Chapter 26

* * *

Two thoroughfares converged ahead, and the question was who would get there first. The worst and most likely outcome was that the Twelfth risked getting hit in the side and toppling over at full speed under an enemy battering ram. Jennifer sent Luke back to the first wagon because the metal on the steam locomotive deck was red-hot in some places. The furnace breathed a hell of a lot of heat, spewing out drifts of sparks. The whistle of steam and the roar of fire combined in a low, threatening roar that sounded like it was coming from a living maw.

"This is Squad, you bastards!!! You will not gonna get us, heretics! The imperial power is strong!" Yelled the Priest, shaking his fist in the direction of the enemy's armored train. Threw a glance at the banner, fluttering in the icy wind, and took cover under the protection of the armor, sliding the heavy cover over his head.

"Well..." Kryptman exhaled, squaring his broad and aching shoulders. "Well, that's about it. Barely made it."

"Will it work?" Judging by the tone of the Wretched Man, he had his doubts.

While Fidus was thinking of what to say, the novice crossed himself with an aquila and answered himself:

"Well, if not, it's too late to change anything."

"Two minutes," Wackrufmann's voice said loudly and impassively over the intercom. "Get ready. They're pushing out everything they can out of the locomotive."

The siren of the sixty-fourth now sounded incessant, penetrating even through the armor.

"They'll poison the whole neighborhood with radioactive emissions," Crybaby said, pulling his head mechanically into the sloping shoulders that were hidden under the skeins of his scarf. "If 'all they can,' it means they've ripped the seals and filters. Uh-oh... What's going to happen..."

"Three thousand and two hundred meters to the connection point," the loudspeakers boomed. "One minute fifty. One minute forty-nine..."

"Okay, I'm in position," concluded Crybaby.

In the 'normal' squad wagon, Demetrius strained to roll the armor panel along the rails. The Driver pedaled, controlling the whirring actuators. The 'Chimera' automatic cannon smelled of oil, ammonia, and gunpowder. The tank shuddered and rumbled viciously when idling as if the spirit enclosed in the old hull had been filled with furious rage. The steam engine roared again, and, to echo it, the tank engine rumbled low.

A cold torrent rushed in, swirling scraps of paper, bits of stripped wire insulation, and the seals Fidus had ripped from the weapon cabinets and chemical containers. Demetrius almost tripped over a bundle of cables thrown right on the iron floor. The orderly felt keen that he had forgotten to put on his hat, thick gloves, and to pull his scarf up higher. The wind bit his ears with cold fangs, blew on his wet face so that frozen droplets of moisture hung on his eyelashes. One good thing was that the icy breeze cooled the burning of Olga's hand on his cheek. Although Demetrius was cold and painful and very frightened, the orderly could not refrain from smiling happily. He had managed, and several good things at once - he had helped the Emperor's lamb, he had saved his soul, and he had kept under control the Light that God had rewarded the unworthy servant. It means that life has already succeeded in some way.

"Done!" shouted the medic, more to himself, because the tankman didn't hear him anyway, and he probably saw the open doorway himself.

"One minute twelve. One minute eleven," Jennifer counted nonchalantly, "One minute ten. One minute nine..."

"Use one box," Bertha ordered over the intercom. "Aim for the locomotive. Yes!" the Mentor barked, anticipating the inevitable comment, "I know it's armored! But try it."

"Yeah," Driver muttered under his breath. "I'll get it through the lenses and kill them all with one ricochet."

"What!?"

"Mam, yes, mam!" The gunner reported but thought to himself that it was all a waste of ammunition. The "Sixty-fourth" was going on a catching-up course, moreover at an angle, which meant that it was only possible to bombard the frontal projection of the locomotive, which was a ram itself, and was designed to take out even a titan if it tried to block the mainline. And the shells will come to the wagons at such an angle, that the ricochet is ensured even without taking into account the armor. But an order is an order. Besides, at least someone will be shot, look how much heretical filth has crawled out.

"That's better!" cut off the mentor, aka the acting commandant.

The drives buzzed, and the turret swung to the left. The automatic gun's barrel, which looked short and thin against the massive hull, moved up and down. The piercing wind howled, the locomotive roared, the siren of the enemy train shrilled. Demetrius thought he was about to go deaf. A red-gold plume of sparks from the locomotive stack settled behind the retracted panel, like a veritable rain of fire and God's wrath.

It's getting sunny, the medic thought inappropriately. Another fifteen minutes, and the faint morning sun would illuminate the battlefield. Or the grave. The enemy armored train was very close and approaching, Demetrius thought, his shadow must be reaching...

"Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight..."

Where does the shadow come from?

Before the young man could comprehend the tricks of the wondrous light emanating from the heretical train, the Driver opened fire, and Demetrius was truly deafened. A sheaf of fire a meter long, maybe more, burst from the black barrel. The tracers merged into a steady stream of bright yellow that began to literally shower the gray hulk of the enemy locomotive. The killing shells bounced across the armor like harmless sparks, leaving almost imperceptible pockmarks, knocking the paint off. The 'Sixty-four's front searchlight shattered, its bright beam extinguished, but the siren wailed louder as if the enemy machine was howling with rage. The 'Twelfth' steam engine roared menacingly in echo, so much so that even the carriage axles vibrated heavily.

The whole box lasted nine seconds, maybe a little longer, but those moments seemed endless to Demetrius. The barrel of the Chimera glowed red, smoke billowed toward the low ceiling, where the wind picked it up and dragged it out. His ears rang, the noise ceased, and the orderly felt as if sealed in a glass vessel. Everything seemed detached and distant. Demetrius didn't immediately notice that Driver was peering out of the hatch, waving his elbow-length leather-gloved hands around frantically.

"What?" Demetrius asked.

The temple, where the psychonautical needle was, hurt very badly.

The Driver waved his hands funny and moved his lips mutely.

"I can't hear," Demetrius said, or maybe he meant to say, at any rate, the young man didn't hear a sound.

Frantically cursing, the tank driver pulled himself out of the hatch and rushed to close the armor panel.

"Idiot, who's not wearing earmuffs under the barrel!" he shouted, pushing the concussed medic away. Demetrius smiled stupidly, wiping the blood that trickled from his ears to his collar.

"Thirty-three, thirty-two," the tech-priestess counted mechanically, and Driver thought that the seconds had never stretched so slowly and simultaneously rushed with such speed when one moment easily accommodates a series of entertaining events.

The shafts of snow that were being blasted by the two trains merged, and a muddy white wall of prickly swirls and sharp snowflakes rose between the trains. The Driver strained his muscles, shifting the metal sheet, feeling the rollers slide on the rails, crushing lumps of frozen snow. A black shadow silently darted away from the enemy train in a long leap, missed the train, and disappeared amidst the storms of overstuffed snow.

"Twenty-five..."

Finally, the armored panel above human height with an audible clang hit the end of the frame, the driver threw a bolt lock, grabbed Demetrius by the scruff, and dragged him to 'Chimera', however, knowing that already has no time.

A blazing sunrise slid across the invisible horizon like a scarlet razor blade. Ahead, a grim glow of purple and dark yellow lit up the fires in the suburbs. There, among the fire and smoke, was a sinister movement, a manifestation of life, something seemed to be exploding and glittering with lasers, but there was neither the desire nor the time to think about it now.

"Why aren't they shooting at us," Bertha muttered, leaning over the operating table, where a separate map of the southwest suburbs was placed.

Barely audible through the armor, the sound of a long cannon round cut off. The Mentor experienced an acute sense of her inferiority. She had a real fighting unit under her command, but she had little idea what to do with the Emperor's gift. Experience, damn it... experience and education, were woefully lacking. She had to listen carefully to Fidus, who was not a military man but had received extensive training, including the basics of tactics. In the course of investigations, inquisitors had often to take command over militarized units.

"Because they are heretics," the Priest suggested solidly, rubbing his frozen nose. "Is everything ready?"

Kryptman nodded silently, leaning over something resembling a cash register, assembled with a sledgehammer from a toolbox and wire. He twisted something and handed it to the Wretched Man, who straightened silently, almost at attention, and clutched at the object like a gilded skull of an imperial saint.

"Well..." said Bertha and realized that she did not know how to continue. "Everyone seems to be in a position..."

She quickly went over in her mind the location of the rest of the company. Yes, everyone seems to be where they should be, and everyone is ready. All that remained was to make the assembled structure work.

"Twenty. Nineteen..."

"Get the periscopes ready!" commanded Fidus, remembering just in time. "If we get through, we'll need an overview."

The Priest looked through the triplex. The 'Sixty-fourth' was catching up fast, and in the monk's view, a blow to the side was inevitable. But if Wakrufmann thought there was a chance, then there was, the cogs could count. If the torn head wasn't wrong. If she didn't lie. Or...

The monk squinted his eyes, so as not to defile his eyes and soul by the contemplation of the unworthy, the forbidden. Even so, the sight filled him with fear and disgust, but at the same time inexplicably attracted him. Too much light, tenderly lilac, soft, with caramel hues that you want to taste. It looks like ice cream on the cream of sea cow, a treat given to children only on big holidays, because the milk goes entirely to the army supply, satiating the Emperor's warriors. The priest could probably recall exactly all the episodes when he tasted the marvelous ice cream. It had exactly the same color, with a slight gloss, and if you touched it with your tongue...

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The monk slammed his fist into the flap in a rage, bloodying his knuckles to get rid of the haze.

"Don't look, don't look!" he shouted. "It's evil poison!!!"

Bertha, who was experiencing something personal, recoiled, covering her eyes with her palm, shaking her head as if she were shaking out of her head foreign, induced dreams disguised as memories.

The enemy's armored train was clad in monkey-like figures, strangely distorted, of abnormal proportions. And there were many of them, far more than even the full strength of the self-propelled company with all its service units, including the road maintenance section. The non-humans were in constant motion, cowering like worms with limbs, crawling over each other, and seemingly clinging to the metal with their bare hands. A man at this speed and in this wind would have frozen and fallen long ago.

Wakrufmann kept counting, but in a strange way, Bertha realized that she did not perceive the numbers. Every muscle in her body trembled, her fingers shook, her nerves hummed like wires in the wind.

Now!

Now!

Mentor thought it had been a long time since she had had to shout at the top of her voice more than two or three times a day, and now she was shouting nonstop. And she ordered, clutching the long leg of the microphone: "Get ready to impact!!!"

The priest fell to the hot hard floor, grabbed the firmly bolted table leg, and closed his eyes.

"Ten..."

The Priest thought it sounded like a children's story. It was the kind the children in the village used to entertain themselves with when the adults weren't around. 'Ten sorcerers decided to do witchcraft, the Inquisition showed up, and there were five of them left'. Funny rhymes that turned out to be far more serious than the silly boys and girls in the seaside village thought.

"Eight..."

If the fading signals that still circulated through the electronic circuits were to be trusted, the servicers were burning. The dehydrated flesh was heavy with fire, the wind was a cold wall, but the locomotive deck was no longer a place of the material world, and physics within it obeyed different laws. The fire spilled over to the tender, and the coal container spewed a smoky torch like a second chimney. The water in the boiler had already passed the stage of steam and turned into a pure blob of energy, a fiery heart dedicated to the Machine God beating for His glory and His connivance alone.

You - lived, we honor you, Omnissia awaits, Wakrufmann transmitted in binary code to the old steam locomotive, and the machine responded with a belligerent roar, like a tiger springing up for its final throw. It was impossible, and yet the military hauler added more thrust to the steam-distributing mechanism. The counterscrews, pendulums, sliders, and rocker arms thrashed at turbine speed, and went beyond all conceivable limits of durability, but where Wonder rules, formulas sometimes have to step aside.

Servitor Luct, behind the tender, had his sledgehammer ready to disengage the coupling. The hot air was burning his face, but the half-dead man didn't seem to notice. Ahead, like burning puppets, the servitors of the locomotive crew were moving slowly, making already senseless movements. One by one they fell, dying finally amidst the smoke and fire. Luct knelt down, lest the impact throws him overboard or throw him forward into the roaring inferno.

"Three."

Three sorcerers prayed to the god of blood, then took up their axes, and now there are two of them, the Priest remembered the words that had long ago set off a long chain of very sad events and led him, in the end, to volunteer indefinitely for the Beacon and the Squad.

"Two."

The two sorcerers sneezed and suffered, but Grandpa didn't forget them, poured a ladle for one, and...

And a terrible blow shook the multi-tonnage mass of 'Radial-12'. The armored train shuddered, swaying in the scraping and clanking of metal, the brutal blow was transmitted to every nut and propeller, echoed with a rumble and clang. And the Priest realized that the Emperor was true with them because the blow came from the stern, not the side. And that meant that the Twelfth had managed to skip the fork before the heretical train turned onto the same thoroughfare.

"Get up," Fidus commanded more to himself, as no one would have heard him in the thunder of the clash.

The 'Sixty-fourth' slammed into the stern of the 'Radial-12' like a jackhammer catching up. The piercing screeching never ended, as if an irresistible force was dragging the trains along the tracks with the wheels blocked. Kryptman was sure that behind the solid walls of the wagons there were fountains of sparks and red-hot metal chips flying in all directions.

It was as if the Inquisitor had been hit by a train, all at once. The frightening blow spread throughout the structure, including the weak people in the iron womb. And Fidus felt as if he had been beaten badly, without missing a bone. Every movement hurt, and for a moment the Inquisitor was seized by an unthinking panic as if he thought the Ballistic Station was around again, and the Inquisitor was dying, partially paralyzed, at the mercy of a weak girl who didn't even know who the Emperor was.

A girl.

The Emperor.

Growling through his teeth, Fidus rose to his knees, knocking the back of his head against the staff table. Stars flashed in his eyes, but Kryptman was already sore, so the new impulse went unnoticed. Fidus wanted to reach for the periscope, but the Priest got there early and awkwardly turned the massive tube. Bloody fingers slid over the ebonite handles, the periscope unfolded jerkily. Bertha was cursing furiously in the corner, the bruises and collision not reducing her ferocity

"I see!" the monk reported loudly, smacking either smashed or bitten lips. "They're behind us! They're pushing!"

"Let me," Fidus wheezed, barely moving his legs. "Let me see..."

The Wretched Man, by all appearances, had literally defended his trusted unit with himself. At any rate, it bent like a man with broken ribs, but the box with the wires seemed intact. A slightly recovered Bertha tried to communicate with the wagons and 'Chimera. The staff servitors mumbled in various ways, permanently united to their pedestals, having become part of the train. And only the iron figure of techno-priestess Jennifer sat motionless in the communications operator's chair, looking like a surreal sculpture with her skull attached. Her head, firmly taped with duct tape to the gyrocompass rack, extinguished her eyepieces and indeed appeared to be a crumpled pot, justifying the common nickname of Martians. The red light was flashing rapidly and frequently; it looked like the automatics were trying to turn on the emergency lights, but something wasn't working.

"Ahhhh..." Bertha cursed vigorously and floridly. "That's it, the connection was cut off. And the intercom tubes are skewed from the impact."

As if to illustrate her words, the outboard rattling was getting worse. Something seemed to be falling off the 'Twelfth' as it went along, nonstop. Fidus leaned against the periscope, awkwardly turning the massive cylinder.

"It's all right, as long as the flagpole is intact," the Priest exhaled, writhing in pain as he groped the slashed back of his head. "The banner is the heart of the Squad; under it, our souls are invulnerable to Evil."

In spite of the fanatical preacher's tone, the Priest's blood-streaked face clearly showed 'hopefully invulnerable.'

"Servitor Luct is unhitching the locomotive," Wackrufmann's lifeless head mouthed without warning. "Intra-train communication will be restored shortly."

"What about..." The Priest was aroused and stopped, even tapping himself on the head, and he grimaced again.

Indeed, given the circumstances, there was no need to worry about speed. Even without the locomotive, the Twelfth was being pushed forward by the hundred and fifty thousand horsepower of a pursuer who certainly wasn't going to slow down.

"Yes, now we will definitely enter the city," the monk whispered rather to himself, not knowing whether to be happy about it or not.

"Do it," Kryptman commanded, pushing down on the handles of the periscope with his wrists, the clenching of his fingers into a fist was too painful. Whatever the Inquisitor saw through the panoramic eyepiece did not inspire him.

"Do it," Fidus shouted as hard as he could, and the Wretched Man hurriedly found the first lever on the box.

* * *

"I venture to guess that Radial-12 can be dropped," said the archivist dryly, and corrected the medical reference book, which before that the inquisitors were hurriedly leafing through, almost tearing out the pages.

Essen nodded silently as he watched the dark wave of darkness surge across the roofs of the 'Sixty-four,' overflowing onto the 'Twelfth. It wasn't a boarding in the usual sense, just a multitude of tiny dots rushing in without order or sequence. All at once, as soon as the locomotive blew the stern of the wagon and the trains joined together. The dots were dozens, maybe hundreds, far more than an ordinary armored train could ever take on board. Certainly more than the entire Five Hundred and Sixty-seventh Company could kill, even at full strength.

"I'm inclined to agree," sighed Kalkroit. "Well, apparently, Kryptman's talents have been overrated for the last time. Well, no matter what is done, everything is to.."

For a moment the image disappeared into white ripples, so much so that the Inquisitor even thought it was malfunctioning. The next moment the 'milk' began to shatter in rectangles, which shrank as the powerful cogitator processed the broadcast image, filtering out the interference. At first Kalkroit thought that the end wagon of the 'Radial-12' had exploded, but as the image became a little more legible, the observers realized that the wagon was blazing like a huge bonfire or a promethean tanker.

"Clever kid," muttered Schmettau, and leaned forward with interest. "He studied his father's legacy diligently," the inquisitor decided. "Though he could have found that out on his own."

"Excuse me...?" Essen ventured to break the silence.

"Once Kryptman Sr. obtained a certain archive that contained, among other things, information about pirate trade with the Eldar. He was not interested in the usual smuggling, but there were curious notes about the exchange of forbidden artifacts. The enemies were on the move in time, and the ship was intercepted and boarded. Kryptman managed to send a call for help, but the boarding party outnumbered the defenders many times over. The Inquisitor's crew retreated in battle from the captain's bridge to the aft compartments, blasting deck after deck as they filled with enemies. And the Kryptman survived until I arrived. From what I can see, the son has creatively reinterpreted his forefather's experience. Or he figured it out for himself."

"He doesn't seem to have anything to blow up," Essen remarked, rubbing his jaw.

"Yes, obviously. So he sets fire to the wagons, one by one, putting up a fire curtain."

"That doesn't help. The hulls themselves are fireproof, and the fuel burns quickly."

"At the very least, it will delay the enemies. The question is whether someone will come to the rescue."

"It won't be us?" Pale clarified.

"Well done!" Schmettau couldn't help but exclaim as he watched the second carriage go up in flames. "Well, well done!"

"Sir," muttered the confused Pale. "I thought... you and Kryptman Jr."

"Well, yes," said Schmettau half-turned. "Nothing has changed."

"I don't get it..."

"Now Fidus is fighting heretics like a real inquisitor," explained Kalkroit without taking his eyes off the screen. "And he's doing it as well as he can. You might say I cheer for him, as befits a servant of the Emperor. When and if Kryptman is defeated, which is unlikely, I will still wish him a terrible and painful death. What is there not to understand?"

"You are a complex and contradictory person," Pale shook his head, seemingly shocked by the depth of the sentence he had impromptu uttered.

Spoiler: T.N.

You so tsundere, thought Pale, but leave it unspoken.

"This is a fact," Schmettau was so engrossed in the screen that he did not pay attention to the unique event - the manifestation in the faithful servant of the philosophical impulse to think.

"What are your orders?" Essen stretched himself again and returned to the look of a dull-witted executive fighter who lived by the principle 'don't worry, do it!'

Watching the barrage of flames erupt, Schmettau frowned in thought. The infernal fire of enriched promethium would have slowed down the usual foes for a long time. These, too, were slowed, but the dots climbed forward with insane tenacity, literally pouring their own bodies into the fire. It was as if they were paving the way for someone more powerful and important.

"No more than a couple of minutes remain," Essen cautioned. "The train is leaving the line of sight."

The screen blinked and went out. Or rather, at first it seemed that the smooth glass surface died, returning to its original state of white glass. Only a few moments later people realized that the entire field viewed from the satellite was illuminated by a flash of unimaginable brightness.

"A steam locomotive," muttered the archivist. The old master had a good reason to think that he had seen a lot in life, so there was nothing more to surprise him. However, even the archivist was seized by the frantic chase with unexpected turns, so that the grandfather lost a lot of sedate importance.

"Could there be something left in there?" asked Pale a quick question.

"Only Omnissia knows," the archivist shook his flaky bald head. "Usually steam boilers, if they explode, tear the hull of a container to pieces, but there's not much of a radius for further damage. Here... It could be anything. I wouldn't be surprised if both armored trains went straight to the Warp."

Essen turned his unblinking gaze to his patron, still waiting for a command.

"Hurry slowly," the Inquisitor finally quoted the ancient wisdom. "Let the bridge calculate the fastest departure to high orbit. I think forty thousand will be enough. There is nothing more for the ship to do here. Don't save fuel, speed is more important."

"Understood," Essen took a step back; if the aide disagreed, he kept his opinion to himself. "Passing on the order. We'll need some complex maneuvering to avoid colliding with the orbital structures."

"So let them maneuver!" Inquisitor barked. "And faster."

* * *