Chapter 28

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Olga's mind was a little fuzzy, the effects of her otherworldly misadventures and her ghostly friends. When the first fuse had passed, and Demetrius had taken a good slap for his perverted advances, the girl had literally been cut down by fatigue. Exhaustion turned out to be complex, making her muscles turn to wood and her thoughts turn to jelly. Olga wrapped herself in overalls and a foil blanket like cabbage crammed herself under a bench in the tank and tried not to think about anything, not to be afraid of anything. The 'not to be afraid' thing turned out badly, everything around was rumbling, making a hell of a lot of noise and it was very scary. Even through the armor, there was a kind of death roar, sirens, horrible screams. The driver was firing his cannon, showering the metal floor with hot casings that looked like tall brass cups. The train, and consequently the track car, was pounding as if a giant was trying to shake the car in a mixer.

Then a complete light show began. The armored train barely jumped on the tracks like a saiga, banging even louder than the previous one. And it seemed to Olga that a real airplane was howling right above the train. The girl wrapped herself up tightly in the blanket and began to pray silently to the 'dear God', poorly understanding who exactly she was calling out to. However, some god must exist here, and the prayer had a chance of getting to the right place, even if it was 'to the grandfather's village'.

And again there followed a heavy blow, then the train jerked, but without the extremity of the previous minutes, one might say - gently, so that the girl was not struck against the rack of the iron bench, but only symbolically bumped, most likely, even without a bruise will do. The moment of braking pressed the girl into the metal, the piercing scrape of the wheels against the rails coming through several layers of armor. Then a series of jolts went from head to tail - the wagon couplings one by one took on the mass of the armored train, dampening the inertia. Finally, the 'Radial-12' came to a halt.

"God shows mercy," the girl finished her prayer in a whisper and thought it was time for the adventures to stop. There was too much going on all at once.

She was determined not to get out of the tank, moreover, she would not stick her nose out of the blanket until the shitty adventure was over, preferably well, so that everyone remained alive and well. Even the evil bodybuilder. And the noseless poet. And Kryp, the hell with him. Everybody, everybody, everybody.

"Dear God, save us, please, what is it worth to you, huh?" she whispered. Her mind kept turning to 'at least me,' and she repeated with determination (as much as she could in a tragic whisper). "Save us."

"Ah, damn!" Kryp cursed, and slammed his fist into the armor plate in an angry rage, making Demetrius' bag jump. The orderly, who had been bandaging Driver's bloody head, shrugged angrily. Demetrius's face froze with guilt, for the driver had been injured dragging the stunned medic into the hatch. It was unclear what had hit the driver's head, most likely a piece of metal, or maybe a lump of earth, frozen to a ringing hardness.

Driver was saved by a hat and a tank helmet, and they self-defended the blow to the point that he was just lucky to get a fractured skull and a loss of consciousness. Demetrius promised that Driver would be alive and in moderate health... but not now, not even today. Thus the tiny squad lost another fighter, and in worse tactical shape - a useless wounded man who should have been taken care of by diverting the forces of the living and healthy. Most importantly, the tank was left without a driver. Bertha could drive the 'Chimera' a little bit, but everyone in the squad understood that 'a little bit' would not be enough here.

"I'll drive," the mentor-commandant summed up, her lips pressed together stubbornly, and everyone silently agreed that there was no choice. After all, the Emperor protects.

"Is there really no way... him...?" Savlar gurgled, pointing a finger black with mud at the Driver.

Demetrius couldn't hear, the medic seemed to have gone completely deaf. The Priest touched him by the shoulder and pointed to the Driver, the army medicine bag, then raised his eyebrows expressively.

"I do my best," Demetrius said succinctly, speaking slowly and stiffly as if he'd been drinking heavily. "But he not a fighter. He couldn't walk, nausea, and cramps. We'll have to drag him anyway."

"I see," the monk replied, repeating Kryptman's gesture, only he slapped his hand instead of slapping the metal, then commanded. "Let's load up!"

"We have to hurry," Kryptman said, looking at the radiation detector attached to the stairs to the second floor. "Sixty-four's reactor is probably intact and automatically shut down, or we'd be gone by now. But all the rigging and pipes are apparently broken, and the radiation is getting stronger. We have about ten minutes, then..."

He didn't finish, but what he said was clear. The arrow was jumping on the border between the green and yellow zones of the scale, but with each fluctuation, it lingered in the yellow zone longer and longer. Considering that there was no red bar on the scale, it made sense to heed the Inquisitor's advice.

"I'll drive," Bertha said again, judging by her facial expression and tone she was convincing herself rather than informing the others.

"I'll drive."

"A techno priestess appeared from the wagon, clutching the talking head busily under her arm. Berta could barely contain a sigh of relief."

"Where is Olga?" Wackruffmann was just as businesslike.

"Here!" came a low voice from the womb of the tank. "Either asleep or frightened.

"Well, she's excused," muttered Crybaby, wiping the elf's dirty face with tears.

Jennifer solemnly handed the head to Savlar and walked around the tank, intending to climb into the open hatch of the vehicle. The convict nearly dropped his precious cargo and stared at the crumpled steel skull in disbelief. Above the wagon rumbled again, the noise was already quite familiar and reassuring, reminding us that in the mad city the squads have at least some support.

"Coming in for a landing," Kryp pointed out. "Looks like it'll land about a hundred meters... there," he waved his hand to indicate an azimuth. "We'll head that way first, maybe he can cover us with his guns. He might be able to tell us something."

What's there to clarify," Bertha grumbled, trying, with the Holy Man's support, to shove the 'Implicator' through the hatch. "Go ahead and punish."

However, the commander did not argue much.

"It's a bit of a mess," the Priest summed up. "On the other hand, we're purificators, not guardsmen. So it's not bad if you look at it."

"Creative impromptu," Kryptman added. "Well, into the vehicle, everybody. Father, help me open the board. Let's try to roll right onto the platform."

"Please," the monk agreed and looked sadly at the tank, then at the chemical cannon sprayer. Bertha, I suppose, came to similar conclusions and ordered through her teeth to the Holy Man. "Stick the machine gun back out! It's empty anyway... We'll clean it up when it's done. Acid is more important."

Kryptman wanted to jump onto the Chimera's armor with a good show of skill and ease, but he almost fell down and climbed heavily, with the slow movements of a tired man.

"Olga, are you alive?" he called into the open ammunition hatch at the rear of the tower. From inside, after a long pause, an indecipherable voice answered in Olga's voice.

"Oh," Jennifer's head mouthed quite humanly, and Savlar almost dropped it again with fright. "I think we're in trouble."

"Of course," the Priest grinned widely and sadly at the same time. "Not a minute without a challenge."

A quick check and a short explanation by Wakrufmann showed that the problem, despite its apparent humor, was serious indeed. The 'Chimera's' optics were out of order, the machine could now be operated 'from the hatch'. But the long, only a head shorter than Kryptman - Driver did not fit well in the driver's seat of the Chimera and had long ago remade it for himself. He had unscrewed something, twisted something, and trimmed it with a gas cutter, and then welded it on for safety. As a result, the chair was lower than it was structurally and comfortable - to Driver's measure. But Jennifer, whose height was a little over one and a half meters, simply could not reach her head to the hatch cut. The techno-priestess announced the nature of the difficulty and stared silently with her skull on the seat, either calculating something or overwhelmed with problems.

"And if you stand up... or throw something on a chair..." the monk suggested and then stumbled back. "Yes, you can't reach the pedals that way..."

The Wretched Man, gray with pain, hissed out a few muffled curses. The Savlar seemed about to cry again. But Crybaby, against his custom, did not weep. He silently walked over to Jennifer and removed the glasses from her bony head, carefully dislodging the safety wire. Wakrufmann reacted, but belatedly; the flamethrower, like a midget dancer, dodged the steel arms.

"Let's put it on the blonde," said Crybaby. "It'll be the eyes for you."

"Give it back," Jennifer asked very politely. "It's a silly joke."

"I'm not kidding," the flamethrower murmured thinly, squeakily, but confidently from the depths of his usual scarf. "The glasses are receiving and transmitting images, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"But you can't see them directly, right? You need some kind of intermediary from whose head you're going to take the picture."

"Yes. Conflict of protocols, there was no time to fix it."

"So there you go. She's going to look. She's got your gears in her head, like a servo. And you'll be pulling levers, pushing pedals."

"But..." The gurgling voice from the 'pot' was silenced almost halfway through.

Jennifer froze like a statue for five seconds, then busily climbed into her seat, clacking her metal fingers on the armor with words:

"Functional solution. A critical but acceptable level of risk. I am ashamed that the obvious solution was prompted from the outside, and not even by an adept of Omnissia."

"Are you sure you can handle it?" Savlar hurriedly threw after her. "There's... there's... levers and buttons and stuff!"

"I'll handle it," answered the head in the hands of the noseless man. "I am already familiar with the spirit of this machine, it favors me and does not want to end up in a radioactive coffin, not far from the desecrated machinery."

Bertha looked around the wagon, or rather the hangar part of it, where the remaining fighters had gathered around the 'Chimera'. By some miracle, the backup power grid was on, and instead of the red emergency light under the high ceiling, the normal lights came back on. They blinked and chirped, clearly balancing on the edge of overload, but the light was enough.

"Well, the biggest thing is ahead of us," she said quietly, more to herself.

"I don't want to," the girl whined wistfully. "I don't want to!"

"We must," Fidus said with soft insistence.

"Go fuck yourself," Olga demanded firmly from under the blanket.

It was as usual in the tank, that is, dim, warm, noisy, anxious. It was very crowded and very damp - a lot of people and a lot of melting snow on the soles. It reeked of something peppery and sour, and, for some reason, burnt paint. Someone was moaning through their teeth, and Demetrius was saying something about how to put the unconscious man down, and he was saying it too loudly and slowly.

"Execute if you want," the girl decided sullenly. "The rest without me."

The tank engine rumbled louder, the driver's compartment tinkled, the gears of the gearbox grinding. Obviously, Wackruffmann was getting the hang of the controls, still by touch.

"Olga," Fidus said quietly. "I know it's a lot to ask. But we need you."

"Nobody needs me," she muttered bitterly from under the covers.

"We need you," Kryptman repeated. "All of us. And now we're lost without you. All of us."

He was already thinking that he would have to use force and pull the girl out from under the bench, but the corner of the thin blanket reclined on its own.

"Really?" Olga asked incredulously.

Once again the girl surprised him. Kryptman was prepared for her refusal to serve as a periscope for the techno priestess, but the blond girl merely sniffed her nose and nodded silently. This was so unexpected that Fidus suddenly clarified it:

"Are you sure?"

And he almost added 'it's dangerous!'

"I'm sure," the girl said and wiped her bleeding nose. The Priest silently held out his handkerchief to her and quietly reminded her, incomprehensibly to Fidus:

"It's the second one."

Olga smiled involuntarily through her tears and nodded with words:

"What do I have to do?"

The Priest handed her a helmet, not an ordinary novice helmet, but a real, military helmet, like the Nazis in the movies. Strangely, the helmet seemed noticeably heavier than the construction helmet, but it was much better balanced and generally sat comfortably on her head. Olga was literally dragged through the soft cramped space, where there were many painfully hard protrusions from equipment and weapons. Driver was shoved into the vacated space; he was either wounded or killed, at any rate, bandaged like a wounded man, and lay silent as a dead man. Olga with her naughty fingers put on her glasses, to which she never had time to get used to.

"It doesn't work," she muttered in a broken voice. "What am I supposed to do?"

"It's going to work. Watch," Crybaby recommended exhaustively. "Get in the tower."

The opening hatch clanked and clattered. Olga had never looked at it so closely and only now noticed that the tank hatch was a rather complicated construction, something like a flat turret, which could rotate, and the actual lid was hinged in two parts in different directions. Looking up from below, Crybaby suggested how to lock one part in the raised position so that it covered the back. There were spots of rust clearly visible on the metal, which Driver had not kept track of.

"Think of you as an operator," Fidus explained quickly. "Jennifer sees what you see. So watch the course and listen to her instructions."

Olga looked at Jennifer's detached head, which the noseless man was clutching tightly, and the girl shuddered. Kryptman, meanwhile, also squeezed through the already cramped hatch.

"What do you want?" Olga got agitated.

The tank engine revved up, even more, the panels sliding aside rattled, revealing the outside world, smoky, reeking of smoke and burnt flesh, colored by the fires. Fidus silently straddled the girl from behind, resting his long legs on special pedal-like ledges. Olga suddenly found herself acceptably settled. Kryptman held her, serving as a shock absorber and taking all the jolts, his arms covered the girl from the sides, her helmet sat comfortably on her head. Only the spectacles seemed dead, pressing uselessly against the bridge of her nose. Taking advantage of the fact that her fingers were free, Olga grasped the frame firmly, so as not to be thrown off by the jerk.

"Get ready, we're going to move," Jennifer hummed from Savlarz's hands, and again the gears rattled shrilly, the priestess not yet accustomed to the mechanism. Servitor Luct didn't even try to climb into the tank but grabbed tightly to the brackets on the stern, designed for towing. The sledgehammer hung on the servitor's back in a hastily improvised sling of ordinary rope.

"Everything will be all right," Fidus said softly in the girl's ear.

"Yeah," she agreed, though, of course, she didn't believe his promise one bit. But after thinking for a second or two, Olga added. "Thank you," she thought a little more and finished her thought. "For everything."

"Always at your service," she could not see his face, but it was clear from his tone that he was smiling.

And Olga again thought that these strange people - cruel, fanatical, sullen, unpleasant in communication, who burned a scout in front of the formation - must be the most decent of all the people she had met in her short life. Now, instead of fleeing as far away as possible, they are ready to go to hell, because for them the Duty is not an empty word. In their emperor, they believe quite sincerely. And this faith, albeit alien as it may be, helped Olga herself escape from the mad maze.

They have faith. They have a duty. What's it got to do with me? It's not my world. Not my war, not my faith. The oath read hastily from a sheet of paper, is not binding because it is not my choice. I am not a volunteer, and an oath forged under the pain of beatings and death does not count. So why am I here, in the most dangerous place, standing there like a dick? Voluntarily.

Olga thought about it while the carriage was opening. She couldn't think of anything, only images of an empty house and old toys kept coming to mind. The owners would never pick up a woman knight with a crooked but painstakingly drawn shamrock on her doll's face. Or a hand-carved wooden emperor painstakingly painted in yellow watercolor.

This is bad. And it shouldn't be.

The sun was rising in the smoky sky and shining surprisingly bright. The wind died down, either of its own accords, or it was being dampened by the dense building. It was warm outside the Radial, out of season, and even the muddy puddles were in no hurry to be covered by a film of ice. In this part of the city the fighting, or a rather senseless massacre, had already raged, scattering bodies, staining the black snow and concrete with stains of unfreezing blood. The main fighting was taking place to the side and closer to the center of the city, where, judging by the rhythmic rumble, heavy artillery was working. A group of bombers swooped overhead, coming in for a combat turn. If the red half-hull emblems were to be believed, the vehicles belonged to Mars. Through the nearby buildings lay a black clearing scorched by the 'Claw,' which descended not rocket-style, strictly top-down, but in a counter-attack maneuver, like an airplane.

The capsule's landing torch shattered the houses in its path like a flaming sword. The Claw protruded ahead, a thick cylinder about fifteen meters high, on supports that resembled claws indeed. All five of the capsule's artillery barrels bounced bright yellow flashes, eliminating any threat, and by all appearances, the fire was covering the 'Chimera' as well, or maybe even the train.

The tank rolled out onto the unloading platform, clanking loudly on the concrete with its tracks. The machine moved 'nervously', twitching around corners, but more or less confidently. The spirit favored the crew and smoothed out the inept driving to the best of his ability. No one objected when Jennifer steered the 'Chimera' toward the unexpected and unknown savior. The two figures, seemingly very small against the background of the flying machine, had already descended and stood waiting, careless, out of place here, in the midst of a city engulfed in chaos and violence.

"Well, of course," Fidus muttered as he looked at the figures at the Claw's base. "How nice to be right..."

He squeezed Olga tighter in his arms, taking the abundant blows and thrusts that turned the inquisitor's body into one solid bruise. Fidus longed for a hot bath and a good massage. At the very least, a warm shower under which he could fall asleep.

Approaching the landing unit, the 'Chimera' made a sound remarkably similar to a loud sneeze and stopped.

"Whoever you are, peace be upon you, worthy servants of the Emperor!" The Priest proclaimed, awkwardly climbing out. Then he spoke in a more businesslike and substantive manner. "Shall we go and ripe the Evil ass together? You have more guns than we do."

"Hello, Schmettau," Kryptman greeted from the tower. "I'm surprised to say it myself, but I'm glad to see you."

"Good morning to you too, colleagues," Kalkroit Schmettau bowed with a slight ceremonial manner. "I'm glad we made it in time. I don't deny that the Ecclesiarchy's gratitude is appreciated, but there's a time for everything. The perimeter has been cleared for some time, so let's discuss the plan ahead."

Looking at the pair of new arrivals, Bertha felt envy, undignified but understandable. Both tall and short were dressed in what looked like semi-rigid, obviously armored spacesuits with exoskeleton inserts. The gear looked spectacular and new, nothing like the Squad's usual ammunition, which had served for decades while undergoing permanent repairs. The tall and bald fighter was armed with something resembling a multimelta, very light and graspable, clearly hand-assembled. Bertha grudgingly snorted, suspecting the work of xenos. Humans couldn't pack that much destructive power into such a small volume. On the belt of the second inquisitor hung a hell gun, a long-standing and unfulfilled dream of the mentor.

Kryptman whispered in Olga's ear 'sit here,' and jumped to the concrete, writhing from the pain in his knees. He came closer to his colleagues in the difficult profession.

"Why we haven't been affected by the destructive impact, I understand in general terms," said Fidus, looking down at Schmettau. "But how did you keep your sanity? And where is your retinue? Though..." Kryptmann glanced at Essen Pale's scarred, shaved skull. -" think I understand. 'My light twin' technology?"

"Yes. An unpleasant but useful surgery" replied Schmettau with a secular smile. The Inquisitor still looked ridiculous, his good-natured face strongly incongruous with the boarding suit, and the melta gun on his belt looked like a masquerade toy. Only Kalkroit's eyes glowed, giving away his sinister nature.

"My loyal companion is completely immune to any manifestation of warp activity. It was a consequence of an old astropath experiment, they tried to grow a special gland right on his brain tissue. I figured I could use it, he didn't mind, understanding the value of his gift."

"So you..." Kryptman expressively moved his fingers in opposite directions, as if pointing two roads at once.

"Yes. Part of his brain was transplanted to me, and vice versa. So we have a kind of metaphysical symbiosis. At close range, his invulnerability to the Immaterium extends to me. But, unfortunately, only me. That's why I sent the ship and the retinue away; they are of no use here."

"A great sacrifice," Fidus shook his head. "A mutilated mind."

"I was a volunteer," Essen smiled condescendingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yes, it's hard to understand," Kryptman agreed.

"That's why you're not an inquisitor," Kalkroit said angrily. "Essen is essentially the same as Luct. A man devoted to service, devoted to the Emperor. Ready to make any sacrifice to make the service even better, even more effective. Luct gave up his free will and his posthumous peace to become your father's shield. Essen gave up a brilliant career and sacrificed a sophisticated mind to protect me. It was a conscious sacrifice for something supreme."

The Priest and Bertha looked at each other with a look of extreme impatience but decided that fuck it, let them discuss their old differences, it would be more expensive to interfere, let alone hurry.

"Bring me up to date," Fidus asked curtly, or rather demanded. "You seem to know more than I do."

Schmettau glared at the young vis-a-vis with an unkind look, but answered nonetheless: "If we compare..."

He paused as if the inquisitor was physically painful and ashamed to describe the spectacular failure of his colleagues, even though Kalkroit himself had nothing to do with it.

"... It looks like they tried to organize a 'Duo in uno' ritual here."

"Oops!" Kryptman said with a vulgar exclamation. "They experimented on a pregnant astropath?"

Bertha straightened up like a stung woman, the Priest huffed and muttered something like 'fucking freaks,' and the rest of the squad who heard the words cringed in disgust. The Purificators were used to seeing the filth that heresy and witchcraft raised from the depths of human souls, but some things can horrify even the most steadfast.

"Yes. The idea is that if you prepare and kill her in a special way literally during the birth process, a lot of 'subtle energy' will be released. Especially if the unborn child also has a gift. Apparently, they managed. Almost managed."

"Such freaks," the Priest repeated with sincere hatred, and thought aloud, pulling on his plastic chain mail. "So that's where all these... incongruities. A very long ritual?"

"Yes," Kalkroit confirmed. "They conducted an elaborate ritual grid, organized sacrifices, sucked the energy of the warp, literally pumping the victim... or a volunteer. Or more likely a victim. It was all about synergy. But it was too much. The generic fighting caused such an uproar that the Immaterium burst uncontrollably."

"Labor pains," Kriptman repeated. "Of course... Rhythm!"

"I remembered because I'd seen it before when I was... help delivered a baby," Schmettau wrinkled as if the memory were unpleasant to him.

"A self-sustaining vortex?" Fidus suggested. "A permanent gateway to the other side that pulses according to the imprinted rhythm?"

"Maybe," Schmettau nodded. "But I'd bet on a 'looped host'. An anchored portal, tied to a shell with a destroyed soul. Anyway, there's pure Warp energy flowing through some entity into our world, and you can't close the breach until the entity is destroyed."

"Well, we won't see, we won't know," Kryptman sighed. "But I'm afraid I can't get you in the vehicle, much less the two of you."

"Unload the wounded," Schmettau didn't seem to have any intention of discussing the subject at all and certainly thought the two inquisitors were worth the whole crew. "Get rid of the useless ones."

"And we can't... it's... just fly over... over there?" Savlar took the risk of making a suggestion.

"We can't," said Schmettau, without condescending to explain.

"Poor woman," the shepherd said sadly.

"Or a criminal volunteer," said Inquisitor Schmettau's hitherto silent tall companion. His voice was unpleasant, dry, and raspy.

"It's not a woman."

The low, timid voice was lost in the background at first, and not many people heard it. But Kalkroit was accustomed to noticing what was hidden from others, and the inquisitor froze and held up two fingers, calling for silence.

"Say it again, if you please," he asked with deceptive gentleness, looking kindly at Olga.

The girl got off the tank and hid behind Kryp, just in case. She remembered this short man with kind eyes well. He interrogated her only once, did not even raise his voice, was always polite and smiling, but the older man's smile reeked of the coldness of the grave. Olga remembered the feeling that she was being buried alive - the polite interrogator had twisted everything so cleverly and cunningly that the interrogator turned out in the report to be a hardened sinner, who had almost single-handedly led the naive inquisitor Kryptman to his ignominious death.

"It's not a woman," Olga whispered again.

"I don't understand," Kalkroit frowned.

"Perhaps the lass wants to say that it is the intrigues of the Slaaneshites?" suggested the inquisitor's taciturn companion. "Getting a man pregnant, that's their style. The hormonal combination could lead to curious results."

"Relax," Kryptman turned around, confidently, and gently placed his broad palm on the girl's shoulder. "What do you mean? Speak clearly, don't be afraid."

Olga swallowed and tried not to look into the cold hypnotic eyes of the evil investigator. She concentrated on Fidus' words, as well as her own memories.

The cries of the poor Madman. He saw more than the average man. He wanted to warn, but he couldn't lost in the mazes of madness.

The otherworldly cry that sounded in the cursed house. Then the girl heard the hopeless despair of a woman who was mortally afraid for her life.

Olga's subconscious is reflected in Jennifer's image. It, too, felt much more than the limited mind. All she had to do was to listen to the voice. To understand that, in fact, it was a mother's fear for her unborn...

"Baby," she said.

Olga thought that now the angry man was going to get hold of her and start cornering her again with tricky questions. And Fidus... Probably leave her again, because colleagues with a badge in the form of a single stick Kryptman, it seemed, were more afraid than demons and other creepy things. But instead of being tricky, the inquisitors exchanged glances, shook their heads at once.

"Uh..." Bertha dared to cut in. "Isn't it time to bring death in His name?"

Fidus raised his hand warningly, calling for restraint and patience, and said softly, apparently quoting something:

"Haste in our business is more detrimental than procrastination."

And he added:

"We have no army behind us, not even a squad of loyal acolytes. We can strike only once, and only for sure."

"A child. A baby," Schmettau thought aloud. "That sounds reasonable. Perhaps that was the idea... Not 'two in one', but to breed a unique psyker of incredible power. And they succeeded... but the heretics couldn't hold on to what they'd created."

"A baby, kept alive by his powers," the scarred warrior picked up on the thought. "He's probably pulling energy from the Warp too, maybe through his mother's body. And he's hitting the area."

Olga squeezed Fidus' hand tightly, wondering how to tell those evil freaks how wrong they were. And it was as if Kryptman read her thoughts through body contact.

"It doesn't," said Fidus. "It's not a conscious act. The newborn has left its mother's womb, exhausted, in pain, scared, alone, for the mother is most likely dead. And there is an abyss of Immaterium nearby. The child just screams in endless terror. But this is the cry of a psyker, perhaps the strongest in the galaxy..."

"Perhaps this version explains everything," Shmettau snapped his armored gloved fingers audibly. "And the rhythm, the directionless impact, and the thoughtless operation of the sheer force. Well..."

The Inquisitor looked imperiously at the small squad. The Claw's homing artillery was silent, only the cannons' trunks unfolded in a relentless search for new targets.

"One way or another, we have one path. As His faithful servants, we must stop it. At any cost."

"Shall we ask for help?" Just in case, Kryptman clarified, but, judging by the tone, the question was asked more as a formality.

"The satellite link is dead," Shmettau shook his head. "We'll spend hours just to get through to the leaders of the Arbiter Fortress or the Inquisitors. Then explanations, arguments, approvals, rearranging plans. At best, we'll start by evening."

"During this time, the psyker will completely depopulate the region, and we'll have problems on a global scale," Kryptman agreed. "Well, that's as usual, then."

"No one except us," Schmettau smiled faintly, clearly remembering something good and warm, but immediately frowning as if the memory had hurt.

"You will kill... the baby?" Olga asked in a whisper, squeezing Fidus' palm with both hands. "You mustn't. It is not right."

Schmettau did not dignify her with a reply. He looked expressively at Bertha. The commandant humbled herself, finally feeling the certainty and clarity of the task.

"Let's leave Driver here and..." she thought for a moment. "The Wretched Man. We'll swap two sick people for two healthy ones."

"I am healthy," said the Wretched Man, but the earthy color of his face and heavy breathing clearly indicated the opposite.

"Give them here," ordered the inquisitor. "We'll put them in the weapon section. They can shoot themselves there if we don't succeed."

"Nobody except us," Fidus repeated. "I don't remember who came up with that motto, you or Dad?"

But Schmettau did not dignify his companion's attention. He looked silently and intently at the center of the city, the final point of the mission and the center of the fierce battle between the Martians and the unknown enemy.

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