“And the chips?” asked Perdu.
“Directions,” said Logier, “to a cache. We need to get weapons to the outside, to another cell. They need to prove themselves before we can transport out… We can only get the weapons so far.”
“One of the hive cells? That’s where the boys run the information to.”
“The chips contain the coordinates of the cache site, but they need all six. We planned to send them out in batches, but we couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t sacrifice a second man,” Perdu finished for him. “How do I find the hive-cell? The boy?”
“He won’t go back to the cell unless you pass him the chips, and that’s impossible, now. I’ve got a name… One of yours.”
“Mine?” asked Perdu.
“A priest called Revere.”
The little woman at the other end of the room had been quiet throughout their conversation, but now she began to move pans and dishes around, making too much noise.
“You must go,” said Logier, picking up the woman’s signal. Perdu didn’t answer, he simply rose and turned to go back the way he had come. Logier pointed towards the little woman, who was holding aside a rug that hung on the wall adjacent to the stove, covering a second exit point. Perdu looked from the woman to Logier.
“Follow your nose for a couple of hundred metres, and then take the north corridor for half a kilometre; you’ll find a landmark.”
Perdu ducked out of the room without another word.
Ayatani Revere stood before Bedlo, Mallet and Shuey, his prayer book clutched between his hands as if he were wringing the life out of it. The fervour in his voice was making Shuey’s eyes shine.
“The Emperor saves His grace for those who follow Him unto death. Shy not from duty, shy not from ill nor pain, nor suffering. Glory be to our lieutenant, to the Emperor’s lieutenant in all things, to Wescoe for the gift of her life to her comrades, to Reredos and to the Imperium.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Shuey’s hands came together in one resounding clap before he realised that, as stirring as the priest’s speech was, this was no time for applause.
“With more weapons, with better weapons, Wescoe might not have died,” said Bedlo.
“She died to save the rest of us,” said Shuey.
“Indeed she did,” said the priest.
Mallet was sitting on his haunches, his back to the wall, as always, stripping down Bedlo’s las, again. Bedlo looked down at him. The mercenary had continued with his work right through the ayatani’s service to Wescoe. He had not looked up from his task nor joined in the rite. It was as though Wescoe had never existed, as though she didn’t matter to Mallet. In that moment, she mattered very much to Bedlo. His relationship with Mallet had always been strained, but now it reached a tipping point.
Bedlo swung his fist, batting the weapon out of Mallet’s hand. Mallet had a knife to his boss’ throat before anyone had registered what had happened.
“Steady,” said the ayatani. There were several moments of tension as the priest appraised the situation; a wrong move now and the cell could be destroyed, and some of its members with it. Revere knew that Mallet was a difficult man and Bedlo was highly strung. The moments stretched on, and Shuey looked pointedly at the priest for an answer to the stand-off. Eventually, the ayatani looked from Mallet to Bedlo, winked, and let out a sustained laugh, loud and low, and long, his mouth wide open.
Mallet withdrew the knife, picked up the discarded las, and returned to his position and his job. Shuey looked from Mallet to the priest, and then to Bedlo for his reaction. Bedlo straightened his jacket and regained a little of his dignity.
“The information should’ve come through by now,” he said. “Where’s the boy?”
“He’ll come to me when it’s time,” said Revere. “The agri-cell is strong and able, but they need us. They’ll give you what you want. They’ll share the power, but you’ll have to prove yourselves. There will be more recruits, and more weapons, you can count on that.”
Mallet looked up from adjusting the sights on the las.
“And more dying,” he said.
“If the legends are true,” said Revere, “if they can be proved, the Emperor will save Reredos, and all the dying will be done by the foe.”
Perdu stood at the narrow cross-street beneath the overhang of a disused manufactory, a small, domestic place for making clothes, and looked across at a hole-in-the-wall drinking place run by one of the many widows trying to scrape a living at the arse-end of the hive. A blue light shone for a moment at the basement window, barely visible at ground level but for the soft sheen it gave to the wet walkway. This was the address he’d been given for Ayatani Revere, but he didn’t feel comfortable. He wasn’t sure.
Perdu felt like he’d been dodging excubitors and glyfs far more than usual, and wondered whether Logier was right, whether he was being followed. He took a deep breath and tried to find the courage to cross the street to his destination.
While he was bracing himself, a shutter above Perdu opened a crack and then closed, and moments later someone took hold of the crook of his arm, and began to steer him in the direction he’d been facing.
Perdu didn’t look at his diminutive companion, but knew that it must be a woman or perhaps a boy. He didn’t like the thought of either; he was doing this to save a boy. He rubbed the fingers of his left glove against the palm to make sure that the chips were still there. They were.
Only a couple of metres away from the door to the hovel, Perdu’s companion feigned a fall and thrust a leg out under the ayatani’s feet, sending him crashing to the damp pavement.
Perdu tensed to spring back to his feet and defend himself.
“Stay down,” whispered his companion, leaning over him and faking a quick body-search. Perdu shoved his left hand behind his back, and looked into the face of a boy of about fourteen. The kid kicked him hard, once in the gut, and shrieked before making a dash for it.
A little more light spread onto the pavement from behind Perdu as the low door to the hole-in-the-wall opened, and a tall, solid man with a serious expression stepped to his aid. Perdu went along with the conceit, allowing himself to be helped, when no help was needed, leaning on the larger, older man as they both ducked into the drinking-hole. This had to be his contact.
“You have the information?” asked Revere as he leaned over Perdu, ostensibly to check his wounds, although there was no one in the room to see them other than the widow.
“Revere?” asked Perdu. “Aya—”
“Emperor save us, man,” said Revere, glaring intently at the younger priest. “No names here, and no titles, either.”
Perdu looked into Revere’s eyes for a moment or two, not sure what he was reading there, but fearful nonetheless. Slowly, still looking at the ayatani, he removed his gloves and placed them on a stool close to a small open fire. He put out his hands to feel the warmth of the yellow flames.
“I’ll warm myself a little,” said Perdu, “and be on my way. There’s no harm done.”
He didn’t look at Revere again, and, after a few minutes, he gathered himself together and left the room as he had found it, except that his gloves still sat on the stool. Revere scooped them up and pocketed them. He rolled an oilcloth rug away from the floor and reached for the handle to the cellar door, set in the planks beneath.
“The priest?” Ozias asked the barmaid, his beaker to his lips. “Two of ’em,” said the barmaid.
Ozias had got his confirmation that the chips had finally reached their destination. He put his beaker down on the counter for the widow to clear away, and left.
Revere didn’t look at the chips, he simply gave them to Bedlo, pressing them firmly into his hand.
“Do what you must, with the blessings of the Emperor,” said the ayatani.
“The Emperor protects,” said Bedlo, looking the priest in the eye.
He waited until the old man had blessed them all and said a prayer over their weapon
s before leaving them to their plans. Then, leaving Mallet to strip down the lasrifles and autopistol while the others kept watch, Bedlo examined the ceramite chips. He had to take a glass to them, but he was soon able to make out the markings, compass directions inscribed on the obverse of the chips and digits denoting degrees and minutes on the reverse. Working methodically around the compass points from north, Bedlo lined up the chips in order, and then turned them over and read the directions.
He turned to Mallet and said, “Give me that map. This can’t be one location.” Mallet took a wand from his belt, a little longer than a pencil, cylindrical, about half a centimetre in diameter. There was no apparent join in the rod, but Mallet quickly had it in two pieces and was soon extracting something from inside. He shook out a piece of silk about forty-five centimetres square, covered in a morass of fine lines and tiny handwritten labels, all squared off on a grid with an arrow pointing north and coordinates running along two sides.
The map was a rare resource, hand-drawn and redrawn at every opportunity over several years by a former cell-mate, now dead. Mallet blew on the floor between him and Bedlo, throwing up a small cloud of pale dust, and laid the map down, facing his boss.
Bedlo cast his eye methodically over the map, bringing a finger to rest at their current position. He took the empty rod in his other hand until he had rechecked the coordinates, and then tapped the map in two other places, forming an irregular triangle of three points on the map. Then he tapped the first place again, pointing at their initial destination.
“It’s less than a kilometre from here,” said Shuey, looking over Mallet’s shoulder. Mallet snatched up the map and began to fold and roll it up again.
“That must be the site of the cache,” said Bedlo. “The second coordinates are something else.”
“Nothin’s for nothin’,” said Mallet. Bedlo looked up and eyed him, suspiciously.
“The second set of coordinates signify the site of a raid,” said Bedlo. “They want us to do a job, earn our stripes.”
“And?” asked Shuey.
Bedlo stretched his hand out at arm’s length in Mallet’s direction. “Gimme that,” he said.
Mallet tossed Bedlo the ancient lasrifle that still didn’t sound right when he fired it. Bedlo weighed it in his hands for a moment. Then he wrapped both his fists around the business end of the barrel, and pulled his arms back and his shoulders around. When he swung, he swung hard, levelling the butt of the rifle squarely at the lumpy, rockcrete cellar wall. The weapon made exactly the sort of krak when it exploded against the wall that it should have been making when he pulled the trigger. He’d hit the wall so hard with the las that the remnant of barrel in his hand was badly bent and virtually unrecognisable. Bedlo dropped it on the floor, but Mallet was already sorting through the debris for salvage.
“I never want to see that piece of shit again,” said Bedlo. “Get some fuel for the flamer, and I’ll show them how to burn.”
Perdu looked up at the five bowed heads before him. His faithful five stood hunched in an arc around him. All of the faces were familiar, even though their heads were bent and cast in deep shadows. He hadn’t thought to see Logier again, but there he was, looking right at him, his sixth man. He did not bow his head to the Emperor. Perdu held his gaze while he continued to recite the final prayer, and Logier slowly lowered his head, and finally closed his eyes.
“You came back,” Perdu said to Logier once the rest had dispersed.
“A man must find comfort and strength where he can,” said Logier, without blinking.
Perdu wanted to say something, but couldn’t think what.
“You want to know that I delivered the chips?” asked Perdu.
“No,” said Logier. “Good evening, ayatani.”
“The Emperor protects,” said Perdu, reflexively, as Logier ducked through the low doorway into the dark alley beyond. Perdu tucked his prayer book hurriedly under his cloak, ready to follow the stilt-man. He wanted to confront the agri-worker, but didn’t know why. It didn’t matter; he was too late. There was no one in the alley when Perdu entered it, not even the boy.
Men seldom moved around in groups anywhere on Reredos. Groups made the occupation guards suspicious and the glyfs twitchy. They tolerated twos, but only women and children could move around in groups of three or more, and then not always unmolested.
There was no way that Bedlo’s cell could travel together to the cache, so he split them up and sent them on different routes.
Bedlo would have liked to have the old ayatani on his side, but he didn’t know whether Revere would show up or not. Bedlo wasn’t his boss, and he knew that Revere answered to the Emperor, if he answered to anyone at all, so Bedlo could only give him the time and place of the raid, and wait and see. He was Shuey’s boss, though, and he paired him up with a new recruit called Ailly. Bedlo knew that Shuey was keen and sharp, and would’ve made it into the Guard, no problem, if the war hadn’t cut Reredos off from the Imperium; but he didn’t yet trust Ailly, who had only just joined them and could still prove a liability.
Bedlo had to trust Mallet, despite the tensions between them. He had no choice; the man was virtually a law unto himself. He wasn’t predictable, but he could always be relied upon to turn up for a fight. Bedlo sometimes wondered if he’d switch allegiance, if he ever found his position untenable. It would not surprise him.
Bedlo spotted Mallet halfway along the arterial road out to the galleries, walking south, almost at a right angle to his position, tacking towards their destination. Bedlo was travelling almost directly east-west, and he’d given the boys the long route, circling the lower west quarter of the hive and traveling north to their location.
The cell members would meet at the cache and travel together from there, albeit not in a group that could be picked out by the sentry guards that patrolled close to the skirts of the galleries.
Bedlo wished he had augmetics. He was beginning to feel conspicuous among the stilt-men that lived, ate and slept in this quarter. Still, his pack looked convincing enough, and he’d rigged up an old filter cap to look like it was fitted to his chest. He could be mistaken for an agri-worker at a glance, even if he wouldn’t pass a more thorough inspection. The pack, which was standard-issue for the agri-workers, neatly contained the flamer, which he’d taken from Mallet who had cleaned and prepped it ready for use. Bedlo only hoped that the fuel Mallet had managed to half-fill the reservoir with was actually flammable.
Boys were the same the planet over, and Shuey and Ailly were no exception. It had been so long since augmetics had been issued that the boys working the galleries were indistinguishable from the hivers, and from those that lived in the no-man’s-land between the galleries and the hive proper. The foe sometimes used them for sport, but even as easy pickings they were noisy irritating little putes, and were mostly left alone.
Mallet preferred to zigzag his way along the edge of the hive rather than spend too much time too close to the galleries. He didn’t trust the open land or the regular rows of tunnels extending into the distance. He didn’t like the way they regularised the perspective of the place. He was comfortable in the hive where he could see no further than the next corner or intersection, and no one could see him from any distance, especially the damned glyfs. He wove his way back and forth, along alleys and side-lanes, along the backs of windowless buildings and through endless covered ways. Above was never a good place.
The cache was hidden in an old hop-drying silo in no-man’s-land, one of half a dozen squeezed together onto a shred of land too small to contain them. The round buildings, only four storeys high, stood cheek by jowl with each other. They seemed to bulge outwards, casting heavy shadows against the surrounding manufactories, which had once operated as brew-houses and mash-vats but which now contained the fleshy purple pods and roots that the foe relied on for sustenance. The narrow, dark, round buildings with steep roofs and venting cowls in their chimneys were totally unusable by the Archenemy. They’d tried
to store their produce in them with disastrous results. The hot dry air that was good for the papery hops putrefied the enemy crop almost before it had been stowed, and no new use could be found for the frothing black liquid that resulted. The mess had been left, and the buildings with it.
Logier entered the kiln at the south corner of the site. He was able to move around freely, his augmetics his passport to virtually all agri-areas. He would spot the hive-cell, but they would not recognise him, and enemy guards were thin on the ground. Most of the glyfs hovered over the galleries further out that were too distant for the excubitors to patrol effectively. The local population had no interest in the crops, and only those used to working with the fetid vegetation could stand to be anywhere near large quantities of it. There were enough guards to keep an eye on the workforce, but they had become fat and complacent over the three years of occupation, and unfettered access to the crop had made them bloated and slow.
The hop silo was warm and dry, and no longer smelt of anything. The putrid pods had quickly liquefied and then solidified to form a glassy black surface perhaps thirty centimetres deep on the floor. There was a tidemark a metre high on the walls where the original crop had been loaded to, but other than that, there was no sign that the silos had been used for anything other than their intended purpose.
Neither friend nor foe had been near the silos for the better part of three years, so they had become a useful exchange point for goods crossing no-man’s-land, and were a convenient link between hive- and agri-cells.
Logier had added rubberised slips to the spade-like feet of his augmetics, in order to gain some purchase on the glassy floor surface, and he walked across the silo to examine the cache, arranged on pallets and in makeshift containers on the far side of the room alongside a sizeable hand-barrow. Ozias had put together a fine hoard of weapons since the inception of the agri-resistance-cell, and they had plenty to spare for the right cause.