the battered head. The metal skull was cracked, and through the hole, they could see tiny parts, wires, and something flashing like LEDs.

Answering the inquisitor's question, Wakrufmann remotely turned on a lightmap, a large table in the middle of the headquarters. The white tabletop lit up like a television screen, with ripples of interference, and schematic maps of the region flashed on the rectangle, one after the other.

"I have updated data from the closed and protected network," the dead head rumbled. "They're not complete, but they'll be useful anyway."

The Priest and Bertha looked at each other.

"Radial-64 has nothing to fire on us anymore," Wakrufmann continued. "The train was also under decommissioning, and they used the missiles. But that's not much consolation, because..."

Fidus raised a puzzled eyebrow at the word 'decommissioning' but decided not to waste the time.

A second skull hovered over the map, gingerly moving the talking head to the edge of the table, the metal creaking against the glass. Jennifer seemed to find what she was looking for; the flipping of the maps slowed, then stopped. The scale jumped.

"Route."

Illustrating Jennifer's words, the skull poked his iron paw at the map.

"The terminal we left. At the moment it has been destroyed."

A metal finger squeaked across the glass, drawing a line.

"The next settlement and train station, the terminus on this route. It coincides with the epicenter of the malicious influence."

"So now we're rushing into the jaws of the demon," Kryptman said.

"Technically, yes, we are. If we maintain the same speed, we will arrive there in fifty-seven minutes. At the moment, Radial-12 is here."

Another tap of the paw on the map.

"And here is our persecutor."

"Well..." Kryptman leaned over the lightmap, adjusting to the unfamiliar format. However, everything turned out to be quite clear. "Some sort of abnormal network. Two parallel tracks, half a kilometer apart, instead of the usual double track?"

"Part of the experimental network," Jennifer replied. "This used to be a testing ground for super-heavy vehicles and armored trains. Very good ground, low seasonal temperature fluctuations, minimal displacement of the bed, and track substructure."

"I see," Kryptman leaned even lower, placing his palms on the wooden rim of the lightmap. "And this, respectively, is a branch and a lever?"

"Yes."

"Then we do have a problem," Fidus agreed softly. "What's the speed?"

"The 'Sixty-four' does a hundred and eighty-five kilometers per hour," the priestess reported. "We're no more than a hundred and twenty. He'll overtake us and turn at the arrow, taking our track. We're outnumbered three to one there. And it's probably not people anymore."

"I guess there's no point in braking," said Fidus, wrinkling his high forehead. "Then he'll go over the branch and block us in. And you can't outrun him in turn?"

"If we unhook some of the wagons. If I blow all the fuses and block lines six-fifteen, six-twenty, and five-third. Then we might be able to get up to two hundred and five kilometers per hour and maintain that speed for about nine minutes."

"And then?"

"Burnout of the firebox. Or a boiler explosion."

"Is that enough to get through first?"

"Possibly. The shape of this propulsor is not optimal, there is no fairing, the frontal air resistance is difficult to predict. I have no way to calculate it accurately."

"So do it!" Bertha exclaimed.

"I'm not asking your permission," Jennifer's head informed me. "I'm calculating. When I'm done, we'll get started. Send your big servitor to me; it will take all his strength here to load the furnace with the right amount of coal."

"But it's not enough," Fidus said, turning more to himself than to his companions. "Not enough..."

He tapped his fingernail on the glass, illuminated from below by the projector lamps.

"Even if we succeed, the 'Radial-64' will be behind us, but it will catch up anyway. And we'll lose the locomotive anyway. So boarding is inevitable... The only question is which side it will come from."

Fidus drummed his palms on the edge. "Or maybe to hell the train?" he asked. "Let's stop the train and go to the tundra. We'll fill the Chimera up to the brim with promethium, enough to keep the engine warm for twenty-four hours. We'll also take the battery stoves. It'll be crowded, but we'll sit in the distance until it's over."

Kryptman looked at the commandant and the commissioner, who in turn looked at the novice inquisitor. While Fidus looked puzzled, Bertha and the Priest's eyes were clearly pity mixed with a touch of contempt.

"Wipe your piss, you fucking volunteer," Bertha grumbled through her lip. "Pissing puppy."

"Even if we were planning something like that," the monk said a little softer. "It's impossible. The wagon is too high, 'Chimera' can't be unloaded without a special ramp, and it was taken from us along with the arsenal wagon."

"Even if we were planning ..." echoed Fidus. "What are you planning?"

"What do you mean?" With the same sincere incomprehension, the monk responded. "By the Emperor's grace we have escaped the blows of the ungodly, our train is running and headed in the right direction. His goodness has kept us sane, kept us safe from the temptations and madness of heresy. What more do you want, fiery writings on the wall - 'go and do your duty, my children'? Sure, we'll go to town and tear the ass of evil there."

The Priest was silent for a second and then added with a sigh: "As it comes out."

Kryptman had many clever words to say about the fact that service to the Emperor requires thoroughness and prudence. That the best servant of His is not the one who tears up his 'polundru' and throws himself to certain death (although no one knows exactly what the legendary garment actually looked like), but the one who gets results.

But...

But Kryptman looked into the equally glassy pupils of the Commissar and the Commandant of 'Radial-12', realizing that it was useless. That the squads had a completely different understanding of responsibility, mixed with the Ecclesiarchy's grim fanaticism, so they were more likely to shoot him for cowardice. Of course, if it comes to a fight, it is not clear whose will win. Inquisitorial training isn't like showing Gretchin a naked bone. But here's the trouble - a successful fight will force to kill everyone in the end, and this is the action of a real traitor and heretic.

Kryptman inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, hoping that from the outside it looked like pious reflection. And he said: "I see. So we have an industrial-administrative junction ahead, from where the evil is dispersing. Behind the stern, the armored train is catching up. There's nowhere to turn, we can only run straight ahead, to the epicenter..."

"Mistress Mechanicum," he addressed the head.

"Yes. I'm listening."

The train rocked, the metal rattled, and the locomotive began to pick up speed little by little.

"A closed network..." Fidus remembered. "And you're not just simple 'cog', are you? A special agent who came especially for her? Or part of a general agency deployed to Beacon for some operation?"

"There is much sorrow in much knowledge, Inquisitor Kryptman," Jennifer replied without pause. "It is enough that now our goals are the same."

"We can get help from your... colleagues?"

"They will try, but the situation is too unpredictable and dynamic, and we have a lot of losses. At this point, we must assume that help will not follow."

Jennifer's head fell silent, squeaking the speaker like an old radio, then added: "Then its actual manifestation will be a pleasant surprise."

"Well, that's so fucking lucky," Bertha said exhaustively.

The Priest exhaled as he looked at Fidus.

"We're purificators," the shepherd said softly. "And we need someone with military experience. Or... Inquisitorial. Do you have any useful thoughts on how we could cut the Grox ears of heretics? Without cannons and missiles, with their superiority in numbers?"

Kryptman froze again for a few moments, tapping his palms nervously, then stared at Bertha.

"Lady Commandant," he mouthed, showing that he respects the chain of command. "Let me ask you about the disposition, how many cars are on the train at the moment?"

"Nine, counting the artillery and missile sites," the mentor-commandant said angrily but quickly.

"And our wagon is now the third from the head..." Fidus stretched out thoughtfully. "Then..."

He firmly stumped the black lines of the map against the white background with the palm of his hand.

"Then we won't unhook anything, these cars will be needed. We need to get through the fork first. And I want a list of what ammunition's left on board. All the ammunition."

"Do you have an idea?" The Priest looked at the inquisitor questioningly.

"There is knowledge of what an old inquisitor did in a similar situation," said Fidus. "But here we will need some miracle."

"Luct started loading the furnace, nineteen minutes to ramp up so as not to kill the furnace," Jennifer's head came back to life. "Then about eight or nine minutes we'll go to top speed with the fuses blown. And after that, another nine minutes on afterburner, unless something explodes first. Kriptman, are you sure we shouldn't unhook the extra wagons? It's tens of tons of weight and a loss of speed."

"Yes, I'm sure. The locomotive won't blow up the track?" Fidus asked.

"No, the energy will go to the sides and up. But the force of the explosion will be very high, at least the first wagon will be swept away. At the critical moment, we will have to unhook the train, otherwise, we could be overturned."

"Well, may Omnissiah have mercy on technology," Bertha summarized "And the people will do the human thing. The Emperor is with us. The Emperor protects!"

"Or at least give us the strength to do what we have to do," the Priest added.

"The Banner," Bertha remembered. "The Banner!"

"Exactly!" The Priest seemed about to slap himself on the forehead in a rage at his own forgetfulness.

One of the servitors was standing on the 'watch.' He holding the lever, operating the spreading furnace doors. Lüct took a full shovel of coal with measured movements, and the servitor opened the doors in front of it, closing them as soon as it was thrown in. The cast-iron flaps 'clapped', that is, clanked like artillery bolts. Great precision was required to ensure that a minimum of cold air entered the furnace, stealing precious heat. Two more servitors stood at the ready with a 'cutter' - a crowbar to break up the slag - and a scraper to rake up the same slag. For some reason, the one with the scraper could not find asbestos gloves, and the hot metal burned his parched flesh, and the steam yard reeked of burnt meat. The icy wind came up against the wall, but the locomotive could not care less, the steel beast roared like a real beast, clanking the flywheels.

Jennifer opened the siphon, listening to the characteristic roar of the safety valve, releasing excessive steam pressure - a measure prohibited by operation, but, under the circumstances, permissible. The arrows on the pressure gauges drew up to the yellow marks and went into the red zone.

One hundred and twenty-six kilometers per hour, an outstanding achievement in other circumstances. But this is not enough.

Jennifer looked to her left, to where the enemy armored train was crossing. The 'Sixty-fourth' was not visible to the human eye, but the mechanical goggles gave quite a usable image. The ten-wagon train was rushing along, smeared with unholy signs from the wheels to the vent caps on the roofs. The smear was so thick, it looked as if it had been painted over for days. Tiny figures, scurrying about like monkeys, indicated that the personnel was preparing for boarding, galloping about the train like primates with suction cups for fingers. Above the locomotive hovered a banner, a huge rag with torn edges and glowing figures that seemed to have a life of their own, glowing and moving in a bizarre dance. Strict analysis showed that 'Twelfth' was not in time for the fork first, not fast enough.

Luct threw another batch of charcoal, and Jennifer ordered him to stop.

"Get a sledgehammer."

The servitor silently obeyed, frozen, awaiting instructions. Wakrufmann did another quick analysis, calculating the layout of the propulsion system, and then she knelt down, prostrate on the platform, feeling the icy cold and the sizzling heat at the same time. The vibration of the huge machine and the howl of the wind. The coded whispering of the servitors is made up of the simplest commands. And on top of it all reigned the grim lump of steam engine spirit. The memory of long years and many events, forever imprinted in the metal, the essence of the machine. The true Spirit of the Machine. It was to this spirit that Jennifer turned, crying out for help. Apologizing for the ordeal she was about to subject the majestic creature to. Promising dignified deeds, as in the old days of the locomotive's fighting youth.

You were born in fire, for death's sake, and you will die in the fire, surrounded by your enemies who perish ingloriously. So help me prepare a proper burial for you! - she whispered in binary code, addressing the heart of the beast.

And the response was not long in coming. Mute assent spread through the cold air, penetrated Jennifer's metallic body, rumbled through the darkness, promising suffering and pain to the malevolent heretics who dared to encroach on what Omnissia deemed his own. The steam monster seemed to straighten its limbs, stretch the joints, and respond with silent consent, full of sullen joy, like an old wolfhound ready to die with its teeth clenched on the throat of a wolf. The fiery heart of the cauldron pounded in a measured and terrifying rhythm, pounding out the innermost things:

I served and will serve again...

We will unite in service... - Wackruffmann reverently continued.

To bring oblivion to His enemies, the non-human and non-machine finished in unison.

Jennifer rose to her feet, imperiously ordered the servitor:

"Hit!"

And Luct raised his hammer over the first valve.

"I see evil, but I don't let it into my heart," the Priest muttered, twisting the muff. His eyes, however, turned toward the sixty-fourth overtaking. There was something immeasurably alluring in the huge banner that flew over the heretical train, the brilliant play of colors, the enchanting dance of the figures. The enemy was on a parallel course, blowing snow like fountains of foamy water.

"Fuck the evil," repeated the monk, with a struggle to act with his disobedient fingers. Here, on the roof of the staff wagon, it was incredibly cold. The fierce wind was rushing in, tearing with cold claws, literally tearing shreds of frostbitten skin from his face. But shepherd did not give up.

"Hold it there," the Priest ordered, and the Wretched Man obeyed, awkwardly moving his hands in thick mittens. It wasn't that cold outside, but the wind and the speed of a hundred and fifty kilometers already had a crushing effect.

A steam locomotive howled very low, with an eerie wail, and from the roof, they could see that its chimney was red-hot and yellow. A stream of grayish-white smoke rose from it in a vertical candle, illuminated by crimson light. Along with the smoke, a fiery stream of sparks spewed out of the locomotive's womb, which followed the train like a plume of fire, not wanting to go out in the wind.

"Done," the Priest whispered, more to himself than to the Wretched Man, straightening up wearily, almost dropping the crescent wrench. The assistant jerked the wire loop, loosening the ties, and the red cloth with the white Squad insignia flapped over the flagpole, unfurling.

The Priest gazed reverently at the holy symbols, drawn strictly from a sketch that Clarence himself had hand-drawn in the old days. There was nothing but pure delight left in the shepherd's soul. The Priest looked around, and when he saw the Wretched Man, he read the same sense of sincere, unadulterated joy in his comrade's eyes.

And now we need to make it work for Kryptman. And then the former brethren who had become heretics would be in for a big surprise. The locomotive siren roared again, and no longer sparks but real flames burst from the high chimney. The Priest looked without fear at the enemy's banner, so ridiculous and absurd in comparison to the austere simplicity of St. Clarence's standard

"Let's go, brother," he said to the Wretched Man. His frozen lips were barely moving, but he understood and nodded.

"There are truly great things waiting for us."

With blinding clarity, the Priest realized that he must be seeing the sunset of the Sanitary Epidemiological Squad. The last great deed, at which the ministry and the very life of the not-so-young shepherd of men would end. And so the faithful servant of the Emperor has only to make efforts to make that act truly the greatest of all.
* * *
Fire steam train

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RiP · Dec 7, 2021

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!!!"

* * *

RiP · Dec 8, 2021

Chapter 27
* * *
The steam locomotive, freed from the bonds of the multi-ton train, rushed forward like a heavy bird that rushes off a cliff to gain speed and catch the wind with its wings. Human language is too poor to describe the range of emotions that the machine spirit experienced in its last moments of existence... or life. And even though - again, from a human point of view - it was more emulation of the feelings in the self-generated construct - they were real, with an inexpressible tension and exhilaration. The mechanism, born in fire and for war - in the middle of a battle - left in the fire, suddenly and brightly serving its deity, its memory, its long-standing glory.

When the 'Twelfth' and the locomotive were separated by a hundred yards or so, the Materium finally lost power over the locomotive, and the singular point of energy that had replaced the boiler exploded. To the great good fortune of those around, the blast was directed at itself, or the effect would have been greater than a nuclear 'tactic'.

Luckily, having disconnected the coupler, Luct turned his back to the locomotive, waiting for orders - whether by vox from the tech-priestess or words from Kryptman - so when the mechanical beast headed for Omnissia, the servitor didn't burn out his optics with a flash. The shockwave hurled the Inquisitor's servitor right through the vestibule hatch, puncturing a centimeter-long sheet of metal with his body, then rolled through the 'Twelfth' as it had in the collision a few minutes before, but in the opposite direction.

The steam locomotive itself literally evaporated, disintegrating into atoms, or perhaps leaving Materium. No one could know that. The snow and ice within a half-kilometer radius were blown away, the rails under the tractor survived, but melted. The decoupled Twelfth and Sixty-fourth flew at over two hundred kilometers through a protuberance of blindingly yellow, furious flame. Thank the Emperor, the catastrophe happened on a straight stretch, or the long track would have gone off the rails at the weakest corner.

Luct stood up, clutching at the walls with his hands. A self-diagnosis showed multiple, but not critical damage, with a loss of about thirty percent of its overall combat effectiveness. Staggering because of the malfunctioning gyroscopes, the servitor staggered back to the HQ wagon, wobbling his feet.

"This is too much," muttered Bertha, licking the blood from her lips.

The second jolt finally broke and ripped off everything loose in the headquarters, fortunately, there weren't many of those things. It was worse for the men, and Wretched Man broke a couple more ribs and couldn't walk properly.

"The Emperor protects," the Priest tried to shout, but his voice came out as a croak, and the monk was also hurt.

"We're on fire," Jennifer informed her dryly. The bruised head gurgled with a damaged loudspeaker, but the words were quite intelligible.

Kryptman again looked at the periscope and predictably found nothing good there. The aft wagons were burning, and the 'head' of the train was smoking. The Inquisitor quickly considered the prospect of burning and assessed it as rather low. The oncoming wind was certainly fanning the flames, but there wasn't much combustible material left in the armored wagons. These were not passenger wagons, which were full of flammable plastic and burned up in twenty minutes on the move.

Fidus stepped to the row of intercom tubes, jerked the bell just in case - in vain, the shock skewed the system permanently.

"Well," said the Priest. "It's about time for the Implicator. And let everyone do what they have to do."

The purificators shot at the heretics with excitement, but not with the cheerful glee of the victors, but rather with the grim determination of the doomed. Set on fire one by one - as the enemies advanced - the four tail wagons gave a good barrier and took quite a few enemy lives, but the flames were beginning to subside. The fire no longer roared in a solid wall, but burned quietly and evenly, weakening as the fuel burned out. The Inquisitor's trick bought the squad some valuable minutes, but there was no light in the hopeless situation; the 'Twelfth' was still pushing by the enemy train forward, which had no intention of slowing down or retreating.

Behind the curtain of fire loomed distorted figures, very similar to the ghosts of the 'pocket' from which the purificators had miraculously escaped by the grace of the Emperor and the sacred flamethrowers. Only these creatures were quite material, and their outlines fluctuated due to the flow of hot air-mostly. The first wave of attackers was stopped by the flames, but time after time one or another heretic, or maybe already an unholy mutant tried his fate, trying to run through the fire on the roof or climb over the sides. Holy Man and Sinner poked out of the hatch above, Crybaby and Savlar took up positions near the sides, securing themselves with slings and a carbine so that another gust of evil wind wouldn't pull them out into the half-darkness.

The bright flashes of laser beams alternated with the angry yapping of machine guns. Nearly every second, another dark figure broke off and fell, disappearing into the half-light with a wild, inhuman screech. The Holy Man exclaimed "Emperor, fuck!" at every hit, Crybaby and the Sinner worked silently, Savlar fired mostly 'somewhere,' but then the Wretched Man joined him. Though the Wretched Man squinted, writhing in pain, he shot much better than the convict, and things began to go well. The enemy fought back, but sluggishly, as if they'd suddenly forgotten how to use a human weapon, or at least how to reload it. It was as if those who had some kind of weapon in their hands at the time of the disaster were trying to use it according to the orcish principle of 'point about there and pull the trigger all the way'.

In the meantime, dawn was creeping steadily over the horizon. The surrounding tundra appeared in gray and white from the darkness, with industrial buildings, cranes, and warehouses on either side of it. Many were burning, and in some places there was fighting. In the distance a glow pulsed, like the northern lights, only low and scarlet and scarlet, like an incessant bombardment. The Purificators had seen something like this before, and that's when the Squad came into its sad state of disastrous incompleteness.

They'll get through," the Holy Man said through gritted teeth as he inserted the last clip. The metal clanked audibly, confidently, as if to say: It's all right, master, as long as I don't run out of ammo, you're safe. Alas, it was the last clip. Two of the wagons were almost burnt out, the third and fourth were smokier, though they still served as a barrier.

"What's in there?! What is it!!!" Savlar howled, shouting out even the noise of the trains, the roaring sound of the flames, and the howl of the cold wind.
The Holy One didn't know what he was talking about at first, but then he squinted and saw. Among the wavering figures of the heretics, two shadows were sneaking around. Or rather, not sneaking, but walking quite openly, but their movements were both light, cautious, and impetuous, like those of predators. That gave the impression of cautiously hiding their prey. Features of creatures were lost, blurred in the shadows and shivering hot air, but it was clear that their height is more than a human half and a half, knees curved backward, like birds, and this further strengthened the impression of a dangerous impetuosity. And their fingers, supple as tentacles, ended in no ordinary fingernails. The other enemies fled in a hasty retreat as if startled by the approach of the creatures. The heretics screamed in thin, chirping voices, pushing each other overboard to avoid the half-birds' path.

"Eh, we would like to have more ammunition, promethium, and everything else," the Holy One whispered wistfully and thought that in the bad hour the leadership decided to disarm the armored trains...

Both figures halted before the fading veil of fire, bright purple perfectly round eyes glinting in the midst of their horned heads. Savlar shrieked like a man whose mind had been blown away by animal terror. The Sinner shook his head with sullen determination as if that would help him take better aim. The badly healed holes in his pierced lips were bleeding again, and the mute purificator looked like a ghoul with his mouth sewn shut.

The Holy One took a gulp, feeling his throat thirsty to the point of pain, and aimed at one of the figures, somehow confident that ordinary bullets wouldn't hurt it. The demon on the left crouched on trembling legs, clearly preparing to leap through the fire. The right one retreated a few paces as if it were taking a run-up. A sluggish heretic appeared in his path, and the dark, bright-eyed figure waved his octopus-shaped limb carelessly. The heretic's head flew off with surprising ease, like a ball, demonstrating the terrifying strength of a seemingly thin-skinned creature.

The Holy One exhaled through his mouth, not feeling his numb lips, his fingers trembling on the stock, stubbornly refusing to squeeze the trigger. At that moment there was a bang, loud and dry as if a thick, dried-out, frozen-through branch had snapped behind me. A lone tracer whistled over their heads. The Sinner ducked and pinned the Holy One's helmet, and right after that, a fiery knife swept over the roof.

It wasn't easy to get the machine gun upstairs, but Fidus and Bertha managed it. The Inquisitor pulled the belt so it wouldn't jam, and the commandant jerked the bolt and slammed it down the barrel, which was hand-signed in stubby but carefully written letters: 'The Implicator'.

"Fire," the mentor whispered to herself and pulled the trigger.

The first, single shot was a warning shot, for friends, not enemies. The friends understood instantly and ducked their heads in their yellow helmets, so Bertha immediately opened fire to kill.

Most of the weapons in the Squad were good old-fashioned firearms. Energy weapons were thought to be less reliable in an Immaterium breach, even though they were more powerful. But now, looking at the performance of a heavy machine gun, hardly anyone could say it was 'ineffective'. Bertha concentrated on the crouched creature, firing short - three to five rounds each so the barrel wouldn't be driven away by the recoil - but frequent bursts. The mentor rarely missed. The hits weren't as bad as they should have been, the 11-millimeter bullets producing bright purple flashes instead of fountains of blood as if they were drowning in a lean body. But the monster was visibly and palpably bad anyway, and it retreated staggering under the hail of projectiles, losing its shape like a plasticine toy blown by a hot hairdryer.

At last, apparently desperate, the monster jumped awkwardly, without the grace and plasticity, and collapsed heavily onto the roof of the burning wagon. Tearing through the scorched metal with its tentacles, it plummeted down, hissing and hissing. Heaving through the wreckage of scorching metal, burning and splattering drops of ichor, which evaporated in the heat, the demon made its way to the vestibule. And clutching at the suction cups on his flexible 'fingers', he tore open the solid door, opening the way to 'Radial-12'.

"Śubha dina!" greeted him the Priest in his native language. With a smirk on his bloody lips, he pulled the trigger of the acid cannon. Behind the monk stood Servitor Luсt with a sledgehammer at the ready.

The Priest reasoned that one way or another it would come hand-to-hand and, while the Inquisitor and the Commandant were setting up a machine gun, ran across the train to the 'tail' to cover the gunners on the front line. And, by the Emperor's grace, he guessed, just like a real prophet.
The screeching that erupted from beneath the armored walls was another cruel test for the fighters, who had already partially lost their hearing for the most part. You didn't have to look to know - the creature was finished. Fire, of course, is gracious and cleansing, but true liberation from the bonds of defiled flesh can only be granted by holy acid blessed by a holy father and seasoned in a temple for at least five days. Only the howl of a dying demon could compete in volume with the war-cry of the Priest, who felt that the Emperor himself was now leading him with his hands and giving the acid the power to destroy even the partially ghostly.

The second beast clearly felt insecure and yet retreated a few more steps, preparing to rush in.

"Ai-yi-yi-yi!!!" The Holy Man shouted, expressing all at once in a simple way: ecstasy at having defeated the spawn of Evil, bitterness at having probably run out of bullets in the machine gun, and the realization that the Priest would not have time to get to the roof and stop the other one.

The Sinner, sniffing through his sewn-up mouth, pulled himself up on his hands in one fell swoop, climbing out of the hatch, probably to fight the demon chest-to-chest and, no doubt, to die. But at least with honor and without shame before the All-Seeing One. Bertha, swearing, reloaded 'The Implicator', Kryptman helped, but frozen, despite the gloves, palms slid on the icy metal like unfeeling wood. The machine gunners couldn't keep up.
The demon swiftly flicked its multi-jawed paws and leaped much farther than its predecessor in a short burst, leaping across the fire at once. The second leap took the creature halfway across the long wagon, and a tall figure darted toward the vicious creature. The Sinner charged at the enemy like a living battering ram, shoulder outstretched. The man weighed considerably less than the demon but caught the moment when the landed creature was balancing, not yet stable. Both hovered on the edge of the wagon.

"Brother," the Holy Man whispered, already realizing what the comrade was up to

The Sinner silently wrapped his arms around the demon and pushed off, dragging his foe with him. Overboard, into the half-darkness, where the snow swirls howled. Only for an instant did the Holy One see the pale blur of the second flamethrower's face, but he could have sworn that the Sinner was smiling with unearthly happiness, like a man who had done something wicked, but who suddenly had hope of sincere forgiveness.

"Brother," the Holy Man repeated with cold, disobedient lips, feeling a frantic joy that his comrade had succeeded and at the same time a burning shame that he had not done it.

"Brother, farewell, meet me at His Throne."

"We're going to die," Bertha stated as she finally slammed the shutter lid shut and pulled the lever. "Half a cartridge. That won't be enough. But even if by some miracle we make it, we'll crash at the station."

She looked at the Squad's banner, which the wind was stubbornly and unsuccessfully trying to tear from the flagpole.

"Yes," Fidus agreed, struggling to pronounce the words with frozen lips. "But at least we'll die fighting, and the souls won't go to Evil."

"That's right," Bertha hesitated for a moment and then clapped the inquisitor on the shoulder in a way that looked almost friendly. "You're insolent, but you're brave."

"Brave," Fidus grinned wryly in agreement and finished to himself. Only not too clever. Rejoice, Schmettau, now your dreams will come true.

The red sun was already a quarter of the way over the horizon, and the tundra was painted in watercolor blurred shades of white and pink. It would have been beautiful without the black columns of numerous smoke rising into the sky. Judging by them, the fires in the area numbered in the dozens.

"Then we finish the cartridge and..." Bertha hesitated.

"Yes," Fidus repeated. "The banner must be taken down while they wait."

The enemies were indeed hesitant, not hurrying to run through the fire, though the fire was, in truth, more symbolic. But most likely, the spectacular deaths of the two leaders had tempered the offensive impulse. Not for long, though.

"Do you think so?" Bertha asked as an equal.

"You'll wrap it around you," Kryptman expertly explained. "If they find us... then the flag will be sprinkled with the blood of a hero."

"Heroes," the commandant sternly corrected. "Take it off, I'm at the machine gun. Can you do it?"

"Yes," Kryptman mumbled once again, thinking that the main thing was to have time to shoot Olga. If he could not protect and save her, at least let her die at once and not painfully. Then he stepped to the telescopic bar with the red and white cloth, trying to figure out how to take it off quickly, but not to be dragged overboard like a sail with a man.

I wonder if it's possible to hide out in a tank? he asked himself and answered himself. No, I can't...

He made it surprisingly easy and came downstairs

"Hey, we forgot all about you," Kryptman told the techno-priestess wearily.

"I see," Wakrufmann said. "Judging from what my audio sensors register, you have something to do. What are the prospects?"

"We're going to die now," Fidus replied, folding the banner. It was wide but surprisingly light and thin, so it wasn't a neat but liftable bale. "Well, maybe not now, but soon."

"It's sad."

"I thought you'd participate," Fidus chided the Martian, rubbing his frozen fingers. There was a short burst of fire from upstairs, apparently ending the enemy's brief period of idleness.

"I have my own war," Wakrufmann said flatly, rising from her chair. "The intensity of the information exchange did not allow to participate in the battle. I'm requesting help, and communication requires too much computing power."

"Successful?" Fidus asked without much hope.

"No. At least not yet."

"It happens. Well, we're retreating to our wagon, and there we'll fight to the last man. Then we'll lock ourselves in 'Chimera' and wait for a miracle. Are you with us?"

"I'm in."

First came the thunder. It was so terrifying that it overpowered even the heretical train siren that never stopped. It sounded more like the rustle of tearing cloth but multiplied a thousandfold. Thunder and vibration rippled through the train, echoing the rattling of nuts and the whine of teeth.

"What else is there..." Kryptman thought aloud and looked through the periscope again, but in vain. The sound was coming from somewhere above, above the periscope view. But the commandant machine-gunner was visible, waving her arms frantically and pointing upward.

Cursing everything under this sun, Fidus handed the folded banner to Jennifer and climbed back up the ladder to the hatch. The piercing wind didn't even rush into the headquarters but pressed in, hard, hard, freezing faces and hands. The roaring sound grew even louder and as if it had shifted. Snowflakes danced in the icy swirls, surprisingly white and clear for the outer ring of the industrial zone. Kryptman froze for a few seconds, only his feet in fur-lined boots stomping on the ladder rung as if the inquisitor were dancing with impatience. And then Fidus stumbled back in, brushing the frost off his thick stubble. He sat down by the muddy steps and laughed like a lunatic.

"Inadequate reaction," Wakrufmann said. "Have you also succumbed to the pernicious influence? Do you wish me to terminate your existence and save your soul while you retain your human form and remnants of sanity?"

"No..." Fidus asked, continuing to burst out with semi-hysterical laughter. "No. It's just the 'Fear Claw' that's flying over us. The 'Anvilus' model."

"An orbital landing ship," Jennifer chided. "The Claws are currently operated exclusively by Chaos Space Marines. Well..."

The techno-priestess paused, put the folded banner on the operator's desk, and finished in a very human way, even mimicking a sad sigh: "So, indeed, our time has come."

"No," Fidus burst out laughing again. 'You don't understand. It's Anvylus, but it's not heretics."

Kryptman stood up wearily, heavily, shivering, partly from the cold, partly from nervous exhaustion. The Inquisitor's face was already rectangular, with sharp features, and now it seemed carved out of stone or hard wood - not a smooth line at all.

"In my father's diaries it was called 'cavalry over the hills,'" said Fidus. "Though I have no idea what the hills have to do with it..."

"Keep your head down!" shouted the Holy Man and set the example himself.

The howling thing, which looked like a huge pole with claws, hovered for a moment, spewing a column of fire, and then, thrusting its thrusters, came in confidently from the double formation's 'head', like an attack aircraft preparing to 'comb' its target with cannons. Whoever was sitting at the levers of the Chaos machine, his pilot's skill was great, because not every atmospheric pilot could maneuver at such a speed at an altitude of not more than fifty meters, and certainly not a landing capsule.

The 'Claw' performed a classic slide, hovered for a moment, and began to descend vertically, very quickly, literally falling. The Holy Man shrieked with delight as he realized what the unknown pilot was about to do. The capsule was equipped with a cannon system, which allowed to bombard the train, but the unknown man (or not a man? who knows...) decided the issue differently and more radically, not dispensing with artillery.

The ship descended strictly over the tail wagons of the 'Twelfth,' with the precision of a jeweler or a Martian, leveling the speed so that the difference was no more than five or six kilometers. And, as the final point in a beautiful and surprising combination, the seemingly harmless, dazzling white lights of the melta lit up at the aft engines of the capsule. The enemy locomotive and the 'Sixty-four's wagons passed under a rocket torch of about four thousand degrees and the fire of torches designed to crush the multimeter armor of open-space warships.

One could say that it was 'bright', 'spectacular', 'scary', and many other epithets, but all of them would be only a pale shadow of what happened in reality. The technique of space boarding, transferred to a different environment, worked extremely effectively. It was no longer a noise or even a rumble, but a full-fledged acoustic shock, itself capable of killing and smashing. Fire rose into the brightening sky in a solid wave for dozens of meters, pieces of red-hot metal flew like the explosion of a superpowered bomb, and splashes of molten steel erupted like magma from a volcano's mouth. Surprisingly, the heretical banner lasted a few moments, the unholy symbols glowing a piercing purple, like writings scorched in all worlds at once. Yet even evil sorcery surrendered to the cleansing flames.

After letting the 'Sixty-four' pull itself through the killing fire, the 'Claw' rose a little higher, and finally, it was time for the guns, and in the ideal position for firing, when no correction for lateral displacement of the target was necessary. Only two of the five guns could fire the train because of the vertical position of the capsule, but it was enough. In other circumstances, the armor would have argued with a shell, but the steel plates were torn off and melted by the greedy claws of the exhaust and torches. 'Radial-64,' the unfortunate train victim of Evil, was over in every sense in less than half a minute.

The Holy Man picked up his sagging jaw and thought that the Emperor's angels must be strong and powerful if they were fighting... on these things.
Behind the triplexes, the industrial-city buildings were already glimpsed. Bertha lowered the machine gun and jumped down heavily, hanging onto her arms and bypassing the ladder, maybe out of badassness, maybe for fear of slipping.

"Wakrufmann, how much?" Kryptmann called out.

"It's nine kilometers to the terminal station," the tech-priestess said after a short pause.

Either she understood what Fidus was thinking, or the inquisitor and the Martian's thoughts were moving in the same direction, because Jennifer continued:

"Our natural braking distance will be about three and a half kilometers. But in two kilometers there is an unloading station and a shunting branch."
"Is it possible to unload the 'Chimera' there? Is the height of the platform enough?" Fidus quickly clarified, counting in his mind how much time they had. It came out to something like two minutes, but Kryptmans were famous for their lack of capable mathematics.

"Yes. On command, you must use the emergency brake."

"We will," Bertha promised, feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. Truly, what more proof is needed that the Emperor is with them and His power is great? Bertha had removed the top half of her jumpsuit and was now hastily wrapping a folded Squad banner over her sweater.

In the meantime, the ship had gone somewhere else, high enough, judging by the fading rumble. Maybe the capsule had taken the crew on some business of its own, or maybe the pilot was looking for a place to land.

"But who could have flown in on the Chaos shit and saved us?" Bertha asked.

"There is one... Warrior of the Emperor. He gutted the Claw from a rebel conversion ship that had been shot down and drifted through space for thousands of years. Made a personal runabout out of it," Fidus replied, remembering where the first aid kit was. The Wretched Man was bracing and silent before he went to help his comrades, but he didn't look well. He needed at least an immobilizing bandage on his torso. He sure the others was hurt, too.

"And why?"

"Because he could."

"Whoever partakes of the heretical, even in a small way, walks on the edge and resembles a heretic himself. His moral qualities are questionable," said Bertha thoughtfully.

"Perhaps," Fidus agreed wholeheartedly. "But today he brought us salvation."

"Well, then we'll thank him for it if we can," the commandant decided with absolute seriousness as she buttoned up her overalls. The already tall, dense mentor seemed spindly when she was wrapped in the banner. "But I wouldn't turn my back on such a type."

Kryptman chuckled again, noting the surrealism of the moment - a theological discussion in a dilapidated armored train without a locomotive, among the rattling and grinding of crumbling elements, with blood splattering, sparking wires, and flashing red emergency lights. Well, inquisitors have had to debate the boundaries of good and evil in far more exotic places.

"It's time to grab the emergency brake lever," Jennifer's head recommended.

"Colleagues, who will take on the honor of completing our short but exciting run?" Kryptman inquired and answered himself. "I think it's the commander's honor and position."

Bertha squinted, wondering if she should punch the guy in the ear, but realized that Fidus was in an emotional tailspin with excessive verbosity. A normal reaction for a man - even if he is an inquisitor - after such adventures and in anticipation of new ones, not less, and probably even more exciting. So the Mentor limited herself to a gruff wish to turn the valve of verbal diarrhea and with both hands took hold of a large red lever with a lead seal on a steel string.

"Thirty seconds. We're losing speed quickly, but the shake will be noticeable," Jennifer warned.

"I'm starting to get used to it," Kryptman squeezed out. "You count very nicely."

"Don't piss!" sternly ordered Bertha, literally quoting the Priest. "The Emperor hasn't covered us so many times already, so we won't die for anything. We will die no sooner or later than He measured!?

"Twenty," Wakrufmann began another countdown.

Kryptman sincerely hoped that this time it would be easier. The jerks and blows endured by the armored train were surprisingly painful. The Inquisitor's bones ached, especially the bones that had already been broken at the Ballistic Station.

"Fifteen."

How's Olga? Fidus thought belatedly. I hope she overstayed her welcome in the car.

The mutilated armored train, fuming and losing its falling off parts, rolled on its inertia in the densely built-up area. Concrete walls with barbed wire on rebar supports towered on either side of the double track, blocking the way for the pushy. But they did not prevent you from seeing what was going on in 'City-22'. And there, by all appearances, nothing good awaited the small group.

"Ten."

And Bertha grasped the lever tighter.
* * *

RiP · Dec 9, 2021

Chapter 28

* * *

Olga's mind was a little fuzzy, the effects of her otherworldly misadventures and her ghostly friends. When the first fuse had passed, and Demetrius had taken a good slap for his perverted advances, the girl had literally been cut down by fatigue. Exhaustion turned out to be complex, making her muscles turn to wood and her thoughts turn to jelly. Olga wrapped herself in overalls and a foil blanket like cabbage crammed herself under a bench in the tank and tried not to think about anything, not to be afraid of anything. The 'not to be afraid' thing turned out badly, everything around was rumbling, making a hell of a lot of noise and it was very scary. Even through the armor, there was a kind of death roar, sirens, horrible screams. The driver was firing his cannon, showering the metal floor with hot casings that looked like tall brass cups. The train, and consequently the track car, was pounding as if a giant was trying to shake the car in a mixer.

Then a complete light show began. The armored train barely jumped on the tracks like a saiga, banging even louder than the previous one. And it seemed to Olga that a real airplane was howling right above the train. The girl wrapped herself up tightly in the blanket and began to pray silently to the 'dear God', poorly understanding who exactly she was calling out to. However, some god must exist here, and the prayer had a chance of getting to the right place, even if it was 'to the grandfather's village'.

And again there followed a heavy blow, then the train jerked, but without the extremity of the previous minutes, one might say - gently, so that the girl was not struck against the rack of the iron bench, but only symbolically bumped, most likely, even without a bruise will do. The moment of braking pressed the girl into the metal, the piercing scrape of the wheels against the rails coming through several layers of armor. Then a series of jolts went from head to tail - the wagon couplings one by one took on the mass of the armored train, dampening the inertia. Finally, the 'Radial-12' came to a halt.

"God shows mercy," the girl finished her prayer in a whisper and thought it was time for the adventures to stop. There was too much going on all at once.

She was determined not to get out of the tank, moreover, she would not stick her nose out of the blanket until the shitty adventure was over, preferably well, so that everyone remained alive and well. Even the evil bodybuilder. And the noseless poet. And Kryp, the hell with him. Everybody, everybody, everybody.

"Dear God, save us, please, what is it worth to you, huh?" she whispered. Her mind kept turning to 'at least me,' and she repeated with determination (as much as she could in a tragic whisper). "Save us."

"Ah, damn!" Kryp cursed, and slammed his fist into the armor plate in an angry rage, making Demetrius' bag jump. The orderly, who had been bandaging Driver's bloody head, shrugged angrily. Demetrius's face froze with guilt, for the driver had been injured dragging the stunned medic into the hatch. It was unclear what had hit the driver's head, most likely a piece of metal, or maybe a lump of earth, frozen to a ringing hardness.

Driver was saved by a hat and a tank helmet, and they self-defended the blow to the point that he was just lucky to get a fractured skull and a loss of consciousness. Demetrius promised that Driver would be alive and in moderate health... but not now, not even today. Thus the tiny squad lost another fighter, and in worse tactical shape - a useless wounded man who should have been taken care of by diverting the forces of the living and healthy. Most importantly, the tank was left without a driver. Bertha could drive the 'Chimera' a little bit, but everyone in the squad understood that 'a little bit' would not be enough here.

"I'll drive," the mentor-commandant summed up, her lips pressed together stubbornly, and everyone silently agreed that there was no choice. After all, the Emperor protects.

"Is there really no way... him...?" Savlar gurgled, pointing a finger black with mud at the Driver.

Demetrius couldn't hear, the medic seemed to have gone completely deaf. The Priest touched him by the shoulder and pointed to the Driver, the army medicine bag, then raised his eyebrows expressively.

"I do my best," Demetrius said succinctly, speaking slowly and stiffly as if he'd been drinking heavily. "But he not a fighter. He couldn't walk, nausea, and cramps. We'll have to drag him anyway."

"I see," the monk replied, repeating Kryptman's gesture, only he slapped his hand instead of slapping the metal, then commanded. "Let's load up!"

"We have to hurry," Kryptman said, looking at the radiation detector attached to the stairs to the second floor. "Sixty-four's reactor is probably intact and automatically shut down, or we'd be gone by now. But all the rigging and pipes are apparently broken, and the radiation is getting stronger. We have about ten minutes, then..."

He didn't finish, but what he said was clear. The arrow was jumping on the border between the green and yellow zones of the scale, but with each fluctuation, it lingered in the yellow zone longer and longer. Considering that there was no red bar on the scale, it made sense to heed the Inquisitor's advice.

"I'll drive," Bertha said again, judging by her facial expression and tone she was convincing herself rather than informing the others.

"I'll drive."

"A techno priestess appeared from the wagon, clutching the talking head busily under her arm. Berta could barely contain a sigh of relief."

"Where is Olga?" Wackruffmann was just as businesslike.

"Here!" came a low voice from the womb of the tank. "Either asleep or frightened.

"Well, she's excused," muttered Crybaby, wiping the elf's dirty face with tears.

Jennifer solemnly handed the head to Savlar and walked around the tank, intending to climb into the open hatch of the vehicle. The convict nearly dropped his precious cargo and stared at the crumpled steel skull in disbelief. Above the wagon rumbled again, the noise was already quite familiar and reassuring, reminding us that in the mad city the squads have at least some support.

"Coming in for a landing," Kryp pointed out. "Looks like it'll land about a hundred meters... there," he waved his hand to indicate an azimuth. "We'll head that way first, maybe he can cover us with his guns. He might be able to tell us something."

What's there to clarify," Bertha grumbled, trying, with the Holy Man's support, to shove the 'Implicator' through the hatch. "Go ahead and punish."

However, the commander did not argue much.

"It's a bit of a mess," the Priest summed up. "On the other hand, we're purificators, not guardsmen. So it's not bad if you look at it."

"Creative impromptu," Kryptman added. "Well, into the vehicle, everybody. Father, help me open the board. Let's try to roll right onto the platform."

"Please," the monk agreed and looked sadly at the tank, then at the chemical cannon sprayer. Bertha, I suppose, came to similar conclusions and ordered through her teeth to the Holy Man. "Stick the machine gun back out! It's empty anyway... We'll clean it up when it's done. Acid is more important."

Kryptman wanted to jump onto the Chimera's armor with a good show of skill and ease, but he almost fell down and climbed heavily, with the slow movements of a tired man.

"Olga, are you alive?" he called into the open ammunition hatch at the rear of the tower. From inside, after a long pause, an indecipherable voice answered in Olga's voice.

"Oh," Jennifer's head mouthed quite humanly, and Savlar almost dropped it again with fright. "I think we're in trouble."

"Of course," the Priest grinned widely and sadly at the same time. "Not a minute without a challenge."

A quick check and a short explanation by Wakrufmann showed that the problem, despite its apparent humor, was serious indeed. The 'Chimera's' optics were out of order, the machine could now be operated 'from the hatch'. But the long, only a head shorter than Kryptman - Driver did not fit well in the driver's seat of the Chimera and had long ago remade it for himself. He had unscrewed something, twisted something, and trimmed it with a gas cutter, and then welded it on for safety. As a result, the chair was lower than it was structurally and comfortable - to Driver's measure. But Jennifer, whose height was a little over one and a half meters, simply could not reach her head to the hatch cut. The techno-priestess announced the nature of the difficulty and stared silently with her skull on the seat, either calculating something or overwhelmed with problems.

"And if you stand up... or throw something on a chair..." the monk suggested and then stumbled back. "Yes, you can't reach the pedals that way..."

The Wretched Man, gray with pain, hissed out a few muffled curses. The Savlar seemed about to cry again. But Crybaby, against his custom, did not weep. He silently walked over to Jennifer and removed the glasses from her bony head, carefully dislodging the safety wire. Wakrufmann reacted, but belatedly; the flamethrower, like a midget dancer, dodged the steel arms.

"Let's put it on the blonde," said Crybaby. "It'll be the eyes for you."

"Give it back," Jennifer asked very politely. "It's a silly joke."

"I'm not kidding," the flamethrower murmured thinly, squeakily, but confidently from the depths of his usual scarf. "The glasses are receiving and transmitting images, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"But you can't see them directly, right? You need some kind of intermediary from whose head you're going to take the picture."

"Yes. Conflict of protocols, there was no time to fix it."

"So there you go. She's going to look. She's got your gears in her head, like a servo. And you'll be pulling levers, pushing pedals."

"But..." The gurgling voice from the 'pot' was silenced almost halfway through.

Jennifer froze like a statue for five seconds, then busily climbed into her seat, clacking her metal fingers on the armor with words:

"Functional solution. A critical but acceptable level of risk. I am ashamed that the obvious solution was prompted from the outside, and not even by an adept of Omnissia."

"Are you sure you can handle it?" Savlar hurriedly threw after her. "There's... there's... levers and buttons and stuff!"

"I'll handle it," answered the head in the hands of the noseless man. "I am already familiar with the spirit of this machine, it favors me and does not want to end up in a radioactive coffin, not far from the desecrated machinery."

Bertha looked around the wagon, or rather the hangar part of it, where the remaining fighters had gathered around the 'Chimera'. By some miracle, the backup power grid was on, and instead of the red emergency light under the high ceiling, the normal lights came back on. They blinked and chirped, clearly balancing on the edge of overload, but the light was enough.

"Well, the biggest thing is ahead of us," she said quietly, more to herself.

"I don't want to," the girl whined wistfully. "I don't want to!"

"We must," Fidus said with soft insistence.

"Go fuck yourself," Olga demanded firmly from under the blanket.

It was as usual in the tank, that is, dim, warm, noisy, anxious. It was very crowded and very damp - a lot of people and a lot of melting snow on the soles. It reeked of something peppery and sour, and, for some reason, burnt paint. Someone was moaning through their teeth, and Demetrius was saying something about how to put the unconscious man down, and he was saying it too loudly and slowly.

"Execute if you want," the girl decided sullenly. "The rest without me."

The tank engine rumbled louder, the driver's compartment tinkled, the gears of the gearbox grinding. Obviously, Wackruffmann was getting the hang of the controls, still by touch.

"Olga," Fidus said quietly. "I know it's a lot to ask. But we need you."

"Nobody needs me," she muttered bitterly from under the covers.

"We need you," Kryptman repeated. "All of us. And now we're lost without you. All of us."

He was already thinking that he would have to use force and pull the girl out from under the bench, but the corner of the thin blanket reclined on its own.

"Really?" Olga asked incredulously.

Once again the girl surprised him. Kryptman was prepared for her refusal to serve as a periscope for the techno priestess, but the blond girl merely sniffed her nose and nodded silently. This was so unexpected that Fidus suddenly clarified it:

"Are you sure?"

And he almost added 'it's dangerous!'

"I'm sure," the girl said and wiped her bleeding nose. The Priest silently held out his handkerchief to her and quietly reminded her, incomprehensibly to Fidus:

"It's the second one."

Olga smiled involuntarily through her tears and nodded with words:

"What do I have to do?"

The Priest handed her a helmet, not an ordinary novice helmet, but a real, military helmet, like the Nazis in the movies. Strangely, the helmet seemed noticeably heavier than the construction helmet, but it was much better balanced and generally sat comfortably on her head. Olga was literally dragged through the soft cramped space, where there were many painfully hard protrusions from equipment and weapons. Driver was shoved into the vacated space; he was either wounded or killed, at any rate, bandaged like a wounded man, and lay silent as a dead man. Olga with her naughty fingers put on her glasses, to which she never had time to get used to.

"It doesn't work," she muttered in a broken voice. "What am I supposed to do?"

"It's going to work. Watch," Crybaby recommended exhaustively. "Get in the tower."

The opening hatch clanked and clattered. Olga had never looked at it so closely and only now noticed that the tank hatch was a rather complicated construction, something like a flat turret, which could rotate, and the actual lid was hinged in two parts in different directions. Looking up from below, Crybaby suggested how to lock one part in the raised position so that it covered the back. There were spots of rust clearly visible on the metal, which Driver had not kept track of.

"Think of you as an operator," Fidus explained quickly. "Jennifer sees what you see. So watch the course and listen to her instructions."

Olga looked at Jennifer's detached head, which the noseless man was clutching tightly, and the girl shuddered. Kryptman, meanwhile, also squeezed through the already cramped hatch.

"What do you want?" Olga got agitated.

The tank engine revved up, even more, the panels sliding aside rattled, revealing the outside world, smoky, reeking of smoke and burnt flesh, colored by the fires. Fidus silently straddled the girl from behind, resting his long legs on special pedal-like ledges. Olga suddenly found herself acceptably settled. Kryptman held her, serving as a shock absorber and taking all the jolts, his arms covered the girl from the sides, her helmet sat comfortably on her head. Only the spectacles seemed dead, pressing uselessly against the bridge of her nose. Taking advantage of the fact that her fingers were free, Olga grasped the frame firmly, so as not to be thrown off by the jerk.

"Get ready, we're going to move," Jennifer hummed from Savlarz's hands, and again the gears rattled shrilly, the priestess not yet accustomed to the mechanism. Servitor Luct didn't even try to climb into the tank but grabbed tightly to the brackets on the stern, designed for towing. The sledgehammer hung on the servitor's back in a hastily improvised sling of ordinary rope.

"Everything will be all right," Fidus said softly in the girl's ear.

"Yeah," she agreed, though, of course, she didn't believe his promise one bit. But after thinking for a second or two, Olga added. "Thank you," she thought a little more and finished her thought. "For everything."

"Always at your service," she could not see his face, but it was clear from his tone that he was smiling.

And Olga again thought that these strange people - cruel, fanatical, sullen, unpleasant in communication, who burned a scout in front of the formation - must be the most decent of all the people she had met in her short life. Now, instead of fleeing as far away as possible, they are ready to go to hell, because for them the Duty is not an empty word. In their emperor, they believe quite sincerely. And this faith, albeit alien as it may be, helped Olga herself escape from the mad maze.

They have faith. They have a duty. What's it got to do with me? It's not my world. Not my war, not my faith. The oath read hastily from a sheet of paper, is not binding because it is not my choice. I am not a volunteer, and an oath forged under the pain of beatings and death does not count. So why am I here, in the most dangerous place, standing there like a dick? Voluntarily.

Olga thought about it while the carriage was opening. She couldn't think of anything, only images of an empty house and old toys kept coming to mind. The owners would never pick up a woman knight with a crooked but painstakingly drawn shamrock on her doll's face. Or a hand-carved wooden emperor painstakingly painted in yellow watercolor.

This is bad. And it shouldn't be.

The sun was rising in the smoky sky and shining surprisingly bright. The wind died down, either of its own accords, or it was being dampened by the dense building. It was warm outside the Radial, out of season, and even the muddy puddles were in no hurry to be covered by a film of ice. In this part of the city the fighting, or a rather senseless massacre, had already raged, scattering bodies, staining the black snow and concrete with stains of unfreezing blood. The main fighting was taking place to the side and closer to the center of the city, where, judging by the rhythmic rumble, heavy artillery was working. A group of bombers swooped overhead, coming in for a combat turn. If the red half-hull emblems were to be believed, the vehicles belonged to Mars. Through the nearby buildings lay a black clearing scorched by the 'Claw,' which descended not rocket-style, strictly top-down, but in a counter-attack maneuver, like an airplane.

The capsule's landing torch shattered the houses in its path like a flaming sword. The Claw protruded ahead, a thick cylinder about fifteen meters high, on supports that resembled claws indeed. All five of the capsule's artillery barrels bounced bright yellow flashes, eliminating any threat, and by all appearances, the fire was covering the 'Chimera' as well, or maybe even the train.

The tank rolled out onto the unloading platform, clanking loudly on the concrete with its tracks. The machine moved 'nervously', twitching around corners, but more or less confidently. The spirit favored the crew and smoothed out the inept driving to the best of his ability. No one objected when Jennifer steered the 'Chimera' toward the unexpected and unknown savior. The two figures, seemingly very small against the background of the flying machine, had already descended and stood waiting, careless, out of place here, in the midst of a city engulfed in chaos and violence.

"Well, of course," Fidus muttered as he looked at the figures at the Claw's base. "How nice to be right..."

He squeezed Olga tighter in his arms, taking the abundant blows and thrusts that turned the inquisitor's body into one solid bruise. Fidus longed for a hot bath and a good massage. At the very least, a warm shower under which he could fall asleep.

Approaching the landing unit, the 'Chimera' made a sound remarkably similar to a loud sneeze and stopped.

"Whoever you are, peace be upon you, worthy servants of the Emperor!" The Priest proclaimed, awkwardly climbing out. Then he spoke in a more businesslike and substantive manner. "Shall we go and ripe the Evil ass together? You have more guns than we do."

"Hello, Schmettau," Kryptman greeted from the tower. "I'm surprised to say it myself, but I'm glad to see you."

"Good morning to you too, colleagues," Kalkroit Schmettau bowed with a slight ceremonial manner. "I'm glad we made it in time. I don't deny that the Ecclesiarchy's gratitude is appreciated, but there's a time for everything. The perimeter has been cleared for some time, so let's discuss the plan ahead."

Looking at the pair of new arrivals, Bertha felt envy, undignified but understandable. Both tall and short were dressed in what looked like semi-rigid, obviously armored spacesuits with exoskeleton inserts. The gear looked spectacular and new, nothing like the Squad's usual ammunition, which had served for decades while undergoing permanent repairs. The tall and bald fighter was armed with something resembling a multimelta, very light and graspable, clearly hand-assembled. Bertha grudgingly snorted, suspecting the work of xenos. Humans couldn't pack that much destructive power into such a small volume. On the belt of the second inquisitor hung a hell gun, a long-standing and unfulfilled dream of the mentor.

Kryptman whispered in Olga's ear 'sit here,' and jumped to the concrete, writhing from the pain in his knees. He came closer to his colleagues in the difficult profession.

"Why we haven't been affected by the destructive impact, I understand in general terms," said Fidus, looking down at Schmettau. "But how did you keep your sanity? And where is your retinue? Though..." Kryptmann glanced at Essen Pale's scarred, shaved skull. -" think I understand. 'My light twin' technology?"

"Yes. An unpleasant but useful surgery" replied Schmettau with a secular smile. The Inquisitor still looked ridiculous, his good-natured face strongly incongruous with the boarding suit, and the melta gun on his belt looked like a masquerade toy. Only Kalkroit's eyes glowed, giving away his sinister nature.

"My loyal companion is completely immune to any manifestation of warp activity. It was a consequence of an old astropath experiment, they tried to grow a special gland right on his brain tissue. I figured I could use it, he didn't mind, understanding the value of his gift."

"So you..." Kryptman expressively moved his fingers in opposite directions, as if pointing two roads at once.

"Yes. Part of his brain was transplanted to me, and vice versa. So we have a kind of metaphysical symbiosis. At close range, his invulnerability to the Immaterium extends to me. But, unfortunately, only me. That's why I sent the ship and the retinue away; they are of no use here."

"A great sacrifice," Fidus shook his head. "A mutilated mind."

"I was a volunteer," Essen smiled condescendingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yes, it's hard to understand," Kryptman agreed.

"That's why you're not an inquisitor," Kalkroit said angrily. "Essen is essentially the same as Luct. A man devoted to service, devoted to the Emperor. Ready to make any sacrifice to make the service even better, even more effective. Luct gave up his free will and his posthumous peace to become your father's shield. Essen gave up a brilliant career and sacrificed a sophisticated mind to protect me. It was a conscious sacrifice for something supreme."

The Priest and Bertha looked at each other with a look of extreme impatience but decided that fuck it, let them discuss their old differences, it would be more expensive to interfere, let alone hurry.

"Bring me up to date," Fidus asked curtly, or rather demanded. "You seem to know more than I do."

Schmettau glared at the young vis-a-vis with an unkind look, but answered nonetheless: "If we compare..."

He paused as if the inquisitor was physically painful and ashamed to describe the spectacular failure of his colleagues, even though Kalkroit himself had nothing to do with it.

"... It looks like they tried to organize a 'Duo in uno' ritual here."

"Oops!" Kryptman said with a vulgar exclamation. "They experimented on a pregnant astropath?"

Bertha straightened up like a stung woman, the Priest huffed and muttered something like 'fucking freaks,' and the rest of the squad who heard the words cringed in disgust. The Purificators were used to seeing the filth that heresy and witchcraft raised from the depths of human souls, but some things can horrify even the most steadfast.

"Yes. The idea is that if you prepare and kill her in a special way literally during the birth process, a lot of 'subtle energy' will be released. Especially if the unborn child also has a gift. Apparently, they managed. Almost managed."

"Such freaks," the Priest repeated with sincere hatred, and thought aloud, pulling on his plastic chain mail. "So that's where all these... incongruities. A very long ritual?"

"Yes," Kalkroit confirmed. "They conducted an elaborate ritual grid, organized sacrifices, sucked the energy of the warp, literally pumping the victim... or a volunteer. Or more likely a victim. It was all about synergy. But it was too much. The generic fighting caused such an uproar that the Immaterium burst uncontrollably."

"Labor pains," Kriptman repeated. "Of course... Rhythm!"

"I remembered because I'd seen it before when I was... help delivered a baby," Schmettau wrinkled as if the memory were unpleasant to him.

"A self-sustaining vortex?" Fidus suggested. "A permanent gateway to the other side that pulses according to the imprinted rhythm?"

"Maybe," Schmettau nodded. "But I'd bet on a 'looped host'. An anchored portal, tied to a shell with a destroyed soul. Anyway, there's pure Warp energy flowing through some entity into our world, and you can't close the breach until the entity is destroyed."

"Well, we won't see, we won't know," Kryptman sighed. "But I'm afraid I can't get you in the vehicle, much less the two of you."

"Unload the wounded," Schmettau didn't seem to have any intention of discussing the subject at all and certainly thought the two inquisitors were worth the whole crew. "Get rid of the useless ones."

"And we can't... it's... just fly over... over there?" Savlar took the risk of making a suggestion.

"We can't," said Schmettau, without condescending to explain.

"Poor woman," the shepherd said sadly.

"Or a criminal volunteer," said Inquisitor Schmettau's hitherto silent tall companion. His voice was unpleasant, dry, and raspy.

"It's not a woman."

The low, timid voice was lost in the background at first, and not many people heard it. But Kalkroit was accustomed to noticing what was hidden from others, and the inquisitor froze and held up two fingers, calling for silence.

"Say it again, if you please," he asked with deceptive gentleness, looking kindly at Olga.

The girl got off the tank and hid behind Kryp, just in case. She remembered this short man with kind eyes well. He interrogated her only once, did not even raise his voice, was always polite and smiling, but the older man's smile reeked of the coldness of the grave. Olga remembered the feeling that she was being buried alive - the polite interrogator had twisted everything so cleverly and cunningly that the interrogator turned out in the report to be a hardened sinner, who had almost single-handedly led the naive inquisitor Kryptman to his ignominious death.

"It's not a woman," Olga whispered again.

"I don't understand," Kalkroit frowned.

"Perhaps the lass wants to say that it is the intrigues of the Slaaneshites?" suggested the inquisitor's taciturn companion. "Getting a man pregnant, that's their style. The hormonal combination could lead to curious results."

"Relax," Kryptman turned around, confidently, and gently placed his broad palm on the girl's shoulder. "What do you mean? Speak clearly, don't be afraid."

Olga swallowed and tried not to look into the cold hypnotic eyes of the evil investigator. She concentrated on Fidus' words, as well as her own memories.

The cries of the poor Madman. He saw more than the average man. He wanted to warn, but he couldn't lost in the mazes of madness.

The otherworldly cry that sounded in the cursed house. Then the girl heard the hopeless despair of a woman who was mortally afraid for her life.

Olga's subconscious is reflected in Jennifer's image. It, too, felt much more than the limited mind. All she had to do was to listen to the voice. To understand that, in fact, it was a mother's fear for her unborn...

"Baby," she said.

Olga thought that now the angry man was going to get hold of her and start cornering her again with tricky questions. And Fidus... Probably leave her again, because colleagues with a badge in the form of a single stick Kryptman, it seemed, were more afraid than demons and other creepy things. But instead of being tricky, the inquisitors exchanged glances, shook their heads at once.

"Uh..." Bertha dared to cut in. "Isn't it time to bring death in His name?"

Fidus raised his hand warningly, calling for restraint and patience, and said softly, apparently quoting something:

"Haste in our business is more detrimental than procrastination."

And he added:

"We have no army behind us, not even a squad of loyal acolytes. We can strike only once, and only for sure."

"A child. A baby," Schmettau thought aloud. "That sounds reasonable. Perhaps that was the idea... Not 'two in one', but to breed a unique psyker of incredible power. And they succeeded... but the heretics couldn't hold on to what they'd created."

"A baby, kept alive by his powers," the scarred warrior picked up on the thought. "He's probably pulling energy from the Warp too, maybe through his mother's body. And he's hitting the area."

Olga squeezed Fidus' hand tightly, wondering how to tell those evil freaks how wrong they were. And it was as if Kryptman read her thoughts through body contact.

"It doesn't," said Fidus. "It's not a conscious act. The newborn has left its mother's womb, exhausted, in pain, scared, alone, for the mother is most likely dead. And there is an abyss of Immaterium nearby. The child just screams in endless terror. But this is the cry of a psyker, perhaps the strongest in the galaxy..."

"Perhaps this version explains everything," Shmettau snapped his armored gloved fingers audibly. "And the rhythm, the directionless impact, and the thoughtless operation of the sheer force. Well..."

The Inquisitor looked imperiously at the small squad. The Claw's homing artillery was silent, only the cannons' trunks unfolded in a relentless search for new targets.

"One way or another, we have one path. As His faithful servants, we must stop it. At any cost."

"Shall we ask for help?" Just in case, Kryptman clarified, but, judging by the tone, the question was asked more as a formality.

"The satellite link is dead," Shmettau shook his head. "We'll spend hours just to get through to the leaders of the Arbiter Fortress or the Inquisitors. Then explanations, arguments, approvals, rearranging plans. At best, we'll start by evening."

"During this time, the psyker will completely depopulate the region, and we'll have problems on a global scale," Kryptman agreed. "Well, that's as usual, then."

"No one except us," Schmettau smiled faintly, clearly remembering something good and warm, but immediately frowning as if the memory had hurt.

"You will kill... the baby?" Olga asked in a whisper, squeezing Fidus' palm with both hands. "You mustn't. It is not right."

Schmettau did not dignify her with a reply. He looked expressively at Bertha. The commandant humbled herself, finally feeling the certainty and clarity of the task.

"Let's leave Driver here and..." she thought for a moment. "The Wretched Man. We'll swap two sick people for two healthy ones."

"I am healthy," said the Wretched Man, but the earthy color of his face and heavy breathing clearly indicated the opposite.

"Give them here," ordered the inquisitor. "We'll put them in the weapon section. They can shoot themselves there if we don't succeed."

"Nobody except us," Fidus repeated. "I don't remember who came up with that motto, you or Dad?"

But Schmettau did not dignify his companion's attention. He looked silently and intently at the center of the city, the final point of the mission and the center of the fierce battle between the Martians and the unknown enemy.

* * *

RiP · Dec 11, 2021

Chapter 29

* * *

"Original," said Schmettau, when he saw the tech-priestess with a servo skull taped to her head. Jennifer didn't dignify him with a response, or maybe she just didn't hear him.

Both outside inquisitors strapped carbines to the sides of the Chimera, Schmettau on the right, Essen on the left. The Priest with the acid cannon leaned up to his waist out of the gunner's hatch, and Crybaby with the flamethrower in the stern. Thus, the armored vehicle was bristling with weapons on all sides, and the interior was suddenly spacious. Demetrius quickly counted the remaining medical ammunition and hastily replenished the supply from the Chimera's medicine chest. Bertha wanted to raise the Squad's banner over the vehicle and cursed, realizing that improvising a flagpole would take too long.

"Let's go!" Jennifer proclaimed at the limit of the speaker's power.

The tech-priestess's specific way of driving could be called, with some convention, 'giddy'. The levers, which the Driver often moved with both hands, Wakrufmann tugged with seeming ease, almost with the tips of her steel fingers. The spirit of the machine, encased in the engine, sang energetically a hymn of rage, obeying the Martian as if she were her own. It must be assumed that the spirit also kept the caterpillars from rupturing the links because the rattle of the catches on the tracks and the shower of sparks accompanied the Chimera like the rattling of a tin can on a string. Wakrufmann was drifting the thirty-five-ton machine like a street racer. The crew caught on the outside didn't fly off the armor just because of the safety harness, and those inside were bobbing like marbles in a jar. Considering the contingent, the purificators did not hesitate to express their attitude to what was happening. However, the fierce swearing was not so much the expression of hatred to the driver, as venting the soul in general.

It was Luct and Kryptman who had the hardest time. The servitor held on the armor solely by the strength of his mechanized arms, and several times nearly went free-flying, clinging only by miracle and the goodwill of the Omnissia. A look of grim fatalism and willingness to endure lingered on the dead servant's face. Fidus had to restrain himself and protect Olga. The girl screamed nonstop, but, judging by her tone, not so much from horror as from an excess of emotion. There really was a lot to see.

The malevolent impact of the hostile force affected all residents in one way or another, but in different ways, depending on location, willpower, surroundings, and a host of other factors. Some part of the law enforcers, as well as ordinary citizens, retained enough reason and common sense to try to organize some kind of self-defense. They would still have been overwhelmed by a wave of madmen and mutants, but here the Martians came to the rescue. No one knows what the pot-heads wanted or why they had brought so many troops to Beacon, but every last bit of them came in handy. Only thanks to the army of the Machine God, City-22 has not yet fallen, crushed by the onslaught of the Immaterium.

There was indiscriminate fighting all over the city, and to the west, on the ocean side, something grand and massive continued to rumble. There the red bushes of mighty explosions were blowing incessantly, and the smoke threatened to pierce the gray-black sky. Apparently, the Martians were unloading airplane bomb bays and volume-blast cassettes there without interruption, but so far, it seemed, in vain. Unseen behind the buildings, the enemy was approaching.

"Please, keep it steady," Jennifer asked, and her steady voice sounded in the midst of the horrors, like the voice of an angel, indifferent to passions and sorrows. Fidus bit his already bitten lip and gripped Olga tighter in his arms. His lower ribs and pelvic bones, which bore the brunt of the hard metal, ached badly, and his boots were liable to slip off the wet braces.

"How the fuck am I going to shoot?!" The Holy Man cried frantically because there was no room left for him in the tower, and Fidus could either hold Olga or handle the cannon, just one of the two. Kryptman thought belatedly that it would probably be better to put their 'periscope' from the radio operator's seat next to Jennifer but immediately decided that no, here the higher the view, the better.

The Chimera rumbled and scraped through streets and intersections, sweeping away abandoned, burning cars, scattering sparks and crumbs of asphalt. Ordinary people scattered in front of the tank, and Jennifer crushed the changed ones mercilessly. Olga squinted, glad that she could not look, for the artificial eye reliably transmitted the picture to the Martian, regardless of whether the operator himself was looking.

"The vision option is sub-optimal calibrated," Jennifer's voice muttered. "It needs to be corrected."

They were hardly ever attacked, and if anyone who had gone completely insane or lost all normal instincts tried to attack them, they were quickly finished off with fire and acid. The tall and bald man's melta had a terrifying effect, making Crybaby's soul acutely envious. Schmettau's pistol was slightly less formidable, but Kalkroit's lack of killing power was balanced by his marksmanship.

"Olga, get ready," Jennifer's voice sounded strange now, not from outside her broken head, but as if it were born inside the bones of her skull, diverging from the iron bars inserted directly into her head.

"What?"

"Keep your head straight," Jennifer's voice asked. "I'm still depending on your view."

"What?" said Fidus tensely. "What's wrong."

Olga shook her head, trying to put into a sharp gesture all at once, like, don't be distracted and there's nothing to worry about. Strangely enough, the inquisitor understood or was distracted by something else.

"The fine-tuning of your augmentation allows side vibrations to affect the temporal bone, and from it, in turn, by induced frequency, the auditory membrane."

Olga had doubts about the correct understanding of the word 'augmentation' and generally misunderstood, so she chopped right off: "Do you read thoughts?!"

"No, it doesn't allow me to read your mind. But statistics show that ninety-six percent of recipients ask this question as soon as they learn about this type of communication. Sarcasm. Now get ready."

"Voices in your head?" Fidus asked loudly and anxiously, trying to shout out the noise. Right now the monk's acid cannon was hissing and the melta in Essen's hands was thundering. The plasma blast, itself the bright exhaust of a flamethrower, vaporized the upper half of the strange creature, which looked like a human-wood hybrid with branches of fractured, remodeled bones. The tank struck an abandoned, burning car, some sort of city service van, crushing it like a tin can. The Holy Man screamed his prayers so loudly that they could hear him even through the armor, the Savlar hysterically begging the Emperor to save him.

"It's Jennifer, it's nothing," the girl brushed Fidus off. "What's to get ready for?"

"Visual overload. Short-term. Try not to move your head, I'm still dependent on your view. Three, two..."

Olga thought that Jennifer's countdown was becoming a good tradition in their little squad, then managed to shout out, addressing Fidus: "Hold on tight!!!"

The world disappeared in a white-green flash. A black-light - no words to describe it in human language - filled everything. Then it disappeared, and Olga returned with her consciousness and vision to 'City-22,' which had changed unimaginably.

"What is it," she whispered, thinking she was barely moving her lips, but Jennifer somehow understood and responded nonchalantly:

"Effective functioning requires deep and multidimensional incorporation into the tactical network. Given the damage to the module you call my 'head', this procedure is difficult, but the partial transfer of the information load to your augmentations makes it easier."

"I don't understand."

"Now you see the world the way I see it. In a way. We see..." The ethereal voice of the techno-priestess seemed satisfied. And the girl suddenly realized that in her head it sounded not the usual speech, as all people do - with words, but... strange, inexpressible in human terms. Not speech, but a stream of knowledge, when in an instant under the lid of her skull it was as if an understanding of some concept was being unpacked. And now the girl saw it, too.

It was more like the way the cinema depicts the vision of terminators and other robots, but with the correction that in the cinema everything should be made clear to the viewer. And Olga saw the world as the Martians saw it, without any adjustments for an ordinary person

First of all, the color scheme changed. Like everything else on Beacon, 'City-22' was painted gray-black, and the street war added orange and red. Now the world was painted all the colors of the rainbow in hundreds of shades for every base color. Then Olga realized that basic geometry had disappeared. Each object had become a complex interweaving of lines and shapes that incomprehensibly but spectacularly marked its past, present, and several of its most likely future states. All this was combined into a dynamic picture of unimaginable complexity by vectors of motion and time, calculation of trajectories, and symbolism that combined concepts of higher mathematics with ordinary topography. All this could be called 'visualization,' but just as conventionally as a nuclear explosion is 'bright,' the Imperium 'big,' and the local hell 'unpleasant'.

Now Olga understood that Jennifer was not so much driving the machine as she was following a trajectory that was designed not by her, but for her. She drives the Chimera through a tunnel of the most optimal movements, which are calculated using gigantic computing power and taking into account thousands of parameters, down to a hundredth of a degree and the relative position of individual track segments at each turn.

And it became clear that the Chimera and its small but brave crew were being covered by a veritable army every second. The 'Potheads' were throwing out landing parties of skitarii, distracting hosts and transmuting human creatures, covering clusters of enemies with long-range artillery that could not be bypassed. Even in the battle with the monster from the sea that was crushing the western outskirts of 'City-22', the movements of the armored vehicles were now taken into account and only thanks to the fire support of titan scouts 'Chimera' successfully missed two threats of 'Gamma-3' type, whatever that might mean.

"They protect us," the girl whispered as if in a trance, but Kryptman was silent. Maybe he didn't hear, maybe he didn't understand.

The Martians gave the Squad a negligible amount of 'attention', that is, the distribution of the information network and computing resources, but without this helping hand, the tank would not have made it halfway. The markings of tactical units of combat and auxiliary equipment, drones, and Adeptus Mechanicus fighters danced in a musical and mathematical, perfectly calibrated rhythm with the same markings of 'other cataloged objects'.

"They've got cover for us!" repeated the girl. "The Martians are for us!"

"Well, of course," muttered Schmettau, softly, as if he were sitting in a comfortable orthopedic chair on a private ship rather than dangling aboard the Chimera at risk of being dragged down by a track. "It would have been strange if Mars had fought for the Chaos."

Most of the Martian armed forces were concentrated on something called a 'Glass Cat'. All the 'units' of 'Glasscatty't were marked with separate colors and badges in the form of a real cat with triangular ears and whiskers. Apparently, machine men were no strangers to a peculiar, but an almost human sense of humor. The 'Cat' units crushed the enemy with the efficiency of a meat grinder, but they were too few. However, the six markers had just been separated into a separate unit called the 'Divine Incarnation' and were now pushing hard toward the Squad's goal.

Olga had the carelessness of accidentally picking up and focusing on the tag 'Geller-drone 2143', after which she experienced a shock and a momentary, incredibly painful migraine shot. That's how her consciousness reacted to the unloading of an avalanche of information on the tactical position and technical condition of the robot-drone, right down to the information that the second joint of the left middle manipulator was registering a near-critical pressure loss in the main pneumatic actuator.

"I can't do!" Olga howled through her teeth. "It's too much! It hurts! My head is going to blow!"

Fidus wrapped his arms tighter around her and whispered, or rather shouted in her ear, which in the background noise was perceived as a whisper:

"If it gets too much for you, tear off your glasses and leave it at that."

And Jennifer spoke literally into her brain: "Now the discomfort will end. A dynamic attention map is forming. The process will take another thirty seconds, and then the information load will be optimized. The prosthesis will no longer be needed."

The car jerked again, the jerk made the girl think that her head was about to be torn off, and her gaze slipped to the sky. There, through the smoke and clouds, Olga saw the same graphics - hundreds of shades of the rainbow, gliding in a silent dance the marks of dozens of huge ships, communications satellites, shuttles, and things for which she could not even find a definition. Then it was as if a clean rag had been swept across the view, erasing the markings from the chalkboard. Everything disappeared, her vision returned to normal, and Olga gulped noisily, suppressing an attack of nausea. Her head spun sharply and violently, the girl hung on Fidus's arms.

"The noosphere signal is stable. They can see and hear us," Jennifer reported.

"Are these... yours?" Olga whispered though the answer was obvious.

"At the moment, the defense of the planet has been placed under the jurisdiction of Mars. But to inform our companions of this, I believe, would be untimely."

Up ahead a fifteen-story spire collapsed from the fire of several artillery gunners. Some of the debris blocked the gap in the overpass where the 'Chimera' was supposed to pass, the tank swerved and moved along a parallel road, skirting car-sized chunks of concrete.

We have a priority task on our hands because we are optimally close to what you called 'Baby'. However, if we are not successful, another unit will solve the problem, so there is no need to be nervous about a possible death.

"I guess I'm a big coward," the girl muttered, thinking that this was a good consolation, very appropriate, like, don't worry, the task will be done in any case. No, really, Martians, of course, strong and all, but 'pot-heads' is the most accurate definition for them.

"A coward would run away not completing a task. Sarcasm. But I have an idea of how to increase the motivation of purifiers. Thanks for the tip."

From the Chimera's internal loudspeakers she heard sounds - static mixed up with electronic notes, which added up to a strange rhythm. Something subtly familiar, something as if it came from Olga's past life. The melody sounded indeed cheerful and inspiring like a march played on a synthesizer. Olga screamed because the musical insertion coincided with another series of complicated maneuvers.

"Music to inspire and boost morale," Jennifer informed the passengers just in case as if she wasn't the one zigzagging around on the tank at the time. "This is not the machinations of the Ruinous Power."

"Aaaaah!!!" Olga screamed as the Chimera made such a U-turn that it nearly flipped as it went around a barricade that suddenly appeared around the corner of a tall building. This barricade was solid and looked like a real engineering barrier, Jennifer calculated in a split second that ramming it was useless, at that speed you could at least get stuck, and with bad luck screw up a vigorous, but the worn-out engine.

The vehicle spun out onto an avenue, or rather, a wide multi-lane thoroughfare designed for extensive freight traffic. Kryptman felt his short hair stand up on end. To his left, something enormous, gray, and shapeless was crawling in the smoke and bright flashes. Right now two titans were firing at the creature almost at point-blank range, the multi-laser fire so bright it burned his retinas. And in front of 'Chimera' raged a crowd of possessed, who like a muddy river flowed to the battlefield to lie down under the fire of skitarii and armored machines.

Jennifer didn't hesitate for a second, the gearbox screeched, the diesel engine revved up, and the tank rammed into the crowd. Olga's thin visage drowned in the roar of the crowd, through which the 'Chimera' literally chewed its way. The Priest hastily emptied the cylinder of the chemical cannon, the Inquisitors' melta weapon wreaking havoc. Surgically accurate strikes with guided projectiles from Martian armored vehicles cleared the way for the squads, but there were too many enemies.

It rumbled as if a sledgehammer the size of a house had struck an appropriately sized bell. A powerful echo hung in a thick veil that was almost physically perceptible, and a moment later a broken titan with a mangled hull landed on the left side of the road. Apparently, it had been struck with such force that the machine, weighing more than four hundred tons, flew away like a broken doll.

Olga thought that now she was going to lose her mind completely. Only the absurd redundancy of what was happening saved the girl from true madness. A lot of blood is terrible, but if it spurts literally in fountains, and pieces of bodies fly around like minced meat from a faulty meat grinder, the horror turns into a black comedy, filmed by a tasteless director. Olga closed her eyes and clutched at Fidus's hands. Her thin fingers cramped so tightly that the inquisitor himself could barely keep from crying out in pain. Neither of them saw or heard the sound of the Khaosites lunging for the armor behind the tower, trying to drag the servitor and the flamethrower down with them. Pieces of metal and flesh were being torn away from Luct. The servitor was now holding on with one hand, fighting back with the other, tossing back distorted figures. Crying with both excitement and terror, Crybaby pushed the flamethrower lever all the way down, surrounding the tank with a semicircle of smoky smoke and burning bodies.

Olga heard the eerie roar of many throats, like the howling of the zombies in Romer's 'Dawn of the Dead'. She could feel the terrifying rhythm of the blows that rained hundreds of fists on the armor. She knew that just a little longer and a wave of fearful mutants would flood the 'Chimera,' despite the murderous fire. Someone screamed, thin and scary, in the crackle of tearing matter. Fidus's submachine gun rang out just above his ear. The car jerked, like a snowplow almost stuck in a particularly dense and high snowdrift.

"They're going to flip us over!"

I think it was Demetrius, but maybe Savlar. Another jerk followed, and another, and the diesel was no longer growling, but rather squealing like a turbine at the limit of its speed.

"Hold on!"

The music continued to play, and Olga forbade herself to think about anything but it. There was nothing else in the world, only the electronic rhythm, the only barrier between the girl's mind and madness.

I can't go on... I have done enough and even more. I can't save the world, I can't even save myself, let someone else save everyone now. There's none of that.

And yet, why does the tune seem so familiar?

A wave of heat swept over the armor, the heat twisted the hairs on the skin, instantly drying up the blood, tears, and dirt that stained their faces. The 'Chimera' rolled on with unexpected ease, like a sailboat catching the wind. The howls and roars were left behind.

A steam train from hell, only on tracks, thought Olga and laughed, feeling the madness coming closer and closer...

How long the tank was still moving, the girl would not say even under fear of immediate death, but the journey was finally over.

"That's it," Fidus rumbled. "We're through."

The vehicle rolled for a few more meters and then stopped, with one last loud thud of the engine. In the passenger compartment, Savlar cursed thinly and pitifully. Essen Palet prayed loudly, nonchalantly, and on one note, like a machine.

"May I look?" Olga asked quietly into the void, at least, she hoped that there was some void ahead. Opening her eyes was beyond frightening, in case there was a scary grinning face just waiting to be seen.

"You may," Kryptman and Jennifer answered together, respectively over the ear and in the head.

Olga, after all, did not dare to separate her tear-streaked eyelids. She was tugged, lifted, dragged out of the hatch somewhere, then more or less carefully placed on a hard surface. The girl covered her face with her hands, looked just a little, literally through a micron slit, and almost fainted at the sight of the side of the 'Chimera'. The tank looked as if it had been painted with brown paint, very diligently, not missing an inch. Crybaby's safety strap was dangling in a miserable scrap, empty and bloody - the only thing left of the little flamethrower. Olga wanted to cry again, but there were no more tears. Only the realization that this was not the last Squadmate she would have to mourn at another time and place when it was over. If it is over.

"Here we are," the Priest exhaled, looking up at the tall city theater building, the geometric center of the 'City-22. Shepherd pressed the locking tab with effort, unlocking the harness. The weapon dropped with a clang onto the tank's armor and rolled onto the asphalt, rattling the empty cylinder.

"Peace be upon him," the Priest sighed, staring at Crybaby's belt. "May he rest in the Emperor's golden glow."

The techno-priestess climbed out of a nearby hatch, quickly, with spider-like dexterity, and went to fetch Olga's miraculous glasses. Luct was leaning against the board, awkwardly turning the remains of his right arm, it was torn at the elbow, and his legs were also badly injured, some torn overalls and gray flesh showed bloodless wounds with exposed bones. If it hadn't been for the hydraulics and electric actuators, the servitor wouldn't have been able to walk. The Saularian fell out of the side hatch and immediately began vomiting directly on the track, while the convict disciplined held the head of the techno-priestess.

Pacing, a skitarii in a tattered red robe approached the tank, with a four-legged automaton, one of the 'Geller drones,' literally shifting from foot to foot behind him.

"We've been waiting for you," the Martian warrior reported in a suddenly clear, almost human voice, simultaneously and very quickly exchanging data with Jennifer. "The perimeter is secure and under control, but we can't go any further."

The words of the half-robot sounded surreal, apparently because of the contrast between the voice and the metal face, which was shattered, with one of the five optical lenses intact. The barrel of the rifle, assembled from several thin tubes, was still smoking in his artificial hands.

"They can do it. With a high degree of probability," Wakrufmann replied, more to the companions of the Squad, because she had already discussed with the skitarii both the route and the probability of success and actions in case of failure.

"Do you see...?" Olga raised her trembling hand and pointed with spread fingers to the wide staircase that led to the front door.

"Do you see!?"

She looked around at her companions, hoping that they, too, could see the ghostly purple glow that literally oozed through the concrete walls and wide windows. The light was both material and ghostly, pulsing in a rhythm similar to a heartbeat. As the girl pointed, the velvet glow trembled, flashed like a strobe light. The Holy Man's radio in 'Chimera' squealed and roared angrily, and the big red-robed half-robot twitched oddly and bowed its iron head, pressing its six-fingered, symmetrical palm to where the human should have had an ear.

"No," Bertha said cautiously. "We can't see. What's in there?"

"I understand," the girl exhaled.

The rapid and frequent throbbing reached its peak and shuddered like dragonfly wings, spreading out in a long flash. Olga waited to be struck by auditory hallucinations again, but her head was silent. The other squadmates looked at each other in silence, showing few symptoms other than intense fatigue. But it seemed to be affecting the mechanicus - whatever it was - very badly.

"Interesting. Time travel is woefully understudied and poorly researched," Schmettau said with academic interest. "I wonder if the effect of total immunity is permanent, or will it weaken as the girl adapts to a world where Warp emanations are omnipresent?"

Pale didn't say anything but just grabbed the melta more comfortably. Several metal blobs hung from the Inquisitor's suit, looking like blotches - bullets that had flattened against the armor plating. The flickering glow subsided and returned to its former rhythm, surprisingly consistent with the beating of the tiny heart.

"He's afraid," Olga said quietly. "He feels very bad. We have to go."

"Well," said the Priest, sighing heavily, trying to disguise the natural and understandable fear under the exhalation. "Then let's go. For if He has gathered us here and now, there is a reason and a meaning and a place in His providence."

"The Emperor protects," all the people exhaled in unison as they folded their aquiles, even Olga.

"Omnissiah is with you," Wakrufmann took the head from Savlar. "According to our data, there is no direct threat inside. The heretics are dead, the hosts and other demonic manifestations are absent. It's a clear spot of calm amid the storm. But what awaits you on the spot is impossible to predict."

"And you?" Kryptman clarified. "We could use the Skitarii. And automatons are very good."

"Perhaps you could be of use to the Skitarii," Jennifer clarified without too much diplomacy. "However, the concentrated radiation near the epicenter causes degradation of the local area of the microcircuits, metallization, and breakdown of the dielectric cores. The effectiveness of our combat units will be reduced. As for automatons, they are themselves a source of irritation for this entity. The probability of survival is higher if the source of irritation is not with us."

As if to illustrate her words, the robot incongruously flicked its paws, gleaming in the morning sun, clattered against the lantern, and turned a hundred and eighty degrees, trotting finely.

"Spirit and flesh bring victory," the Priest couldn't resist a quip. "Not cold iron."

"Cold and hot iron brought you here, protected you, defeated your enemies, and opened the way to the completion of the mission," Wakrufmann was not indebted. "So be gracious, step forward and prove yourself worthy of the efforts that have been made to cover and save you."

The Priest wanted to say something angry in response, but Bertha touched him on the shoulder with unexpected restraint.

"Indeed, let's go," she said. "There's not much left."

The monk moved his jaw, then grinned unexpectedly and indicated a short bow toward the mechanics.

"Verily the Scripture says, It is not lawful for the left hand and the right hand to act thoughtlessly and apart, for the right hand and the left hand serves equally to one body," he quoted.

"Those are wise words," the skitarii approved, flashing his single lens. "We won't be able to escort you, but we guarantee no one will stab you in the back."

He was silent for a few moments and then added:

"As long as we're in line."

To illustrate his intention, armed Martians surrounded the theater building. The chain of figures in red was, to tell you the truth, thin and not trustworthy, the skitarii were almost non-existent, the automatons looked beaten and generally sad. The support for the mechanics looked especially pathetic against the approaching scuffle with the bullshit that was throwing titans around like toys. But it was better than nothing.

"You know, my friends..." The Priest took the first step and stepped onto a wide step covered with a scarlet-colored carpet. The cloth was now partly burned, partly soaked in blood and prometheus, but it still gave the impression of pompous, monumental, and official luxury.

The pastor turned around and finished his thought, looking down from above at the companions who had gathered at the tank.

"Even though there are no demons inside, it seems to me that that's where the main test awaits us."

The Ecclesiarchy is always looking for a test of spirit where it just needs more promethium," Kalkroit grumpily muttered as he stepped next.

And a small squad began to move up, while all around died in the convulsions of a messy battle 'City-22'.

* * *

RiP · Dec 12, 2021

Chapter 30

* * *

Inside, the theater building was just as bleakly pathos-laden as the outside. Gigantism, hatred of rounded shapes and lines, carpets, tapestries, mosaic panels depicting battle scenes, and peaceful labor. Aquilas and other state symbols are everywhere the eye falls. Despite the remark about reduced combat value, Jennifer and Luct went with the unit. Olga struggled to move her feet, crimson light poured from everywhere, against it the sun that tried to peer through the wide windows faded, the yellow rays dying impotently, dissolving into the bloody glow. The theater seemed an oasis of tranquility and peace amidst the unfolding of the light of the world. But it was a grave peace.

There were corpses everywhere. Harmless, quite human, with no signs of terrifying changes. Just dead people, many, many dozens of them.

Olga felt a cast-iron heaviness flooding her skull. She wanted to lie down, to put her head on the floor, and relieve her back a little. The light that only she could see made her eyes ache and dry.

"Don't be afraid," Fidus said quietly. "Just don't be afraid of anything. The worst is over."

She wanted to say something like `yeah, sure', because Olga had learned the main lesson of life in the distant future: everything changes only for the worse. But the girl was too tired, and besides - what if the inquisitor was right after all? She did not want to jinx it. So she thought it best to remain silent.

"Death was above us and beneath our feet," recited Schmettau. "And wherever I looked, to the right or the left, my eyes fell upon the rotten sores of heresy."

"But we neither feared nor were afraid, for there is no disease on the body of the Imperium that cannot be cut out and scorched with a steady hand," concluded Kryptman.

"Yeah... We'll need a long time to clean up this mess," the Priest summed up.

"Emperor, have mercy and protect," whispered Savlar, folding his fingers into an aquila.

The theater was not just a tomb, it had been turned into one big altar. Olga even tried to close her eyes, to walk by touch, holding Fidus's hand, but she stumbled a couple of times and realized that she had to either look or beg into his arms. The girl had no doubt, Kryptman would accept, the temptation beckoned with incredible force. Olga imagined how easy and calm it would be to snuggle against the tall inquisitor's broad chest, to cover her face with the hood, feeling protected. To give, after all, a rest to her legs, which threatened to break at every step, shooting pain into her knees.

But she can't...

Although nothing seemed to threaten here - 'the dead don't bite' - Olga was well aware that things could change at any moment. In the Imperium, even death is not final and the dead are able to bite. The Inquisitor must be ready for battle, and for that, he needs his hands free. So the girl just took a tighter grip on Fidus' wide belt, leaning on it like a staff, it was easier to walk that way. She also tried to look, but not to see. To use her eyesight as a crutch, just to keep from falling, because to look was to let the terrible images into her mind, to give them a part of her soul.

There was blood everywhere. Apparently, the villains used it instead of paint, often literally, smearing it on the walls, on the floor, and even in places on the ceiling. But it was mainly the blood that was used to scribble various scripts. On the surface, the pictographs seemed miserable, primitive, like cave paintings, but it was physically unpleasant to look at them, making me dizzy almost immediately, weak at first, but quickly growing stronger.

And a lot of bodies.

Olga imagined that, in fact, they were dolls, mannequins. Someone had scattered them in a mess, dousing them with paint for a silly joke. There are enough fools in the world, not funny pranks either. Perhaps it was only this self-delusion that kept the girl from hysterics, it was too scary here.

"I think the whole local inquisition is going to trial," Kryptman reasoned, looking around and pursing his lips. "Along with the arbitrators."

"They'll go to the expense," Schmettau corrected. "It's a real, full-fledged cult. Look, all the volunteers are here. Hundreds of followers. You could miss that in a hive, but this icebox here... No. It's not a mistake, it's a disaster. It's total ineptitude."

"I don't think so," Fidus shook his head. "There could have been a focused impact here. A psyker strike that paralyzed the will of honest citizens. Or..."

Kryptman glanced at the three dead bodies, stacked in a star-shaped figure - a woman and two girls, judging by their resemblance, relatives. All three had their clothes soaked and crusted with blood, but their faces were clean, their postmortem masks stamped with delight and bliss.

"Or an induced hallucination. I think the latter. They may well have imagined that they went alive for His Throne, and in the meantime, the heretical knives were doing the work."

The footsteps of the small detachment echoed echoingly beneath the vaults of the wide corridors like a cave. The metallic sounds of weapons echoed off the walls until they were trapped in the dense carpets with rich and tasteless embroidery.

"That's the problem, Fidus," Shmettau shrugged, the gesture so expressive that it showed through the thick spacesuit. "You think too much and don't do enough. Heresy is like a disease, it can always be justified, but the scalpel in the hand of the surgeon must still be sharp and ruthless. They have surrendered to evil, they have served evil, and that is enough. If impure emanations penetrated their souls, then they already had wormholes in them."

Kryptman shuddered at the insult, but the young inquisitor kept silent.

"And you're a jerk," Olga said quietly in Russian, looking into the back of the short and pot-bellied man. Not that she felt any special sympathy for Fidus, but the girl was somehow used to the fact that unkind words to Kryp were her personal and well-deserved privilege. And this same Shmatao said things that were hurtful and unfair.

"You rotten old goat."

The inquisitor suddenly turned around and looked at the girl very carefully, without the shadow of a smile or any expression on his fleshy face. Olga was thrown into a fever with the realization of her own carelessness.

"It seems quite here," the Priest thought aloud and shook his head as if reproaching himself for his choice of words. Indeed, 'quiet' sounded almost sacrilegious in a theater tomb.

"Rather yes," Kalkroit's silent companion unexpectedly agreed. He strutted about as calmly and confidently as an attendant, despite the melta, which, though specially assembled, must still weigh a great deal.

As if in response to their assumption, there was a rumbling, very artillery-like noise outside the theater. Several of the huge windows cracked, but the glass endure as if some force had strengthened the building.

"Again," Olga grumbled, "it's hitting me over the head again..."

Indeed, the ghostly glow trembled again, pounding in a quickened rhythm. It spread into the corners, killing the shadows, and echoed with an inaudible yet piercing scream.

"Emperor, protect me," Bertha leaned against the wall, covering her face with her hand, her fingers trembling visibly. The other squadmates were also visibly unwell. Servitor Luct's legs began to wobble as if his electric drives had malfunctioned. But who knows, maybe the mechanics really did break down. No wonder with such tests. Olga looked sympathetically at the living dead man, remembering how many useful things the servitor had already done. Only she and the tall inquisitor with the horrible scars on his bald head endured the astral scream relatively peacefully. Only her ears pricked and a heaviness crawled from her temples to the back of her head like drops of liquid and cold lead. Wakrufmann dropped her head in a surprisingly human way and fell to her knees, burying her fingers in the thick carpet. Luct silently helped the Martian to get up.

Olga inadvertently remembered that the 'cog' was not even fifteen years old yet. And then a very simple thought occurred to her - how long is a year on Mars?

"Third floor..." Demetrius adjusted the medical bag, touched the bandage on his temple. "How much further?"

"Probably all the way to the top," Fidus suggested.

"Yes, there's a great hall for solemn assemblies and moral performances," the Priest suddenly displayed a knowledge of the local architecture. "If anywhere to bring hecatombs, it's there."

"Bastards," Bertha spat just for a difference, not blood, but saliva, from sheer contempt.

Olga thought that, yes, really assholes - they should worship their vile rites as villains should, deep underground, so that normal people do not have to stomp up the stairs. But she decided to keep that argument to herself. Demetrius, who happened to be nearby, silently slipped a glucose pill into her hand, then handed out the same to the other companions, including the inquisitors. Schmettau simply took the pill and silently chewed it without any emotion, Pale nodded his thanks and suddenly asked:

"What are we going to do then?"

"Kill the psyker," replied Schmettau.

Olga wanted to tell the fat man what she thought of his cannibalistic nature, but she stopped herself as soon as she opened her mouth. No one was in a hurry to criticize the inquisitor, not even Kryp. No one told the evil and cruel idiot that he was an evil and cruel idiot. On the contrary, in the purificators' silence, one could read a general agreement, an almost vigorous approval.

"Probably some kind of barrier," Kryptman thought aloud. "We might have to break through it. If we can do that at all."

"The barrier... I don't think so," Essen retorted. "If the lass is right, it acts unconsciously."

Again Olga wanted to blurt out that it wasn't an 'it' but a poor baby, and again she kept the hot words on the tip of her tongue.

That was the end of the blitz. Savlar tried to hum another prisoner song under his breath, but Schmettau measured him with a long glance and said as if he were reading from a sheet of paper:

"Charles deo Coulian. Nostril plucking for insulting Her Ducal Lordship in verse. Thirty years' hard labor for recidivism and it was by no means Savlar Penitence. Wasn't it?"

"I stomped on all the moons.." the noseless man whimpered as was his habit. "I'm a proper jailer, and I know nothing of your poems!"

"Oh, of course," agreed Schmettau, and his slightest smile was more insulting than any mockery.

For a few moments, Savlar walked sadly, like a scarecrow in a red overcoat, then suddenly straightened up, as if he had dropped ten years. Olga suddenly thought that the convict was still quite young and would have been a good-looking man if not for the mutilation.

"Two epigrams," the noseless man said with one half of his mouth. "They cost me a lot."

"The magic power of art," agreed Schmettau. "The material embodiment of the word. By the way, good epigrams, I liked them; they were scathing without being straightforward."

"Yes, it's a pity Her Grace didn't share your satisfaction," Savlar grinned even more wryly.

"What's the camouflage for?" Kalkroit asked.

"For security," Charles shrugged. "Everyone's scared of Savlars. So you have to shout, roll your eyes hysterically, and that's enough."

"Oh, Emperor," muttered the Priest. "Such naivety."

"What?" deo Cullian was confused, and even Olga smiled at the genuine surprise and confusion in the voice of the fake jailbird of the prison moons. "So you knew...?"

"Of course," snorted the Holy Man. "From the beginning."

"But why then...?" The Savlar stumbled back, silently opening and closing his mouth.

"Think about it," Bertha grinned.

Olga could not help smiling, the noise and pain in her head slightly subsided, although the crimson light still stabbed her tired eyes.

"We're getting close," she said quietly.

"I hate...stairs," the Priest muttered in two strides, catching between Luct's heavy footsteps. Wakrufmann walked silently, staggering occasionally, but with the tenacity of a soulless machine.

After a short pause, Demetrius suddenly remarked philosophically: "We go into the heart of evil and darkness, having conversations about lofty matters..."

"Come on," Kryptman cut him off. "That's it."

The upper hall was very different from Olga's usual layout. It was more like an amphitheater without seats or tiers, but with a slight slope of the floor. Instead of a stage, there was a half-meter-high square the size of a merry-go-round in a playground. Apparently, not full-fledged performances were played out here, but short miniatures like the 'Rose of St. Mina'. At first glance, the 'square' was burning hotly, and with such brightness that Olga even took a step back, thinking that everything was about to explode. Looking closer, the girl exhaled, realizing that she was faced with an illusion. Or rather, a ghostly fire, like the one that spilled over the theater. Crimson-yellow flickers flickered as if trapped in an invisible cage, weaving into a shield like a ball of thread, churning with thousands of tongues of flame. Kryptman threw a bolt into the flaming orb, and it crumbled to ash as soon as it touched the fire.

"After all, the defense," Fidus said dryly.

At the foot of the platform lay the bloodied body of a small woman with her belly cut open. Her face was stamped with the deepest horror and pain. Savlar immediately vomited, and Olga restrained herself with an unbelievable effort, though the bile was rising in her throat. Beside the woman lay the corpse of a man in a purple robe, embroidered with all manner of nastiness. Instead of hair, the man's head was a tangle of hundreds of tiny snakes. The long blade in his hand suggested that he was the priest who had murdered the woman and removed the unborn child from her womb. Apparently, he was not the only villain here, but the other bodies had been burned and fragmented to a state of utter indecipherability. Olga immediately recalled her appearance at the Ballistic Station in very similar circumstances - all around, remains as if put through a meat grinder.

"What to do now?" The Priest looked at the inquisitors, hoping that the professionals know how to act in a non-standard situation.

"We'll blow up the melta, that should help, remove the protection or weaken it," Kalkroit did not suggest, but introduced the plan of action, not a second doubting everyone's agreement. "Then we kill the psyker."

"And if it doesn't?" Bertha hesitated.

"Twenty-eight automatons with fully-charged specialized emitters leveling Warp penetration are climbing the outer wall of the building," Jennifer reported. "Their synchronized pulse may be sufficient to irreversibly disperse the consciousness of the intended psyker. The probability of success is tentatively estimated at fifty-eight and twelve-hundredths percent."

"The odds are even better than one to one," Priest strongly approved of the plan. "But what if it doesn't work?"

"Let's get a coordinate reference and call the pot..." Schmettau looked at Jennifer. "The Martians have an orbital strike. With everything, they've got. Now that the nature of the impact is clear, I think they can..."

Kalkroit sighed and cut himself short.

"But we won't have time to leave," the Priest wasn't asking either but assuming.

"Well... basically, yes," agreed Schmettau.

"Well, so be it," sighed the monk.

"Where's the small one going?" the Holy Man wondered. "Hey, where are you going?"

While the meeting was going on, the girl took a step toward the platform. A hesitant, timid one. Then another. And again, and again. Overcoming her fear, clenching her fists, she moved her feet as if her boots were shod with lead, but still, she walked with the tenacity of a true warrior. Kryptman stepped after her, caught up with her, and caught her by the lanyard at the back of her belt. Pale and Schmettau looked at each other.

Olga turned around and looked silently at Fidus, the crimson-yellow light illuminating her face like a tragic mask. The girl seemed surprisingly calm, like a person who had not just decided on some action, but rather knew exactly what to do in the circumstances only one way, she had literally one and a half steps to touch the fiery sphere.

"You'll die," Fidus shook his head. "The veil will kill you... at best."

"But I'll try," Olga said with discreet but stubborn determination. "I'm going to try."

Kryptman turned her toward him and took the girl's thin, pale fingers in his broad, strong hands.

"No need," he said quietly. 'There's no point in overcoming so many dangers just to die. It's foolish. It's useless."

"What if we were hit from above by Martians? Would that make sense?"

"Yes. We are here to stop the evil force that kills people and defiles their souls. The Emperor has sent you, and He hardly wants you here to die for nothing."

"How do you know what He wants?" Olga asked very quietly and very seriously, looking up at the inquisitor.

"Well, well," the Priest muttered indefinitely and suggestively, and Schmettau grimaced.

"No, really, how?" insisted the girl. "What if he didn't want us to die? Or maybe he didn't want us to kill, but to save the baby?"

"No," Kryptman shook his head slowly and sadly. "We are inquisitors. And purificators. We can't afford pity. It always turns out to be a greater loss."

"You can't..."

The girl freed herself from the Inquisitor's handshake, took one last step back toward the flaming veil. It was as if the fire sensed something alive approaching, twitching its bright flagella as if it wanted to consume the object.

"But I can."

"Without her, we'll be screwed just like everyone else in town," Berta murmured. "We've got to stop that crazy little brat."

It was as if Olga heard her words and took another quick step. Now a wall of living light sparkled literally behind the girl. Savlar swore, realizing that it was too late to catch the blonde. Olga sniffed her nose and blew her nose, not at all heroically, trying to free herself from the blood clots.

"Don't touch her," Schmettau ordered in a low voice. "Perhaps that would be better."

"I won't stop you," Fidus said sadly. "I promised to protect you, not decide for you. But what you're doing is stupid. And wrong. A lot of people died so we could come here and stop..." He gestured broadly around the amphitheater, which had been turned into an altar. "Now you can nullify their sacrifices. Make them useless."

"Or the opposite."

The girl turned and raised her hand, the red-gold glow reaching out to her fingers, throwing out the thinnest strands like tentacles.

"You all look a lot like..." Olga shrugged her skinny shoulders, where the torn and dirty overalls hung like a hanger.

"Some kind of..." she was silent again for a moment. "Angry."

"Wha...?" didn't understand Schmettau, and Fidus thought - it was worth risking his life to see the incredible, surprise of Kalkroit Schmettau.

"You're mean. Unkind," Olga explained, and Kryptman realized that the girl was speaking quite seriously.

"No," Olga hastened to clarify. "Of course, you live in such a world. Everything here tends to be different, wrong. The danger is always around. Demons. Devils. Machine spirits. You can knock on hell's door and they'll open it for you, and gladly. Kids play with that ugly emperor of yours and toads, and then they all disappear, just like that. Because someone somewhere has cast a spell. Yes... you are evil and cruel because you live in an evil and unkind universe."

At the word 'ugly,' Kalkroit puffed up, the noseless Savlar laughed outright, and the Priest muttered something along the lines of 'flogging, a lot of flogging...' The tall inquisitor, named Essen Pale, made an indescribable face as if he were trying to suppress a chuckle.

"But..." and again Olga stumbled, slowly, carefully choosing words, confused finally, and waved her hand, blurted it out. "It still needs a little kindness sometimes. Just a little kindness."

She looked around at all the co-adventurers with a single eye that glowed on her dirty and bloody face like a shard of clear sky.

"He's not bad," the girl shook her head. "He's just an unhappy and abandoned baby. He's scared, he must be in pain. He's very lonely and he's screaming in terror. It's not his fault he screams... such..."

"It's not his fault," Kryptman said quietly. "But that doesn't make him any less dangerous. The baby has killed thousands, maybe tens of thousands... And will kill many more."

"Not at all," Schmettau inserted without any expression. "An area with a population of several million has been hit by a psyker attack. Even if only half of them were victims, there are at least hundreds of thousands."

"Or so," Fidus agreed, unhappily. "It's not a baby, it's a source of terrible danger. We can't think of him as a baby. Pity is not a luxury for those who stand guard over the Imperium."

"Now I see the son of the father," Schmettau grinned wryly. "It's a pity that only now."

"And you're ready to kill the baby?" Olga looked at Fidus questioningly.

"Yes," Kryptman answered at first, automatically, habitually, and then hesitated. He hesitated and repeated. "Yes. If there's no other way."

"And I don't want to, I can't do that," the one-eyed girl said simply, without any challenge. She looked into Kryptman's face, repeated:

"A bit of kindness."

And took a step.

The tall assistant with the melta rushed after her, but he was stopped by Schmettau with a decisive gesture. Essen looked perplexed at the patron, and Kalkroit explained in a whisper:

"If she passes the veil... If she can carry a baby... Then we won't need the potheads."

Pale nodded guiltily, clearly embarrassed by his clumsiness. The Savlar shrieked as he hugged his bald head, expecting death or a fit of insanity, but nothing happened. Bertha cursed. Kalkroit looked at the tech-priestess with a look of mild embarrassment.

"I beg your pardon," he said, ceremoniously. "No disrespect intended. A euphemism, so to speak."

"A euphemism is a descriptive expression that is neutral in meaning and emotional load," Wackrufmann reported, not turning her sickle skull away from the flames that Olga entered. "The word 'potheads' is not 'neutral'. But I accept your apology. It is difficult for people to refrain from angry passions and hasty expressions dictated by the envy of imperfect flesh."

Schmettau gritted his teeth but remained silent.

Minutes went by, nothing happened. And Kriftman was thinking, how it wasn't like those Picts about the heroic struggle against hostile forces' intrigues. Wrong place, wrong people, wrong plan, everything is wrong. And yet, here they were, here and now, where His chosen servants had not reached.

"Here we are..." he whispered.

" ... And here we will stay, with or without victory," echoed Schmettau.

"And if we are not victorious," Essen finished his quote. "It will be plucked from the jaws of evil by those who follow us and through our bodies."

"Holy shit," Bertha whispered, pointing with a trembling hand at the fiery veil. "It can't be... Look..."

Fidus expected anything from an explosion to the arrival of a demon prince. But everything happened quietly and very... ...peaceful. The all-consuming fire weakened, lost its colors as if it had run out of fuel at once. It flickered, then vanished, as if it had never existed. On the rounded platform, bending slightly from the weight, stood Olga, clutching the small bloodied body to her chest. The baby seemed alive and silent, that was all that could be said about it, the baby was not even tied up with an umbilical cord. Olga bowed her head and whispered something softly, softly, in an unfamiliar language, and in time with her words the crimson glow - now everyone could see it - was dying, trying to hide in the shadows, melting, unable to live without the energy of fear and horror.

Olga looked at the purificators, who were lined up in an uneven semicircle near the platform, smiled and said with childish surprise:

"Boy. And heavy. Seems healthy, just... hungry, I guess."

"Madonna and baby," Kryptman whispered.

"What?" The Holy Man didn't understand. He too spoke in a whisper, as if he was afraid of disturbing the moment with a loud and inappropriate word.

"A woman with a child. It's from the history of prehistoric Terra," Jennifer suddenly explained, her metallic voice seeming to change its timbre, lower and bassier. "A very old image."

"Move aside," Kalkroit commanded curtly, and took a step, raising his melta pistol, which leaves no chance for the victim, especially at this distance.

"In His name, we came here, in His name we will end it all."

* * *

RiP · Dec 25, 2021

Chapter 31

"To the side," Schmettau repeated, taking the classic two-handed aiming stance.

"No," Kryptman echoed, stepping between the hell-gun and Olga. Luct staggered to his left, standing to his master's left. Everything happened quickly, like in a theater, as if the parties were rehearsing an exchange of actions and lines. The girl cradled the infant fearfully, hiding behind Kryp's broad back. The baby squeaked, his lips curling, apparently sensing Olga's fear.

"Fidus, you idiot," said Schmettau irritably. "Stand back, or you will die with them."

Essen stepped to the side, holding his gun to hit all or most of the purifiers if necessary.

"You wanted me dead," said the young inquisitor, his hands and lips trembling a little, but on the whole Kryptman Jr. held himself as well as could be expected from a man under the muzzle of a melta pistol. "Well, do what you want to do with your own hands. No middlemen."

"Idiot," Schmettau repeated. "And a defender of heretics. Step aside!"

"She was right," Fidus said softly. "There is a time for ruthless cruelty. And there is a time for mercy. I think it's appropriate to show... a little kindness."

"This child is Evil incarnate," Schmettau was boiling, losing his composure and composure. "He must die! And he will die! With or without her! But I do not want to burn you with her. You will dig your own grave."

"It's an innocent child who doesn't know what he's doing," Fidus shook his head.

"Innocent?" Schmettau roared. "Do you have any idea how many people he's already killed? His panic has covered a quarter of the planet! How many have died!!! How many more have been poisoned by Warp Poison, how many more have been mutilated? The consequences will last for centuries! Get out of my way, you silly boy, and let others do the work if you're a useless wimp!"

"No."

"Well, maybe that's even better," Schmettau cut off as he made his decision.

His finger tensed on the trigger, Fidus crouched slightly as if intending to lunge at Kalkroit, but at that moment the tech-priestess stepped forward.

"Adeptus Mechanicus takes this woman under the patronage and protection," Wakrufmann proclaimed in an alien voice. "This is the direct will of Parliament and the Fabricator-General of Mars. You will receive all proper notices officially."

"You... her...?" Schmettau got confused. "What?"

"The "Olga" object pleases the Machine God and Mars," Jennifer explained as she stood side by side with Kryptman. The servo skull above Jennifer's body gleamed ominously with its red lens, and the tech-priestess held out her palm, on which she rested her head, in a commanding gesture.

Pale moved, even more, to capture in one shot the tech-priestess with the inquisitor and the dead servant. Apparently, the rapid multiplication of new targets did not please the inquisitor.
"Take it," Schmettau said contemptuously, after a moment's hesitation. "Copperheads play with the forbidden all the time, but that's your concern. The spawn of evil is my responsibility. Leave him and go wherever you want. You might as well take this travesty of an inquisitor with you. He's used to hiding behind someone else's back."

Kryptman just smiled and shook his head. Olga hugged the child tighter, whispering: "No... I won't."

"As you can see, your 'object' herself is looking for death," Schmettau pointed out.

"It's a dilemma," the iron head hissed. "Mars does not yet have a consolidated position on the permissibility of the Child object. However, at the moment, it poses no danger. I am inclined to say that we should not rush to a final decision, but in the meantime, we should take all measures to isolate the object in the most comfortable and secure conditions."

"That won't work. If you defend the brat, you're not worthy of life either," Shmettau sentenced.

"Are you ready to oppose the will of the Martian Parliament, Inquisitor?" Jennifer clarified. "Given that your every word is recorded? Failure to obey the High Lord of Terra is punishable by death and deprivation of the Inquisitor's rank."

"In my service, I'm ready to stand up to anyone," Shmettau grinned wickedly. "For I have sworn an oath to him who is above the Lords of Terra and all Rustyheads. I keep the Emperor's house, and if that requires burning an apostate, a heretic, and an iron fool, so be it."

"No," Demetrius muttered, and in the silence of the grave hall, the young man's words came out with a distinct determination. "You can't do that."

He swung forward, took a tiny step as if intending to join Olga's living shield.

"Calm down," Bertha grumbled. "It's none of our worries anymore. It's none of our business. Let them decide among themselves."

"No," the Priest said suddenly. "This is our business."

"What?"

"This is our business," the monk repeated, crossing himself with his aquila. "Everything we've been through is just a prelude."

"Are you insane with worry?" Bertha hissed softly, trying in vain to speak so that no one else could hear.

The priest turned to her and said: "Here is our main test. The choice the Emperor awaits."

"What choice is there?!" Bertha shrieked, unable to restrain herself.

"But there it is," the Priest said helplessly. "Here we stand before a child who is possessed by great power. We have two choices to make. Should we show mercy, but knowing that kindness today may well turn to terrible misery tomorrow. Or..." he swallowed noisily. "To be cruel. To kill a child whose only fault is that the wicked have done wrong to him. But maybe that cruelty is mercy for the archvillain's future victims."

"What are we supposed to do?" Bertha asked. "What's the right thing to do?"

"I..." The Priest looked lost, which was surprising and incongruous, considering the energy and courage with which he had behaved before. "I don't know... There are no omens, nothing... Perhaps the Emperor wants each of us to choose for ourselves."

Essen Pale licked his lips and clarified: "What are your orders, sir?"

"Wait," Schmettau grinned even more ominously. "Let the unstable in spirit and those prone to heresy mark themselves. Adepto Purificatum will thank us for cleansing the ranks."

"I choose."

Demetrius's second step was much larger and more confident than the first. The orderly marched past Kalkroit, accompanied by Essen Pale's sight, stood next to Kryptmann, adding: "She brought us here, protected us from the emanations of evil. She stopped the utter terror. If the Emperor did not lead her, who did?"

"Mars thinks your choice is reasonable, young man," the head bobbed ceremoniously in Jennifer's palm.

"And I'm not going to choose shit!" he told the world, he stepped aside and sat down defiantly with his hands out in front of him. "The nose was enough. Now I serve and follow orders. From here to the Old Stars. What the commandant commander orders, I'll do."

"I'm with the Inquisition," the Holy Man looked past Demetrius guiltily, as if afraid to meet his eyes. "They know better. If they say it's evil, it is. And we've all seen what nasty things this... thing has done. Maybe he didn't do it on purpose, but we can't bring Crybaby back. And the Sinner. The Madman again. And all the others."

Radioman sighed heavily and retreated toward Schmettau, but not so much that the inquisitor considered it an insidious rapprochement.

The Priest looked at Bertha; the Commandant mechanically ran her hands over the jumpsuit under which the Detachment's banner was concealed.

"About kindness, of course, it's beautiful... and right," thought the commander aloud. "But we have the Inquisitors with us. They showed up at just the right moment, and they crushed the Sixty-fourth, or we'd have been finished, with or without the little froggy girl. Sounds like a sign to me. It's the best sign ever. And if there's even a slim chance that this," she pointed to the side, "will happen again, the kindness is in not letting..."

She was at a loss for words, waved her hand, and stepped closer to Schmettau.

"Father?" Kalcroit raised an eyebrow. "Your choice? Die ignominiously with the heretics or go out with the righteous?"

"You are a bad fisher of men, inquisitor," said the Priest. "Your question already contains the answer."

"I don't think a shepherd can hesitate to choose between lambs and goats," said Schmettau. "On the other hand, such doubt is an answer in itself. Well, two righteous men aren't much, but it's better than none."

"Hey, hey," Savlar exclaimed, "Your math doesn't add up!"

"Everything that is not good is the opposite of it, that is evil," smiled Schmettau benevolently. "Neutrality is the same heresy."

Savlar screamed and ran, stumbling over the corpses. Everyone clutched their weapons tighter, realizing that the time for talking was over. Olga turned away and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warm little body in her arms, drenched in blood. Schmettau smiled even wider and even scarier as if savoring a moment of triumph, but before he could command "fire," there was a rumble under the high vaults of the hall:

"Stop! In His name I forbid murder!"

Rattling equipment, rattling weapons, new fighters of quite a human appearance poured into the hall in a steady stream. And not human, either, for the warriors, were accompanied by automatons. The new group was led by a giant Astartes in white armor, unadorned, unmarked, and devoid of any insignia. Only the right side of his breastplate bore a small badge resembling a two-pointed arrow inscribed in a circle. The giant held his power spear with seeming carelessness, slung over his shoulder. The spacemarine wore no helmet, and his surprisingly bright blue eyes glowed like laser beams. Blond, almost white hair came down to his throat, hiding the connectors and pins underneath.

"Captain..." exhaled Fidus. "Sleepless."

"My respects to the Emperor's angels," Schmettau sulked. "But you have nothing to look at here. This is our business, the business of the Inquisition."

"We'll solve that problem," the spaceman muttered, striding with the leisurely pace and poise of an automaton. His companions divided into two wings, moving along the walls of the hall with the dexterity of experienced warriors, checking every meter for traps and mines. Behind Angel's back were two women in the same white armor, only without the arrow. Olga held her breath, recalling that she had seen grim women in similar armor with shamrock signs before. The prisoners on the church-prison ship called them "Saritas" and were very afraid of them.

"Nothing. To decide here," Kalkroit mouthed and took aim at the spaceman. Immediately several bright scarlet dots slid across the Inquisitor's torso, and a moment later the sights were on Essen as well.

"I am with you, sir," the aide assured me, aiming at the giant, although he could die at any second. "Give the orders."

"Inquisitor," the angel said, stopping a few meters away from Schmettau. The Astartes seemed genuinely amused by the situation, despite the fact that a melta gun at that distance could cause quite a bit of trouble. "I do not understand what you intend to dispute. Your actions displease Mars. Your actions displease the Order. They are hasty and dictated more by fear than common sense. Stand down and, if you see fit, appeal our decision to the proper authorities."

The power spear on the giant's shoulder crackled slightly, the blade exuding a barely perceptible light. Jennifer Wakrufmann stood so that Olga and Fidus were right behind her.
"A deflector shield?" asked the space marines over Schmettau's head.

"Not exactly," someone answered in the mechanical mouth of a techno-girl. "A palliative, which allows achieving a similar effect, using the design features of the power source. Unfortunately, only once and at the cost of destroying the host."

"Once," Essen licked his lips and took a tighter grip on the hilt of his melta. "Once..."

"That's enough," this time the space marines answered. He spoke calmly and peacefully as if he were talking about something unimportant. "You won't get a second try. Moreover, a firefight might upset the child and make him scream again. Would we want that...?"

"Maybe that's better," Kalkroit whispered, still keeping the hell gun. "Then you'll have no other choice..."

Space marine came even closer, without blinking looked at the gun in the Inquisitor's hands, at Kryptman and Olga peeking out from behind his shoulder.

"So that's what you really are..." the giant said softly, with a touch of good-natured irony. "Interesting," he then turned to Schmettau, more sternly. "Inquisitor, any scene, even the most dramatic one, if it is too long, becomes a parody. You should have tried to kill the baby at once, without the theatrical remarks separating the clean and the unclean. Or you shouldn't have aimed at me but should have shot the girl with the baby immediately. You made several significant errors and topped them off with a tactical miscalculation by missing the chance. Now you're only making the Inquisition and yourself look bad. Give it up."

"No."

"Then you will die," said the giant. "Infamous and pointless. The Ordos have already suffered great losses here, is there any point in multiplying them?"
The women in white armor froze on either side of the captain, "Saritas" faces expressionless, no weapons in their hands, but for some reason, it seemed to Olga that these harsh women with the same hairstyle and tattoos on their faces here are very dangerous and fast.

"I've already died once," Jennifer said softly, and Fidus realized that the "cog" was talking to Olga. "There is a chance that I can be reanimated after the activation of the shield."

"The Emperor's will demands it!" Shmettau shouted, aiming directly at the angel's face, ignoring the aiming beams that slid across the Inquisitor's tattered spacesuit. "It's necessary for humanity! He would have wanted it!"

"Not for you to say what the Emperor would have wanted!" The Astartes' voice rumbled unexpectedly, his bass like a tank track, his bright eyes shining like shards of the purest lapis lazuli. "I know His will, for I have heard it! I have known God's word, undistorted by interpreters!"

"W-what?"

"A relic of your order?" Jennifer's head asked softly and unexpectedly. "So it's true, then?"

"Yes," the giant muttered suggestively. "One of His chosen warriors survived the Heresy and became the founder of our order. Sacred armor, forged in the forges of Terra, holds the record of a staff meeting from the time of the Great Crusade. A meeting led by the Emperor himself, explaining the meaning and purpose of his actions."

"It is truly an amazing relic. I would consider it an honor to allow your order to share in the sacred knowledge," asked the unknown man in Jennifer's head.

"It is possible," the Astartes nodded. "As a symbol of our alliance and unity in the face of threats. But I think we'll discuss the matter later. At least, because it is not in my power to make such a decision alone."

"Absolutely," the head agreed.

"The Emperor could not approve the heresy!" Smettau exhaled, feeling that he was losing time and position so that instead of a punishing hand, he was rapidly becoming a pitiful obstacle in the way of far more powerful forces. "You are mistaken, or it is a fake!"

The spacemarines looked at the inquisitor with a spiteless pity, as if he were insane.

"What does heresy endorsement have to do with it, you fool?" asked the Astartes. "The Emperor was saying that every obstacle is a challenge. A challenge that toughens us, makes mankind stronger, smarter, more powerful. It is only through struggle that the right of men to dominate the universe is asserted. There is no shame in retreating before overwhelming force. There is no shame in accepting its challenge and losing. But worthy only of ridicule and oblivion is the refusal to accept the challenge dictated by fear. This is what He said. And His words the Sleepless have carried through the millennia."

"The child is a monster," Kalkroit whispered in despair, the Inquisitor's hand trembling, the barrel of the hell gun zigzagging. "He must be killed before he can wreak terrible havoc on the lmperium."

"This is an innocent child," the Emperor's angel shook his head. "Innocent, for now. He could be a monster, you're right. Or he could be a great psyker, a deed that would make the Empire great. The vessel of his life is not yet filled, and his destiny is not yet written. And what it will depend on us."

"This is a risk!" Schmettau cried out in despair; he seemed ready to fall to his knees to beg.

"Which is acceptable," Jennifer clarified.

"It's a challenge," the space marines answered adamantly, and he took another step and stood next to Schmettau, closer than an ordinary man's arm's length. The giant in the snow armor now towered over the Inquisitor like a mountain.

"You will regret it," Kalkroit whispered, without threat or hatred, but rather in infinite despair, like a man unable to keep the blind men at the edge of the abyss. "The time will come when you will remember my words and regret that you did not commit a small evil to destroy a great evil."

With unexpected participation and peacefulness, the giant placed a huge palm on the shoulder of the slumped inquisitor.

"Perhaps it will be," the Astartes said softly, like a peer. "But this child is a gift to mankind. It is a challenge to our faith and our reason. By killing it, we acknowledge that we are weak and insignificant. That we cannot raise a great psyker in conscious love for humans and His heritage. And thus, by showing weakness, we take a step back from His dream."

Kalkroit looked up at the giant from below and silently shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "No... you're wrong."

"I didn't expect you to understand," the angel sighed. "I hoped you would, though. Well, maybe someday you'll be right about me. Our rightness. Or maybe the other way around... you'll be closer to the truth."

The space marine voice grew stronger, losing the touch of friendly concern. Now there was only unyielding will.

"In any case, this child's life is not in your hands today. Put away your weapons and get out of my way, inquisitor, or you will die, as much as I detest it."

The stern women in white bypassed the inquisitor and headed toward Olga. The girl trembled and recoiled, but Kryptman held her by the elbow.

"It's all right," he encouraged. "It's really over."

"You can give the child up now," Jennifer said. "He's not in danger anymore."

"Can... I...? May I? Him?"

"Of course," replied the voice of the unknown Martian. "But not now. The child must be bathed, fed, and given medical attention. He must have a high-level sanctioned psyker with him at all times, to calm him down, to quell his emotional outbursts. You'll be sure to meet him a little later. We should talk."

"Doturov, if I'm not mistaken?" The Astartes asked, smiling faintly at the edge of his lips.

"Yes," the head replied laconically. "Good thing I didn't have to use the Kronover's guns to neutralize the threat. It's hard to predict the trajectories of the rocket fragments as they shoot through six walls."

"I don't dispute the prerogative of Adeptus Mechanicus," the space marines reported. "But I would be interested in talking to this girl. Afterward. In a quieter setting."

"Of course," replied the Martian. "Strengthening the alliance between Mars and the Order of the Sleepless is a two-way process."

The "Saritas" silently took the baby from Olga, carefully and gently, like well-trained medics. An old man in a shapeless robe with a snow-white bandage on his forehead appeared out of nowhere, touched the baby's bloody head with his long fingers, then nodded, one by one, to the Astartes and the women. The white-robed aunts carried the infant away with the same care, accompanied by the old man, whose fingers moved incessantly as if weaving an invisible yarn.

"Let's go, Fidus," murmured the captain. "We have much to discuss, let's not postpone the conversation."

Kryptman looked back at the purifiers and Schmettau. The inquisitor, still with his pistol in his hand, looked lost and pitiful. Essen towered, as usual, deaf to everything but his master's orders.

The Purificators had already been taken in by their colleagues from the orbiting stations, treating them with apparent deference. Kryptman silently saluted his armored train mates, and they responded at random, even Savlar.

"Your service in the purification is over," the giant said, shifting his spear to his other shoulder. "And in my opinion, you've done well. So good, in fact, that you can hang the insignia around your neck again."

"Frankly, you're the last people I expected to see here."

Fidus felt overwhelmingly tired and even ignored the mention of his probable return to Inquisitor service.

"I told you, I wondered where the road of cowardice would take you. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised, including the fact that you survived."

"Your solution," Kryptman went through the events of the past days, remembering the death, the horror, the fire, the war, the dead. "I really didn't like it. But... it worked."

"I'm glad," the space marines said simply. "But the end of any event is always the beginning of others. What you have done is great and meaningful. But what you have done belongs to the past, and the future lies ahead."

"And... she...?" Fidus looked in Olga's direction. The girl was standing and talking to Jennifer about something, and they were surrounded by several skitarians, the Martian warriors didn't look like guards at all, more like escorts of honor.

"She will be taken care of. And yes, ahead of the next question, no one will stop you from meeting again if you both express such an intention. But not now. And her fate is no longer up to you."

"I thought-" Kryptman sighed. "I thought I'd put her in the manor. Let her run our family library. A nice, predictable life of peace and quiet, set for decades to come. But it was... different."

"The future never meets our aspirations," smiled the Astartes. "But rejoice, thanks to your efforts, the girl has that future, even if it is not connected to you. Wasn't it life for Olga that Fidus once wanted, when he came to me for help?"

"Yes," Kryptman returned the smile, quite sincere. "Yes. That's what I wanted."

"Excellent, now let's take a walk. There's a lot to discuss."
* * *

It was raining outside, or rather snow melting on its way between the clouds and the ground. Kryptman was even surprised and put up a wide palm with broken fingernails, it was quickly dotted with tiny drops of moisture. It was warm, nothing like the morning chill that had frosted the tips of Fidus' nose and ears.

"Yes," the inquisitor said to himself, in response to unspoken thoughts. And he repeated. "Yes, that's right."

The sun was setting. In the smoky sky glowed the fiery traces of landing ships - the Martians continued to redeploy the army, besides, the orbital troops of Beacon's self-defense and arbitrators finally came to their senses. There was still gunfire in the streets, but it was less frequent and more organized now, and it was no longer a fight, but more of a shoot-out. There was a pungent smell of promethium and burnt flesh in the heavy, damp air as special teams set about burning the corpses, but most of all the carcass of the sea-monster, which had been stopped by a napalm shower less than a block away from the theater building. Perhaps the abundance of fire had warmed the downtown area to the point that it was the first time it had seen rain in years.

The Priest passed by, lost and miserable. He mumbled under his breath: "I couldn't choose... The only one of all. I couldn't..."

"That's okay," said Fidus, not sure why.

The Priest stopped, looked at the inquisitor with inflamed eyes, and answered: "You don't understand. I am the shepherd of souls. I must always be first, I am the torch that shines in the darkness, I am the mirror that reflects the light of the Emperor. But if my flock chooses decisively and firmly, and I hesitate, what kind of shepherd am I?"

The monk hunched over and moved on, hands deep in his pockets. Fidus shrugged and moved in the opposite direction, finally spotting what he was looking for. Or rather those he was looking for.

Kalkroit Schmettau sat on the rocrit wreckage, spinning the hell gun aimlessly on his index finger threaded through the brace. Pale had removed the melta and the fuel tank but otherwise remained unchanged, as if fatigue and wounds had no power over Essen.

"You look better with a wig," Fidus remarked as he came closer. Essen stayed silent.

"I don't see Luct," Kalkroit grunted mirthlessly. "Has he finally broken down?"

"The Martians took to the recovery. He deserved it."

"Yes, it's hard to argue with that. A useful servitor. What about the girl?" Shmettau asked a second question. "Did the rusty-heads get their hands on her, too?"

"I would say "invited to visit". However, she did not mind at all, and Olga was quite understandable. Her acquaintance with the Imperium was... rather one-sided."
Schmettau hummed, putting an abyss of emotion into one short exhalation.

"She's a heretic after all..."

"No," Fidus cut him off.

"Did the Martians come for her?" asked another question Shmettau. "Personally?"

"In some ways. They were planning some big operation of their own at Beacon. A group of agents, including Wakrufmann, was deployed in advance for this purpose. In the course of events, the priestess was reassigned to the additional task - to monitor the "object", to protect, to transfer to Mars."

"Well, she did it," said Schmettau thoughtfully. "That's to our misfortune."

"Yes," Kryptman agreed. "She did."

"And you... the purifiers, respectively - are redemption forthcoming?"

"It will be decided," Fidus shrugged. "But I think it will. We've done a pretty good job, after all. It's quite a Wonderful Deed, I'd say."

"A happy ending for everyone," Schmettau sighed. "Almost for everyone. Except for the humans, who will eventually be killed by this wonderful little guy. But that is a matter for the future... If you are here, you are of no use to the Martians or the Astartes. Neither was she. Isn't there a beautiful ending to this story?"

"There's a time and a place for everything," said Fidus. "I wanted to help her, and I did. Not for thanks."

"So she didn't even thank you," Schmettau affirmed. "Must be offensive, huh?"

"No. It's..." Kryptman thought for a few moments. "It's more of a balancing act. She saved me, and I was ungrateful. Now I've paid back my debt and walked away without expecting anything in return."

The inquisitor looked up at Fidus. He, in turn, looked down at the Inquisitor, rocking slightly from toe to heel.

"Is there anything else you need?" The inquisitor asked indifferently, lowering his head. Dirty artificial hair hung in sad icicles, shoulders slumped, Schmettau's figure reflected endless fatigue and desolation. Essen Palais stood motionless beside him, like a sentry long forgotten but still on duty.

"I did everything I wanted to do. Almost everything. I decided to take one last look at you," Kryptman replied bluntly. "Of my own free will and choice, not because you honored me with your visit. To stand like this, against each other. And look into each other's eyes."

"Did you want a triumph?" Kalkroit raised his head again and stared straight into Fidus' eyes. "Well, enjoy it. You won. Winning at everything."

"No," Kryptman said quietly. "I'm not looking to win over you. I never wanted to."

"Indeed?" the old inquisitor queried sarcastically. Now, after the ordeal and the brutal battle, after Schmettau had lost, he no longer seemed like an honorable middle-aged burgher. Kalkroit's full age was clearly visible in his face, in his posture, and his gestures. Before Kryptman sat a deep and broken old man with only despair in his soul.

"Yes," Fidus confirmed. "I've never seen you... in combat. In service. But I wanted to see it. All my life my father had told me how great Inquisitor Schmettau was. How ruthless he was to the enemies of the Imperium. How many times Fidus Kryptman owed his life to an old comrade."

"Get off," demanded Schmettau angrily.

"If you say so..." Fidus was quiet and finished with unexpected warmth. "Uncle."

"I am not your uncle!" The elderly inquisitor snapped.

"What else to call the man who was your father's sworn brother? The one who first took Kryptman Jr. in his arms?"

"Nothing has changed, nothing is over," Shmettau clenched his fists so that the armored fabric of his spacesuit crunched. "Nothing! Yes, we were brothers. You came into this world through my hands. But your father betrayed me. He betrayed everything that was between us. The past cannot be undone. You can't glue what's broken back together without a trace unless you're a sorcerer. And we are not sorcerers, boy..."

"As you wish," Fidus sighed and said firmly. "But I didn't want this vendetta, and I won't take part in it from now on. That... the Emperor's Angel... he may have been wrong, but he was right about one thing. Some deeds degrade us. And some elevate us. You're trying to avenge a dead man. It's pathetic and undignified, but it's your choice. I would rather remember the man who delivered my friend's wife while he was transfusing her blood. That's the kind of man I would tell my children and students if I had any. And that would be my choice."

Fidus took one more look at Schmettau, then walked on, past the skitarians who were setting up some kind of cannon right on the pavement.
"You will not become an inquisitor!" Shmettau shouted at his back and then broke off into incoherent, desperate shouts. "You never will! You are pathetic and useless! You are nothing! A weak nothing! And that will never change! Never!!!"

Fidus stopped and looked over his shoulder. A very faint and surprisingly kind smile appeared on Kryptman's face.

"Maybe. But my father used to say that the road to perfection begins with an awareness of imperfection. I realized that I was a bad inquisitor. I met people who were better than me and taught important lessons. So my path is still ahead of me. Tell me, what road are you on now?"

Having said that, Kryptman went on without looking back.

"What road?" He didn't even shout but somehow screeched after him. "Do you want to know my road? I will tell you, boy! What you do not know because of the stupid solidarity of the elder Kryptman's friends!"

Fidus slowed his pace a little. Perhaps it only seemed that way, though.

"The Cult we hunted is our greatest cause! The greatest cause in defense of the Imperium! A cult against the Civistas Imperialis of the Sabbat worlds!!! Successful because of the treachery of Kryptman Sr.!"

The former inquisitor did not look back.

"If your father had been alive by this time, his execution and deposition for aiding heresy would not even have been discussed!!! Thousands of worlds where billions of his subjects have become the food of the Destructive Power! This is your father's true legacy. That, not pathetic drawings and delusional tales!"

Schmettau sighed deeply. The rage with which he uttered his denunciations was beyond what was acceptable to the exhausted body of the old inquisitor.

"My life will not be enough to fix a tiny fraction of this "legacy". But this is the path I have chosen. And I will follow it to the end."

"Sir," Essen helped the inquisitor to his feet and put his hand under his arm, on which Schmettau leaned heavily. The old man felt as if his loins were about to collapse into separate vertebrae, and if not for Essen's support, Schmettau would probably have fallen.

"It's time to go back," Essen said. "The capsule is waiting, with enough fuel to reach orbit."

"Yes," Schmettau exhaled heavily. "It's time."

He looked once more at Kryptman's back.

"There's nothing left to do here. We must go," the inquisitor repeated quietly, and Essen helped him take the first step, preventing him from falling into a muddy puddle filled with flakes of soot.
* * *

RiP · Dec 29, 2021

Chapter 32
* * *
Fidus pulled on his jacket, straightened the cuffs of the sleeves, and checked that the tiny aquiles on the brass buttons were oriented correctly, that is, strictly vertically, not obliquely. Given his somewhat "suspended" status as either "already an inquisitor" or "not yet," Fidus chose clothing that was neutral, without obvious military-inspired motifs, but austere. Despite his rather brief period of obedience, Kryptman was used to baggy jumpsuits and sweaters, so wearing tailored ones was... strange. He felt out of place and out of place, like a stranger in a foreign country. He wanted to leave the Beacon, the system, and the sector as soon as possible, frankly. But there was still business to take care of, the last on the shortlist.

Their ships departed a quarter of an hour apart, first the Martians, then the Inquisitors. The orbital station was almost intact, but the damage to the planet could be seen even from space, through the observation porthole. Fidus was just contemplating the dark patches that had taken the place of the shining cities and industrial centers (power had not been restored everywhere, and restoration promised to take many months) when the steps of a small group echoed under the high vaults of the dock deck. Kryptman looked away from the porthole but saw the unexpected ones.

"Hmm..." he chuckled indefinitely, looking at the Astartes captain, leading a company of two space troopers and three sororitas.

"And are you with them?" Fidus clarified.

"Yes, we'll go together," replied the captain, waving to his companions. They silently bowed their heads in identical gestures, as if they understood and accepted. They moved toward the platform marked by yellow lights. Kryptman glanced at a large clock embedded in the metal wall, its faceted dial indicating the time of Terra, the Commonwealth, the Ice Port, and something else. The Martians had nineteen minutes to go.

"I thought I'd meet you here," the Astartes muttered. The Order's armor was unnecessary in this setting, and he wore a loose, pleated cloak. On someone else, this "dress" would have looked funny and feminine. But when such a garment is worn by a muscular giant three meters tall, armed with a power spear, it immediately seems incredibly masculine to everyone.

"We never had time to ... talk," Fidus sighed. "Too many reports and interviews."

"That makes sense," the sleeper said neutrally. "Considering you were in the center of it all. By the way," he changed the subject. "I hear you've made up a team of former Squadmates?"

"Rather, I offered them some time to work together," the inquisitor corrected. "I need helpers. They were all forgiven of their sins and freed, so they were free to choose for themselves. Some agreed, some didn't."

"What about the priest of the Church?" the blue-eyed giant suddenly inquired. "He seemed to me to be in a crisis of either faith or self-determination. It would be unwise to take on such a disturbed companion."

He stayed. He voluntarily accepted the penance of eight years of service as a rank-and-file purifier. His faith, he said, was not strong enough, so he should either harden his spirit by trials or answer with his own life for a moment of mental weakness. At the choice of the Emperor. By the way, received the blessing of the planetary bishop.

"Worthy," the captain approved, "I'd make a note of it and be sure to come back in eight years. If he survives, your crew might have a worthy addition."

"I did. But I suspect if he survives the obedience, he will stay anyway."

"Perhaps. I hear the Squad is going to remain?"

"Yes, more than that, it will multiply. From the experience of this... incident, it has been concluded that the landing troops are too lightly armed and too few in number. The armored train system is cumbersome and expensive, but it alone provides the ability to strike hard and fast. So the Epidemic Squad will get more men and more weapons. More connection with the Inquisition, the Church, and the arbiters."

"That's good," the giant nodded. "Risk is a noble thing, but success is better achieved by the tried-and-true means."

They were silent for a minute, then the captain asked straight out: "So you're waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That's my business," Kryptman snapped back with unexpected harshness.

"Fidus, you're misinterpreting my intentions," the space marines shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't intend to interfere with your meeting."

"Really?" The inquisitor asked incredulously.

"Yes. I just want you to look at the situation rationally. And act according to reason, not the impulse of your troubled soul."

"You can't read my soul," Kryptman was still angry.

"Yes, she's grateful to you now, and quite capable of being carried away by your great dream," the captain said as if he hadn't noticed his interlocutor's remark. "If you persist... If you ignite her heart with a duty to humanity, with fear of the hidden threat, she will follow you. But... Do you really want her to?"

The giant raised his hand, decisively cutting off Kryptman's ready objections.

"Think about it. What can you offer her? What will the girl gain by following you? You know the answer to that question, don't you? Disaster. Danger. Mockery. Years of fruitless labor. And death in the end."

"But... Mars," Fidus muttered hollowly. "She will be a tech-priestess... most likely. She will be, in time."

"Yes, most likely," the marines confirmed. "It's inevitable. Theoretically, of course, it is possible to join the ranks of Mechanicus and keep the flesh in pristine purity. After all, the path of Magos Biologis is based on the perfection of living matter. But most likely Olga will step on the long path of transformation into an adept of the Machine God. And of her own free will. Gears are smart, they will not pressure her, but they will carefully, quietly show her all the advantages of artificial bodies, and these advantages are there, visible and quite weighty. Especially if you have already experienced death and the ease with which it takes people."

"Olga will lose her humanity and become... a tin can!"

"Yes," agreed with the captain. "And she will live a long, interesting life, full of amazing events. She will be exposed to the great mysteries of Mars and will communicate as equals with those who rule the world of knowledge and machines. Is that a bad thing? I'm not sure."

"She won't be happy," Kryptman said wistfully.

"And it is possible. Although it is not predetermined. But in any case, the girl will find peace, respect, and security. All the things that fate has so deprived her of before. All that she deserves for her courage. Her nobility. Kindness."

The giant sighed and placed a heavy, powerful hand on Fidus's shoulder, lightly squeezing his fingers, not as a threat, but peacefully, in a gesture of friendly encouragement.

"I'm not going to stop you. I believe in the freedom of choice of people endowed with wisdom. But I also believe in responsibility. Before you decide and do, weigh your desire on the scales of impartiality. Answer the question, what do you really want? And for whom, for yourself or for her?"

In the transition tunnel that connected the pier to the orbital station array, a group of armed skitarians appeared. They were followed by an automaton, the Geller-drone, already familiar to Fidus. The guards dispersed quickly and skillfully, with machine-like precision, on the quayside deck, blocking off all approaches. Kryptman felt a strange chill as if an invisible hand had run over his head and groped his missing pockets. It seemed that he had just been scanned, included in the control and security system. Kryptman smiled involuntarily, thinking that he was ostentatiously ignored, but if any trouble happened, the Inquisitor would be dead before he could even blink. By the way, it's curious that the Skitarians weren't interested in the angel's spear.

"They coming," commented the Astartes.

Kryptman smiled even wider, noting that for the first time he saw Olga washed, combed, well dressed. In general - quite happy with life. The girl was still very thin, but the well-made overalls no longer hung on her bones, and her face did not look haggard; the former novice was definitely well fed and treated.

Seeing Jennifer again with her head was strange and even a little creepy, because the metal sphere was different in design, color, and shape. Obviously, the Martian had used a temporary substitute. The third member of the small company was a tall and unkempt-looking tech-priest with an almost human face. Only a keen eye could tell that it was an elaborate mask with intricate actuators.

When Olga saw Kryptman, she faltered and lowered her head, then, as if making up her mind, proudly straightened up and stepped toward the inquisitor. The priestess and the tall mechanicum, without looking at each other or exchanging a sound, parted as if to show that they did not intend to interfere.

"Go on," Astartes said in a low voice of encouragement. "It's about time."

Fidus approached Olga and they stopped, looking at each other in silence, Kryptman from top to bottom of the girl with her head slightly tilted back. Martian surgeons had replaced the former miserable prosthesis with a magnificent eye, indistinguishable from the real one.

"Hello... Kryp," Olga hesitated with the name, and it sounded very kind, without the previous mockery.

"Hello..." In turn, Kryptman paused for a moment, considering whether to return "Olla" in response, but decided that it would be foolishly childish. "Olga."

On an instant impulse, he took her palms in his, feeling the thin, warm fingers that knew no rings. Olga squeezed his hands and said:

"It's all repeated."

"Yes," Fidus agreed. "It's just like before. But better."

"You promised," she said quietly.

"Yes. I promised."

Fidus felt some burning in his eyes and blinked, trying to get rid of it.

"And I kept my promise."

"You did," she echoed, and Kryptman realized that there was no mockery or irony in her words.

"Let me guess," said the captain instead of a greeting, squinting at Olga and Kryptmann talking quietly. "It's logical to assume that Doturov still looks at the world through your eyes," he pointed at Wakrufmann. "Lexik Arcanum, on the other hand, likes variety. So... I'd bet on you, Mr. Theta."

"You're wrong and you're right," Wakrufmann and Logis said in identical voices at the same time. "In fact, I am now looking at you through the eyes of both of them."

"I wonder if I'll ever get to see you in your true form," smiled the Astartes sarcastically.

"What is the true form for a mind free from the shackles of the flesh?" Doturov answered the question with a question in Jennifer's mouth. "For example, right now "I" am technically in the body of the "Warhound". Can this incarnation be considered true? And how to assess the degree of truthfulness, given that this shell was not the first and will not be the last in a long chain of wanderings? Or is my true embodiment the Temple of All Knowledge, which holds my main backup copy?"

"Scholastic," the space marine shook his head. "Well, be that as it may. I am authorized to express the united position of the Order, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Inquisition, or rather its representatives in the system. We have no grievances against Olga, and we will not interfere in any way with your intentions or actions towards her. You could say..."

The captain indicated a sarcastic smile.

"... it is now, unquestionably and solely, your prey."

"I believe the term 'prey' is inapplicable in this situation," Theta sternly corrected. The spacemarine sensed that Logis's speech had changed again. Perhaps Doturov had loosened the chain and allowed the servant his own free will and considerations. Who knows...

"You may not believe it, but Mars is not interested in Olga as a trophy of war. We don't want to "possess" her," Theta emphasized the word "possess". "Certainly, her becoming a mechanicum is preferable. However, circumstances, her background and the value of her knowledge, as well as our ethics, require that this choice be made purely voluntarily."

"What if she doesn't want to?" the Astartes inquired. "What if the way of the Machine doesn't inspire her?"

"We will not restrain Olga," Logis said firmly. "If you wish, you can control her free will personally. Think of it as a... courtesy of Mars."

The captain silently bowed his head and after a moment's pause changed the subject:

"Well, apparently that's what they call a happy ending. Everybody got theirs. Even..." The angel glanced at Fidus again. "Our wretched inquisitor, who got a clean conscience and the ability to continue catching his ghosts."

Logis, too, turned his artificial face, showing interest in the conversation between Kryptman and Olga. The young man and the girl seemed to be finishing a quiet conversation. The sophisticated drives behind the synthetic flesh displayed a complex shift of emotions.

"I have long noticed that there is a condescending perception of Kryptman Jr. as superficial, weak, and unprofessional," Theta said, and now the Astartes captain would have sworn that the logis was speaking for himself. "However, I think that opinion is inaccurate and..."

"Wrong?"

"Rush. Who knows, maybe young Kryptman will surprise us all again?"

"I doubt it," the captain said and thought about it. "On the other hand... On second thought, I'm inclined to agree. He's managed to surprise me twice. Maybe he'll do it a third time."

"Consensus," Jennifer entered the conversation.

"Truly so," Theta shook his head. "Well, I have had the pleasure of our conversation, but the flight window does not wait. With your permission, we'll continue the conversation aboard and a little later, when we leave the system."

"Goodbye," Olga said.

"I'll say "farewell," Kryptman said. "Who knows, maybe we'll meet again."

"Maybe..." Then the girl realized. "Is there someplace I could write to you?"

"I have a house, but I'm rarely there. I'll leave the address with the Martians if you want to write. I'll be glad to know that you're doing well. And in general, how's it going."

"Absolutely."

Olga rose on tiptoe and kissed Fidus on the forehead.

"Good luck to you... inquisitor."

She paused for a moment and then added: "Good luck...my Kryp."

They parted, accompanied by the dispassionate lenses of the Martian optics and the glances of the captain's retinue of Sleepless. Fidus walked to the dock, where a shuttle was already waiting for the Inquisitor. The Martian ship, which looked like a hybrid of a black sphere and a Mobius tape, opened a gate with a gilded gear symbol and extended the gangway. Logis and the priestess stood motionless, like statues of gatekeepers. When the Martians were only a few steps away, Olga suddenly turned around, and for a moment it seemed to her that instead of the athletic, shoulder-length figure of Kryptman, a hunched and very old man was gravely walking. A gown embroidered with silver symbols covered his hunched shoulders, and two scars crisscrossed the bald back of his head like the big man Essen. Each step was hard as if the years and the decisions he had made hung heavy around his neck like fetters. Olga blinked, and the vision vanished.

It seemed... Only now did she realize how tired she was.

Fidus turned around, and for a moment he thought he saw someone else entirely instead of the little short-haired girl. A tall figure in a scarlet cloak, shimmering with steel and gold. A metallic statue body of perfect, mathematically flawless proportions, the face of a dazzlingly beautiful woman with cornflower-colored eyes, hair like streams of molten copper. The posture and gaze of someone who was accustomed to not bowing to anyone. Fidus shook his head, averted his eyes for a moment, and when he looked again, of course, the vision was gone.
I need a rest, thought the inquisitor. A little rest...

And he never looked back.

At the last step, the girl stumbled and felt an attack of uncontrollable fear. As if reading her mind, the Martian, who was called "Theta," handed her a small object that looked like a large cardboard card.

"One of our mutual acquaintances sends his regards."
Olga mechanically picked up the cardboard, trying to remember where she had seen something like this before. And she remembered. And then she read it:

I was interested in communicating with you,
I'm glad you continue to exist,
I am glad that we will continue to communicate,
Eventually,
If you want it.

"After all, he learned how to put commas," Olga whispered.

She smiled, unabashedly, going over her memories like precious pearls, and asked:

"With him... with Machine..." then I remembered how to say it right. "Is everything okay with the sacred comp... Cogitator is all right?"

"Yes."

"Would it be possible for me to meet him?"

"Of course. It is the desire of the sacred cogitator, therefore it is the will of the Omnissia."

Olga raised her foot, intending to take the last step, and froze.

"I..." she said quietly and finished in an almost whisper. "I'm scared. I know it's silly. But I'm still scared."

"That's the way it should be," Theta smiled.

"Yes?" the girl asked suspiciously, putting her foot down. It seemed that Olga was ready to run like hell.

"Yes," the Martian repeated very seriously. "You have lived several lives. In your world. And then in our world, which has become yours. And none of them have been easy. All the changes promised you nothing but hardship. Now you're on the threshold of a new life, so it's logical and natural that the decision is not easy."

"And you promise me hardship, too?" the girl said after a long pause.

"It won't be easy," Theta said honestly. "The ways of Omnissia are indeed many, but they all require time, as well as painstaking work. But I can promise you exactly two things."

"Like what?"

The Martian looked into her large eyes of rich, amazingly clear color - the organ, grown by Magos Biologis of the XJ-9 Squadron to replace the lost one, had expectedly taken root without serious problems. And thought - what attentive and surprisingly trusting eyes, despite such severe trials. Not of a frightened, hunted animal, ready to fight for survival - which would have been expected and logical, but of a human being. The eyes of a very good man, filled with expectation.
And hope.

"Nothing will ever threaten you again. Unless you want to, by choosing the path of adventure and danger."

"And... The second one?"

"It's going to be interesting. Not easy, but interesting."

Olga took a gulp, took a breath, without panic and splashing in her eyes the readiness to run.

"But first I'd like to clarify something," the Martian suddenly said. "The archives of Adeptus Mechanicus and the analysis of the ancient toponymy of Mars show that the generic name " Doturov" was widespread in our world back in the times when Mankind was confined to the solar system and had just left orbit of the Drevnei Zemli," the Martian pronounced the last words in Russian. "It has been reasonably suggested that it was worn by the first man to set foot on the surface of Mars. Can you clarify this question?"

Doturov, Doturov. You've spent so many resources just to clarify the origin of your name.

"I don't know," Olga answered confusedly. "When I lived... well, back then, people only flew to the Moon. I think..."
"I see."

Doturov-Theta extended her open palm in an inviting gesture, Olga raised her hand unbeknownst to her, and metal met flesh.

"Come, child. Mars is waiting."

A few minutes later, as the ship departed, Olga looked out the panoramic porthole, where Beacon floated majestically surrounded by a ring of orbital complexes, and suddenly flinched, afraid to forget.

"Jennifer!"

"Yes?" The tech-priestess immediately responded.

"The song...that you played back then in "Chimera," an ancient motif for courage."

"Yes, I remember."

"Can I listen to it again?"

"Of course. Wait a minute, I'll update the library," promised Wackrufmann and complained like a real person, with lively intonations. "That new head, nothing but trouble with it!"

"What is the song about?"

"This is a very old composition. It was popularized at the time of the first colonization of Mars, but most likely the basis was created somewhat earlier. The original has been sung in many versions and many languages, we cannot vouch for the absolute accuracy of the translation, but in Gothic it will sound something like: "He who cannot understand His - that is, Omnissia's - words will never know happiness."
* * *

RiP · Dec 30, 2021

Epilogue
* * *
"Hello, hello, my friend!"

Inquisitor Ordo Malleus, named Lazar Carnot Wimpfen, was sitting in a chair amidst mountains of equipment and racks of records, looking like a junkman. And he was smiling, looking at Kryptman through his glasses. The Inquisitor was cordial, affable, and polite beyond belief. And very strange.

Outwardly, the demon hunter looked like an acolyte who sat in the master's chair as a joke. Older, rather untidy, like a man so busy that he might be glad to look after himself, but was deprived of such an opportunity. Vast baldness crept up to the top of his head and ran to the back of his head, leaving jagged strands of gray hair above his ears. His beard and mustache seemed to have been more or less trimmed, but ineptly and long ago. His eyes, half concealed by swollen eyelids, were hidden behind spectacles, and, as far as Kryptman could tell, they were real, with impressive diopters.

On his skinny body hung a technical overall as old as the owner's, long and painstakingly modernized for the owner's needs. Some details, boxes, and pouches were glued to the dense grey-brown fabric, and connectors and plugs protruded in different directions. A transparent tube of drip was peeking out from under the neck hoop, sticking the trunk of a needle with a piece of plaster into the cervical artery. Above the Inquisitor's ears were twisted vox headset wires, not just cut, but torn, as if they had been chewed.

"I pay my respects and..."

"And everything else, too," Lazar waved his palm carelessly. The fingers on the glove were unevenly cropped. "Throw the folder... well, somewhere, see for yourself where it won't fall. When I'm in the mood, I'll read it. Sit down."

Fidus could barely keep from shrugging his shoulders and complied with the instruction. Finding a place to sit proved difficult, and in the end, the young inquisitor vacated one of the chairs, placing directly on the riveted floor a bundle of very old papers, yellow and brittle with time. The chair, like everything else here, including the master of the room, gave the impression of being hastily made, strictly for a specific task - simple, rough, functional, with no attention to appearance, much less any harmony.

"Well," Lazar rubbed his palms together, rustling the rough cloth. "Well, this is it. By the way, I knew your father."

"A lot of people knew my father," Fidus pursed his lips.

"A spiky little fellow," Wimpfen smiled with thin lips, and the chewed wires bobbed on the sides of his head in time with the movement. "Spiky. I like that."

Kryptman, ready to make a vigorous speech about how tired he was of comparisons of a talentless descendant to his great father, closed his mouth and looked at the old sage in surprise.

"Let's get this straight," Lazar said, businesslike. "I've been assigned to investigate what happened in Beacon, as an outside observer who's not attached to anything and is looking at everything with a new eye. Probably won't find anything, but it may be the other way around. You were accordingly urged to work with me, and you thought it prudent to agree. This shows that your steady reputation as a feeble-minded epigone is, at least in the first instance, wrong."

Fidus pressed his lips together and stared at the Inquisitor's shiny top under the lamp.

"You think of me as a penance," Lazar continued as if nothing had happened." A way of rewarding you, and getting you out of the Ordo Hereticus at the same time. To avoid..." Wimpfen indefinitely twiddled his thumbs in the void. "This and that. Right?"

Fidus nodded silently. From behind a stack of papers as high as Kryptman's chest came a wonderful beast, shifting on short legs. It looked like a cat, but it was about a meter long, with very long ears and a "beard" tied in a neat pigtail. Its long fur, once orange, now shimmered in every shade of dull brown, camouflaging the beast perfectly against the cabinet. The beast lost its whiskers, and a long, curved fang protruded from one side of its mouth. It looked as if the cat was one-eyed, too, for symmetry, and a blue ball glowed in the reflected light on the side of its face where the fang was missing.

The animal looked at Fidus, and the young inquisitor flinched slightly. Kryptman had heard of girinks, but this was the first time he had seen one. Kryptman knew that Eldar cats were not intelligent, but... the look in the bright blue eye with the triangular pupil seemed very strange. Not animal-like, attentive, or evaluative.

"Ah, there you are, Horus," Lazar was clearly delighted. "Come here, you bastard."

Kryptman merely shook his head, refraining from commenting. Girinx staggered to the chair and climbed onto Lazar's lap, clawing at him with his hooked claws. The animal moved with difficulty, overcoming either pain or old flesh, but it did so with extreme determination.

"Yes," the old inquisitor replied cheerfully to the unspoken question. "Surprisingly wicked creature, so I named him to match his character."

Horus finally climbed onto his host's lap, looking at his guest with a look that made Fidus feel like the most insignificant and despised creature in the galaxy. Girinx yawned, showing a set of long but thinned teeth by at least a third, and fidgeted to make himself comfortable. Curled up, the Eldar "psy-cat" was surprisingly compact and easy to stroke. Lazar did not fail to start stroking and scratching the insolent beast behind the ears.

"I'm used to him," the inquisitor smiled. "He's a vile beast, but we've seen so much together... Be warned, he pisses in the boots of those he doesn't like. And Horus dislikes everyone, so be careful what you wear."

"Where did he come from?" Fidus asked, feeling as silly as an adult at the morning recitation of prayers by schoolchildren "for the glory of the good Grandfather Emperor.

"A gift from an Eldar witch," Wimpfen explained. "We had an affair that turned into a joint investigation. Or vice versa... it's hard to say, it was... complicated. It's always like that with the Eldar, an amazing race, they turn the simplest things into a ritual of unthinkable intricacy. I was young and... shall we say... careless. However, I must say, it turned out well. In every sense. You have to admit, not everyone can say that he slapped Horus in the face."

"Ah..." Fidus noded.

"But we were distracted," said Wimpfen, businesslike, as he continued stroking the shoe defiler. "What were we talking about?"

"The penance," said Fidus. "Which I was subjected to."

"Yeah, that's right."

Lazar grinned, and for a moment Kryptman felt uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He remembered at once that the funny and slovenly grandfather sitting across from him did not have any high-profile cases, saving entire sectors, battles with the champions of Chaos, and other great deeds in his biography. But Wimpfen is one of the first, if not the first, in his Ordo in terms of rank-and-file, unremarkable, and accomplished investigations. A man-combatant, nicknamed "The Emperor's Grinder" for his single-mindedness and unwavering output in any condition.

"So," Wimpfen continued as if nothing had happened. "In fact, you pulled out a lucky ticket to a happy future."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You just haven't realized it yet because you're young and stupid."

Kryptman was silent again. Lazar scratched the exorbitantly long ear of the girinx and continued with sudden seriousness:

"Let's just say that your transfer to our Ordo was really an exile. A compromise, to be exact. That's a fact. But, fortunately, I've come to your attention. A boon, you might say."

"Thank you," Fidus lifted his chin. "I'm ready to get down on my knees and lap the heel of my benefactor."

"Good intention," the old man nodded graciously. "But we're not on Seferis Secundus, so we don't have to do this nonsense. So, my friend, I've read your case carefully. Again, I knew your father. And I wondered why his descendant was so far from success."

Fidus clenched his jaws and remained silent.

"Don't grit your teeth," Wimpfen advised. "I'm not trying to insult you. Now we're talking strictly business and very substantive."

The old man moved, shifting his position. Horus opened his eyes in displeasure and silently dug his claws into his master's thigh, showing his displeasure.

"I told you, mean creature," Wimpfen said, tugging at the cat's ear. "I'll make a rug out of it someday. Or scarecrow, I haven't decided yet. Yeah... so there you go. Kryptman Sr. was a very nasty man. They used to call this sort of man various words like "asshole" and other unflattering things. But he was effective. Extremely effective. Yes, you can argue about methods and collateral damage, but your ancestor achieved his goals, and they were so meaningful that even the stacks of corpses that Fidus piled up in the process looked like a very moderate price to pay. And in tandem with the morally deprived Schmettau, Kryptman was invincible. What's wrong with you...?"

Fidus Junior thought the question was rhetorical, not requiring an answer, and it turned out to be.

"It's all on the surface," Wimpfen said thoughtfully. "On the surface... You're not a bad inquisitor, my young friend. Not bad, indeed."

"Many people would disagree with you," Kryptman said with unexpected bitterness.

"Fuck them," the old man brushed them off with glorious indifference. "A good investigator has to look at the root of things, to see the essence of things. I am a good investigator because I always look further and deeper."

Fidus again felt a chill slide down his spine. Under the unblinking gaze behind the thick glasses, it became uncomfortable and unsettling, like an insect in a test tube.

"And I see your point," Wimpfen continued. "Nepotism is not as bad as most people think. It has some good points. But it also has disadvantages. Kinship can bring the wrong man to the right place. Or bring the right person, but... too soon."

"Too soon?"

"Yes. You have all the gifts and capabilities to be a great protector of the House He built."

Lazar blessed himself with an aquila, and Kryptman repeated his movement like a shadow.

"But you became an inquisitor too soon. Too soon you were hidden by your father's glorious shadow. You are now like an imago, just waiting to spread your wide wings and soar toward the sun."

"And?" Fidus said indefinitely.

"And I can teach you."

"I don't understand," Fidus admitted honestly. "Do I have a choice? As far as I understand, my exile to another Ordo, as a junior assistant, is a prerequisite for certain things to be... forgotten."

"I'll explain," Wimpfen smiled faintly. "What makes an inquisitor the scourge of the Imperium's enemies? It is knowledge, character, and experience. The three legs on which all success is based. And your stool has one leg sawn off. So far, sawed-off."

Lazar intertwined his fingers, looking intently straight into Kryptman's eyes.

"Experience, that's the main thing you lack. You went off on your own too soon. And predictably, you stumbled. And failures at the beginning of the journey have broken much stronger people. These injuries to the soul are like badly healed fractures. You can get back on your feet, but you'll still be walking with crutches for the rest of your life."

Fidus leaned back on the thick wire backrest, hands at his sides, trying to be restrained and impenetrably cold-blooded. However, the young man was beginning to feel that the old inquisitor was reading him like an open book of typewritten letters.

"Just experience..." Wimpfen emphasized "just," managing to put an abyss of meaning into short words, starting with irony. "That's what you need to mend your broken bones. To get rid of your complexes. Leave behind the failures. Experience will toughen you, strengthen you, teach you. And give you a team that will carry you through the decades. A team without which you are worthless, believe me."

Wimpfen sighed and adjusted his glasses.

"Everyone knows the glorious, formidable names of the great inquisitors... but behind the successes of each of them were always unnamed, unknown people, faithful acolytes. If you want to succeed, you need a team of associates."

"I have a retinue," said Fidus grimly, expecting a mockery and ready for it. "I have it now."

"Not all of them seem to have agreed to go with you, do they?"

"Not all of them. Some chose to remain purificators."

"Funny panopticon," Wimpfen sniggered. "The convicts, the bastards, the punishers."

"People I can trust. I have seen their blood and wounds, and they have seen mine. We have gone to hell, side by side, and when the hour comes, we will go again."

"I like that "when." They usually say "if". And yes, it's worth a lot," the old man agreed, suddenly and very seriously. "You have a good retinue."

"A."

"Beaten by life, but not broken. Accustomed to risk. Ready to learn. Calculating, but with a drop of the right idealism. More or less a working team. They're good. Many inquisitors started with less. I started with less."

Wimpfen leaned forward, careful not to disturb the napping cat.

"But just as you are just a blank for the future inquisitor, so they are just blanks for a chisel. Who, in time - maybe! - will carve them into true acolytes. Loyal, militant, energetic. Experienced. Besides, there are very few of them, and your war would require an army."

The inquisitors, old and young, were silent, thinking about their own things. Girinx also dozed silently, not giving the bald monkeys even a glance, much less a purr.

"What's next?" Fidus asked cautiously at last.

"I'll give you everything Kryptman Jr. lacks," Wimpfen calmly promised. - I'll polish the talents of your rabble-rousing company. And, among other things, I'll help you build up your team. Share my experts. I'll fix what your mentors, blinded by the bright light of the name "Kryptman," have ruined. I will make a true inquisitor out of you."

"I don't understand," Kryptman admitted honestly. "That sounds like a bargain, doesn't it?"

"That's correct."

"I will get effective practice from one of the most experienced investigators, Ordo Malleus. And a team that will be worthy companions in future endeavors. Right?"

"Yes."

"But what is your interest? What can I give you in return?"

"Responsibility. And dedication."

"Explain."

Lazar waited a moment, then shoved the Eldarian animal off his lap without much reverence. Girinx bellowed loudly and grudgingly, jerked his short tail, and staggered to the shadows of the far corner of the room, shifting on weak legs.

"I know your fetish," Wimpfen said blandly. "The myth that poisoned your father's life and will probably lead you to an equally sad ending."

"It's not a myth," Kryptman snapped. "I've seen them with my own eyes."

"Or not "them". Or not seen," Wimpfen smiled faintly." But it doesn't matter.

"?"

"You see..." Lazar ran his fingertips thoughtfully over the tube of the dropper, which injected drops of some kind of elixir into the inquisitor's veins. "I did not choose you because I feel pity for your almost ruined career and life. Not out of deference to your late father's persona. And not to benefit our service with another talent that needs to be discovered and polished. You're here because you know..."

Wimpfen interlocked his fingers. The corners of his lips dipped down, giving his face an expression of sardonic sadness.

"You know... or you think you know what it's like to be the only guardian of the truth. A shepherd who sees in the darkness the greedy gleam of wolves' eyes. The sighted among the blind."

"You... too?" Fidus managed only to utter.

"What...? Oh, no, of course not. I don't believe in secret xenos who remain in the shadows for years, unrecognized and undiscovered. Or, more accurately, I believe that such xenos can exist. Why not, after all? Who better than us inquisitors to know how big the world is beyond our knowledge and borders. The deepness of the darkness beyond the Emperor's light. I simply do not believe in their danger, as your father did. Such a thing is mathematically impossible; an enemy of that level would have shown himself sooner or later."

"But then..." Fidus grimaced, unable to hide his disappointment.

"The main thing," Lazar held out his hand, pointing at Kryptman, as if taking aim at him. "That you believe in them. You see..."

The old man leaned back in his chair, as if tired from a long conversation.

Your xenos may be true. Could be a delusion. But my enemy is real. He is material, terrifying, deadly. And he is always in the shadows, invisible, inaudible... I know that he exists, but unlike you Kryptmans, I was smart enough not to shout it in every corner. Because a word without proof is worth nothing, and instead of usefulness it turns out to be detrimental.

"What do you need me for?" Fidus asked straightforwardly.

"I need a helper. Someone who understands my troubles and can look where others only turn away bewildered. In return, I will make you a true inquisitor. And help you with your..." Lazar snorted. "Xenos, when we've finished my business. As you can see, it's simple."

Fidus was silent, clutching the edge of the metal seat with numb fingers. For a minute or more the young inquisitor thought intensely under the old man's cold and penetrating gaze.

"It will take time," Kryptman finally said, softly. It sounded both like an assumption and a statement.

"Years," Wimpfen nodded. "I've had this case for fifteen years, and I'm as far from successful as I was the day I..."

He stopped talking before he had finished.

"Years," Fidus repeated. "But I can't lose so much time..."

"Yes," Lazar shrugged, "Or you could. How much did your father search for? Without succeeding, by the way. If your terrible enemies exist, they've been lurking, like parasites, in the body of the Imperium for decades, perhaps centuries. An extra year, two, ten, or half a century will not destroy the House of the Emperor... perhaps. But it will give you experience, wisdom, strength, and the opportunity to finally make the secret visible, to bring it out of the shadows into the light. And when we are done with my case, I will help you as you will help me now. Two inquisitors in a relentless search are better than one."

"What if I don't agree? If I don't want to waste my time and am willing to take the risk?"

"The door is right behind you. My courier ship will take you anywhere you want to go."

"Can I..." Fidus gasped, coughed, and shook his head as if pushing a lump of hot air down his throat. "Count on any help? Little help, at least?"

"Kryptman," Lazar grimaced. "Don't haggle. You are not in church, and I do not absolve the Emperor for a modest donation. I have a great responsibility on my shoulders. And a great debt, which, alas, only I can bear. Your value to me is only in the fact that you are more familiar with this feeling than anyone else. And in the fact that you have good skills that I can sharpen for my tasks. A less experienced specialist or acolyte is of no use to me. A more experienced and promising inquisitor will show excessive initiative or simply interfere, considering the search useless. I gave you the terms. You either agree or you don't. Make up your mind."

Kryptman stood silently and strode up a winding path between work shelves, piled files of old reports, drawers of uncertain functionality with half-erased symbols on the painted wood and metal with rust spots.

"Again," Fidus stopped and turned to his interlocutor, snapping his fingers. "We're on your... case. To a victorious conclusion, long and dedicated. Just the two of us."

"Yes."

"And after that, we do my case. Just as persistently and selflessly. With all your resources."

"Yes."

"And I risk dying long before then. Or end my life in a fruitless search for something that doesn't exist."

"Yes," Wimpfen repeated for the third time. "My enemy exists. But, of course, it is likely that our lives will not be enough to expose him."

Kryptman sighed heavily and wanted to say something, but Lazar beat him to it by speaking softly:

"Take your time, my friend. I'm giving you a choice. And you'll get a lot if you go my way. A lot. But there's no turning back or taking a step out of the way. Rest assured, I have many ways to make you respect our treaty, should it come to pass. So choose wisely."

"Yes..." Fidus sighed again. "Why is everything always so complicated?"

"And everything seemed simple and clear before, didn't it?" Wimpfen smiled. "Alas, when you're fighting shadows, you have to descend into darkness and fight with a blindfold on. To know your enemy and to fight him face to face is a luxury we rarely have."

"Compromises, contracts, step backwards to make two forwards."

"Oh, if only it were that simple," the old man smiled again. "But I guess you've already understood how we work. The rest is a matter of practice."

"Who is our enemy?" Fidus asked, stressing the word "our," and Lazar shook his head slightly to indicate his acceptance of his young colleague's choice.

"To your right, in that locker over there," Wimpfen pointed. "The top sheet is on the red folder."

Kryptman spun a drawing depicting a gray-and-white skull with eyes. The deadhead was divided in half by a vertical line, the colors alternating symmetrically on either side of the line-white eye with a black pupil, the black eye with a white pupil, and so on. On the forehead of the skull were two ones, and above the top hung a typical star like a spiky wheel. Not... no, not your typical star. It took Fidus a moment or two to realize there were ten rays, not eight. Kryptman looked questioningly at Wimpfen.

"Skull and Eleven? Malal? The false god of Chaos?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Malal does not exist," said Fidus glumly, clearly regretting having agreed to participate with Lazar in his crusade.

"Well, why not," Wimpfen said with a touch of irony. "Anything abstract can be real, one way or another. For instance, I'm sure you've never seen the Emperor. But He is."

Fidus automatically blessed himself with an aquila, releasing the sheet. The disappointment on the young inquisitor's face was becoming clearer and clearer.

"God of apostates, renegades, dissidents," continued Wimpfen, who seemed genuinely amused by his colleague's reaction. "He exists only to the extent that one is willing to believe in him. But you're right."

With unexpected ease, Lazar stood up, and Fidus marveled at how quickly and easily the old inquisitor moved, looking like a mummy in a spacesuit.

"Yes, you're right. My enemy is too clever to hide. Instead, he hides in plain sight. He pretends to be a single leaf in a huge forest."

Wimpfen walked over to Fidus and leaned over for the drawing. He held the sheet in his hands with an expression of concentrated, aged hatred on his wrinkled face.

"Who is he?" Kryptman asked.

Wimpfen was silent for a while, looking at Fidus questioningly, as if deciding whether he was worthy of sharing the secrets. Then he spoke:

"Many years ago an agent of mine was killed. You'd think, what's so surprising about that? Unpleasant, yes. Kind of humiliating, yes. But that's our trade. Inquisitors, alas, die often, acolytes - constantly and in plenty. But there was one strange moment..."

Wimpfen folded the sheet neatly, his eyes fixed on Kryptman, but Fidus could have sworn that the old man was looking through his interlocutor, into the distant past.

He was a novice acolyte and was engaged in an equally small, insignificant case that suited his qualifications perfectly. The usual beginner's coaching before he began his more specialized training. Enemies of his level would have used the traditional weapons - poison, knife, bullet, gag, torture to death, and so on. But the agent was killed in a terrifying, sophisticated way that indicated great mastery of witchcraft practices. Before he lost his mind completely, the poor man managed to utter two words. Only two. I assumed that the agent had accidentally touched something bigger and had fallen prey to it. I began to search. At first, to retaliate against those who dared to kill a servant of the Emperor, however small and insignificant. And then in earnest...

Wimpfen smiled crookedly and ran his fingertips over the IV tube.

"After the first assassination attempt."

Head of the old inquisitor tilted slightly.

"Yeah, exactly the first one?" Fidus remarked, not so much asking as affirming.

"Definitely. My enemies have nothing. No name, no nickname. Just symbols they use from time to time to cover their tracks. The sign of a false deity and an equally false star. I suppose they're scattered crumbs that lead down a false trail. A mockery of me."

"RIght," Lazar clarified:

"And also over all of us."

"Discusable..." Fidus's mind began to work, trying to interpret the new patron's vague speech correctly. "So they're not heretics? Not Chaosites or demon-worshippers?"

"Or they are all together and nothing apart from what you have listed. They are the ones who are willing to put on any mask."

"Marvellous," Fidus said.

"It is," Wimpfen agreed, without a trace of humor. "From what I've seen, they're just as sophisticated and deadly. At least. Only not as well-intentioned."

"Now, who are we talking about?" Kryptman finally lost his patience.

"About their trace, we speak," Wimpfen said. "More than once they have surfaced, but invariably accompanied by horrific crimes. Moreover, a display of cold, incredibly calculating intelligence. The last time my nets picked up these words was a year ago, along with a reference to the Ice Port. And, as you can see..."

There the inquisitor grinned wryly, without finishing his sentence.

"Unexpected. Did you catch those words?" Kryptman asked, realizing that the lot has been cast.

"Solving the error - Corrigendum errorem"

RiP · May 29, 2023

This story is over. But if you liked it. There is another, by this author, and with a very similar vibe. A young girl finds herself in a foreign cruel world and has to fight her way through tooth and nail.

Ecumene

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