Blood Pact

TWENTY-TWO Contact

‘Will it work?’ asked Ludd, dubiously.

Trooper Brostin looked insulted.

‘Of course it’ll work,’ he insisted. ‘I cooked it up, didn’t I? Just like you asked. I know this stuff.’

‘He does know this stuff,’ said Beltayn.

‘See?’ said Brostin.

Ludd took the small paper twist from Brostin’s permanently grimy paw. It was about four centimetres long, and no thicker than a pencil. The end had been folded down and sealed with what looked like treacle.

‘This isn’t going to be in any way…’ he began.

‘What?’ asked Brostin.

‘Excessive?’ Ludd replied.

The wounded look returned to Brostin’s face.

‘I did it just like you asked,’ he said.

‘All right, all right,’ said Ludd. ‘It’s just that I know your stuff too, Brostin, and for you there’s no such thing as too big.’

Brostin grinned and shook his shaggy head.

‘This is small. It’s cute. It’ll be pretty.’

‘All right,’ said Hark. The small huddle of troopers turned to look at him. ‘You all know what to do. Let’s get on with it.’

Ludd took a deep, calming breath, and walked into the company vox office. It was late afternoon, and it was already twilight outside. Driving snow tapped against the grubby windows.

The room was gloomy and over-warm. The electric filament heater units on the wall were kicking out a dull blast of dry heat, regulated by Aarlem’s automated thermostats. It was stuffy.

There were six large vox-caster units set up in the office; three were active and in use. Signal strength indicators flickered and glowed, and Ludd could hear the background murmur of a thousand voices, as dry and parched as the heat.

The Ghosts’ regular vox-operators had been turfed out when the Inquisition arrived. Three Inquisitorial vox specialists were on station, each manning one of the active casters. They were attentive and diligent men in sober black suits, their ears cushioned in large headphones. They were carefully monitoring all traffic in and out of Aarlem Fortress. Portable memory recorders had been plugged into the three casters to assist with any later transcription work, and the operators were making regular, abbreviated notes on the data tablets that rested beside their right hands.

Their supervisor was a haughty-looking ordo agent called Sirkle. He too was dressed in black, though part of his attire was body armour. He was pacing behind the operators, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally pausing to lean over and read one of the noted comments.

When Ludd walked in, Sirkle glanced at him dubiously. Ludd had only seen Inquisitor Rime at a distance during his visit, but he was struck by the marked facial similarity between Rime and his henchman.

‘Can I help you?’ Sirkle asked.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ said Ludd with what he hoped was a relaxed grin. ‘I was just wondering if there was any news.’

‘News?’

‘Of the colonel-commissar,’ said Ludd.

‘Why do you want to know?’

Ludd laughed. ‘You’re kidding? The men want to know, friend. The Ghosts are a very loyal bunch. Feelings are running quite high in the barracks. They want to know what’s going on.’

‘This facility is the subject of an investigation by the holy ordos. There are strict–’

‘I understand that, friend,’ said Ludd. ‘I was just hoping, you know, off the record, just between us…’

Sirkle stared at him.

‘You must know what it’s like to feel loyalty to a senior commander.’

Sirkle paused thoughtfully.

‘There’s nothing yet,’ he said. ‘No trace of Gaunt’s whereabouts at this time, although the signs are that he did exit Section alive.’

Ludd nodded. ‘All right. Thanks. Thanks for that, I appreciate it.’

There was a tap at the outer door, and Beltayn entered, carrying a tray.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he said to Sirkle. ‘Commissar Hark suggested I brought some caffeine in.’

‘I’m sure that would be very welcome,’ said Ludd. He stepped back as Beltayn moved in so that Sirkle and his operators could help themselves to the mugs on the tray.

The tiny window of opportunity opened. Ludd had his back to the half-open door into the inner office. He took Brostin’s paper slip out of the palm of his glove, keeping his hands behind his back. Then he leant backwards quickly, reached around the office door, and dropped the slip into the grille of the nearest wall heater.

‘Well, we’ll leave you to your work,’ Ludd said, heading towards the outer door. ‘Thanks again,’ he added, looking at Sirkle.

The ordo agent nodded back, sipping his caffeine.

‘Sir?’ said Beltayn, looking at Ludd.

‘What?’

‘Something’s awry,’ said Beltayn, and pointed towards the inner office door.

‘Oh feth!’ Ludd cried.

Through the half open door, they could all see fierce bright flames licking up out of the wall heater. Sparks were boiling out across the inner office carpet, igniting smaller fires, and a thick, acrid smoke was already pouring into the main vox office area.

Beltayn hit the fire alarm and bells began to jangle.

‘What the hell is this?’ Sirkle demanded.

They all began coughing as the smoke hit their throats.

‘Feth!’ Ludd cried. ‘Bel, grab an extinguisher from the hall! Feth it all. This is the third time this week!’

He looked at Sirkle. ‘Dust gets caught in these old heaters and catches fire. You’d better move out while we get this under control.’

‘It’s a bad one this time, sir,’ Beltayn coughed as he ran back in with a cylinder extinguisher.

The foul smoke was stinging their eyes and scorching their throats, and the height of the flames in the adjoining room was alarming.

Sirkle got his operators up and out of the room quickly, all of them covering their mouths, and hacking out coughs as they went.

Beltayn looked at Ludd, and Ludd looked back. Beltayn tossed the extinguisher to the young commissar, then sat down at the nearest active caster station. Both of them pulled folded, moistened squares of vizzy cloth out of their pockets, and bit down on them, breathing through their mouths to take the burn out of the smoke.

Shielding his face from the heat of the flames, Ludd pushed the inner office door open and began to blast the ferocious heater fire with the extinguisher.

At the caster station, Beltayn worked as fast as he was able. He quickly scanned and noted the frequency batches that the operator had been listening to; then he used a small screwdriver to remove the caster’s front inspection panel. Ludd gave the fire another couple of blasts and glanced back.

Come on! his eyes pleaded.

Beltayn ignored him. He paused the portable memory recorder then he reached into the inspection panel, selected one of the fat main cable trunks, and unscrewed it at the connector. He took the bypass – a small, metal unit – out of his pocket, screwed one end to the connector, and the other to the loose cable. A small green ‘active’ light lit up on the side of the bypass.

Beltayn began to screw the inspection panel back into place.

Ludd finally vanquished the fire with the extinguisher. He closed the inner office door, took the wadding out of his mouth, and started to open the vox office windows to vent the smoke. Snowflakes whirled in on the cold air.

He looked over at the caster stations. Beltayn had two of the panel’s screws back in place and was starting on the third. Someone killed the fire alarm.

‘Did you get it under control?’ Sirkle demanded, appearing in the doorway.

‘Yes,’ Ludd replied. ‘I’ll get a work crew in to clean it up.’

Sirkle stared at Ludd and Beltayn. They were opening the last of the windows to clear the smoke.

‘This happens a lot?’ he asked.

‘Too often,’ replied Ludd. ‘I don’t know where the maintenance budget goes.’

‘Back to your stations,’ Sirkle told his operators, and they filed back in. Beltayn and Ludd glanced at one another. In Beltayn’s pocket was the small screwdriver and the fourth and final panel screw. There had been no time to fit it. He prayed no one would notice the fact that it was missing.

The operators resumed their seats.

Beltayn suddenly froze. He’d forgotten to turn the portable memory recorder back on.

He moved forward quickly, scooping his tray off the side desk where he’d left it.

‘Let me get you some fresh drinks,’ he said, busily, ‘these will taste foul now.’

He picked up Sirkle’s, then leant in over each station in turn to collect the mugs. At the third station, he shielded his hand from the operator using the tray, and turned the recorder back on as he reached for the mug.

Ludd and Beltayn headed for the door. In the hallway, Beltayn flashed three fingers to Merrt as he hurried towards the mess with the tray. Merrt was one of several Ghosts who’d gathered in the hallway to see what the commotion was about.

Merrt walked to the hall’s swing doors, pushed through them and showed three fingers to Dalin, who was waiting at the far end.

Dalin nodded, and turned to run towards the temple house. Arms folded, Brostin was watching the door.

‘Everything all right, lad?’ Brostin asked.

Dalin nodded.

‘Mister Yellow all fine and dandy?’

‘He sends his regards,’ said Dalin, and went into the temple.

Hark was waiting inside, standing beside Gol Kolea’s adjutant, Rerval, and a battered E Company caster unit.

‘Three,’ said Dalin. ‘It’s three. Go ahead.’

Rerval adjusted the channel setting, raised the vox-mic and began.

‘Nalwood, Nalwood, this is Stronghold, this is Stronghold, please respond.’

Snoozing, his feet up on the edge of the monitor room desk, Meryn started awake as the vox lit up, and nearly fell out of his seat. He scrambled for the mic, scattering an ashtray, some pens and an empty beer glass.

‘It’s live!’ he shouted.

His hand was moments from the mic when Varl reached in and picked it up.

‘Stronghold, Stronghold, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood acknowledging,’ Varl said calmly into the mic.

‘Give me that,’ Meryn hissed, trying to snatch the mic out of Varl’s hand. Varl slapped Meryn’s hands away repeatedly.

‘Uh uh uh,’ Varl warned, listening hard.

‘Give me that!’ Meryn repeated, his voice a corrosive whisper that would have eaten through lead.

‘Hello, Nalwood, hello, Nalwood,’ the vox crackled. ‘Good to hear your voice.’

‘You too, Rerval,’ Varl responded with a grin.

Meryn reached for the mic again, and Varl knuckle-slapped him so hard he leapt back with a bark of pain.

‘I’ve got Commissar Hark standing by,’ the vox said. ‘Is this a good time?’

‘It’s fabulous, Stronghold,’ Varl replied.

Daur, Banda and Rawne had entered the club’s monitor room. Varl held the mic out to Rawne.

Rawne took it. Meryn glared at Varl.

‘Stronghold, this is Rawne.’

‘Stand by, major.’

The vox crackled.

‘Rawne, this is Hark.’

‘Reading you, sir. I take it we’re secure?’

‘As far as we can be sure. We’ve slipped a bypass into the Inquisition’s listening watch that we’re hoping they won’t notice. What’s your situation?’

‘We’re holed up in an establishment in the vicinity of Selwire Street.’

‘That’s the Oligarchy?’

‘It’s pretty central,’ said Rawne.

‘All right, I’ll find it on a chart. So you all got out of Section alive?’

‘That’s right,’ Rawne replied. ‘I can confirm seven alive, no injuries.’

‘Rawne, are you armed?’

Rawne glanced at the others. Even Varl was looking serious.

‘I can confirm seven armed,’ Rawne replied. ‘Why the question, Hark?’

‘It won’t come as a staggering surprise to you, but we’re looking at a bad situation, major.’

‘Is this planet-wide?’

‘I can’t confirm or deny, Rawne, but from the intelligence I’ve got, it looks like it’s confined to the Balopolis-Oligarchy region, which means you’re smack in the middle of it. Confirmed Archenemy hazard.’

‘Strength?’

‘Unknown, but we’re thinking no bigger than an incursive or expeditionary force. Watch yourselves.’

‘Understood,’ said Rawne.

‘It’s more complicated than that, Rawne,’ said Hark over the link. ‘Gaunt’s in trouble, and you might be the only real help the Ghosts are able to offer him.’

‘I read you, Hark,’ said Rawne. ‘Tell me everything you know.’

By the time the call transmit was finished, Ludd, Beltayn, Dalin and Merrt had joined Hark and Rerval in the temple house. Hark signed off and handed the mic back to Rerval.

‘Rawne’s gang is alive, and we know their position,’ Hark said.

‘Gang?’ Ludd echoed.

‘Got a better term for them?’ Hark asked. ‘Bunch of criminal idiots, perhaps? Recidivist morons?’

‘Gang’s fine,’ said Ludd.

‘We can stay in touch with them as long as the bypass goes unnoticed,’ said Beltayn.

‘And how long will that be?’ asked Dalin.

‘If we’ve got any luck on our side, young man,’ said Hark, ‘long enough for us to learn Gaunt’s whereabouts, and pass that intelligence on to Rawne.’

‘Let’s hope, in the meantime,’ said Ludd, ‘that Major Rawne doesn’t take it upon himself to do anything else.’

‘Such as?’ asked Hark.

‘Well, you told him to stay put. You told him to stay with that vox-set, where we could contact him,’ said Ludd. ‘What if he decides to… go somewhere?’

Hark let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Even Rawne wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ said Beltayn.

‘So long as it’s up to him,’ said Dalin.

Daur walked back into the parlour’s main area. Elodie was sitting at the bar, nursing a small amasec. The muscle, Xomat, was still taped to the chair by the back wall. He looked entirely unhappy about his predicament. Leyr was catnapping on one of the parlour couches.

‘Drink?’ Elodie asked Daur.

He shook his head.

‘What’s the story?’

Daur began to flip through the pack of cards he’d left on the bar top.

‘We’ve managed to contact our regiment, on the sly. There’s stuff happening, but the full picture’s not clear. Orders are to sit tight, and wait for further instructions.’

‘And are you going to do that?’ Elodie asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Daur.

‘All of you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I only ask, because following orders doesn’t appear to be your lot’s strongest suit.’

Varl walked into the parlour.

‘Is there any danger of food in this place?’ he asked.

‘You know where the kitchen is,’ Daur told him.

Varl sighed, and left the room again. From the bar, they heard him shout, ‘Cant? Can you cook or can’t you?’

Elodie smiled and got down off her bar stool. She went around the bar to find the amasec for a refill.

Daur suddenly looked up. Urgent voices had begun to issue from the monitor room. Daur looked at Elodie and they hurried out of the bar together.

‘What’s going on?’ Daur asked as he strode into the monitor room. Banda, Meryn and Rawne were studying the pict-feeds coming from the club’s various security viewers.

‘Company,’ said Rawne. He pointed at one of the screens. ‘Which door is that?’

‘Service,’ said Banda. ‘Freight access, at the back.’

‘Do we know these handsome gentlemen?’ Rawne asked.

Elodie slipped into the room alongside Daur and peered at the viewer. The exterior lighting was bad. There were perhaps six or seven men approaching the club’s service door from the loading dock on Conaut Row.

‘I don’t recognise them,’ she said. ‘Wait. Run it back and freeze on their faces as they pass under the light.’

Rawne played with the viewer’s control toggle, and the feed ran backwards jerkily.

‘There?’

‘Yes,’ Elodie said, and studied the fuzzy image more closely.

‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘I think that’s Csoni.’

‘Who?’ asked Meryn.

‘One of Urbano’s infamous partners?’ asked Rawne.

‘I wish,’ Elodie replied. ‘Lev Csoni is part of a business cartel in direct competition with Urbano’s crowd. We’ve had trouble with them before. They’ve been looking for an excuse or opportunity to knock this club out.’

‘And with the city shut down by a freak snowstorm–’ Daur began.

‘Safeties off, everyone,’ said Rawne.

He went up the snow-laced steps and knocked on the front door of the mouldering old tenement.

Half a minute passed. He was about to knock again when the door opened. A young, slightly scruffy man in a black, buttoned suit and a cravat peered out at him. He looked rather confused.

‘Can I help you?’ the young man began to ask, and then stopped, and instead said, ‘Wait, wait, aren’t you Colonel-Commissar Gaunt?

‘Hello, Mr Jaume,’ said Gaunt.