Ciaphas Cain: Choose Your Enemies

‘The Eternal Faith, outbound for Gravalax,’ Mott said, wandering into the room with a mug of recaff, his eyes unfocusing for a moment as he accessed the memory. ‘Docked at Skyside Seventeen, third largest of the orbital docks, population seventeen million two hundred and thirty-eight thousand, external docking facilities for four thousand three hundred and two interstellar vessels, of which an average of eighty-five per cent are occupied at any one time, each served by shuttle pads and hangar bays with a combined capacity of–’

‘So it’s big,’ Zemelda said, getting to the point a little more quickly than the savant.

‘Very much so,’ Mott agreed, apparently unperturbed at being cut off so unceremoniously.

‘The orbital docks,’ I said slowly. ‘Wasn’t that where Vekkman said the Slaaneshi cult was most active?’

‘He did.’ Amberley nodded thoughtfully, apparently reaching the same conclusion that I had. ‘Perhaps the spirit stone wasn’t going all the way to Gravalax after all.’

Mott sipped at his recaff. ‘Skyside Seventeen was one of the orbital facilities on Inquisitor Vekkman’s list of possible centres of cult activity,’ he said. ‘Making it considerably more likely that our investigations are linked after all.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ Amberley admitted, somewhat grudgingly. ‘I suppose we should talk to him again, then.’

‘And Jurgen and I should rejoin our regiment,’ I said, with a little more reluctance than I’d allowed for. Hunting for heretic cults has never been a favourite occupation of mine, and going after this one would mean running the gauntlet of the eldar currently infesting the upper atmosphere to boot. All in all, I’d be better off in the command centre, dispensing morale-boosting platitudes and keeping as far away from the fighting as I could. On the other hand, leaving Amberley and her team to it while I beat an expeditious retreat would deprive me of her company, and the knowledge of whatever threat the heretics presented. The eldar I’d pretty much got the measure of by this time, and as I’ve often observed, it’s what you don’t know that’s liable to kill you.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Amberley said, which pretty much decided the matter. I’ve never been able to refuse her anything, which may well have been true even if she hadn’t been entitled to have anyone who sufficiently annoyed her recycled for servitor components. What she really meant, of course, was that she didn’t want to lose Jurgen, whose unique talent would come in extremely handy if the heretics turned out to have a rogue psyker or two among them, something depressingly common where Chaos cults are concerned. And something I’d positively have welcomed, if I’d known how things were actually going to turn out.

‘At your service, as always,’ I said, as gallantly as I could, and probably not fooling anyone for a moment, least of all Amberley. I tapped my vox-bead. ‘Regina,’ I began, ‘it looks like I won’t be rejoining you for a while…’

Twenty

Say what you like about the Inquisition – and plenty has certainly been said over the years153 – they can certainly get things done. Within a couple of hours I found myself standing in one of the hangar bays on the highest level of the spire, poised between Fulcher’s mansion below and the not-quite vacuum of near space above (and to the sides if you’re going to be pedantic about it). We were in one of the larger commercial bays, although only three of the spaces marked on the floor (and partially obscured by scorch marks) were occupied: one by a shuttle the size of a drop-ship,154 and two of the others by much smaller craft, which looked all the tinier for being loomed over by their titanic neighbour. One I’d seen a few times before, its sleek hull bearing the crest of the noble house Amberley’s favourite cover identity ostensibly belonged to, and effectively concealing the impressive array of lethal weaponry it carried. The other was an Aquila, as nondescript as most of its kind, apart from the holes in its hull to which a covey of cogboys were tending. Sparks were sputtering somewhere below the rents in its outer plating, which, combined with the number of fluids leaking from it, inclined me to remain as far away from the crippled vessel as possible.

‘Something gave that a pasting,’ Jurgen remarked, his usual aroma even more marked than usual, a sure sign that he was contemplating our imminent flight with the amount of enthusiasm he normally displayed for taking to the air. For once I was inclined to agree with him, the tight knot of tension forming in the pit of my stomach giving an extra twist as I tried not to picture the weapons which had made such a mess of the Aquila being turned in the direction of Amberley’s gig.

‘Our ship’s a lot tougher than that,’ Amberley said, with a faintly amused glance in my direction, no doubt divining the tenor of my thoughts.