Vermilion Level, Page 2

Gaunt studied the gibberish on the slate. Only an identifying touch of his thumbprint on the decoding icon unscrambled it. For his eyes only indeed.

  It read: 'Have need of your services sooner than anticipated. You only friend in area close enough to assist. Go to 1034 Needleshadow Boulevard. Use our old identifier. Treasure to be had. Vermilion treasure. Rael.'

  Gaunt snapped the slate shut as if caught red-handed. His heart pounded for a second. Throne, how many years had it been since his heart had pounded with that feeling... was it really fear?

  He saw Milo looking at him in curiosity.

  'Trouble?' asked the boy innocuously.

  'A task to perform...' murmured Gaunt. He opened the data-slate again and pressed the 'wipe' rune to expunge the message.

  'Can you drive?' he asked Milo.

  'Can I?' said the boy excitedly.

  Gaunt calmed his bright-eyed enthusiasm with a wave of his hand. 'Go down to the motorpool and scare us up some transport. A staff car. Tell them I sent you.'

  Milo hurried off. Gaunt stood for a moment in silence. He took two deep breaths... and then a hearty slap on the back almost felled him.

  'Ibram! You dog! You're missing the party!' growled Blenner.

  'Vey, I've got a bit of business to take care of...'

  'No no no!' said the tipsy, red-faced commissar, smoothing the creases in his leather greatcoat. 'How many times do we get together to talk of old times, eh? How many? Once every damn decade it seems like! I'm not letting you out of my sight! You'll never come back, I know you!'

  'Vey... really, it's just tedious regimental stuff...'

  'I'll come with you then! Get it done in half the time! Two commissars, eh? Put the fear of the Throne Itself into them, I tell you!'

  'Really, you'd be bored... it's a very boring task...'

  'All the more reason I come! To make it less boring! Eh? Eh?' exclaimed Blenner. He edged the vintage brandy bottle that he had commandeered out of his coat pocket so that Gaunt could see it. So could everyone else in the foyer.

  Any more of this, thought Gaunt, and I might as well announce my activities over the tannoy. He grabbed Blenner by the arm and led him down to the garage entrance.

  'You can come,' he hissed, 'Just... behave! And be quiet!’

  The girl gyrating on the apron stage to the sounds of the tambour band was quite lovely and almost completely undressed, but Major Rawne was not looking at her.

  He stared across the table in the low, smoky light as Vandross Geel poured two shot glasses full of oily, clear liquor.

  Even as a skeleton, Geel would have been a huge man. But upholstered as he was in three hundred kilos of chunky flesh, he made even Bragg look undernourished. Major Rawne knew full well it would take over three times his own body mass to match the opulently dressed racketeer. He was also totally unafraid.

  'We drink, soldier boy,' said Geel in his thick Pyritean accent and lifted one shot class with a gargantuan hand.

  'We drink,' agreed Rawne, picking up his own glass. 'Though I would prefer you address me as Major Rawne. Racketeer boy.'

  There was a dead pause. The crowded cold zone bar stilled. The girl stopped gyrating.

  Geel laughed.

  'Good! Good! Very strong! Ha ha ha!' He chuckled and knocked his drink back in one. The bar resumed talk and motion, relieved.

  Rawne slowly and extravagantly gulped his drink. Then he lifted the decanter and drained the other litre of drink without even blinking. He knew that it was a rye-based alcohol with a chemical structure similar to that used in troop transport anti-freeze. He also knew he'd taken four counter-intoxicant tabs before coming in. Four tabs that had cost fortune on the black market trade, but it was worth it. It was like drinking spring water.

  Geel forgot to close his mouth for a moment and then recovered his composure.

  'Major Rawne can drink like Pyritean!' he said with a complimentary tone.

  'So the Pyriteans would like to think...' said Rawne. 'Now let's to business.'

  'Come this way,' said Geel and got to his feet. Rawne fell into step behind him and Geel's four huge bodyguards fell in behind him.

  Everyone in the bar watched them leave by the back door.

  On stage, the girl had just shed her final, tiny garment and was in the process of spinning it around one finger prior to hurling it into the crowd. When she realised no one was watching, she stomped off in a huff.

  In a snowy alley behind the club, a grey, beetle-nosed, six-wheeler truck was waiting. 'Liquor. Smokes. Text slates with dirty books. Everything you asked for,' said Geel expansively.

  'You're a man of your word,' said Rawne.

  'Now, the money. Two thousand Imperial credits. Don't waste my time with local rubbish. Two thousand Imperial.'

  Rawne nodded and clicked his fingers.

  Trooper Feygor stepped out of the shadows carrying a bulging rucksack.

  'My associate, Mister Feygor,' said Rawne. 'Show him the stuff, Feygor.'

  Feygor stood the rucksack down in the snow and opened it. He reached in.

  And pulled out a laspistol.

  The first two shots hit Geel and smashed him back down the alley.

  With practised ease, Feygor grinned as he put an explosive blast through the skulls of the outraged bodyguards.

  Rawne dashed over to the truck and climbed up into the cab.

  'Let's go!' he roared to Feygor who scrambled up onto the side even as Rawne threw it into gear and roared it out of the alleyway.

  As they screamed away under the archway at the head of the alley, a big dark shape dropped down into the truck, landing on the tarp-wrapped contraband in the flatbed.

  Feygor, hanging on tight and monkeying up the restraints onto the cargo bed, saw the stowaway and lashed out at him. A powerful jab brought him down cold and laid him out in the canvas folds of the tarp.

  At the wheel, Rawne saw Feygor fall in the rear view scope and panicked as the attacker swung into the cab beside him.

  'Major,' said Corbec.

  'Corbec!?' Rawne exploded. 'You! Here?'

  'I'd keep your eyes on the road if I were you,' said Corbec glancing back. 'I think Geel's men are after a word with you.'

  The truck raced on down the snowy street.

  Behind it came four angry limousines.

  'Oh, feth!' said Major Rawne.

  The big, black staff-track roared down the boulevard under the glowing lamps in their ironwork frames. Smoothly and deftly it slipped around the light evening traffic, changing lanes. Drivers seemed willing to give way to the big, sinister machine with its throaty engine note and its gleaming doubleheaded eagle crest.

  Behind armoured glass in the tracked passenger section, Gaunt leaned forward in the studded leather seats and pressed the speaker switch. Beside him, Blenner poured two large snifters of brandy and chuckled.

  'Milo,' said Gaunt into the speaker. 'Not so fast. I'd like to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible, and it doesn't help with you going for some new speed record.'

  'Understood, sir.' said Milo over the speaker.

  Sat forward astride the powerful nose section, Milo flexed his his hands on the handlebar grips and grinned. The speed dropped. A little.

  Gaunt ignored the glass Blenner was offering him and flipped open a data-slate map of the city's streetplan.

  Then he thumbed the speaker again. 'Next left, Milo, then follow the underpass to Zorn Square.'

  'That... that takes us into the cold zones, commissar,' replied Milo over the link.

  'You have your orders, adjutant,' Gaunt said simply and snapped off the intercom switch.

  'This isn't Guard business at all, is it, old man?' asked Blenner wryly.

  'Don't ask questions and you won't have to lie later, Vey. In fact, keep out of sight and pretend you're not here. I'll get you back to the bar in an hour or so.'

  I hope, he added under his breath.

  Rawne threw the truck around a steep bend. The six chunky wheels slid alarmin
g on the wet snow. Behind it, the heavy pursuit vehicles thrashed and slipped.

  'This is the wrong way!' said Rawne. 'We're going deeper into the damn cold zone!'

  'We didn't have much choice,' replied Corbec. 'They're boxing us in. Didn't you plan your escape route?'

  Rawne said nothing and concentrated on his driving. They were flung around another treacherous turn.

  'What are you doing here?' he asked Corbec at last.

  'Just asking myself the same thing,' Corbec reflected lightly. 'Well, truth is, I thought I'd do what any good regimental colonel does for his men on a shore leave rotation and take a trip into the downtown districts to rustle up a little black market drink and the like. The men always appreciate a colonel who looks after them.'

  Rawne scowled, fighting the wheel.

  'Then I happened to see you and your sidekick Feygor, and I realised that you were doing what any good sneaking low-life weasel would do on shore leave rotation. To wit, scamming some local out of contraband so he could sell it to his comrades. So I thought to myself... I'll join forces. Rawne's got exactly what I'm after and without my help, he'll be dead and floating down the Cracia River by dawn.'

  'Your help?' spat Rawne. The glass at the rear of the cab crazed suddenly as bullets smacked into it.

  Both men ducked.

  'Yeah...' said Corbec, pulling a laspistol out of his coat. 'I'm a better shot than Feygor.'

  Corbec wound his door window down and leaned out, firing back a quick burst of heavy las fire from the speeding truck.

  The front screen of one of the black vehicles exploded and it skidded, clipping one of its companions before slamming into a wall and spinning, nose to tail, three times before coming to rest in a spray of glass and debris.

  'I rest my case,' said Corbec.

  'There's still three of them out there!' said Rawne.

  'True,' said Corbec, loading a fresh power cell, 'but canny chap that I am, I thought of bringing spare ammo.’

  Gaunt made Milo park the staff-track round the corner from Needleshadow Boulevard. He climbed out into the cold night. 'Stay here,' he told Blenner, who waved back jovially from the cabin. 'And you,' Gaunt told Milo.

  'Are you armed, sir?' the boy asked.

  Gaunt realised he wasn't. He shook his head.

  Milo drew his silver Tanith dagger and passed it to the commissar. 'You can never be sure,' he said simply.

  Gaunt nodded his thanks and moved off.

  The cold zones like this were a grim reminder that society in a vast city like Cracia was deeply stratified. At the heart were the great Palace of the Ecclesiarch, and the Needle itself. Around that, the city centre and the opulent, wealthy residential areas were patrolled, guarded, heated and screened, safe little microcosms of security and comfort. There, every benefit of Imperial citizenship was enjoyed.

  But beyond, the bulk of the city was devoid of such luxuries. Kilometre after kilometre of crumbling, decaying city blocks, buildings and tenements a thousand years old, rotted on unlit, unheated, and uncared for streets. Crime was rife here, and there were no Arbites. Their control ran out at the inner city limits. It was a human zoo, an urban wilderness that surrounded civilisation. It reminded Gaunt of the Imperium itself - the opulent, luxurious heart surrounded by a terrible reality it knew very little about.

  Light snow, too wet to settle, drifted down. The air was cold and moist.

  Gaunt strode down the littered pavement.

  1023 Needleshadow Boulevard was a dark, haunted relic. A single, dim light glowed on the sixth floor.

  Gaunt crept in. The foyer smelled of damp carpet and mildew. There were no lights, but he found the stairwell lit by hundreds of candles stuck in assorted bottles. The light was yellow and smoky.

  By the time he reached the third floor, he could hear the music. Some kind of old dance hall ballad by the sound of it.

  The old recording crackled. It sounded like a ghost.

  Sixth floor, the top flat. Shattered plaster littered the worn hall carpet. Somewhere in the shadows, vermin squeaked.

  The music was louder, murmuring in this room on an old audio-player.

  The apartment door was ajar and light, brighter than the hall candles, shone out, the violet glow of a self-powered portable field lamp.

  His fingers around the hilt of the knife in his greatcoat pocket, Gaunt entered.

  The room was bare to the floorboards and the peeling paper. The audio-player was perched on top of a stack of old books, warbling softly. The lamp was in the corner, casting its spectral violet glow all around the room.

  'Is there anyone here?' asked Gaunt, surprised at the sound of his own voice.

  A shadow moved in an adjoining bathroom.

  'What's the word?' it said.

  'What?'

  'I haven't got time to humour you. The word.'

  'Eagleshard,' said Gaunt, using the code word he and Rael Tagore had shared years before on Estragon Prime.

  The figure seemed to relax. A shabby, elderly man in a dirty civilian suit entered the room so that Gaunt could see him. He was lowering a small, snub-nosed pistol of a type Gaunt wasn't familiar with.

  'Who are you?' Gaunt asked.

  The man arched his eyebrows in reply. 'Names are really quite inappropriate under these circumstances.'

  'If you say so,' said Gaunt.

  The man crossed to the audio-player and keyed in another track. Another old fashioned tune, a jaunty love song full of promises, started up.

  'I am a facilitator, a courier, and also very probably a dead man,' the stranger told Gaunt. 'Have you any idea of the scale and depth of this business?'

  Gaunt shrugged.

  'I have spoken to one person, the person who sent me here tonight to meet you. I have no illusions as the seriousness of the matter, but as to the depth, the complexity...'

  The man studied him. 'The Navy's Intelligence Network has established a cobweb of spy systems throughout the Sabbat Worlds to try and ascertain the nature of Macaroth's true agenda.'

  'So I have been told.'

  'I'm a part of that cobweb. So are you, if you but knew it. The truth we are uncovering is frightening. Warmaster Macaroth has Imperial dreams, my friend.'

  Gaunt felt impatience rising in him. He hadn't come all this way to listen to arch speculation. 'Why am I here?' he said.

  The man paused. 'Two nights ago, associates of mine in Cracia intercepted a signal sent astropathically from a scout ship in the Nubila Reach. It was destined for Macaroth's Fleet headquarters. Its clearance level was Vermilion.'

  Gaunt blinked. Vermilion.

  The man took a small crystal from his coat pocket and held it up so that it winked in the violet light.

  'The data is stored on this crystal. It took the lives of two psykers to capture the signal and transfer it to this. Macaroth must not get his hands on it.'

  He held it out to Gaunt.

  Gaunt shrugged. 'You're giving it to me?'

  The man pursed his lips. 'Since my network here on Cracia intercepted this, we've been taken apart. Macaroth's own spy network is after us, desperate to retrieve the data. I have no one left to safeguard this to. I contacted my off-world superior, and he told me to await a trusted ally. Whoever you are, friend, you are held in high regard. You are trusted. In this cold war, that means a lot.'

  Gaunt took the crystal from the man's trembling fingers. He didn't quite know what to say. lie didn't want this vile, vital thing anywhere near himself, but he was beginning to realise what was at stake.

  The older man smiled at Gaunt. He began to say something.

  The wall behind him exploded in a firestorm of light and vaporising bricks. Two fierce blue beams of las fire punched into the room and sliced the man into three distinct sections before he could move.

  Gaunt dived for cover in the apartment doorway. He drew Milo's blade, for all the good that would do.

  He could hear feet thundering up the stairs.

  From his vantage point
at the door he watched as two armoured troopers swung in through the exploded wall. They were big, clad in black, insignia-less combat armour, carrying compact lascannons. Adhesion clamps on their knees and forearms showed how they had scaled the outside walls to blow their way in with a directional limpet mine.

  Lasguns in hand, they surveyed the room, sweeping their green laser tagger beams.

  One spotted Gaunt prone in the doorway, and opened fire.

  Las-fire punched through the doorframe, kicking up splinters and began stitching along the plasterboard wall.

  Gaunt dived headlong. He was dead! Dead, unless-

  The old man's pistol lay on the worn carpet under his nose. It must have skittered there when he was cut down.

  Gaunt grabbed it, thumbed off the safety and rolled over to fire.

  The gun was small, but the odd design clearly marked it as an ancient and priceless specialised weapon. It had a kick like a mule and a roar like a Basilisk.

  The first shot surprised Gaunt as much as the two stealth troops and it blew a hatchsized hole in the wall.

  The second shot exploded one of the attackers.

  A little rune on the grip of the pistol had changed from '5' to '3'. Gaunt sighed. This thing clearly wasn't over-blessed with a deep magazine.

  The footfalls on the stairway got louder and three more stealth troopers stumbled up, wafting the candle flames as they ran.

  Gaunt dropped to a kneeling pose and blew the head off the first. But the other two opened fire up the well with their lasguns and then the remaining trooper in the apartment behind him began firing too.

  The cross-blast of three lasguns on rapid- burst tore the top hallway to pieces. Gaunt dropped flat so hard he smashed his hand on the boards and the gun pattered away down the top steps.

  After a moment or two, the firing stopped, and the attackers began to edge forward to inspect their kill. Dust and smoke drifted in the half-light. Some of the shots had

  punched up through the floor and carpet just centimetres from Gaunt's nose, leaving smoky, dimpled holes. But Gaunt was intact.

  When the trooper from the apartment poked his head round the door, fifteen centimetres of hard-flung Tanith silver impaled his throat and dropped him to floor, jerking and spasming.