Chapter 23
* * *
Inside the 'Chimera' was unexpectedly spacious. In a compartment designed for a dozen soldiers with ammunition, there were only three people, of which only one - Kryptman - was big. Olga was placed on three blankets stacked on top of one another. Kriftman silently wrapped duct tape around her wrists.
"Is that really necessary?" Demetrius asked.
"Yes," the inquisitor said briefly. "We don't know..."
He hesitated, glancing sideways at the orderly. Demetrius couldn't help but smile crookedly, thinking what he hadn't said: No one knows who or what will wake up in the girl's body.
"So..." Fidus laid out on the metal seat the equipment sent by Wakrufmann. "So," he repeated.
"Need any help?" The Driver looked through the hatch from the control compartment.
"No," said Fidus, then added more politely. "You'd better go... outside. Anything can happen here."
Demetrius grimaced in anguish at this but said nothing. The Driver only smirked.
"Well, that's up to you," said Fidus, taking a screwdriver from the pocket of his baggy overalls.
"You can die anywhere and any way you," Driver remarked with an unusual verbosity for himself. "And you have a circus for free. So I'm both on duty and entertained."
"Aren't you afraid of being defiled?"
"My friendly pie," said the Driver with good-natured patronage. "I'm the longest-serving man here, I've got indefinite exile. Even our mutterer hasn't dragged it out as long as I have."
Fidus frowned but immediately realized that it was about a radio operator.
"If heresy could penetrate my eyes, I'd be tapping my mutant hooves," Driver continued. "So you do your work, and I'll take a peek, for fun. I'll never see such a thing again"
"Yeah," Fidus agreed, rattling the complicated hardware that Jennifer's new servo skull had brought. "That's how it starts. First, it's 'I only got one look'. And then 'what's this fire for, where are you taking me?"
The Driver grinned even wider, which looked comical with his red-skinned face, and put his famous hat on top of his tank helmet.
"For luck," explained the Driver, intercepting the inquisitor's surprised look, and added, returning to the original theme. "You're not used to it yet, and we're very boring."
"Boring?" Fidus caught himself that the conversation was quite appropriate. His hands were familiarly connecting contacts in a familiar pattern, and his head was distracted from his gloomy thoughts by an unnecessary conversation.
"Sure," Driver shook his head, and the silver beads tinkled softly in his long strands. "It's scary to the point of yellow underpants at first, but it's curious, too. Horrors and variety! And then just horrors, the same thing, day after day, year after year. Mutants, cultists, festering, scorching. Give them an acid tank, measure the level of pollution, organize mass incineration. And they have all this," Driver waved his thumb, obviously symbolizing the other squads. "I'm sitting in a tin can all the time. Ugh. Only fun if I have to shoot with a cannon. Or talk to the machine spirit."
"And he answers?" Kryptman became interested.
"No, of course not," smirked Driver. "I'm not a cog. Spirit only listens. And rumbles like a diesel. But it rumbles in different ways, like a cat. I've learned to tell when he's happy and when he's about to burn the pistons out of spite."
"You've got the wrong job," Fidus commented inaudibly, his teeth clamping down on a thin wire, his tongue tingling with the faint electric shocks. "You should have put a pot on your head, too."
"Maybe... You do it, do it, I'll be quiet, I won't interfere. And if we get out, there will be something to remember." He paused for a moment and then added philosophically: "If you don't survive, I'll remember you and speak well of you. Or you of me, as the case may be."
"You're a goddamn optimist," Fidus muttered as he tightened the last nut.
"What are you in for indefinitely?" Demetrius suddenly asked, rubbing his wrists quickly and nervously, as if he wanted to get the blood flowing in his frozen palms.
I got into an argument with a factory priest when I was young and foolish," remembered the mechanic good-naturedly. "The Emperor is God or a superhuman of divine power."
"It was unwise," commented Fidus.
"Yeah. We went together under the church investigation. He went straight to the bonfire, because he was a religious person, and I went to jail and then came here. That's how I settled in."
"Here is the place that waits for the man, and the man that has taken his place," Fidus quoted. "That's it, now stay out of the way."
"I got it," the Driver spread his palms black with oil and grease. "I'll shut up."
* * *
The sounds of gunfire were getting closer. Jennifer wasn't a skitari and didn't know much about tactics, but ordinary logic was enough to understand this wasn't a fight in which the opponents were at least conventionally divided and organized. This is chaos and senseless violence. The problem was that the chaotic violence was coming, and fast, and the hulk of the techno-priest in charge of the steam engine was swinging on a metal cable in the sharp gusts of the night wind. The mechanic's brain was dead, but the electronic circuits were still drawing power from the built-in batteries, crying out sadly to the ether. The servitors, who had destroyed the operator on his own orders, lined up in a circle and went into power-saving modes, like immovable statues. They appeared to be very old specimens, capable only of the simplest of operations, the remnants of consciousness in their brain matter insufficient for a crushing psyker attack to get a grip on anything.
Wakrufmann turned on the backlight, making the optics glow bright yellow, like little spotlights. The priestess could see in infrared as well, but she preferred the ancient, conservative style. The work was not easy, and the first thing the techno-priestess did was to bring the servitors back to wakefulness.
Of course, Jennifer did not believe in spirits sitting inside machinery, cheering prayers, and drinking machine oil out of saucers. As the popular and ancient saying of Mechanicum put it, 'it doesn't work that way'. Machine spirits- as propaganda interpreted and described them - are just a useful superstition. The truth was much simpler - there are no spirits. And at the same time much more complicated - there are Entities.
Any mechanism more complex than a stick with a wheel is a Construct. It is built, it exists, it serves, it is repaired and upgraded. Every minute of operation, every manipulation of the operator adds a little bit of Influence to the machine. And each machine thus acquires an Individuality, a unique imprint, comparable to life experience and even character. In a world where devices serve for centuries, even machines have a soul. It has no self-consciousness but can display character and personal habits, i.e. programmed reactions to external actions. A machine that has served in harsh conditions will be harsh and demanding, the operator will first have to prove that it is worthy to be a companion and master. A machine that has been mistreated by denying it decent care will acquire the stamp of defectiveness, even vindictiveness, which is difficult, often impossible to remove. And so on...
Jennifer knew at a glance what was in front of her, so referring to the form only confirmed the knowledge. An ancient steam locomotive that once hauled heavy rockets and trusses to mount launch pads very, very far from here. Then transferred to a more peaceful service due to the specific design of the undercarriage - the axles could be adjusted to the width of non-standard tracks. Distinctive characteristics - excessive even for military vehicles safety margin (and therefore weight), especially for operation in wittingly destructive conditions. Primitive boiler, especially simplified to be able to feed on solid fuel of any composition, including wood and peat. The old, very reliable design, for which a good look after. And... it's a problem. Or maybe it's a virtue, as you can see.
Military equipment was difficult to work with, it was notoriously bilious, prone to petty regulation. It was doubly difficult with conversion equipment, the machine aura was 'accustomed' to a certain reverence. Accustomed to the fact that the thoughts of the crews were full of hope and gratitude for the loyal iron. Deprived of this, moving to a more peaceful service, the machinery was like a resentful veteran, whose services are consigned to oblivion. The old steam locomotive remembered the fire raging in the combustion chambers of giant missiles, the sizzling flashes of atomic explosions, the deadly raids through wastelands poisoned by radiation. The present labor of the shunting cart was insulting to him. The machinery did not trust the new operator.
Unless...
If Jennifer could, she would have smiled. Book experience threw up a comparison of a steamroller to an old, mighty dog. A hunting dog, more like a fighting dog, accustomed to walking side by side with man against the fiercest foes, now living out his days in a warm kennel, munching bones with toothless gums, occasionally letting himself be ridden by the grandchildren of the same old master.
Well, why not?
Wakrufmann walked along the wheels, quickly checking the condition of the water pipes and the quality of the felt covers on the oil pipes. At the same time, Jennifer addressed the machine 'spirit,' carefully, with due deference, so that the complex aura woven around the mechanism would not bristle in denial, sensing the pressure. Wakrufmann did a very simple thing - she invoked the huge machine's glorious past. She promised to quench a long-standing longing for deeds of which legends and army reports are written. She showed images of the war and destruction through which they would have to walk. The tech priestess promised the machine a return to the hour of glory and the real work for which it had been created. Such work, after which death is no longer a tragedy, but a dignified and welcome end to a very long existence. Or perhaps an excuse to return to military service. The machine 'thought'.
Jennifer still didn't understand why the steam locomotive didn't get a normal cabin on the Beacon, with insulated walls, solid glass, and furs connecting the main platform and the tender. The open design would have been logical in hot climates, but not in the tundra with constant cold winds. Losses on insulation must have been enormous, but there must have been some reason for that. However, they did not help to warm up the steam locomotive.
Drain the condensate from the grease nipple until the oil comes out instead of water.
Check the condition of the mineral wool around the cylinder block.
The servitors, awakened by their new master's will, moved in silent shadows, like fingers on a hand, performing thousand-fold repetitive actions. Judging by the design and degree of wear and tear, at least five of the seven were the same age as the steam engine, most likely having come with the machinery from its homeworld. The Psyker attack had affected them as well, the machine men could now function normally only with constant monitoring by the operator. Still, the servitors worked.
Open the cylinder valves, pull the handle all the way to the stop.
The protocol was helpful in indicating that the spool rod should be locked in the middle position. Wakrufmann racked her brain for the best way to do this. After that, she had to tear off the arm of one of the servicemen, using the limb as a block to hold it in place. The original was lost; there was no time to look for a replacement. The action was met with an understanding of the machine 'spirit', he was convinced that the new operator is similar to the commanders of the distant past - decisive, stern, ready to do anything to fulfill the order. It was not yet a collaboration, a symbiosis of the priest and the invisible substance that penetrated every cog of the complex machine. But, at any rate, the locomotive did not resist, showing something like interest, and a couple of times even suggested the best way to do it.
Reverse to center and lock, check the regulator, it should be in the 'closed' position. Jennifer had no idea what that meant, but she knew which levers to turn. Then there was a hitch - there was no coal-polishing hose of at least ten meters in length. Jennifer thought conscientiously about how this could be fixed but concluded that there was no way, so if the coal on the way ignited, so be it. She looked at the dead Martian and decided that this fellow was not worthy of remembrance and kindly admonition, for he had clearly kept the machinery in improper conditions. The mighty locomotive deserved more and better.
The sensors replacing Jennifer's vestibular apparatus noted a distant concussion. Something rumbled toward the sea, heavy and very massive. Apparently, some sort of thing was coming up out of the ocean again. The Ice Beacon was definitely going through a bad time. The servitors, meanwhile, continued their work. Most of the crew was now pouring distilled heated water into the boiler. One, the toughest and most sturdy, was preparing to fire up the furnace. With jerky movements, he connected the pneumatic line to the compressor. Here the steam engine had already openly suggested that the hose was very similar to the brake line; the two should not be confused. Jennifer checked the connection, corrected the fault of the servitor, whose optics were too old and muddy. Another failure of the late fellow who didn't keep the locomotive crew in proper condition...
The compressed air hissed, accompanying the approaching shots. A machine gun dragged out on top of one of the wagons, rattled off a short burst. Wackruffmann moved across the platform along the huge cylinder with its hinged shroud panels. The wind was increasing, promising a midnight storm.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
When it was time to light the holy fire, one servitor hauled a wagon of coal along tracks buried in the platform and began to load the firebox, scattering black crumbs over the grate. The other went to get a bucket of firewood chips. Jennifer quickly offered a prayer to Omnissia, who, seeing her follower's weakness and little experience, eased her way, bringing together the tech-priestess and the honored, venerable machine. At the end of her prayer, Wakrufmann remembered to thank the machine 'spirit' and felt the memory imprinted in the metal of many generations of operators, as well as incredible events, echo with a satisfying vibration.
The stoker picked up a shovel with shreds of mineral wool soaked in used oil, turned the dead gaze of old lenses on his mistress. Jennifer lit a light on one of her fingers and allowed herself a full three seconds to admire the red tongue that danced in the wind. At moments like this, Wakrufmann imagined herself as the man who had gotten fire hundreds of thousands of years ago and, unknowingly, had become the first servant of the Omnissiah, because the Way of the Machine had begun with the wheel and the fire.
The fire began to burn almost immediately, oozing white smoke without soot, a good sign. Jennifer put her hand on the thick metal, feeling the fire rouse the mighty body of the self-propelled machine to action. And as usual, on such occasions, she sincerely pitied ordinary people, so miserable in their ignorance, deprived of the opportunity simply to see the beauty and harmony of the Machine, let alone to understand the Forma Divina Apparatus.
* * *
Now the head of the unconscious girl was encased in a crafty construction that resembled a cage, a sports mask, and a cyber muzzle of a cyber mastiff at the same time. A bundle of different-colored and different-caliber wires ran from the muzzle to a box-like battery. The box often blinked red and blue lights, and there was a green one, but that one was still dark.
"And now what?" Demetrius was already gnashing his teeth in a nervous chill, but for now, he held on.
"Now," echoed Fidus. "Add some heat," he said to Driver.
"One moment," he nodded and disappeared from view.
Something rattled outside, but familiarly, technically. It looked like colleagues were dragging something massive across the carriage. The train jerked through the train with a chain of knocks and the repetitive clanking of wagon couplings. The 'Chimera' swayed on its shock absorbers. Fidus remembered that this model had leaf springs - a bit heavy, but firm and reliable classic tried and tested for thousands of years.
"What now?" Demetrius repeated with trembling lips.
"Now we should pray," said Fidus, businesslike. "But we don't have time, so I'll pray for all three of us later. For now, you must be undressed and have this stuck in your skull..." The inquisitor showed a vanishingly thin needle on a long wire.
This time the orderly couldn't refrain from swearing.
"It's necessary," Kryptman repeated sternly. "It's for better synchronization of the delta waves and so I can, in case of need, disconnect you."
"Disconnect?" Demetrius didn't understand. "What would that be? What do you mean... will be? What do I have to be ready for?"
The train jerked again and moved forward ten meters and stopped.
Kryptman was about to angrily reproach the young man that he should better understand the nature of his gift, but he looked at the trembling lips and fingers of the orderly, sighed heavily, and changed his tone.
"How does it manifest itself to you?" asked the inquisitor, attaching a cobweb made of wire and foil with rubber bands to Demetrius' head to fasten it behind his ears.
"I... people like me. It's hard to control. And it's hard to describe. When I find someone... attractive, I feel as if a golden light comes from me, a ray of goodness that warms... the person I'm interested in. And they... well, I mean, people... respond. with attention, sympathy..." Demetrius spoke slowly, stammering, and at the last phrase, the young man's voice wilted like a leaf in the blazing sun: "With eagerness... Or even lust."
"I see," nodded Fidus, not stopping his confident manipulations. From time to time Kryptman thought briefly as if remembering something, and quickly reworked what seemed wrong.
"Look. You have to take your clothes off first."
"No!"
"Yes," the inquisitor repeated ruthlessly. "You need as much body contact as possible."
Demetrius was silent, but the young orderly's ears glowed enough to light a lcho. A muffled chuckle came through the hatch.
"Then I'll put you into a trance."
"Hypnosis?"
"Sort of, but easier and faster. There's no time for hypnotic immersion. And then I'll give you an electric shock. If it works, the concussion will allow you to cross the barrier entirely, and your minds will... you know... ...connect, or something. Anyway, it's very complicated."
Demetrius twitched and disturbed the harmony of the foil cap, Kryptman shook his head annoyingly and fixed it. Then he lifted the needle and looked questioningly at the orderly. The young man cast an oblique glance at the patient, who lay in complete immobility, only the rapid movements of the eyeball under the closed eyelids showed some sign of life. Olga looked miserable, very pale, like a real dead man, an empty shell of a person. A single tear rolled down her cheek, gleaming in the dim light of the barred lamp like a tiny diamond. Demetrius bit his lip and looked into Kryptman's eyes.
"Yes. Go ahead."
"Great," Kryptman looked at the orderly with a questioning glance and reminded him. "Tight body contact."
The manipulation ended unexpectedly quickly and almost painlessly, only a few drops of blood came out, and that was it. A green light flashed on Wakrufmann's box.
"What is there to be prepared for?" Demetrius reminded, pulling down the shirt, which was once sewn from an old monk's robe. Or rather, the orderly tried to pull it off, and then both psychonauts realized that the cap and needle were in the way. Driver silently threw Demetrius an army knife, the orderly just as silently began to shred the clothes right on himself, writhing against the needle in his temple. It didn't hurt, but it was unpleasant, like a splinter.
Kryptmann checked the condition of Wakrufmann's machinery once more and began carefully but quickly undressing Olga.
"You can't be prepared for that," he instructed Demetrius in passing. "There's absolute evil waiting for you, and it has only one goal: to get your soul. Hers and yours. It's not even evil as we understand it, just utterly, completely alien to everything that makes up our lives. Like darkness to light. Or fire to water. Anything can be waiting for you, so don't hold yourself back by waiting in advance. Just prepare for the worst."
"I got it," Demetrius gritted his teeth. Even Driver had indeed added heat by turning on the seldom-used heaters, the orderly was shivering. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Her mind is in a labyrinth right now, tangled with fears of the past and the future," Kryptman explained. "She can't escape on her own, she needs a map, a light to go to. But if you fail, it's not her who will come out to your signal, but you will be drawn to her, into the darkness, where there is no God. So..."
The inquisitor exhaled, swallowing nervously. Demetrius, without waiting for a command, cautiously hugged the girl and lay back comfortably, trying not to disturb the cobwebs of wires and the stupid hat. The driver again proved himself to be a generous giver; this time he handed over a thin but warm blanket, part of the military medic's kit. The inquisitor covered the lying couple with it.
"Remember the main thing. Only one 'there' is unchangeable. Only one thing will hold you, like an anchor in the sea," Fidus said curtly. "And light the way."
"Our God," Demetrius whispered.
"That's right. An abyss full of lies awaits you. Creatures that feed on lies and deceit await you. The only thing constant in the ocean of forbidden Evil is faith in the Emperor. No matter what happens, believe, that is your only salvation."
The clanging thunder rolled through the armored train again, and finally 'Radial-12' moved. Very slowly but surely, picking up speed a bit at a time. Behind several layers of armor, the locomotive whistle blew.
"The light that shines on you," the inquisitor said very seriously, looking into the psychonaut's eyes. "If it is indeed a divine spark, light it as brightly as you can. Be like a mirror, reflect the light and love of the Emperor, dispelling the darkness. Do it not to please yourself, not for pleasure, but to save an innocent soul."
"Wait," Demetrius grabbed the Inquisitor's arm sharply. "Another question!"
"Go ahead."
Kryptman took Driver's knife, with which the orderly had cut his clothes, and checked the blade. It was clean, well polished, and reflected the light. Fidus caught the faint ray from the lamp, threw it on the wall of the Chimera landing bay, and nodded to himself - that's it.
"Is it love?" Demetrius asked, squeezing the inquisitor's fingers with unexpected force. The answer seemed to be of utmost importance to the young man, almost a matter of life and death. "Or the duty of His servant?"
Fidus wanted to get off with a cliché, appropriate to the moment and, most importantly, short. But the memorized words stuck in his throat, seeming unspeakably false in the here and now, in the face of the great risk and the great sacrifice the young man with the barely visible shadow of a psyker gift was about to make.
"No. It is not love. It is duty and gratitude," answered the inquisitor. "Once she came between me and death. I survived. And then it was my turn."
"And...?"
"I didn't come between her and... the squad."
"The Emperor is with us," Demetrius whispered, resting his head on the makeshift pillow, clutching poor Olga's skinny body tighter in his arms. "We may forget Him, but He always remembers us. And where He is, there is always His Light."
"And hope," Fidus continued quietly, directing a dim spot of reflected light into the psychonaut's eyes. The Inquisitor put his free hand on the lever, preparing to send an electric current that would either stop Demetrius's heart or send his consciousness to a place where the laws and rules of Materium do not exist.
"And hope..."
* * *
Starting a 'cold' steam boiler without external heating was a difficult procedure even for experienced operators. And, according to Wakrufmann's data banks, could easily take up to two or three hours. The techno-priestess managed it in twenty minutes, and at times she was a little intimidated by the enthusiasm of the locomotive. The machine spirit seemed to be eager for battle, like a berserker impatiently gnawing at a shield. So far, though, it was doing the trick.
Chaos was approaching, and the squad spread out across the rooftops, shooting off the madmen who had begun to appear as a vanguard of a rabid mob. If the 'spirit' of 'Chimera' was to be believed, Demetrius was currently preparing to wander through Olga's clouded mind. The Priest methodically shoveled the dead right onto the concrete, read a short prayer for the repose of the souls, then made a vigorous speech on the intercom about the defeat of heretics. And went to the locomotive, offering Wakrufmann assistance. Jennifer did not refuse.
"What's going on?" The monk asked, pulling his coat tightly over his usual chain mail. Considering the nature of the possible fight, this time the Priest did not arm himself with a chemical cannon and took a laser pistol from the commandant's safe, and a shortened sapper axe stuck behind his belt made of tarpaulin tape. Shepherd was freezing just looking at the techno-priestess with beams of bright light shooting out of her eyes, but the monk was bracing himself.
"According to the scraps of information, something extraordinary has happened in the area of the city center," Jennifer reported honestly. "Something that shook the veil that separates Materium from Empyrea. A wave of reaction spread out in concentric circles, bringing pure evil to the souls."
"Is it as if a rag had been torn? "
"It goes something like this. Now there are influences seeping through the veil that are driving people crazy and also changing them. Other manifestations are possible."
The monk opened his mouth to ask what the chances of a self-tightening ripped reality were, and what to do in such cases, but just clicked his jaw, remembering that he actually represents the Ecclesiarchy here and is supposed to give answers to such questions.
"Let's go," Jennifer said. "If you would be so kind as to watch these gauges. All arrows should fluctuate within the yellow range. It's all right to go into the red area, but if any arrow stays there longer than three seconds, let me know right away."
"Got it."
The priest stared conscientiously at the gauges, which looked more like huge alarm clocks with the same caps on top of their shabby housings. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the image of the silent dance performed by the techno priestess and the servitors. The monk understood that the 'cogs' were controlling the servants by vox, but that did not make the picture any less eerie.
Damn mechanics. Without them, as well as without psykers, the Imperium's gigantic body would be without energy, without any binding threads, but with them, it's always... uncomfortable. They are too far away from humans, too much non-human allowed in themselves. And the otherwise is always a step closer to heresy.
The whistling of steam and pressurized air became deafening, the furnace spewed torrents of heat, the shovel of the stoker's servitor rattled. The Priestess quickly flipped the levers, which seemed too massive even for the Priest's powerful arms. The armored train moved slowly, heavily, like an overloaded wagon pulled by an old donkey. It was hard for the donkey, but it tried, and the 'Radial' rolled forward - jerking, clanking loudly with its huge wheels on the joints of the rails, but it rolled, gaining speed little by little.
"Where to?" The Priest only now realized that he hadn't asked himself that question before, and he should have.
"Straight," Wackrufmann reported with disarming simplicity and directness. "Along the line."
"That is, to the city," muttered the Priest.
The monk simply did not know what to do next. Before everything was simple and clear - here was his flock, here was the task, everything was written down and regulated. In the centuries of Purificators' existence any unplanned situations had already happened, had been described in reports and provided with exact recipes - how to act. And now the monk suddenly found himself out of his place, several levels above the usual and understandable competence. One could only hope that Bertha understood what to do.
"The Five Hundred and Sixty-seventh Maintenance Company and the Radial-12 self-propelled sanitation center are currently of limited and conditional combat effectiveness," the techno-priestess muttered in a nerdy voice. The Priest looked at her suspiciously, trying to figure out whether the iron doll was being ironic, speaking seriously, or prompting?
"Also on board is an object of extreme value and probably protecting the entire crew in an obscure but effective way from hostile influence. Finally, our armored train is probably in pursuit of 'Radial-64'. Considering all the above, now we should depart as far as possible, moving away from both the pursuers and from the settlements. Then assess the situation, re-establish contact with the command, wait for help or at least instructions."
Judging by the fact that the servitors did not cease their rather complicated operations, Wakrufmann continued to control the servants even as they communicated. The Priest cursed, trying to make sense of the tirade the priestess uttered in one sitting, and without changing her tone, one might have said 'in one breath' if the mechanic had been breathing with her lungs. And then he thought that even if the god-awful 'cog' had been making fun of His servant, her words made perfect sense. Indeed, how else should a servant of the Church and a purificator, who is important not just to smite the enemy, but to do so wisely and effectively, act?
While the Priest was reflecting, Jennifer quickly climbed up the coal tender and onto the roof of the first car, clinging to the ledges and faceted rivet hats. The robe was in the way, but Jennifer was in no hurry to get rid of it, given the psychological aspect. The purificators, steeped in superstition, should not have seen the priestess in her true form; it might have caused an unnecessary and harmful phobia in the circumstances.
Wakrufmann needed to assess the situation from a high vantage point, and what she saw did not make her happy. But a new factor caught Jennifer's attention almost immediately. Sensitive microphones picked up the piercing whistles and roars far sooner than the average person could hear them. It took Jennifer a few moments to reach her mentor Bertha via the 'Radial' intercom and outline the situation. Then Bertha grabbed the Commandant's microphone and yelled at the whole train, turning the volume of the speakers up to maximum. Her shrill roar was poorly translatable, but briefly and comprehensively conveyed the simple meaning: 'Alarm! Take cover!'
There was just enough time for the purificators, who had converted to infantry, to leave the rooftops. Some managed to lock the hatch, some didn't, but all were under armor protection when the barrage of fire struck the railroad station. The missile battery from the 'Radial-64' was perfectly accurate, but only minutes too late. A series of murderous shells rained down on the terminal, turning concrete boxes and metal trusses into flaming ruins, mowing down hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unfortunate victims of madness. But the 'Radial-12' had already crawled out onto the main thoroughfare and was gaining ground, and the enemy had no ammunition left to fire again.
Strictly speaking, there was no need for an order to shelter, but Wakrufmann found it useful to strengthen her credibility with the purifiers a little more. Jennifer made only one mistake, forgivable under the circumstances, but no less fatal. The techno-priestess did not consider the factor of ordinary chance, she could not foresee that the explosion of the fuel tank and the destruction of the mooring mast would produce a particularly heavy and long-range fragment.
"Emperor's blood! Goddamn it!" The Priest shouted as the decapitated body of the Mechanist fell before him with a thunderous crash. The head fell with a huge dent in it, rolling, rattling, on the corrugated iron of the platform. The spotlight eyes flashed and went out, the servitors of the locomotive crew simultaneously lowered their arms, frozen motionless in the icy wind.
* * *