The Eisenhorn TrilogyXenos(科幻战争)-第15部分

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ver　from　behind
by　the　page　boy；　Frewa。　Dull…eyed　and　frothing　at　the　mouth；　the　boy　had　been　reduced；　in　an　instant；　to　a　mindless　puppet。　Inshabel
fought；　but　the　boy　was　feral；　and　despite　the　interrogator's　superior　bulk　he　was　pinned。
The　pain　in　my　head　was　intense；　but　I　knew　Esarhaddon　must　still　be　way　below　full　strength。　I　raised　the　strongest　mind　shield　my
abilities　were　able　to　conjure　and　moved　forward。
There　was　a　sudden　grind　of　servo…gears。　A　large　steel　paw　swung　at　my　head　and　I　dived　back。
A　cargo　servitor；　its　metal　carapace　caked　with　verdigris；　rose　up　to　its　full　height　of　three　metres　and　clanked　across　the　deck　towards
me　on　squat　hydraulic　legs。　Plumes　of　steam　squirted　from　its　broad　shoulder　joints　as　it　pistoned　its　arms　at　me　again。　Hot　yellow
dots　of　light　burned　in　the　eye　sockets　of　its　dented　visor。
Despite　its　mechanical　appearance；　the　cargo　drone；　like　all　servitors；　was　built　around　human　organic　components：　brain；　brain…stem；
neural　network；　glands　so　Esarhaddon　could　control　it　just　like　a　standard　human。
It　swung　at　me　again；　and　missed。　The　slicing　limb　had　cut　the　air　with　a　distinct　whistle。
It　was　built　like　a　great　simian：　squat　legs；　barrel　chest；　wide　shoulders　and　long；　thick　arms。　Ideal　for　hefting　heavy　cargo　items　into
the　belly…hold　of　a　liftship。
Ideal　for　smashing　a　human　body　into　gory　paste。
Roban　cried　out　a　warning。　A　second；　larger　cargo　servitor　with　a　long　quadruped　body；　was　also　moving。　Its　body　casing　was　pitted；
brown　metal　and　it　had　a　fork…lifter　assembly　where　its　head　should　have　been；　giving　it　the　appearance　of　a　bull。　The　greased　black
forks　of　the　lifter　lurched　at　Roban；　who　fired　six　or　seven　shots　that　dented　or　bounced　off　the　machine's　chassis。
I　ducked　two　more　slow；　heavy　blows　from　the　ape…servitor。　We　were　losing　precious　time。　With　every　tick　of　the　clock；　Esarhaddon
was　recovering　and　becoming　more　powerful。
I　put　a　bolt　round　into　the　thickest　part　of　the　servitor's　body　and　rocked　it　back；　the　gears　and　pistons　of　its　legs　whining　as　they
compensated　for　the　recoil。

My　power　sword　was　out　now；　the　blade　burning。　Blessed　for　me　by　the　Provost　of　Inx；　it　was　my　weapon　of　choice。　My
swordsmanship　had　always　been　good；　but　Arianrhod　had　instructed　me　in　the　Carthaen　Ewl　Wyla　Scryi　before　her　death。　Ewl　Wyla
Scryi；　literally；　''the　genius　of　sharpness''；　the　Carthaen　way　of　the　sword。
I　made　a　figure　of　eight　turn；　the　ghan　fasl；　and　then　a　back…hand　crosscut；　the　uin　or　reverse　form　of　the　tahn　wyla。
The　stroke　was　good。　The　energised　blade　sliced　clean　through　the　servitor's　left　forearm；　sending　the　massive　manipulator　paw
clattering　to　the　deck。
It　lurched　bodily　at　me；　as　if　enraged；　clawing　with　its　remaining　hand　and　lashing　with　the　fused；　smoking　end　of　its　recently
truncated　limb。
I　made　a　head…height　horizontal　parry　called　the　uwe　sax；　and　then　left　and　right　block　strokes；　the　ulsar　and　the　uin　ulsar。　Sheets　of
sparks　cascaded　from　each　hit　against　its　metal　body。　I　ducked　right　under　the　next　huge　blow；　spun　round　out　of　the　crouch　and　came
up　to　face　it　again　in　time　to　follow　through　with　the　ura　wyla　bei；　the　devastating　diagonal　downslash；　left　to　right。　My　blade　edge
and　tip　sawed　the　servitor's　torso　plating　wide　open　in　an　electrical　flash。
The　exchange　had　given　me　long　enough　to　mentally　identify　the　seat　of　the　servitor's　brain…stem　component；　lit　up　and　glowing　in　my
mind's　eye　with　the　psionic　power　that　drove　it。　It　lay　deep　under　the　carapace　between　the　collar　bones。
One　more　uwe　sar　and　men　the　ewl　caer；　the　deathstroke。　Tip　first；　plunging　clean　through　the　bodywork；　impaling　the　organic　brain。　I
rested　the　crackling　blade　there　for　a　moment　while　the　yellow　dot　eyes　went　out　and　then　ripped　it　clear　again；　sidestepping　as　the
servitor　slammed　down　onto　the　flooring。
'Roban！'　I　called　out；　leaping　over　my　despatched　foe。
But　Roban　was　dead。　The　servitor's　forks　had　his　limp　body　impaled　through　the　belly　and　it　was　shaking　it　as　if　trying　to　dislodge
him。
Inshabel　was　on　his　feet；　tears　streaming　down　his　face　as　he　blasted　at　the　servitor　with　his　autogun。
Cursing；　I　ran　forward；　raised　the　power　sword　with　both　hands　and　swung　it　down　over　the　servitor's　back。　I　doubt　the　Carthaens；　in
all　their　wisdom；　have　a　name　in　the　most　hallowed　Ewl　Wyla　Scryi　for　an　enraged　downstroke　that　severs　the　backbone　and　torso　of　a
servitor。
Inshabel　ran　to　his　dead　master　as　the　servitor　collapsed；　trying　to　pull　the　corpse　clear。
'Later！　Later　for　that！'　I　said；　spiking　the　command　with　my　will。　Inshabel　was　close　to　losing　his　wits　to　anger　and　grief；　and　I　needed
him。
He　snatched　up　his　weapon　and　ran　after　me。
'The　page　boy？'　I　asked。
'I　had　to　hit　him。　I　hope　he's　just　unconscious。'
WE　CAME　OUT　into　the　storm…wracked　night　on　the　palace　landing　pad。　Psychic　lightning　splintered　the　sky　above　us　and　the　wind
lashed　us。　There　was　no　one　on　the　pad　itself；　but　a　fight　was　raging　on　the　lawns　beyond。　I　could　see　eight　figures；　some　robed；　some
dressed　in　the　body　armour　of　the　Interior　Guard；　closing　to　surrounding　a　lone　humanoid　who　crackled　and　glowed　with　spectral
light。　Thorny　jags　of　flame　lit　out　from　the　cornered　figure　and　dropped　one　of　the　guardsmen　as　we　watched。　Esarhaddon。　They　had
Esarhaddon　cornered。
Inshabel　and　I　leapt　down　from　the　pad　…　a　three　metre　drop　onto　the　wet　grass　…　and　ran　to　join　the　fray。
I　could　see　Esarhaddon　clearly　now　despite　the　rain。　A　tall；　almost　naked　man　with　wild　black　hair　and　a　lean；　stringy　body；　corposant
gleaming　and　sliding　around　his　capering　limbs。
We　were　just　ten　metres　from　the　edge　of　the　fight　when　one　of　the　robed　figures　raised　a　bulky　weapon　and　blasted　at　the　rogue
psyker。
A　plasma　gun。
The　violet　beam；　almost　too　bright　to　look　at；　struck　Esarhaddon。　In　his　weakened　state；　he　had　no　defence　against　it。
He　ignited　like　an　incendiary　round　and　burned　from　head　to　foot　in　the　middle　of　the　lawn。
LOWERING　OUR　WEAPONS；　Inshabel　and　I　walked　to　join　the　ring　of　figures　standing　around　the　white　hot　pyre。　As　his　robed　and
hooded　acolytes　murmured　prayers　of　grace　and　deliverance；　Inquisitor　Lyko　set　down　his　plasma　gun。
'The　Emperor　will　thank　you；　Lyko；'　I　said。
He　glanced　round；　seeing　me　for　the　first　time。　'Eisenhorn。'　He　nodded。　His　narrow　face　was　lined　and　taut　and　his　blue　eyes　hooded。
He　was　only　about　fifty　years　old　sidereal；　a　mere　youth　by　inquisitional　standards。　Young　enough　for　his　promising　career　to　survive
the　way　this　day's　atrocity　would　tarnish　his　achievement　on　Dolsene。
'I　do　not　serve　the　Emperor　for　his　gratitude。　I　do　it　for　the　glory　of　the　Imperium。'
'Quite　so；'　I　said。　I　looked　back　at　the　molten　heat　that　had　been　our　quarry。　It　mattered　little　to　me　that　I'd　made　this　opportunity　for
Lyko。　He　could　take　the　glory。　I　didn't　care。　The　escape　of　the　psykers　had　stolen　much　of　the　glory　he　had　received　of　late。　Hunting
them　down　was　the　only　way　he　could　make　amends。
PLANETWIDE；　THERE　WAS　some　sense　of　rejoicing　when　it　was　announced　that　Lord　Commander　Helican　had　survived　the　carnage
unscathed；　and　that　Warmaster　Honorius　would　live。　That　announcement　came　on　the　sixth　day　of　unrest；　by　which　time　the　Imperial
authorities　had　begun　to　reimpose　order　on　the　stricken　citizens　of　Thracian　Primaris。　But　it　helped。　Common　folk　who　assumed

themselves　to　be　lost　were　calmed　into　believing　law　was　back　in　the　hands　of　the　great　and　good。　Panics　died　away。　Arbites　units
unleashed　their　last　few　suppression　raids　against　the　die…hard　recidivist　looters　in　the　lowhabs。
My　own　spirits　were　not　much　lifted。　For　a　start　I　was　privy　to　the　confidential　fact　that　Lord　Commander　Helican　had　actually　died
screaming　and　shitting　himself　under　a　crash…diving　Imperial　Navy　Lightning　on　the　Avenue　of　the　Victor　Bellum。　A　double　had　been
arranged　by　the　Ecclesiarchy　and　the　Helican　Senatorum；　and　that　double　continued　to　act　in　his　place　until；　several　years　later；　he
''died　naturally　of　old　age''　and　a　successor　was　established　in　less…turbulent　circumstances。
I　can　speak　of　that　public　deceit　now　in　this　private　record；　but　at　the　time；　communicating　that　secret　was　a　death…crime　for　even　the
highest　lord　of　the　Imperium。　I　was　not　about　to　break　that　confidence。　I　am　an　inquisitor　and　I　understand　how　fundamental　it　is　to
maintain　public　order。
IN　ADDITION　TO　fatigue　and　the　pain　of　my　wounds；　what　darkened　my　mood　was　the　news　about　Gideon　Ravenor。　Now；　of　course；　we
all　understand　what　a　priceless　and　brilliant　contribution　he　was　to　make　to　Imperial　learning；　and　how　that　would　never　have
happened　if　he　had　not　been　confined　to　a　life　of　mental　rumination。
But　back　then；　in　that　stinking　hospice　ward　off　the　Street　of　Prescients；　all　I　saw　was　a　young　man；　burned　and　crippled　and
physically　paralysed；　a　brilliant　inquisitor　ruined　before　he　could　fulfill　his　potential。
Ravenor；　in　the　eyes　of　some；　had　been　lucky。　He　had　not　been　amongst　the　one　hundred　and　ninety…eight　Inquisition　personnel　killed
outright　by　the　crashing　fighter　that　fell　into　the　Great　Triumph　beyond　the　Spatian　Gate。
He；　like　fifty　others；　had　been　caught　on　the　edge　of　the　explosion　and　lived。
My　pupil　was　barely　recognisable。　A　blood…wet　bundle　of　charred　flesh。　One　hundred　per　cent　burns。　Blind；　deaf；　mute；　his　face　so
melted　that　an　incision　had　been　made　in　the　fused　meat　where　his　mouth　should　have　been　so　he　could　breathe。
The　loss　touched　me　acutely。　The　waste　even　more。　Gideon　Ravenor　had　been　the　greatest；　most　promising　pupil　I　had　ever　taught。　I
stood　by　his　plastic…sheeted　cot；　listening　to　the　suck　and　drool　of　his　ventilator　and　fluid　drains　and　remembered　what　Commodus
Voke　had　said　in　the　arbites　sector　house　on　Blammerside　Street。
'I　will　make　amends。　I　will　not　rest　until　every　one　of　these　wretches　is　destroyed　and　order　restored。　And　then　I　will　not　rest　until　I
find　who　and　what　was　behind　it。'
Right　then；　there；　for　Ravenor's　sake；　I　made　that　promise　to　myself　too。
At　that　time；　I　had　little　idea　what　that　would　mean　or　where　it　would　take　me。
I　RETURNED　TO　the　Ocean　House　at　last　on　what　would　have　been　the　ninth　and　final　day　of　the　Holy　Novena。　There　was　no　one　to
greet　me；　and　the　place　seemed　empty　and　forlorn。
I　stalked　into　my　study；　poured　a　too…large　measure　of　vintage　amasec　and　flopped　down　into　an　armchair。　It　felt　like　an　eternity　since
I　had　sat　here　with　Titus　Endor；　worrying　over　speculations　that　seemed　now　so　insignificant　and　remote。
A　door　opened。　From　the　instant　chill　in　the　air；　I　knew　at　once　it　was　Bequin。
'We　didn't　know　you'd　returned；　Gregor。'
'Well；　I　have；　Alizebeth。'
'So　I　see。　Are　you　alright？'
I　shrugged。　'Where　is　everybody？'
'When　the…'　she　paused；　considering　her　words。　'When　the　tragedy　occurred；　there　was　a　great　public　commotion。　Jarat　and　Kircher
took　the　staff　into　the　secure　bunkers　for　safety；　and　I　locked　myself　away　with　the　Distaff　in　the　west　wing；　waiting；　hoping　for　your
call。'
'Channels　were　out。'
'Yes。　For　eight　days。'
'But　everyone　is　safe？'
'Yes。'
I　leaned　out　of　my　chair　and　looked　at　her。　Her　face　was　pale　and　drawn　from　too　many　nights　of　fear。
'Where's　Aemos？'
'Outside；　with　Betancore；　Kircher　and　Nayl。