Chapter 22

* * *

Olga was drowning in the lilac fog, dissolving like a sugar cube in warm water - slowly and inevitably at the same time. The brain seemed to work like a broken computer with a shrunken memory. The consciousness was enough to understand fragmentary moments, but when one tried to put the mosaic together into a coherent memory, there was invariably a glitch. Even an attempt to pull oneself together, to clench one's will into a fist, and to concentrate was beyond, beyond the hardware capabilities of one's mind.

There was something... something bad... Or not bad, just unusual. Yes, something happened. Something was... It turned out that if you didn't try to comprehend, fragments of memory were easier to catch. They melted, disintegrated into fragments, like decayed leaves, but still...

A bright, dark purple flash. Or not purple, the color was more complex, more interesting. As a former beauty salon worker, Olga was more or less familiar with the color scheme, and she hesitated, choosing between dark purple and Persian blue. No, dark indigo was more likely.

So there was an explosion. There was a flash.

The girl did not see it, but rather felt it, saw it, but not with her eyes, but as if the image itself appeared on the retina, maybe born in the optic nerves, or perhaps...

No, too many thoughts at once, everything swam, the rate of decay increased.

The Flash. Purple... Indigo...

It was like a special effect from a movie when you have to show a shockwave beautifully and spectacularly, whether it was nuclear or magical or something else. The hemisphere expanded rapidly, leaving only fire behind it. Or rather, light, an indomitable, divinely beautiful glow that united all the colors of the rainbow in a harmony beyond words.

Olga saw it through the metal of the wagon armor, through the concrete of the heavy, sullen buildings of the railroad terminal. The light was both an energy and a gateway, a pathway open to one and everyone to some wondrous place. And this delightful essence was expanding, consuming the world. The girl wanted to raise her hand and point out to Jennifer the infinite beauty of what was happening, to warn the priestess to be ready and not miss a second to enjoy a moment of perfection. She didn't have time, however.

Light engulfed the world, and the world became the light of dark indigo. It warmed like a living fire enclosed in an exquisite fireplace. It brought a welcome coolness, like a light breeze at a hot hour. Filled the crippled soul with peace. Made Olga happy, just like that, without any conditions. Because happiness is what lilac light was ready to bestow without counting, just like that. Because he could and wanted to.

Foolish people think that happiness is like an ordinary resource. It must be mined through hard work, and it certainly is limited. Happiness can be traded, given away gratuitously or for a fee, shared with someone, or taken for sole possession. But this is not true at all, for happiness is infinite. All you have to do is stand up, roll your shoulders, and realize that you have lived as a gravely ill person - in pointless suffering, in excruciating hopelessness. And then you have to start living differently, that's all.

Happiness overwhelmed the girl, permeated every cell of her body, warmed every thought with sunlight. It was amazing, and it didn't end. After all, happiness...

No, Olga said.

The dark indigo turned to wisteria with a dash of gray, like clouds on the horizon ready to bring a storm. A refreshing chill sparkled with the sharp blades of snowflakes, and warmth thickened like red-hot desert air. The world around Olga froze in a mute question, and the question concealed something sinister, hidden for the time being, like a sharpened nail in a sleeve or a hammer in a bag.

Olga collected, restored her soul from the shards, dispersed the fog, concentrated, and snatched pieces of her former self out of the dreamlessness. It wasn't easy, but the main thing was to begin, to concentrate consistently on thoughts and feelings, attaching them to the backbone of consciousness. To the point where you can finally ask yourself a direct question, and then the next:

"What's wrong with this?"

"Where have I seen this before?"

Too much, you scum of a thistle! thought the girl to the light. I've been caught on that before.

Yes, what was going on had nothing to do with the three-armed monster that nearly caught the girl at the Ballistic Station. Everything is better, brighter, more honest. But the essence - if you peel the phenomenon, like a cabbage head, leaf by leaf, down to the core - the essence is the same.

The promise of everything for nothing. No obligations, no conditions, no labor, no effort. Happiness for everyone, and no one leaves offended.

But it doesn't work that way, and Olga knew that better than anyone.

It doesn't happen that way.

Never.

Happiness for free costs the most in the end, and when it comes time to pay, the price is not asked but taken.

The memory of the great Russian language came back instantly, the whole pseudo-Latin 'Gothic', which looked like a wild mixture of French and German, jump out of her head at once. Olga did not say, but thought, distinctly, hoping that lilac understood everything:

Fuck you, asshole.

The girl had the strange feeling that in front of her, around her, and in herself was not a living being, but some kind of element. It was like an ocean that moved, obeyed some rules, existed in an infinite number of interconnected elements but had no independent mind. And she feared that what she was thinking would be unheard. Or misunderstood. Or misunderstood, which would be a shame, considering how much emotion Olga put into three short words. But she was well understood, and her understanding was followed by surprise, which was followed by inevitability. And there followed an answer that was inexpressible in words, but as clear and understandable as Olga's message.

Whoever doesn't want happiness seeks its opposite.

The one who rejects heaven longs to be cast into hell.

The one who doesn't want peace welcomes pain.

The lilacs darkened, even more, icy needles pierced the body, the heat scorched the nerves, barely at first, as if preparing for further torment. The breath of decay and death drank precious drops of will and energy from the soul. And then Olga heard something that was not and could not be here. The most terrible sounds in the world, which were repeated enough to be permanently imprinted in her memory for the rest of her life.

Door creaking.

The clatter of a bottle was placed on a crooked, rusty table. Regular, zero-five liter, priced at forty-seven rubles. Always filled to exactly a quarter to polish up afterward. A very distinctive clatter, it is quite different from that of a bottle, empty or full of, say, half.

The long grinding of the lock being locked, very diligent. The creak of the door boards, pressed by a strong hand, checking to see if it was secure if it wouldn't open at the most inopportune moment.

Olga cringed, whimpering softly in horror. The memory, like a digitized photograph, was rapidly becoming reality, gaining color, volume, and smell. The smell of damp dust - it had rained too much that fall - of street dirt on badly wiped boots. Very bad vodka, so cheap that they don't even dilute it with water to make it bulkier because water would cost more.

It can't be, it can't be, it can't be!!!

And then a familiar and infinitely hateful voice said somewhere over the head: "Who's the best today? Who was waiting for her beloved brother?"

A firm palm came down on her neck, and Olga screamed, realizing that she was in hell after all.

* * *

Bertha had expected anything from slaughter to a bloody orgy, but her squad was quiet, disciplined, and ready for action. The flamethrowers were ready, the equipment on the move and checked, the personal weapons issued from the safe on the Holy Man's personal initiative. Strictly speaking, the fireproof cabinet was simply broken into, but the mentor decided to leave the decision for later. And so was her reflection on exactly why her team was beyond the reach of the rapidly spreading madness.

"What orders?" The Holy Man asked cheerfully, and the question stunned the mentor.

Indeed, what now? But the Emperor is always on the side of the righteous, and then the Priest came to the rescue. The speaker of general communication turned on, emitting a series of wheezes, hinting at the need to update the equipment. And then it cleared its throat and reported:

"My brothers and sisters. We are under attack. Let us be firm in our faith and...'

The Priest described the situation briefly and quite exhaustively. Berta, meanwhile, was thinking intensely. At the same time, the new commandant tried to stifle the sprouts of schadenfreude. 'That's for you, not disbanding! The armored train will show itself yet!'

By the time the Priest encouraged everyone to be strong and brave, and to strike the wicked with both hands, the Mentor already had a rough idea of what to do next. She quickly assigned the duties, ordered the mechanic to sit in the tank, keep the hatches open in readiness to receive the entire crew, and, if necessary, ram the wagon from the inside.

"We'll roll over," Driver remarked melancholically. "Too high. Then we'll have to keep the ramp extended."

"The Emperor will help," said Bertha significantly. "Now, where's the brat...?"

A sharp knock was her answer. The pounding came from outside, and with such force, it looked as if there was at least a servitor on the other side of the door. Without a command, Luke and Kryptman raised their weapons simultaneously; the flamethrowers regrouped, aiming at the doorway. It smelled of gun oil and flamethrower chemicals. To complete the composition of 'the Emperor's servants holding up a heroic defense,' the turret drives hummed. The small-caliber cannon turned, and the bolt clanked loudly, so audible even behind the armor.

Well done, Driver, thought Bertha, taking her own shotgun off her shoulder. She noted that Kryptman had made sure of the density of possible fire and turned in the opposite direction, taking aim at the spiral staircase. Smart guy, really, we should be prepared for an attack from the rear.

The knocking was repeated, demanding, and loud.

"Open up," commanded Bertha to Wretches Man.

Wretches Man licked his parched lips and stood at the side of the armored door, crossed by steel strips with round rivet hats. He licked his lips once more and twisted the locking wheel with one hand. The hinges, well lubricated with frost-proof grease, barely squeaked when the door opened.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Ah, a hundred thousand fucked-up Warp demons," Bertha squealed as she lowered her shotgun.

"Where's the medic?" the tech-priestess asked as she stepped inside.

Above Wakrufmann's left shoulder hovered a servo skull, glistening with a red lens and waving its three-toed limbs. A long antenna protruded from the yellow and white parietal bone, almost touching the metal ceiling.

"This is becoming a tradition," remarked the Holy Man, looking at the limp body of the blonde, who was being held tightly by the mechanic. The little one won't get out of her hospital bed. That'll make her the most veteran we've ever had."

Demetrius didn't say anything, he silently flipped open the medical shelf aboard the 'Chimera,' designed to transport the wounded. The accessory had not been used for a long time (most likely never), but should have been present by regulation, just in case. And, finally, it came in handy, once again confirming the wisdom of the statute.

"What's wrong with her?" The young man asked curtly, sliding a large bag of medical supplies over his chest.

Jennifer gave out a quick succession of some medical terms, which Demetrius, judging by his reaction, understood perfectly and darkened with each word.

"I'll try to stabilize her," he promised grimly. "But there needs to be help from a good hospital. And... " Demetrius looked up as if he could pierce several levels of solid metal with his eyes. "And probably a good psyker, too."

The Sinner recoiled, making a gesture to ward off the evil force, and the rest of the squadron swayed involuntarily to and fro, like the grass in a mighty wind.

"Move apart," Kriptman ordered with unexpected authority.

The Inquisitor quickly stepped toward Olga and placed both hands on her forehead. Fidus frowned and silently moved his lips for a couple of minutes, while Demetrius put the girl on glucose and physiological saline drips.

"You got it," Kryptman finally said quietly, turning to the orderly. It sounded like a question and a statement at the same time. Demetrius nodded slightly and answered just as quietly:

"Yes. Can we help here?"

Fidus bit his lip and furrowed his forehead, shifting his eyebrows. Then he said: "Probably. But it would be dangerous. We need someone to go after her. I'm not a psyker or a psychonaut, I can only help and hold her."

"I..." Demetrius hesitated but continued with apparent reluctance as if recalling something he wanted to forget forever. "Sometimes the Emperor's light shines on me. Sometimes... and in strange ways. That's why I'm here."

"Are you ready or not?" Fidus said curtly, still with his hands on the girl's head. "There's no time to lose, she's getting deeper with each passing minute. If you can't do it, I'll try."

Now Demetrius bit his lip and lowered his eyes without stopping his medical manipulations. He adjusted the dispenser wheel on the antihypoxant packet, and then said a single word with discreet determination:

"I will."

"A psychonautics session organized not by a conditioned psyker, but by a person with a weak gift tag, would require special equipment," Jennifer spoke with her usual boredom of mechanicus, and the squad had already forgotten about her. "The equipment is in the process of being assembled. I had to improvise from what was available, but there's a good chance it might help."

"You'd better mind your own business," Bertha looked at the tech-priestess critically, without a trace of deference. "You're chatting..."

"I don't need to look at the mechanical servants to operate them," Wakrufmann replied haughtily. "The instruments will be delivered in fourteen minutes and forty-nine seconds via the internal pneumatic transmission network."

"I'm afraid we don't have fifteen minutes," Kryptman shook his head. "If we delay, she'll go mad, get lost forever in the maze of the distorted subconscious. We'll have to take a risk."

In contrast to the mentor, the inquisitor treated Jennifer with respect. Demetrius was silent and clenched his fingers nervously, like a swimmer about to dive into murky water with rebar sticking out of the bottom. Whatever the novice was about to do, it scared the hell out of him. The mechanicus turned the mask that replaced her face toward Fidus.

"Trying to use a bit of his gift under the circumstances will probably kill him," Jennifer stated with the straightforwardness of a real machine, pointing to Demetrius. "At best, we'll get two irreversibly insane people. At worst, we'll be left with two shells filled with an alien and utterly hostile consciousness. Better to lose some time, but go on the journey armed. I intend to help according to protocol A-nineteen-eighty-three, you should be familiar with it."

"Eight hundred and three..." muttered the inquisitor. "Electroshock..."

Fidus rubbed his neck and said with evident reluctance: "Yes, that might help. We'll wait."

Demetrius looked at Fidus with painfully dilated pupils, pale as death, but he kept silent and refrained from arguing, apparently deciding that his more experienced colleague understood the situation better.

"Hey, pinion," Bertha called out. "Don't even think about it! A full-fledged fighter and a whole orderly, I won't give them up. And you have something to do, too!"

"I'm on it," Jennifer turned her whole body toward her mentor. "The dignity and good of the children of Omnissiah is in multitasking. And now I'm going to try to get the locomotive up and running so Radial-12 can get going. It's best for all of us to get as far away from any populated areas or human gatherings as possible."

"There were... yours." Came to the voice of the Wretched Man. "I saw it."

"Not anymore," Jennifer retorted. "My fellow has been irreversibly disabled and has effectively ceased to exist."

"Let it be." Berta summed it up. "Go about your business and these..." She nodded toward the inquisitor and Demetrius. "They will do their duty."

The tech-priestess took a step toward the mentor, and Bertha shuddered. Like most ordinary people, Bertha was used to the stately slowness of Omnissian servants, but Wakrufmann moved with frightening speed and looked more like a servant of the Officio Assassinorum.

"Who are you? - Bertha asked, hovering over the tech-priestess as if she were preparing to smash her iron head with the handle of a shotgun. She might as well have been scaring a rock or a statue. "Why do you want this girl?"

"Correction," Wakrufmann added nonchalantly. "We all need the girl. I will draw your attention to an important aspect. This event has the hallmarks of a large-scale psyker attack, either deliberate or spontaneous, acting as a side effect of some kind of action. Both humans and Adeptus Mechanicus are equally affected. But you have kept your sanity and are immune to the hostile influence. Only your department, no one else, including the commandant and staff personnel. They are God-fearing people and objectively far from unbelief. Why do you think that is? What factor protected you and only you?"

"Well..." Bertha looked at Olga in confusion. "Oh, that's nonsense! You're not wrong in the head, are you? Even though you have an iron head."

"This is a fact, and I was in direct contact with your subordinate at the time of the attack. The exposure overloaded my circuits and heuristic systems but was generally tolerable. At the same time, my fellow of the locomotive brigade dismembered himself, broadcasting heretically distorted prayers on all frequencies, as well as a code of awareness of the meaninglessness of existence in a modified body that cannot indulge in the usual human hedonistic vices."

"Nonsense," Bertha repeated, shaking her head. - "Nonsense! We can't take that risk. A soldier has to be on guard duty. A medic has to be on standby to cure. And the girl will lie there until she regains consciousness or until the fight is over."

"Following such a course of action will cause you to lose face and some credibility with your subordinates," Jennifer warned. "If you don't want to voluntarily coordinate your actions with me and take into account my recommendations, I'll force you."

"Yes, I don't want to. Or what?" Bertha grinned angrily, gripping the hilt of the combi-shotgun tighter.

"I had already asked the spirit in 'Chimera' to ignore the commands of the driver, and the request was met with understanding. Spirits don't like those who disregard the advice of the Mechanicus. Now you won't even start this vehicle, let alone do anything more complicated."

"You..." Bertha gasped.

"Besides, an armored train needs a locomotive to move," Jennifer continued with firmness. "One hundred and thirty-seven technical operations must be performed in strict sequence and perfect adherence to the canon of service to get it running and achieve stable traction. It is also necessary to say litanies in praise of the boiler and the steam distribution mechanism. It may not stop there, the spirits of steam-powered machines are conservative and distrustful of new users. The steam engine may not accept machinists without proper recommendations, and a call to the Omnissiha will be necessary. If you can do that, it's time to get started."

Bertha was ready to swear that the thin iron arm of the servo skull folded into a fuck you gesture for a moment.

"If you can't, your train is not functional," Wakrufmann stated ruthlessly. "And you are useless and the antithesis of the ideals of the Communist Sanitary-Epidemiological Squad under the patronage of St. Clarence, may he rest in glory at the foot of the Golden Throne."

Jennifer folded her metallic hands in the sign of an aquila, like a true and faithful servant of the Imperium - a human servant of flesh and blood. The sinusoid on the 'mouth' screen folded into a line, very expressively conveying the sardonic curve of the thin lips. Bertha clenched her teeth, an incredible effort to suppress the outburst of anger and the desire to shoot the pot-head that stood between the Squad and its mission.

No one knows how this nervous dialogue would have ended, in which a bone found its place if at that moment there was not a loudspeaker of the intercom.

"Commandant!" called out in the distorted voice of the Priest.

Bertha hesitated for a few seconds, then pulled the intercom box off the bracket on a long wire and flicked a button.

"I'm listening!"

While the purificators and the mechanicus were figuring out who was in charge, the Priest was wiping away the knife. There was more blood on the clergyman's clothes. More specifically, the red liquid soaked the monk from head to toe, soaking every thread down to his socks and underwear. The orchestra and the staff showed remarkable resilience, resisting to the end the unyielding will of the Emperor, carried out by the hands of His servant. But the Priest managed, though it was not easy.

Cleaning his blade, the monk looked at the large, massive thing that stood in the corner of the command post. The structure had the appearance of a column on massive support made of the mortarboard. The column was converted into an intricate structure of several dozen concentric rings, marked with risks, colored symbols, or even just hand-drawn notches. All of this was in constant motion, with whirring electric drives and squeaking gears.

The thing was an analog model that allowed the tracking of armored train movements within an area. A very old thing that worked crudely and inaccurately, but would always work if there was electricity in the batteries and a radio signal. Useless for many decades and irreplaceable now that one by one the surveillance satellites were failing, the staff servitors had become useless stuffed animals, and the regimental command was either dead or had disappeared somewhere in its entirety.

The Priest angrily slipped the knife into its sheath and took a long-stemmed intercom from the Commandant's table.

"Have you seen a tin can?" The commissar of the armored train asked curtly, without giving any foreplay.

"We saw," answered Bertha, glancing at Wakrufmann.

"We need a move," said the monk, his voice muffled and interrupted by the wheezing of the old, worn-out system. "And it's urgent."

"Trouble?"

"Here comes the 'sixty-fourth' at full speed."

"Radial-64?" Bertha couldn't help smiling, rejoicing in her soul. Here it is, backup!

"Yes. Only they don't respond to inquiries and have disabled the tracking system. They shut it down themselves. The last message on the net was a report. More like a cry for help. 'Someone is breaking the seals and breaking in the doors of the arsenal wagon at the missile battery'."

"So this isn't the help?" The commandant gritted her teeth

"It doesn't look like it. I think they're coming to intercept. Find an iron head and have him start a steam train."

"Gotcha."

Bertha flicked a tangent and looked at Jennifer, then mouthed angrily: "It looks like you'll have to light the furnace after all. Or we'll all die. Along with the little brat."

"If Radial-64 comes to intercept us, we will die. If a wave of chaos reaches us we will die. If 'Radial-12' leaves the danger zone, but novice Olga stops acting as a possible stabilization agent, we die. In different ways, we arrive at the same ending, which to me is unacceptable. Therefore I see no reason to renegotiate the terms. The train will move on my terms or not move at all."

Wakrufmann waited a few moments, carefully monitoring Bertha's condition, calculating to a hundredth of a second the time for the mentor to realize the point, but not in time to explode with spontaneous, impulsive action.

"Are we going to haggle further, or are we going to do business for the glory of the Emperor and the duty of the Squad?" Jennifer asked. "I would prefer the second option. If we accept it, novices Kryptman and Demetrius will take care of novice Olga, and I will go to the locomotive, giving you tactical control of the situation beyond these inputs."

"You will answer for this," Bertha promised very firmly.

"I am not encroaching on your credentials and prerogatives," Wakrufmann said. "I need to keep the girl alive and sane. To achieve this in the circumstances can only be achieved with the help of your fighting squad. Our goals are the same."

"All right. Let's get down to business," the mentor gritted her teeth.

Bertha may have lacked the experience of real, big command, but the mentor was no fool. 'Radial' needed technique, the technique could only be provided by a mechanicus, and pushing the pedal to the end in a 'who's the most principled here' clash was fraught, because the cog could win, and time was disappearing minute by minute.

We'll settle up later, Bertha mentally promised, and for a moment she imagined what a luxurious report she would create, and Savlar would write it out in his perfectly calligraphic handwriting. Not a word of lies that would be displeasing to the Emperor and offensive to the purificator. Only the pure truth about how the cog has actively interfered with his work, turned her duty into a blackmail tool, and dared with blatant impudence to dictate his will to the Ecclesiarchy in the person of Adepto Purificatum.

"Communication will be through my assistant," Jennifer announced and pointed to the skull with the antenna, then turned again to Fidus. "I recommend that you perform the operation in the 'Chimera' or an isolated compartment. Possible..." Here, perhaps for the first time, the tech-priestess modulated voice trembled slightly. "Excesses."

"I understand," the inquisitor touched the hilt of his pistol in his holster.

"Hey!" Bertha shook her barrel. "Will yours help us? Maybe they could at least drop a gun on us?"

"'Mine,' Wakrufmann smiled unpleasantly again. "Those who escaped the psyker strike are now fighting a battle and have no extra artillery. They will help but under the circumstances."

"We don't have shit," someone from the squad said quietly.

"Doesn't the Emperor protect? - Jennifer queried and moved toward the exit, looking like an angry mannequin in her red robe. Finally, she tossed over her shoulder:

"Prepare for battle."

* * *