Old Soldiers Never Die - Sandy Mitchell Read online

  “Oops,” Jurgen commented, as he failed to negotiate a turn, and ended up sideswiping a large and imposing mausoleum which barred our way. Cast rockcrete crumbled and split, dislodging a few chunks of debris which clanged and clattered into the passenger compartment, fortunately without braining me in the process, and a particularly tasteless cherub was reduced to gravel beneath our treads. “Better drop another gear.”

  “That might be prudent,” I said, brushing the worst of the dust and pigeon droppings from the peak of my hat; behind us a sidewall collapsed, and the whole edifice slumped like an inebriate who simply can’t be bothered with the effort of remaining upright any longer. I half expected the whole thing to crumble into rubble, but it remained standing after a fashion, although how long it remained so after our departure I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess. With a grind­ing of gears we dropped to little more than walking pace, turning frequently to pass along the widest gaps between the piles of monu­mental masonry.

  At first, it seemed, the war had left this hamlet of sepulchres unscathed, at least until our visit, but after a few more moments I began to pick out signs of damage to several of the tombs we passed. Doors had been forced, hanging from their hinges or swinging gen­tly in the wind, and Jurgen had clearly spotted them too; he hawked and spat, a sure sign of his disgust. “Grave robbers,” he said, in the same tone of voice he might have used to refer to heretics.

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, examining the next one we passed as closely as I could from my perch behind the heavy bolter. So far as I could see it had been broken into, rather than out of, which was some­thing at least. “There must be a lot worth stealing down some of these holes.” For reasons I’ve never been able to fathom, a substantial number of the wealthy and powerful seem to feel that if they can’t take it with them they can at least keep it to hand, lavishing a small fortune on ornamentation and objets d’art to make their last resting place look as much like a courtesan’s boudoir as possible.

  If Jurgen felt disposed to respond to the remark, he never got the chance; a pallid figure suddenly appeared in the headlights, staring dumbly in our direction, as though mesmerised. That it was a revenant I never had a moment’s doubt, the ravages inflicted on its flesh by the teeth and nails of its fellows perfectly plain in the glare of the luminators, bone showing through in several places where muscle had been torn or gnawed away. The frenzied attack which had killed it had left few of its garments intact, but the shreds which remained hinted at some lowly occupation in one of the manufactories. Before I could take in any more Jurgen gunned the engine, and the hide­ous apparition abruptly disappeared beneath the Salamander, with a faint crunching sound.

  “Looks like some of them are up and about,” my aide remarked, as though the matter were only of minor interest.

  “That one hadn’t been buried here,” I said, ignoring the unsavoury heap of offal left in our wake in favour of keeping an eye out for more. But in that case, what was it doing here? A question I was soon to have answered, as a whole group of the things appeared up ahead, barring our way, like the ones who’d overwhelmed the car on the way in from the landing field. The Salamander was a good deal more sturdy, however, not to mention armed, and this time we’d be far from easy meat.

  “Flamer, sir?” Jurgen asked, and I was about to answer in the affirm­ative when the bulk of a sepulchre larger and more ornate than most of the rest loomed up out of the darkness, barring our way.

  “Bolter,” I said. “The backwash from that wall might catch us too.”

  “Bolter it is,” Jurgen confirmed, and triggered the sturdy little vehi­cle’s main armament, chewing the advancing revenants to pieces, while I swung the pintle mount, picking off a few on the fringes of the crowd. The handful of survivors continued to shamble towards us, as heedless of the fate of their fellows as advancing tyranids, only to fall beneath our spinning treads for their pains. “That’s seen ’em off.” As he spoke, he swung us ninety degrees, so we were running parallel to the large tomb, and, to my inexpressible relief, I saw the gravel drive we’d been making for just ahead of us.

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, but no sooner were the words out of my mouth than I felt something clutch at my ankle. I looked down, to find that one of the revenants we’d run over had survived the experience, grabbing hold of the Salamander’s chassis as the tracks passed either side of it, and was now in the process of hauling itself aboard. Drawing my chainsword, I struck down at it by reflex, the teeth whining as they bit into matt-black body armour. The fingers refused to relinquish their grip, and I kicked out at the revenant’s head, with equal lack of effect; my boot hit bone with enough force to incapacitate a living opponent, but there wasn’t a lot I could do to this one that hadn’t already happened.

  Then it raised its head, bringing the necrotising flesh of its face into view, and I reeled with the shock of recognition. The household guard uniform ought to have been enough of a clue, I suppose, but under the circumstances I’d had little opportunity for ratiocination, and the sudden realisation that my assailant was Klarys rattled me badly. The last I’d seen of her she’d been on her way to a sanatorium, her injuries severe, but hardly life-threatening[24] .

  There was no doubt that for some reason she’d succumbed to them, however. Her very presence here attested to that, not to men­tion the stench of decay that surrounded her ambulatory cadaver. Changing my point of aim, I brought the spinning blade down on her neck, severing her head in a single swipe. The hand around my ankle relaxed its grip, and I kicked the suddenly inert body clear, boosting it up and out of the passenger compartment, while the loose head rattled around the box of armour plate like a discarded scrumball.

  Hardly had I time to draw breath than a resonant thud behind me snatched at my attention. Another pair of revenants had managed to board us, this time by jumping from the roof of the tomb we were skirting. I swung my chainsword at the one reaching for me, almost choked by the stench of it, and was rewarded with a spray of corruption as the spinning blade sliced through its chest, neatly bisecting it. The upper section began pulling itself towards me with grim determination, and I struck down, intending to decapitate it as I had done the motile remains of Klarys, but at that moment the Salamander lurched violently, and I stumbled, the whining blade raising sparks from the floorplate instead.

  “Jurgen!” I called. “What the hell’s going on?” The Salamander slammed sideways into the tomb, raising a cloud of dust, and a shriek of abused metal, before veering away in the opposite direction.

  “Sorry, sir. Bit busy.” My aide was attempting to fend off another revenant, with only his hands and a hastily-drawn combat knife to defend himself with, which, not unnaturally, made it difficult to concentrate on steering at the same time.

  Compensating for our erratic progress, I aimed my blade more accurately on the second attempt, adding another to my impromptu collection of heads, and leaned over the sheet of armour plate sepa­rating the passenger compartment from the driver. Then I hesitated. I didn’t dare hack at the revenant, for fear of hitting Jurgen instead, and attempting to shoot it was even less of an option. Leaving my aide to fend for himself was equally unthinkable, however, as if we stopped I had no doubt that we’d be overrun with the revenants I was certain still lurked among the mausolea.

  “Hang on,” I said, hoping my reluctance didn’t show in my voice, and clambered over the sill of the armour plate, keeping my balance with difficulty. The Salamander was an old one, the guard plates protecting the upper treads removed for maintenance, if they’d even been fitted in the first place, and I found myself teetering perilously close to the rapidly-moving band of jointed metal, all too aware that one misstep would whirl me away to a messy death beneath our tracks.

  “Hanging on, sir,” Jurgen responded automatically, as though the words of encouragement had been an order, and sliced at the revenant’s throat in what would have been a killing strike if any blood remained in its veins to have been shed. As it was, the gap
ing wound he opened up had little effect, other than to make its recipient even less prepossessing than it already had been. Then the Salamander jolted over some hidden obstruction, almost pitching me from its back, and I flailed wildly for balance, dropping the chainsword as I clutched instinctively for a handhold. The weapon fell back into the passenger compartment, narrowly missing taking my leg off in the process, where it proceeded to rattle around, striking sparks from the armour plate and pureeing whatever bits of re-killed revenant it happened to come into contact with. I certainly didn’t envy whoever was going to annoy their immediate superior enough to get landed with the job of cleaning that lot up.

  Unfortunately, the nearest thing to grab hold of in an attempt to steady myself had been the revenant, and it responded in precisely the way you’d expect, by dropping my aide and turning on me. A cloacal stench assaulted my nostrils as it twisted, trying to get round and bury its teeth in my neck. My only chance was to remain behind it; I’d grabbed its shoulder while trying to remain upright, so I extended that arm across its chest, and took hold of my own wrist, which I’d pushed forwards under the preternaturally energetic cadaver’s armpit. By instinct it tried to duck out from under my upper arm, pushing up with its legs as it did so. Sensing the move, even over the jouncing of the Salamander, I twisted too, assisting it on its way, and throwing it to the side, trying to ignore the disquieting way its flesh gave way beneath my grip. The weight of the thing pulled me up and over along with it, and I fell hard against the upper hull, slamming into the metal a mere handspan from the whirling tracks.

  The revenant wasn’t so lucky. For a moment it clung on, maintain­ing a vice-like grip on the lapel of my greatcoat, while the spinning metal treads abraded its flesh away in a spray of stinking corruption, and I felt myself slipping inexorably towards the same grim fate. Then the cloth ripped, parted by the keen edge of Jurgen’s knife, and the foul thing abruptly disappeared, thrown out ahead of us by the speed of the tracks. Whether we passed over it a moment later I have no idea, but by that point I was past caring anyway.

  “That was the last of them,” my aide said, while the Salamander finally trundled clear of the huddle of sepulchres. He wiped a blood­ied hand across his cheek, and dropped back fully into the driver’s compartment. The engine roared, and I grabbed another handhold as we began to accelerate, leaving the nest of necrotic corruption behind us.

  “You’re hurt,” I said, dropping into the noisome mess of the pas­senger compartment, hastily deactivating my chainsword, and scrabbling for the medi-kit. The last thing I needed now was for Jur­gen to pass out from blood loss while we were still running at full throttle.

  “It’s just a scratch,” he assured me. “I’ve had worse.”

  “It’ll need a stitch or two,” I said, leaning across to apply a dressing and a generous slug of counterseptic, which at least staunched the worst of the bleeding. The outer weave darkened a little, but noth­ing seeped through, and I began to breathe a little easier. At least, I reflected, I’d have an interesting anecdote for the governor when we met.

  SIX

  “What do you mean he can’t see me?” I demanded, in my most commissarial manner, and the household trooper barring the corridor leading to Jona’s private apartments quailed visibly. Technically, I suppose, he was a vassal of the governor’s rather than a member of the Imperial military, and beyond my jurisdiction, but in his shoes I wouldn’t have wanted to rely on so minor a distinction either. His face was hidden behind one of those polarised helmet visors, but his posture betrayed his uncertainty, and the ingratiating tone of his voice confirmed it.

  “Governor Worden has given strict instructions not to be disturbed,” he told me.

  “Then he’s in the wrong job,” I said, unsympathetically. “Where is he?”

  I’m not sure if it was the tone of command, my dishevelled appear­ance, or the odiferous traces of former revenant still bespattering my uniform which decided him, but after a moment’s hesitation his head turned fractionally towards an ornately carved door at the end of the corridor. “His chambers,” he said, reluctantly. “But I can’t let you through. My orders...”

  “Would it help if you told him I threatened to shoot you?” I asked, amiably.

  “It might,” the guard admitted. “But you haven’t.”

  “Because I never make threats,” I lied shamelessly. “Consider it more a point of information.” And I let my hand drift casually to the laspistol at my belt. If he’d called my bluff, I’m not sure what I would have done, but I’d judged my man well, and after a brief show of hesitation for the record, he stood aside.

  I nodded my thanks, and padded up the corridor towards the doorway, my footfalls muffled by a carpet thick enough to have con­cealed a ratling with a long-las. I considered knocking, but decided against it, as it would give Jona the chance to tell me to frak off, and there was no point in getting into an argument before we’d even come face to face. I’d had enough conflict for one evening already, and was in no mood for more.

  As I reached out for the door knob, my boot clattered against something lying on the carpet, and I glanced down to find that I’d just avoided stepping on a laden silver salver. The plate on it was full of something which would have seemed appetising had it not been left to cool and congeal for several hours, thus rendering it quite the opposite, although the dessert, some kind of pastry, had fared a lot better. I frowned. Jona was undoubtedly busy, we all were, but he hadn’t struck me as the kind of man who’d get too distracted to remember to eat.

  I tried the door, half expecting it to be locked, but the catch clicked open; it seemed the new governor was getting sufficiently used to his unexpected elevation to expect his minions to do as they were told. Picking up the tray, I walked in, pushing the door closed again behind me with my foot.

  I found myself in a large and elegant drawing room, equipped with the usual accoutrements of sofas, side tables and the like, ranged about a fireplace in which logs had been piled ready for lighting. Jona was at the far end, behind an ornate desk of glossy brown wood, inlaid with the seal of his office, shuffling stacks of paper and muttering into a vox-recorder. For a moment he remained unaware of my presence, then lifted his head to stare at me. “What are you doing here?” he shouted. “Get out!”

  I’ve been shouted at by far more intimidating specimens in my time, none of whom could hold a candle to the proctor of my old schola progenium (although the odd daemon came close), so the prospect of gubernatorial ire left me completely unmoved. “I brought your lunch,” I said, although for all I knew the tray could have been left at breakfast time, and carried on walking towards him unperturbed.

  “I’m not hungry,” Jona said, the anger in his voice replaced by uncer­tainty; something I’ve frequently observed happens if you respond to an aggressor in a manner they’re not expecting.

  “You must be,” I insisted, the vague sense of something being wrong that had settled over me at the discovery of the tray outside intensify­ing as I drew closer to the desk. I put the meal down on top of the papers littering its surface, and got my first close look at the man. “Throne on Earth, you look terrible.”

  “Too much work.” His face was flushed, and swollen, the eyes febrile. “But everyone’s overstretched. Have to set an example.” He coughed, turning his head away, and the scratch on his cheek from the scuffle in the cathedral came into view. I’d have expected it to have healed by now, but it was livid and swollen, badly infected.

  “You should still get some sleep,” I demurred, fighting the impulse to back away. If he was contagious enough to have passed the infec­tion on to me, I’d have been a dead man the moment I stepped through the doorway in any case, which was hardly a comforting reflection.

  “Sleep. Yes, good idea,” he agreed, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t know why they’ve got the heating on this time of year. Do you?”

  “I’ll look into it,” I assured him, my mind whirling, assessing the implications of this horrifying
development. We had to keep his condition a secret, that much was certain. The governor was a sym­bol of the Emperor’s protection, at least in the minds of most of the populace, and if it got out that he’d succumbed to the sickness, the civil disorder we’d seen already would increase a thousandfold. Not to mention the fact that the minute his relatives discovered the truth we’d be up to our ears in fratricidal nobles, scrabbling to fill the vacant throne, and we had enough distractions to deal with already.

  I skirted the desk, keeping the ornate slab of polished wood between us as though that would be any barrier to an airborne virus, looking for a vox. It was right where I expected it to be, and I lost no time in using it.

  “Magos Moroe,” I began, as soon as the cogboy’s face appeared in the pict screen above it, “there’s been an unfortunate development. Your assistance, and your discretion, are both required.”

  SEVEN

  It was another three days before I was able to discuss matters with the magos in person, and by that time the situation had gone from bad to worse. The plague continued to spread among the civilian population, and the first few cases had been confirmed among the 597th, which made the redeployment we’d arranged with the Tallarns seem like a complete waste of effort.

  “It was bound to come,” Broklaw said grimly, responding with all the stoicism I would have expected to the news that a couple of squads of our troopers[25] had had to be sacrificed to save the others. At least my own tests had come back negative, so it seemed my brief exposure to Jona had done no harm, but I couldn’t help wondering how long the unexpected reprieve would last.

  “I had hoped it would take a while longer,” I said, following him into the compact and well-equipped operations centre we’d found after taking over the wing of the palace which normally housed the household troops. An eviction they no doubt resented, but since there were so few of them, relatively speaking, none of them had raised any objections, at least in my hearing.