‘Should we try to move them?’ he asked Gaunt.
Gaunt nodded. ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘They should mourn as long as they need to, but this place is–’
‘I know, sir,’ Baskevyl replied. Gaunt took a step towards Kolea, but Baskevyl stopped him. Bask and Gol were best friends. Bask would be a more welcome comfort.
Gaunt crossed to Daur instead.
‘Let’s go upstairs, Ban,’ he said.
Daur looked up at him. He rose, and brushed off his coat.
‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ban–’
‘I haven’t found her yet,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving until I have.’
‘Ban, we can get teams down here, a proper search of all–’
‘No,’ Daur said fiercely. ‘I’ll look. Me.’
He walked past Gaunt, and disappeared into the neighbouring chamber. Gaunt heard Daur calling her name.
Haller cut loose with a long burst from the short-snout rigged around his body. The link-belt from the hopper at his feet clattered as it fed out. Harsh flowers of muzzle flash flickered around the cannon’s wide barrel, and spent brass fluttered into the air.
The automata, limping and drooling black ooze, punctured in fifty places. Its casing disintegrated, flayed off it by the hail of shells, and it slumped, burning from the core, black fluid pouring from its ruptured innards.
‘Still one or two of them active,’ Haller remarked.
‘Stay sharp,’ Kolosim said. He looked at Bray. The sergeant was trying to force the hatch into Turbine Hall One. Caober was working with him.
‘Any luck?’ Kolosim called out.
‘Stand by,’ said Bray.
‘Are we gonna need more shit from that truck?’ Kolosim asked.
‘No, I’ve got it,’ said Bray, working intently. ‘It’s just locked from inside.’
Criid and Zhukova clambered out of the open duct, weapons ready. Obel limped out behind them. Turbine Hall One was just as they’d left it. The huge vapour engines had slowed down to an impotent wheeze. The bodies of the dead – Ghost and Mechanicus alike – lay where they had fallen.
‘You were wrong,’ said Criid.
‘No,’ replied Zhukova with a firm shake of her head.
‘Then where is he?’
Criid edged out across the floorspace, picking her way over bodies, watching for any sign of movement. There were plenty of hiding places. So much pipework, bulk machines, consoles. The hostile could have concealed himself. Criid wasn’t sure if he’d had a weapon, but if he did, he could be lining up a shot.
She crossed to the hatch. It was still locked tight, internal setting, just the way Zhukova had sealed it before they had entered the ducts. No one could have exited and locked it again from the inside.
‘We went the wrong way,’ she said. She was dizzy from the fumes of the duct, dead on her feet from running and climbing. ‘He didn’t come this way.’
‘He did,’ Zhukova said.
‘Then where is he?’ Criid asked. ‘Fething where?’
‘Somewhere,’ said Zhukova. She prowled across the chamber. ‘He’s in here.’
‘I’ll tell you where he is,’ snapped Criid. ‘He’s two kilometres away heading out into the main thermal pipe. He’s home free. We went the wrong fething way.’
‘It was just a call, Tona,’ said Obel, sitting down and trying to collect his breath. He was wheezing badly. ‘We made a call. It was just the wrong one.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Zhukova.
‘Then where is he?’ Criid snarled.
‘Hiding,’ said Zhukova. She started to slam open storage lockers along the west wall, aiming her weapon into each one as she threw the doors open. Just machine spares. Clusters of cables. Pipework.
‘They won,’ said Criid. ‘They fething won. They got the stones.’
The main hatch let out a bang of auto-bolts and then slid open with a slow pneumatic hiss. Criid, Obel and Zhukova turned, weapons aimed.
‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Bray yelled as he saw them. The Ghosts around him lowered their aim, and fanned out into the hall.
‘What happened?’ asked Kolosim.
Criid just shook her head, exhausted.
‘We met them coming out,’ said Obel. ‘Held them. Fething mess of a fire-fight. Unreal. They weren’t human and they kept coming. Just savage. Big purse. But one got past us.’
‘Just one,’ said Zhukova.
‘Fething bastard had a bag. Had the stones,’ said Obel. ‘We went after him, but he got out through the geotherm system.’
‘Oh feth,’ said Kolosim.
‘He didn’t go that way,’ Zhukova insisted. She turned back to her search. ‘He came this way.’
‘Then where?’ asked Criid.
‘I told you,’ said Zhukova. ‘He’s hiding. In here somewhere. There’s nowhere else. That’s the first time that hatch has opened. He’s in this chamber right now.’
‘Search! Top to bottom!’ Kolosim yelled. Squads of Ghosts fanned out, hunting in every alcove, checking the service walks behind machines. Some climbed up onto the inspection gantries. Others stood in a mob by the hatchway, gazing dismally at the dead.
‘No sign!’ Bray called. Other Ghosts sang out negatives.
‘See?’ said Criid.
‘I’ll try and patch through to Pasha,’ said Kolosim. ‘Tell her the word.’
Zhukova was still searching. She ducked down to look behind the hall’s control desks. Trooper Etzen’s corpse was sprawled under the console.
He’d been felled by one of the adept wardens’ grav pulses. The energy had crushed and mangled him.
Zhukova frowned. The graviton force was powerful, but it would not have removed Etzen’s jacket and cape.
She rose.
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘What?’ asked Obel.
‘Etzen. No cape. No–’
Criid and Zhukova turned. The bodies of four Ghosts had been lying on the floor between the consoles and the hatch. Now there were only three.
Criid and Zhukova sprang forwards, Obel staggering after them.
‘What the feth, Tona?’ Kolosim exclaimed as Criid pushed past him.
‘He’s just walking out!’ she yelled. She had no idea how a rail-thin, two-metre tall spectre could just walk out, but she knew it had. She and Zhukova pushed through the bewildered Ghosts standing in the doorway.
‘Move!’ Criid yelled at them. ‘Move!’
One Ghost had detached himself from the back of the group. Draped in his camo cloak, he was limping away across the wide arcade outside, heading for the main exit. He was just walking past the Ghost squads stationed in the arcade area.
It wasn’t her quarry. This man was short, small. He looked old and frail, the cape pulled tight around him.
But Criid knew it wasn’t any Ghost she knew.
‘You!’ She yelled. ‘You! Halt!’
The Ghost kept walking.
‘Last warning!’ Criid yelled.
The man paused. He stopped limping, he glanced back at her over his shoulder.
He was an old man, weathered and skinny. He looked like one of the scrawny ayatani priests that had been flooding into the city.
He looked straight at her for a second, then turned and kept on going, limping on towards the door.
In that one second, Criid had seen the neon glint in his pupils.
She fired her stave. The grav pulse thumped out of the projector end. Ghosts scattered and recoiled as the seething mass of distorted air bubbled across the concourse.
It hit the limping man in the back, crushing his spine and ribcage, and pulping his internal organs.
Hacklaw fell. He died as he had entered the world, his blessed reworking hidden from view.
Criid and Zhukova reached the corpse. Criid turned it over gingerly with her foot. Just a dead old man, wrapped in a Tanith combat cloak.