n. pl. in·cu·nab·u·la (-l)1. A book printed before 1501; an incunable.
2. An artifact of an early period.
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Excerpt from Evidion Datacast Archive – Major News and Imperial Events Thread – 790.M41 +++Revered Lord Governor Dies+++ DATE: M41.790.141 DISTRIBUTION: All local networks and public systems; All Imperial networks and public systems up to and including Vermillion Segmenta level. VIEWING: Compulsory. KEY POINTS: Death of Lord Governor Sweyn +++ six months of mourning declared +++ public attendance at daily Lamentations and Lugubrations of Sorrow to be enforced by Vigiles +++ Libitinarii to hold public executions of all prisoners during Week of Excarnation +++ THREAD: Revered across the Segmentum as one of the noblest and most loyal and courageous planetary governors of his age Lord Governor Sweyn today passed into the light of the Emperor in the sanctity of the House Imperial surrounded by his worshipful family and retainers, and attended by the Cardinal-Elect of Evidion. Six months of mourning has been declared by Majordomo Duytrianne of the House Imperial. The late and lamented Lord Governor, a friend and father to his adoring subjects throughout his 350 year reign, achieved his greatest fame and adulation as the uncompromising Holy Hammer of the secessionary rebels of Evidion Beht and Evidion Gammal who threatened the essential supply of ores to the Great Houses and the Imperial war effort. He is succeeded by his eldest son Supeuos Matachyn Maladite, now Lord Governor-Elect Matachyn, who was present at his father’s death-bed to inhale the corpus omega exhalus, as required by law and tradition. The Lord Governor-Elect will be anointed at a ceremony to be held after the six months mourning has elapsed. Many of the Segmentum’s greatest figures are expected to attend including… ***END EXCERPT*** Excerpt from darknet-cast intercepted at Arbites Courthouse on Evidion Beht M41.790.141 (Category: Restricted Material - Secessionary Rebellion – Intercepted Comms – Propaganda – Unknown Authors): Rejoice! The pork-master general has died, cruelly struck down in the prime of his corpulent corruption by his eldest son and heir. Were you fed up with only getting the scraps from the Great Pig's table Supeous? Welcome to the feast, new Lord Governor Matachyn, we hope you choke on it. Either that, or that your own jug-eared and bloated son stages his own palace revolution in a few years and shoots you in the back too. Rejoice! For we bring you the truth; the unalloyed, unfiltered truth. The Holy Hammer, murdered by his own unholy offspring. We would cheer that Sweyn, that hypocritical wart on the arse of the Imperium, was dead if only Matachyn was not twice as corrupt and twice as psychotic. Wake up Evidion! They are bleeding you dry… ***END EXCERPT*** 792.M41 The three boarding torpedoes sped through the darkness towards the isolated lights of Uttapar station, and the mining vessel that was docked alongside. The mining vessel, with its huge, rounded plasma storage tanks and scoops at the rear dwarfing the stumpy body at the front, looked like a well-fed nectar-ant as re-imagined by the minds of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Indeed, to those same minds perhaps it performed much the same relative function as a nectar-ant. The station behind it, a former Naval observation platform, the far side now covered with layer upon layer of heavy plating and rad-shielding that protected its occupants from the worst of the lode-winds, with its segmented body, and its protruding struts and gantries, looked in comparison like a huge, armoured soldier ant, about to devour its prey. The torpedoes sped on invisibly in the void. Spinning now at multiple factors of the speed of sound the outer shells of the long, whip-thin needle-craft were covered in nano-sharp molecular teeth, etched into the pure adamantium of the hull. When the anbaric capacitors were activated just before impact, super-heating the teeth in a fraction of a second, these could slice through the thickest armour like a power sword through silk gauze. Inside, their occupants hung
suspended in shock-gel. Awake, alert, but immobile as the heavy plasmid
ooze held them securely, braced for anything but the worst impacts.
In fact, the front three quarters of the needle-ships were nothing but
empty space – additional cushioning for their lethal cargo. The shock gel turned pink, and then red, as stims and adrenal boosters were fed in and absorbed through the mercenaries’ skin. The men began to quiver as the drugs ran through their system, their metabolisms racing as the hurtling torpedoes thrummed about them. Anticipation replaced anxiety, fury replaced fear. This, they knew to a man, was going to be bloody. They smiled. The huge capacitors began to discharge as the hull of the Iohantch rushed up to meet them. # The teams of miners were heaving the last of the bulkheads into position just a few metres from Keir, while further down Transverse B1, towards the marshalling yard, more teams were stacking and piling stores and equipment as rudimentary barricades. There was no talking, just grunting and the occasional oath, and they were all sweating freely with the exertion despite the cold. Keir helped ram the bracing
arm in place, kicked it for good measure and then waved over Salem.
The young man ran up, hefting his bulky tech-slate. Keir hurried back down the transverse to the marshalling yard. The grinding sounds of the giant cutting wheels filled the echoing space of the yard, jarring fillings in teeth and dislodging dust from the ceiling. The noise was only slightly muted by the heavy bulkheads the crew had rammed and braced into place not minutes before, and the hatches they had sealed tight between the marshalling yard and the small hatch antechamber. Bosun Freyderick entered the yard from the transverse at the other end at a brisk trot, with a squad of Arbites behind him all carrying several heavy metal boxes. “Sir. “ Freyderick stopped in front of Keir and made obeisance. “We broke open the lockers and got the sidearms, sir. And the boat’s locked down.” “Good, good. Start handing them out. Freyser, give him a hand. Ration the ammo. Master Bhirtle,” shouted Keir, turning away, “have your men finished with the bulkheads?” “Nearly, sir,” came the man’s voice from down the transverse. “Last few going into place now.” “Look sharp, Bhirtle. Get them secured and then pull your men back.” The bulkheads, manually winched or lowered into place, sealed the mining vessel off into compartments, just as on the Anteus. They were used to prevent the spread of fire, the loss of atmo and the advance of boarders in case of hostile action. Only two transverses remained open, to permit movement along the length of the ship during combat, although these had the usual light hatches and doglegs. One, Transverse B1, ran right through the marshalling yard. The other, Transverse B3, ran through the main cargo bay at the opposite side of the ship. They could expect the boarders to come down both of these, although with only three boarding torpedoes en-route, they might only have boarders coming down three of the four approaches, if they were lucky. The route between the marshalling yard and the main cargo bay had been left free of bulkheads for now, to permit the defence of the main cargo bay. Keir’s plan was to hold the Sword’s boarding teams in the Transverses, falling back as need be towards the main cargo bay and the marshalling yard. If it came to it, the main cargo bay would be sacrificed and a final stand made at the marshalling yard. Keir was not keen to make his stand there, with the privateers on the Uttapar cutting through the hatches behind him. It was a choice between having nowhere to run to and being caught in a pincer movement once the main hatch fell, and Keir was by no means certain he had made the right one. The ship’s superstructure rang, surprisingly softly, and there was a barely perceptible shift of the floor under his feet. If Keir hadn’t been through it once before he might never have guessed that the boarding torpedoes had just struck. He keyed his vox to the general channel. “That was the torpedoes. We have scant minutes until they seal the hull breaches, clear the acid-gas and deploy. Form up into your squads and take cover. Call out any targets you see, watch your ammo, do what the Arbites or an officer tells you and we’ll give you all something to tell your grandchildren about. Show your faith with your blood and your loyalty with your steel. This is the Emperor’s ship and by the Holy Throne it shall not fall to this or any other enemy!” Keir checked the clip in his bolt pistol once again and headed off down the short corridor to the main cargo bay, as the arclights in the yard behind him went out. # Keir took up position a short way along Transverse B3 South, keeping low behind the makeshift barricade, a dogleg behind him cutting off his view of the cargo bay. Around him in the broad corridor crouched the miners. All of the men were armed – Keir had already seen ship-issue laspistols, powerful short-range models with brutal stopping power, as well as snub-nosed bark-guns, single-shot flare guns, wide-bore shotguns, hard-round pistols and even some Evidion-made Imperial Guard-issue lasrifles, as well as numerous knives, cleavers and wicked-looking bill-hooks. All the miners were tired-looking, drawn and very pale. They had already been through a lot, but there was no time to rest. Keir, not given to being silent at times like this, keyed his vox. “Arbites, report in.” “Squad Alep One, sir,” replied Squad Leader DeVere. “In position in the main cargo bay.” “Squad Alep Two are ready to do the Emperor’s work. Marshalling yard, sir,” came the reply from Squad Leader Otto, a man Keir was used to seeing at the daily services aboard the Anteus. A very pious man. They would hang back, waiting to see where they would be needed the most. Keir’s officers; Midshipmen Salem and Freyser, as well as the bosun of the Anteus, Freyderick, who almost seemed to be enjoying himself, were positioned at the other three main barricades. Keir stared down the dim transverse, the emergency lights already on as a precaution. His breath fogged in front of him in the cold, damp air. The Iohantch’s atmo controls had been damaged by the Sword, and exhaled moisture now beaded every bare metal surface, rainbow colours glistening faintly over the dirty oil that caked everything aboard. Keir shifted his feet. The decking was damp and slippery too. The ship shook with a thump from forward, and Keir grinned. That would be the det-blocks Bhirtle’s men had set in the quarterdeck. The ship’s controls had been trashed already, but the det-block was a nice welcoming surprise for the bastards, he thought. He flicked his vox. “There’s a few less to worry about, eh?” The boarders wouldn’t make the same mistake in the engineering bays, but it would slow them down a bit. And they wouldn’t have the control of the ship’s systems they were looking for, either. No, they’d have to carry out some major repairs for that. His vox hissed into life. “Contact, contact,” and then the sound of multiple and varied weapons firing came across the open link. It had sounded like Freyser. “Transverse B1 North.” Yes, it was Freyser. “Looks like –“ an oath and a metallic spanking noise “- like a few squads. Watch your fecking fire back there, you blind piece of –“ the remaining words were lost in the crackle of the vox and a surging of gun fire that went on for a few seconds. “They’re pulling back, sir. Just scouting us out perhaps. Hard rounds and las-fire.” “Good work, Freyser. Get your squads to watch their ammo. Pick their targets. Let the Arbites know if you need -” “Transverse B3 North – we have contact.” Any more words from Salem were drowned out as the vox channel was swamped with the noise of weapons fire reverberating in the confined space. Keir scanned the transverse ahead of him, the muzzle of his bolt pistol resting on the top of the barricade. Still nothing. Had all three torpedoes hit forward of the cargo bay/ marshalling yard axis that divided the ship? “Holy fecking Throne!” It was Salem, and his yelled words came at the same time as a far-off roar could be heard echoing down the corridor behind them. “Report!” shouted Keir into his bead. “And watch the blasphemy!” “Sorry, sir. I – feck – I think one of them had a flamer and we, ah, just hit it. Took a good few of them with him, and, ah, nearly took us too. Transverse is a bloody inferno up ahead. Fire suppression seems to be buggered. Ah. Sorry, sir.” Throne, thought Keir, glancing up at the suppression pipes that would normally be leaking fluid at this point. They were clearly unpressurised. He didn’t allow flame weapons aboard for just this reason. With all the dirt and oil around that fire could get into the insulation and spread, invisibly and quickly, throughout the ship. It would also eat their ox long before it burnt up the ship, but with atmo off-line it might just starve before it spread. It also meant some of the other boarders might have flamers. Keir muttered an oath. He really, really didn’t like fire. Just then he saw movement at the dogleg in the transverse up ahead. He keyed his vox. “Movement, Transverse B3 South. Steady. Wait for it.” All around him the miners gripped their weapons tighter, and whispered oaths and prayers, and a few obscene curses that almost made him laugh, despite the chilly tension. Miners were nothing if not hard-asses. Shadowy shapes moved cautiously around the dogleg, ducking down against the walls as they emerged. They had clearly learned from their colleagues, and were not about to charge straight into a trap, but they couldn’t see Keir and his men in the gloom. The vox channels were now
awash with battle-chatter and the sounds of conflict. It sounded like
all positions had now engaged. He could hear the bosun whooping, and
Freyser yelling for Arbites back-up. So much for only dealing with three
advances, they must be here in numbers. “Now!” sub-voxed Keir. “Take them down!” He framed one of the mercenaries in the hard-sight of his bolt pistol and let off two rounds, while around him the chill air exploded with the fire of his squads. Muzzle-flashes and las-rounds lit up the dim stretch of transverse in sudden, strobing flashes of light as fire poured down on the boarding party. The far end of the corridor erupted in a shower of sparks, smoke and blood as man after man was hit. Keir’s target lost an arm at the shoulder and then took the second round in the chest and was blown backwards off his feet, bowling over the figures behind him. Armoured bodies dived for what little cover there was as shots split the air around them. They tried to return fire, but the Iohantch’s defenders had them pinned down. Keir gaped as he saw one merc take five hits from an ex-Guard lasrifle before slumping to the deck, and then looked on in horror as the boarder he had just dropped with two shots from his bolt pistol tried to get back to his feet. Keir put him down with a final shot to the head. What the hell, thought Keir? That wasn’t just good body armour. The mercs quickly withdrew to the dogleg, losing even more men as they retreated, but they were rapid and efficient, and Keir was dismayed at how few dead bodies lay across the far end of the corridor. They had no time to regroup however. Two small objects flew round the dogleg, clanged heavily off the walls and skidded to a halt not far from the barricades. Keir barely had time to yell “Grenade!” and duck before they went off. Keir swam in blackness for a timeless and panicked instant before a face appeared in front of his out of the fog, very far away. The face was ugly, with rad-tumours and scars and it was yelling something, but Keir could hear nothing but the rushing wind. A hand waved Keir’s bolt pistol at him. Suddenly sight and sound and sensation rushed furiously and painfully back. He was half-sitting, slumped against the side wall of the transverse, propped up against a series of vertical pipes. His head was throbbing painfully, and nausea threatened to rise up and swamp him. Other members of his squad were lying or getting up around him, but there were also plenty of other miners in positions of cover who were firing rapidly and continuously down the corridor. Heavy return fire was coming their way now and some of the bodies around Keir would not be getting back up. The barricade had absorbed the brunt of the blast, but it was badly compromised now, and would not save them from another such hit. “- won’t they fecking die?” someone shouted from close by. “- being overrun! Get the fecking beetle-boys! Someone get the -” “- oh, shit, ammo! Ammo –“ He grabbed his bolt pistol off the miner leaning over him and lurched back to the barricade just as a mercenary slammed into it and toppled over the top, almost landing on Keir. His dark red flak-armour was cratered with ragged holes from various munitions and slick with his own blood but Keir saw to his shock the man was still alive, his eyes staring and his pupils tiny and fixed. Keir cut the man’s throat in one swift move with his combat knife, and glanced over the barricade. They were indeed being overrun. The mercenaries were charging down the transverse into the withering fire from the miners, but for every one that fell another was behind him, and far too few were falling. Wishing he had a heavy stubber, or a heavy anything for that matter, he began to fire at almost point-blank range into the oncoming wave of boarders, the solid shells dropping two, three, four men. But it was nowhere near enough. “Fall back!” he yelled, struggling still to fight off the concussive effects of the krak-grenades. “To the dogleg! Move it! DeVere, Transverse B3 South – now!” he voxed. The miners needed little encouragement, the ferocity and inhuman endurance of the mercenaries tearing down upon them had almost broken their morale, but they held together enough to avoid the retreat turning into a rout. The two grenades, although weakening the barricade, had also scattered and torn it and made it much harder to get past. As the rushing boarders reached it they had to slow and almost stop to get over. The others behind them were ploughing into them regardless, and the charge had completely faltered as armoured men became entangled in the confusion. Seeing his chance Keir rallied the men nearest him and, with an earsplitting roar of “For the Emperor! To me Iohantch!” charged the barricades with his bolt pistol in one hand and his knife in the other. Keir rammed the muzzle of his bolt pistol into the open face of a helmeted mercenary and pulled the trigger, then kicked the legs out of another as he tried to get his footing in the wreckage of the barricade and plunged his knife into the back of his neck. The butt of some unseen weapon caught Keir across the brow and sent him spinning backwards to the deck, another wave of nausea threatening to plunge him into blackness again. He lay, momentarily dazed, and saw the miners who had followed him tearing into the mercenaries with club, blade and hook in a welter of blood and screams of pain on both sides. It was intense and uncompromising, but the miners were losing. Keir struggled back to his feet and launched himself into the fray, ramming his whole weight into the side of a mercenary who was struggling with one of Keir’s squad, and stabbed him again and again in the face. A gloved hand grabbed Keir’s neck out of the ruck of bodies and jerked him backwards, the fingers digging into his windpipe. Operating on pure instinct now Keir twisted and bit down hard on the exposed wrist, and heard a high-pitched scream of pain. The hand pulled free, taking one of his own teeth with it. Something very cold or very hot ripped down Keir’s thigh. Just then he heard a vox-amplified cry behind him, incredibly loud even in the din of the hand-to-hand carnage. “Juridicae Eternae!” The mecha-sound of the battle-cry was like a punch in the back of the head. “Down!” cried Keir, grabbing the miner nearest him in mid-swing, and dragging him to the deck. Buzzing noises whipped past him, seeming to actively avoid him as he fell. A blue glow swept over Keir and the prostrate miner as the Arbites leapt over them as one, suppression shields sizzling with stored energy, and combat shotguns firing their homing rounds again and again. The wall of shields impacted on the mass of bodies still struggling to get over the barricade and with a deafening blast the shields discharged, a lethal blue-white pulse filling the smoky haze of the ravaged Transverse for an instant, killing half a dozen mercenaries in the blink of an eye. From behind their almost total wall of steel, the Imperial Eagles on the front crackling as the shields built up another fatal anbaric charge, the Arbitrators eviscerated those closest to them with twin, side-mounted bayonets while discharging Executioner round after Executioner round into the dismayed mercenaries. The intelligent rounds sought out heart and head with unerring accuracy, and devastated the ranks of the enemy. Some return fire began as the boarders fell back from the barricades, but it simply caromed off the shields in blue-white flashes. As Keir helped the other miners to their feet, he could hear nothing but Squad Leader DeVere bellowing the Litanies of Justice from the Book of Judgement through his vox-hailer over and over again. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Keir ordered his squads to fall back to the second line of barricades at the dogleg, and then turned to try and add his bolt pistol to the rout of the enemy. The Arbites gleaming helms were too high however, even for a man as tall as Keir. He could not get a clean shot without risking hitting one of the troopers. He turned and ran back to help the miners set up a new defensive position at the dogleg, their last before the cargo bay. He fought down the urge to vomit as he ran, his head still swimming, and blood now sheeting down his face from the head wound. Just as he reached the dogleg a flare of warm yellow light bathed the walls, floor and ceiling of the Transverse, and as the crackling roar reached his ears he turned in horror, fear gripping him. It was the first time in his life he had seen the Arbites burn like that, but not the first time he had heard it, as the rolling gouts of flame engulfed them and sped down the corridor towards him like the war-shout of hell itself. The hands of a miner grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back round the dogleg just as the wave of liquid fire broke against the second barricade. A choking blast of super-heated air that singed his hair and face and lungs rushed over him, filling his nose and throat with the smell and taste of fyceline. In the roiling smoke Keir rolled over, hands flapping at the numerous small flames on his uniform jacket, coughing uncontrollably. When he finally realised he was no longer on fire, he scrambled to his feet, choking coughs still racking him, and helped the other miners up. He could see nothing back down the corridor in the dense, murky smoke, nothing other than the angry red back-glow of the fires that crackled as they consumed the bodies of the Arbites. The barricade would be useless against another blast from that weapon, thought Keir. It was time to seal off the transverse. He started shouting orders over his vox, as the Arbites ammo, choke- and krak-grenades began to cook-off, rocking the corridor and pulsing visible pressure waves in the thick, oily smoke down towards him. That ought to keep the mercenaries back for a minute or two, he thought grimly, as he commended the souls of DeVere and his men to the Emperor and sombrely made the sign of the Aquila. He shrugged off another wave of nausea that threatened to swamp him and, his vision still unsteady, followed the retreating miners back down to the cargo bay. He had to side-step around the teams already heaving the thick bulkhead into place across the transverse, and only just avoided the man with the spitting and hissing portable plas-welder who was already moving into position. He keyed his vox to the command channel, just as he caught sight of Salem out of the corner of his eye. “We have lost Transverse B3 South, as well as numerous men and DeVere’s squad to a flame weapon. I’ve pulled back to the cargo bay and the bulkheads are going up as I speak. Report.” Freyser’s voice came first. “Otto and his squad have managed to see off the mercs, sir. We’re holding at the second line of barricades. We’re too far for their grenades to do much damage now, but we’ve taken a battering, sir. These devils are on something, sir, there’s no way they could take the number of hits we’re giving them.” “Yes, I’ve had a taste of that myself,” said Keir, wiping the mercs blood from his mouth. “It’s something a bit stronger than recaff, eh? Bosun, you still with us?” “Live and kicking. These miners’ve got balls aplenty, captain. We’re holding ok here.” Bosun Freyderick sounded as if he was discussing a drinking contest. “Salem.” Keir saw the young midshipman was being treated for burns to his face and hands as he walked over. “Report,” he said, motioning to Salem not to get up. “Sir. Ah, the fire didn’t spread, but it took all the ox, and, ah, we hadn’t anything to breathe. I cut the grav to kill the fire and we had to fall back, and then they came at us again, ah, grenades and a heavy stubber I think. Sorry, sir. Tore the men up something awful, it did. Had to fall back.” Keir saw the bulkhead was already in place across the entrance to Transverse B3 North. The only way off the cargo bay now was the short route to the marshalling yard. They would hold the bay as long as they could, and then fall back through the corridor to the yard. Keir was too old to believe that heroic last stands were anything other than bloody slaughters, and he was very keen to avoid making a last anything at this time in his life. Where was K’eto? “Anything on auspex?” “Ah, no sir. I’ll check again.” “Very well. Get the men into position, covering both bulkheads.” The boarders would get through eventually, he knew. He glanced around the large, low-ceiling room, still crowded with crates, stores, lifting gear and partially disassembled pieces of machinery. “Where’s Bhirtle? Ah, Master Bhirtle. A word.” The old man scurried over, fresh cuts visible on his sweat-streaked, leathered face. “Master. I want det-blocks on the main cargo hatch over there. Open the two inner hatches, jam them both, and put the blocks on the outer hatch. Here. You know how to rig a remote detonator from a vox-unit? No? Salem’ll show you. Quickly now.” He turned to speak to the cargo bay as a whole, raising his voice to address the men. “We hold here, as long as we can. When the word comes, every man is to head through the hatch for the marshalling yard. It’s that way.” There were a few scattered laughs, and Keir grinned. “Do not dawdle. Once we get the corridor sealed behind us I’m opening the bay to the void. We’ll see how they like that.” As he spoke a loud sizzling sound had started to come from one bulkhead, and then the other. Sparks, glowing slag and oily, orange smoke dripped from the corners, and began to burn a trail around the edge. Thermic paste. It wouldn’t be long now. He gave orders to pile as much equipment, cargo and machine parts in front of the burning bulkheads as they could manage, and with scores of willing hands the corridor entrances were soon almost invisible behind a haphazard wall of crates and junk. Keir moved over to the hatchway leading to the marshalling yard, to get a clear idea of the lines of fire, and gestured to Salem to join him. A few moments later Bhirtle looked up from where he was crouched by the large outer hatch. “Captain!” he called across the cargo bay. “Quickly man, what is it?” “I…thought I heard something, or someone. On the other side of the hatch.” That didn’t make sense, thought Keir. There was no way to open the main outer hatch without another ship. “Are you sure?” “Positive, sir.” Bhirtle had stood up and had one ear pressed against the curved ceramite. “Thumping noises, sounds like, sir.” Thumping noises? Oh Holy Throne, thought Keir. The boarders had no idea the inner hatches were jammed open – how could they know? They were about to blow open the outer hatch – enough det-blocks would do it - thinking they could then open the inner ones manually and assault the cargo bay from a third direction. Oh sweet Holy Throne, they had no idea what they were about to do! “Unjam the inner hatches, man! Either of them - now, do it now!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Everyone – out of the cargo bay. Move it! Move it! Now, dammit!” He stood aside and started shoving men through the hatch. Bhirtle looked confused and then comprehension dawned on his face, and he reached up with a horrified look to try and remove the pneumatic rods braced across the opening. He got one down, but was still fumbling with the release levers on the other two when the det-blocks went off. With a surprisingly quick and quiet bang the outer hatch simply vanished into the void, and Master Bhirtle was whipped away almost as fast, before he even had a chance to scream. A hurricane of iron gripped every person and every thing in the cargo bay without exception. A roaring filled Keir’s ears, and a shocking pain as the pressure plummeted. He grabbed for the wall next to him but missed and his feet started to slip on the slick decking. A hand grabbed his flailing wrist as his feet lifted clear off the floor and, looking up, he saw Salem holding onto him with a grim fury in his eyes. The midshipman was braced inside the doorway leading to the marshalling yard, the pain on his injured shoulder almost beyond endurance. “Close it!” bellowed Keir, but the howling gale tore the words from his lips. Salem began to drag him inside the hatch, just as it started to slowly roll closed on its own. Behind – now effectively below - Keir men and equipment collided at sickening speeds as they hurtled out the huge hole into the void. At either side of the cargo bay the weakened bulkheads, still sizzling, gave way with a shriek that was instantly lost in the raw rage of the wind, and red-armoured men tumbled, slipped and flew after them screaming in fear. A tumbling recon-mash crate slammed into one of the remaining bracing rods and sent it spinning off and into the void, but the final rods holding each inner hatch open were secured inside the runners – there was no way anything was going to knock them free. Keir, seeing there was nothing he could do to seal the breach, began to heave himself through the narrowing opening leading into the corridor – now for all practical purposes directly overhead. Salem gritted his teeth, yelling something in the rage of the gale, and hauled Keir up and through the closing portal. It shut with a clunk and the wind and fury died as quickly as it had arisen, and the dust and detritus began to settle out around them. Keir lay, gasping for breath, his muscles and lungs aching. He heard panicked chatter over the vox, but realised he didn’t have the strength to speak right now. Finally, after an agonising few seconds, he got his breath back and yelled for order. Dozens of miners had been lost to the void, and those that were left from Keir’s and Salem’s squads stood, visibly shocked, in the narrow corridor. Keir stood, or tried to. His blood-smeared uniform jacket was caught in the sealed hatch. He tore it off in a furious rage, which was not improved when he realised the void had also taken his bolt pistol. He mastered his emotions, and then turned to face Salem and the men. “We have lost the cargo bay, but not the ship, and the boarders have probably lost nearly half their number in less than thirty seconds through their own foolhardyness. We have the marshalling yard, which we shall now reinforce. We still have the upper hand, and I assure you we shall prevail. The Emperor will not abandon us in our hour of need, you shall see.” Whether the men believed him or not was hard to tell from their smoke-stained and sweating faces, but at least their spirit had not been completely broken, thought Keir. “Mister Salem, you have my thanks. In exchange may I have your sidearm please.” Keir took the proferred laspistol and pushed off down the crowded corridor for the marshalling yard. The miners moved silently aside to let him pass. # Squad Leader Otto removed his helm, with a puff of gas. “How did they die, sir, if I might ask?” “They died serving the Emperor, Squad Leader. Their names will be inscribed in the Hall of Honour at the Precinct House, of that I have no doubt,” said Keir. Otto nodded once, and turned away to his men, making the sign of the Aquila as he did so. The attacks against both barricades in Transverse B1 had ceased shortly after the cargo bay disaster, but had now redoubled in fury. Clearly the boarders were keen to make a final push, knowing that the Iohantch’s men were now trapped in the marshalling yard. Freyderick’s squads had been taking a mauling and were about to be overrun, and Keir had had to go down the transverse and almost threaten to shoot him before he relented and regrouped at the final sequence of barricades. At least the enemy seemed to have run out of flamers. Freyderick had already lost an ear and several fingers on his right hand, but was still making a fuss about being patched up back in the yard. “Good spot for a last stand, eh, Captain?” said Freyderick, looking up from his bandaged hand with a broad grin. “As you were, bosun,” said Keir, half-smiling. The sounds of bark-guns blared down the North transverse as fighting there intensified. Keir shouted an order at Otto’s squad to reinforce on the double, and was about to join them when Salem hurried over to him. “Sir, it’s the auspex.” Keir saw he was holding another data-slate. “Well? The Anteus?” Salem paused, and Keir’s felt the chill in the air grow deeper. “Ah, the Sword, sir. I can see some damage on her flank, but not much. She’s bearing down on us. There’s, ah, more, sir.” “Out with it, son.” “I’ve, ah, picked up the traces of a large plasma explosion, sir. See here? Two thousand kloms away.” The Anteus’ engines. Oh, Holy Throne, thought Keir. Did you try and take that monster on, K’eto? You damned fool. You thrice damned fool. Then he realised he had just spoken those words out loud, and that Salem was staring at him. “Well. Keep this to yourself for now, Salem. This changes things a bit. Carry on, lad.” The nausea that had never really passed threatened once again to overwhelm him, but he fought it down. A bitter taste of bile remained in his throat, but to Keir it was the taste of defeat. Damnation, this changed things, he thought. He was damned if he was going to let the Sword destroy his ship and then breeze in here and take the Iohantch too. Throne, no. If he and his men were going to go out, it would be with a bang. And there was only one thing around here that could make a bang big enough for the Sword to notice. The only problem was it was on Uttapar. Uttapar it was then, he realised, with a grim smile. # “You can’t be serious!” The look in Keir’s eye told the Master’s Mate he had overstepped the mark. “I mean, Captain, sir, you ought to – ah – that thing isn’t meant to be used anywhere but – but in the void, sir.” “Believe me. I know,” grunted Keir over the noise as the two men struggled to heave the bulky plasma-welder out of the equipment storage room that lay off the main crew hatch antechamber. Moving the welder usually involved the lifting gear set into the ceiling that would take it to the hatch, and from there it was normally picked up by an external manip-arm for exterior repairs, but Keir didn’t have time for that now. From the marshalling yard behind them, the sounds of weapons fire intensified once again. The decimated men of the Iohantch were being pushed back into the marshalling yard, and soon they would have to put up the bulkheads across the transverse entrances. The sound of combat was, however, almost completely drowned out by the grinding shriek of the cutting wheels still slicing through the main crew hatches just metres from Keir and Master’s Mate Loick. Loick and Keir set the plasma-welder down facing the reinforced crew hatches, from which acidic smoke was already pouring. Keir shouted an order to two crewmen who had been pulled back from the frontlines to take the reinforcing bulkheads down. “Get this thing powered up, and prepare to override those hatches, mister!” Keir shouted into Loick’s ear. He then ran out into the yard, and keyed his vox to the command channel. “All hands. Fall back by squads to the yard. Haul up the bulkheads and seal those corridors off.” Freyser’s voice came back almost immediately. “Sir, we can hold them here a while longer. Squad Leader Otto and I have –“ “I don’t want to hear it, mister. You have your orders.” The boarders could have the damned ship, it wasn’t going anywhere, thought Keir. But he was. The heavy guns of Uttapar station were more than a match for Sword, especially once she came close aboard. Keir had no idea how many mercenaries were in the station, or were defending the guns, but the situation here was now hopeless. Anything was better than staying on the ship. “Iohantch, we are leaving!” Keir shouted into the yard as it began to fill with miners hurrying back from the frontlines in the transverses. He was shocked at how few of them there were. “Form up in squads on me. Arbites, over here. Salem, Freyser – you’re in the first wave. Freyderick! Think you can handle bringing up the rear? Good man! Try and keep up, eh?” Freyderick laughed and shouted something so wonderfully graphic and obscene about the boarders that Keir made a mental note to remember it for future use. “The ship is lost – for now.” He went on, putting both hands up to forestall any complaints. “I promise you, we will get it back. Five floors above us in Uttapar are the heavy guns, and I’m betting they are pretty lightly defended right now. The Sword has a large crew, and she has spared men to take Uttapar and men to board the Iohantch, but she had to keep enough crew to keep her running. I doubt there’s that many men on the other side of that hatch, and they think that grinding arm of theirs is going to stop us rushing out at them – well, they’re in for a surprise.” Keir turned as Master’s Mate Loick came out of the hatchway to the antechamber with the two crewmen, and handed Keir a length of thick, armoured cable, a cable that terminated in a jury-rigged switch. Loick had another cable and switch of his own. “I hope they’re in for a surprise,” muttered Keir below his breath, and then louder, for the yard to hear, “Now Mister Loick.” As he turned to face the darkened hatch he heard the rending screech of tortured metal as the emergency override servos slid the remaining inner hatch open ahead of him, fighting against the teeth of the cutting wheels. He knelt, and offered up a silent prayer. “For the Emperor!” He thumbed the switch. The thunderous clunk-crack of the plas-welder sent shivers down his spine, shivers that seemed to have travelled through the coldness of the void from two years ago. Blindingly white light poured out of the open hatch, spilling like luminous water into the yard. He kept the switch depressed as the light danced and leapt. He could picture the arcing beam of the plas-welder, unconstrained and – if Loick was as good as his word – significantly overdriven in terms of power output, whipping around in the confined connecting corridor ahead of it shredding and immolating anything it touched. With any luck, although luck was not something Keir had seen much of that day, the cutting arm would no longer block the way. With a little bit more luck – well, he would have to wait and see. The ear-splitting shriek of the plas-welder’s transformers was getting higher and higher, and Keir could see Loick looking over at him anxiously. Keir waited a few seconds longer until the shriek was almost beginning to shake his remaining teeth loose and then, standing up and raising his laspistol high above his head, lifted his thumb off the switch. The light died as suddenly as it had appeared, vanishing with an almost audible snap. Keir keyed his vox to the loudhailers in the yard. “Iohantch! Now or never! Charge!” The Captain’s heart raced and soared as he heard the riotous clamour of the scores of men behind him screaming the name of their ship mixing with his own roar and the amplified battle-cry of the Arbites. He ran at full speed through the hatchway and past the whirring and smoking plas-welder. Ahead of it, and ahead of Keir, the hatch was gone and the solid connecting corridor looked like it had been attacked by a daemon with claws and teeth of steel, so deep and broad were the rents and tears in the plating. Of the grinding arm there was no sign, and the end of the short corridor was obscured in smoke. He heard the telltale hissing sounds of multiple hull breaches, and prayed that the corridor wasn’t about to suffer a catastrophic collapse. As he flew through the zero-g corridor he saw the glow of fire up ahead in the smoke, and could hear the crackle of flame and the unmistakeable sound of men in agony. Holding his breath he landed in the smoke and kept on running, the Arbites close at his heels, the blue-white glow from their shields lighting his way in the darkness. He burst out of the smoke, trailing coiling wisps that clung to him and looked out on a scene of carnage. It looked as if the beam from the plas-welder had hit the grinding arm – a thirty-tonne tracked vehicle in reality – like a meteor and slammed it back down the corridor and into the broad reception hall like a missile. It was what Keir had been praying for. The grinding arm was in shreds, as was most of the hall. The back wall was almost completely gone, and fires had sprung up everywhere. Smoke billowed across the ceiling and numerous bodies, and parts of bodies, lay scattered across the floor. Some of them moved and Keir and the Arbites quickly cut them down in a wash of fire as more and more miners poured into the smashed hall from the Iohantch. Some more shapes moved amid the wreckage and the crewmen cut them down yelling furious vengeance. Over by the transport tubes two mercenaries struggled to clear panelling from what looked like a heavy stubber. They got it free and began to fire at the Arbites, the heavy chonk-chonk-chonk sound filling the hall like a train in a tunnel bearing down as the flurry of heavy rounds crackled off the suppression shields. Keir walked over to them, firing repeatedly as he did so, the laspistol’s shots puncturing crisp holes in the men and sending them jerking to the floor as the return fire from the Arbitrators hammered into them also. Keir kept firing until he exhausted the ammo clip. “Freyser! Freyser! There you are, man. Get this set up to cover our rear.” As he spoke to the midshipman Keir could hear the snap and whistle of lasrounds and the rapid bark of the Arbites shotguns. He looked around. It seemed that all the resistance in the hall had been dealt with. Keir ran to the corner where the level-connecting ramps were – he was not going to be trapped in the transport tube – and started hauling smoking debris away to clear the exit. Crewmen raced to assist him as the Arbites quartered the hall and ensured that all the mercenaries were dead. Keir and the men had nearly gotten the exit clear when Salem ran up with his data-slate, shouting Keir’s name. “Captain Keir. Look, sir, look!” Keir stared, astonished for two completely different reasons. The first was that the auspex recording Salem had just made showed the unmistakable signature of the Anteus. The second was that it showed the Anteus bearing down on the Uttapar and the Sword – a suicidal move in anyone’s book. Keir was completely baffled. What the hell was going on? If K’eto had evaded the Sword, who was it whose engines had gone up, and what the hell was K’eto doing re-engaging under the guns of Uttapar? The Anteus would be torn to shreds! “Salem, try and raise the Anteus on the vox, find out what the hell is going on over there. And tell Freyderick to seal up the connecting corridor if he can, before the whole thing breaches.” The exit was now clear and Keir headed off up the ramps, flanked by the Arbites troopers and with Midshipman Freyser and twenty of the Iohantch miners following on behind. The rest had stayed to tackle any mercenaries making it out of the mining vessel, and were already setting up cover. The metal ramps were nothing more elaborate or safe than scaffolding that corkscrewed up a central chimney in Uttapar station, and they swayed disconcertingly and rang with the heavy boots of the men as they ran up them. There was no sign of any other mercenaries or crewmen from the Sword. It was possible the destruction in the entrance hall below had been so sudden and so total that they had not had a chance to warn the others, thought Keir as he ran on, sweating freely through his undershirt and his lungs and sides burning with the effort. The Arbites, even with their heavy carapace armour, kept pace effortlessly in comparison. The ramps continued on up, eventually disappearing out of sight, but the closed hatchway to the gun level lay straight ahead. The green access icons winked steadily. The hatch was unlocked, and what looked like dried bloodstains crusted the lower half. Keir slapped the hatch release panel and the grey slab slid aside with an unoiled squeal of protest. The atrium beyond was packed with discarded boxes and crates, but was empty of people. Metal tables and chairs were piled up haphazardly against both side walls, and into an adjoining room, but a path through the mess had been cleared to the large double doors leading into the gun control rooms and the ammo lifts directly ahead. The doors lay open, and figures could be seen moving amongst the dimly lit, humming and clattering banks of controls that lay on the other side. Keir and the five Arbites moved across the atrium as quietly as they could. They could hear the mercenaries in the gun control room talking on the vox. They were discussing the rapidly approaching Anteus, and appropriate fire solutions that would not endanger the Sword. Their accents marked them out as Evidion-born, probably Evidion Beht. Keir popped his head round the doors for a brief look. Three men stood at the controls of the heavy lances and weapons batteries, while another stood back, head bowed over a data-slate listening to something over his vox. The men were unarmoured, wearing simple fatigues, and a few wire-rifles were stacked on top of a glypher. He had just caught the barest glimpse of the Sword out of the panoramic viewports. Keir tapped his vox-bead, using the PDF's combat-code to signal the presence of four unaware targets to the Arbites. Squad Leader Otto nodded in acknowledgement, motioned to his troopers, and as one they stepped around the doors and into the gun control room, shotguns raised. Keir aimed his laspistol at the man standing apart from the others, and his shot caught the merc in the side of the head at the same time as the Arbites' Executioner rounds created three other twitching corpses before the men even knew they were in danger. Keir raced to the control banks before the bodies had even finished falling, as the miners came across the atrium. “I need six men to run these guns properly. Any trained gun crews? Good, you'll do. And you. The rest of you through there to the ammo lifts. Make sure the gun conveyors are fed and unjam them if they get stuck. Go, move!” The vis-panel the fourth man had been bending over already had the tactical view on it, splashed now with his blood, and Keir saw the Sword and the Anteus. As he would have done, the commander of the Sword was simply waiting for the Anteus to come within range of both the Sword's and the Uttapar's guns. It would be an easy kill for any commander. “Target the Sword. All batteries. Get those lances charging. Fire on my mark.” Keir stared out of the broad viewports and got his first look at the Sword of Anticlus. She was patchily lit by the station's dock lights, but even so Keir could see she had twice the guns of the Anteus, probably larger bore shells as well. She was the same rough template as the Anteus – all the ships in this system looked approximately the same, but still – she was magnificent, easily one of the largest combat vessels he had ever seen operating in Argo-Navis. Even the Marshaller, the PDF heavy cruiser stationed at Primor, would not be a match for her. Certainly way out of the Anteus' league, although it looked like K'eto had taken a few shots at her anyway. Can't say he would have done any different, thought Keir. The thought of engaging her in open void was a thrilling one, to say the least. Keir's vox crackled into life. It was Bosun Freyderick. “Captain, looks like the mercs have made it into the marshalling yard back on Iohantch. Heard one of my surprises go off. They'll know we've buggered off now, sir.” “Acknowledged, bosun. You get the connecting corridor sealed ok?” “Aye - it'll do, captain. It'll have to. That plas-welder tore it to feck.” “We’re just lucky it held at all. Bosun, that heavy stubber. Whether it belongs to Uttpar or not, it’s coming with us, understood?” “Music to my ear, captain!” The Anteus was now just barely visible against the velvety blackness as she approached at speed, and the Sword was turning to present her undamaged port broadside. The vox bead of the dead mercenary at Keir's feet was buzzing like an angry wasp. They were out of time. “If it's ready, fire it now,” ordered Keir, as he worked the controls of the lances. The whole control room shuddered and the ancient station seemed to twist and scream like a living thing as the huge guns fired on the unsuspecting Sword while the twin lance batteries lit up and sent incandescent streams of liquid light pouring over the flank of the vessel. The port side of the privateer vanished in an eruption of debris and plating fragments as the solid rounds punched gaping wounds and the energy beams melted ceramite like wax, spraying yellow-white melt cooling into the void. A venemous cry went up from the Arbites and men working the guns and the lifts, and Keir realised he had joined in. “Sharply now. Hit her again. She's still well capable of gutting the Anteus.” Or possibly even us, he thought, but certainly not both. But it seemed the commander of the Sword was not slow to appreciate the new if unexpected threat, and the vessel continued its turn, beginning to point away from the station and out into the open void. The status icons for the guns' readiness were all glowing green. “Again. Fire!” Once more the decking shook and the panels rattled in their mounts as the guns of Uttapar fired on the Sword. This time not all of them hit the narrowing target, but enough did to send out multiple expanding spheres of glinting and cooling debris. One of the engine nacelles had taken a hit also and the light in it guttered and flared before settling back down. “Fire at will!” The Sword was going to get away, but not without a few body blows. As the guns reloaded and recharged Keir saw several thin threads of purple-white light suddenly blink into being stretching between the stern of the Sword and the side of the Iohantch. One whole section of the flank of the Iohantch burst apart in a great eruption of plating and superstructure, and the station shuddered slightly with the transmitted force of the impacts. Keir swore. Fused ion emitters, operating in the UV band. The Ad Mech back in Primor would be very keen to know how someone got those working in Argo-Navis. To the sounds of snapping steel and rending girders he watched as the Iohantch's connecting corridor and locking cramps finally gave in to all the punishment they had taken, and the great mining vessel began to pitch gently forward with the recoil from the blast, her stern drifting outwards at the same time. She was loose. A voice came over the vox. “Uttapar guns, this Commander Scrima of Sword of Anticlus. Being our chasers targetting the miner's plasma storage tanks. Being we may just survive at this range. You not so. It so be that we call off and part. Win one lose one, it being all same. Say you?” Despite the man's thick accent and curious phrasing, the meaning was clear, and the tone of voice Keir heard through the ever-present crackling interference was one of relaxed confidence. Squad Leader Otto, poised over the controls of weapons battery Gammal, turned to Keir. “Allow me to finish him, sir.” The vox-caster mounted in his dull-orange gorget stripped the emotion from the words, but Keir knew it was there. This had become personal for the Arbites since the death of DeVere's squad, although their training would never allow it to direct their actions. Keir looking into the intimidatingly blank helm, seeking the eyes invisible beneath the single photocromatic slit. “When the time comes, Squad Leader, but that is not now. Stay your hand. That goes for all of you.” He thumbed the vox-link. “Commander Scrima. Captain Keir of the Anteus. Agreed. Till we meet again.” There was a crackling pause. “It being so, and likely. Till and then.” The link went dead. The Sword was already moving off, its stern chasers still aiming directly for the Iohantch's storage tanks. The pressurised and superheated plasma in there would incinerate everything in a surprisingly large radius were it to be released suddenly and all at once. There was the additional and very real possibility that the ion beam would ignite fusion in the compressed plasma, leading to an explosion on a completely different scale. He watched the Sword pass out of the dock lights, turning into a sooty shadow against the star-less backdrop. The man's words – “and likely” - turned in his mind. He knew. He knew that Keir would come looking for him, just as Keir knew he had no choice but to oblige him. An intelligent, and dangerous, adversary. A fitting match for his splendid vessel. Keir smiled, without humour. The smile dropped from his face as he saw the symbols on the auspex wink and flash. The Anteus was changing course, turning for the departing Sword. What in the name of all that's holy, thought Keir, as he stabbed at the ship-to-ship link. “K'eto! K'eto! Stand down, man, stand down! Her chasers are damned ion beams and the plas-tanks are under them. K'eto!” An unexpected but not unfamiliar voice came back to him across the vox. “Captain Keir. How pleasant to know you are alive and well. Lieutenant K'eto has been relieved of command by executive order of the Departmentum Mineralia, Codicae 115A. I am now in command of this vessel and am engaging the enemies of the Emperor. I am – disappointed – that I do not see you doing likewise, Keir. Perhaps I have misjudged you, as I misjudged your officers.” It was Catafex Jubraille. Keir could picture the supercilious look on his narrow, angular face even as he seethed at the man's clipped tones and probably false Great House accent. Ever since the ructions over Keir's report on the Lamahd III, ructions that were silent and invisible to the rank and file at the time but apparently had reached all the way to the top in Evidion, the Lord Governor's office had forced the appointment of Catafices to all PDF vessels. The official reason was to address ‘concerns’ that the PDF were interfering in mining operations – not a serious accusation at any time in the past few centuries – Keir knew they were there to satisfy certain Imperial interests who had apparently – Keir had been very searching and very discreet in his enquiries - been insisting on some much more radical actions. Somehow, these interests had been quieted at the time, and since. Something else Keir had not been able to get to the bottom of. “Catafex Jubraille.” Keir kept his voice calm as the auspex showed the Anteus continuing to turn, although his face was flushed red with fury. “You are inviting certain destruction, not only of all the souls aboard Anteus, but here and on Iohantch as well. Sword can and will detonate the plas-tanks, probably igniting a nuclo-thermic pulse that will scour the void of our bones. You must desist. At once.” “Your cowardice appalls me, Keir. I am surprised the Arbites do not arrest you for desertion of duty, although your fate is of no concern to me. Fuyrance, bring us about on her starboard quarter, lay us just abaft her beam.” Keir cut the link, mind racing, and then thumbed the vox-bead again for Fuyrance. “Midshipman. Midshipman. Fuyrance, Emperor damn it, respond!” The tapped reply was in combat-code. +++ situation critical +++ standing by “Are you armed, Fuyrance?” +++ acknowledged “Point your gun at that fecker's head, mister. Pull the trigger if you have to. I will take full responsibility.” Keir realised with a feeling of dread that he had heard his last few words echoing over the open vox link. Someone had picked up the comms traffic and put it on voxhailer on the Anteus' quarterdeck. “Keir!” It was Jubraille, his voice almost a shriek as he spat the name. “You traitorous speck of shit! Fuyrance – put it down, put it down slowly or I will fecking end you! Yes. That's it. Another traitor, Keir. You seem to -” There was a dull crack over the vox, and a heavy thud. “I appear to have accidentally struck the Catafex with the butt of my laspistol, Captain. Please excuse me while I attend to his injury.” It was Roke. “Emperor bless you, Doctor! Fuyrance, break off, break off your approach!” Keir shouted over the vox link, and saw with overwhelming relief as he watched the auspex that the midshipman was already ahead of him, the hull-sign indicators showing the rapid course change back towards the refuelling station. Keir breathed a little easier as the Sword passed out of their mutual weapons' range and into auspex chatter. He touched the vis-panel where she had disappeared with outstretched fingers. He would be seeing her again. # Keir rose from his knees and stooped to kiss the iconograph lightly before pinching out the smoking incense sticks. He sat back heavily on his steel lock-box and turned the main light in the room back on, before reaching over to place the chrome extinguishing caps on the thick candles burning steadily on his desk. He sat staring at the etched image of the Emperor standing over the Arch Betrayer for a moment or two before flicking his vox bead and asking Gerrid to send word to Master's Mate Loick that the captain would see him now. As he waited Keir read the progress reports on the numerous data-slates that had been gathering on his desk for the last twelve hours. K'eto was recovering well in the medicae ward along with the other casualties, and would be up and about again in a few days. The plasma explosion the auspex had picked up had not been the Anteus' engines, as he and Salem had supposed, but the plasma cannon. Jettisoned along with all the rubbish, spare parts and debris K'eto could fill the ship's many hatches with and then targetted with one of the main guns it had gone up like a – well, like an engine overloading – allowing K'eto to make good the Anteus' escape from the Sword behind an apparent cloud of destruction. A clever move, and one that Keir would take pleasure in writing up for his reports, although he had also enjoyed needling K'eto about not only the damage the Anteus had taken from the Sword in their short engagement, but also K'eto's known dislike of the plasma cannon in the first place. “The minute my back was turned...” had been Keir's grinning assessment. Another slate. The exchange of fire with Sword had cost the lives of twelve men, and twenty others were injured. Roke was being kept very busy. It could have been much worse, Keir mused. Another slate. The Catafex Jubraille was being treated on the feeble excuse for a med-bay on Uttapar. Keir's conversation with Roke on the matter had gone something like this, or so his draft report indicated:- “Is your medicae ward busy with casualties, Doctor?” “Why, yes it is Captain.” “Very well. It seems I have no choice but to have the Catafex' accidental injuries, which sadly appear to have necessitated strong sedatives, treated on Uttapar. Would you concur, Doctor?” “It is my considered medical opinion that you are making the only correct decision, Captain.” Keir would have to redo the draft, though. No-one at ANDU would believe he used a word like 'necessitated' in conversation. Keir's weak authorial skills were interrupted by Gerrid's announcement that Master's Mate – and now acting Commander of the Iohantch – Loick was here. Loick came in, making the sign of obeisance, and Keir indicated for him to take a seat. Loick could see nowhere but the floor in the cramped cabin, and opted to stand, waiting for the captain to speak. “Master's Mate Loick. I believe you wanted to see me, but as it happens I would like a word with you too. But first - how goes the repairs?” “Sir, it'll take a week at least to get her moving, and all her compartments pressurised. Take weeks to fully repair, sir, but the cargo's all there.” Loick smiled. “I trust you will simply head for Primor once she is void-ready?” “Aye, sir.” “It would be a – personal favour – if you could fail to find room for the Catafex when you depart.” Loick grinned. “Aye, I think I can manage that, sir.” Keir would have hell to pay once Catafex Jubraille got back to Primor and made his report, but Keir hoped by then that he would have taken the edge off – blunted the Sword, as it were. A shining victory always overshadowed black marks, thought Keir, wondering idly if he could use that phrase in conversation. At any rate Roke was in the clear. Jubraille hadn't seen the doctor club him from behind, and there wasn't a man on the quarterdeck wouldn’t say he had been looking in another direction at the time. A mystery assailant, by all accounts, including Keir's official one. “You can manage the prisoners, I take it, though? Even short-handed as you are?” Keir knew Loick had volunteered to take the mercenaries captured on the drifting Iohantch back to justice, although the Arbites had offered their capital services in the matter. Keir, no lover of abrupt justice for such human animals when it could be made to take its time, had persuaded the Arbites to let Loick ferry them back. He knew they would not all arrive, and certainly not all arrive intact, but he would lose no sleep over it. Their fate would be the same regardless. Before Loick had a chance to speak Keir went on. “Anyway, to business. I had hoped to speak to Captain F'thul, and then to Master Bhirtle, but – well, I missed my chance there. Perhaps you can help.” Keir picked up a bottle of Resac and poured two glasses, offering one to Loick, who took it gratefully. Keir left his untouched. “What we have to say does not go beyond these walls, Mister Loick. This conversation is officially over, eh? Well. Here it is, then. Supplies. Items. Goods of unknown description, coming into Argo-Navis through official routes – mining vessels most often, if not exclusively. Rendezvous with unlicensed vessels under a flag of truce to deliver these items. Prearranged – and prepayed, perhaps, I do not know. Any of this sounding familiar?” Keir sat back. Loick's face was blank as he sipped his Resac, and then drank the rest in one go. “Doesn't go beyond these walls, right? I don't know. Me and a PDF captain having a cosy chat. Funnier things have happened, right?” He put his glass down. “You and I hadn't done what we just done, I'd thank you kindly for the drink and ask your leave, but...yeah, I know what you're talking about. Heard things, other ships. Nothing serious, it seems, been going on a long time. Bit of hard cash on the side for the captains, right? Turtle the ship, the men don't know what's happening outside, don't know who's out there. Yeah, it happens. Nothing new.” “Why did I never hear anything about this until a year ago?” “Dunno. Maybe you didn't ask the right people. And even if you did, the right people aren't gonna tell you – PDF braid with his – ah, never mind. Old habits.” “Did the Iohantch ever bring anything in-system?” “Happens it did. Captain F'thul got quite happy, and quite plastered, and I got telt all about it weeks ago. Doubt I would have known, otherwise. He kind of had to cut me in after spilling while he was in his cups, Emperor rest him. Couldn't hold his liquor, but he'd stand a round, I'll say that for him.” “Who? Where?” asked Keir eagerly. “Who'd we meet with? No idea, F'thul wasn't daft. Kept us off the quarterdeck when it happened and went to the hatch himself. Never saw them. As for where, it wasn't two days in-system from here. Apparently it's always somewhere round about here, or inwards.” “Do you know what it was?” “No, there was crates of stuff all crypt-sealed, and not company crypto either. But, we was missing one plasma welder afterwards, I saw that easily enough.” God-Emperor! Keir shot forward. “Like the one I used to -” “The same. What the feck anyone needs them for, well, sod em. I got my cut.” Keir had heard enough and pushed the bottle across the desk. Loick picked it up, with a cynical laugh. “Thanks.” “Now, you wanted to see me about something,” Keir said. Loick straightened up, and his conspiratorial look vanished. “Yes, Captain. Me and the men – what's left of the buggers – sorry, sir – was wondering, well we was thinking what you was gonna do about our cargo, sir. I kind of heard what you was saying to Bhirtle, and…” Loick's face now had a pleading look about it. Keir had been expecting this. “Acting-Commander Loick, I have seen nothing that would give me any suspicions as to the origins of the ore you have there. My report has no mention of it. You and your men can enjoy your shares.” Keir saw Loick's features relax, and then the widening of his eyes as the man worked out just how an Acting-Commander's share compared to a Master's Mate's share. “The men of the Iohantch fought like devils, Mister Loick. I would stand alongside any of them again. The Emperor was with us yesterday, I felt it.” The smell of the incense registered in Loick's nose, and he glanced at the iconograph. So the captain was one of those. “Thank you, sir. I, ah, felt it too. Permission to go?” “Granted. Best of luck, Mister Loick.” Keir watched the man leave, and then turned back to his data-slates. Nothing else of significance – he would deal with them later. The information from Loick had confirmed what he had been told only a few weeks before. He had killed the man who had told him, to prevent him telling anyone else, but he had obtained plenty of other information from the man prior to that that had made his report of the interrogation sufficiently revelatory to secure his recent promotion. All the information – at least, the information he had withheld from his official report – pointed to decades, possibly centuries, of illegal contact between licensed and unlicensed mining vessels for the purposes of transferring equipment of some kind, supplies, stores, something. And now this. A plasma welder. It couldn't be a co-incidence. The heretics must be getting their hands on this stuff, wherever they were, and there must be some use the heretics were putting these things to, something connected with what he had seen on the Lamahd III two years ago. And he was going to find out what it was, by the Emperor he would find out. But first things first. The Sword. Her captain had known that the hit to his engine nacelle meant he could not travel at full speed, and that the Anteus could track her plasma leakage. Oh, he could shut down the engine and seal the leak, but plasma repairs required all engines to go offline and the repair would take a day at least. And mag-sails were no use to him this far from the deeps. No. The Sword was out there, leading a trail its captain knew Keir could follow, leading him on. The Sword completely outgunned the Anteus and her captain was clearly confident in her superiority, but it was damaged and badly short of crew. This was Keir's best and only chance to rid the system of her. If she escaped and made repairs, not even the Marshaller would be able to stop her. She was out there, and Keir was certain she was waiting for him. He just had to work out how in the name of the Emperor he was going to beat her.
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