The doors at the far end began to cycle open again. Fresh alarms were sounding. Something was happening, but she could not lose focus, not now.
‘What do you know of the False Angel?’ Spinoza demanded, her face glossy with sweat, her muscles burning.
‘No, do not try this,’ the woman said, scornfully, defending herself with a dazzling switchback, then giving ground again. ‘Do not give me such words. I despise you. I despise what you are. Your souls are eaten, I think, so no prayer is saving you now.’
The doors had split wide now, throwing a bar of orange light across the gantry. There were dark figures there, running onto the bouncing walkway.
No. Not now. So close.
Spinoza lashed out again, trying to slam her adversary to the deck, to lodge the crozius between the woman’s chin and her chest and pin her, ready for a knee to drive deep into her stomach and press the wind from her.
The move was seen. The target twisted away from her, sliding a boot against Spinoza’s and forcing it over the edge. As Spinoza cartwheeled, feeling gravity haul her over, the woman punched with her sword’s hilt, knocking the interrogator over the edge.
For a moment, all Spinoza saw was the distant ceiling. Her head went back, she felt herself falling, falling, and the heat from the vat below welled up like a cushion, dragging her down. She caught a final glimpse of the target, vaulting past her, breaking down the gantry, sprinting hard, and tried to grasp her, but failed, and went over, tumbling, towards the boiling slurry below.
Then she was caught. Before she could drop the full distance, something seized her free arm, gripping hard. Spinoza yanked up short, somehow keeping a grip on her weapon, and dangled below the gantry’s underside,
swaying amid the fumes.
She looked up, startled, to see a man holding her. Before she could say anything, she was being dragged back up to the gantry decking, pulled over the edge, and a squad of soldiers was running past them, firing las-beams at the retreating target.
‘Who…’ she started, breathless, her heart hammering. ‘What…’
The man released his grip on her. He was huge, bulked out with plate armour and carrying an autopistol. He twisted off his helm to reveal a thick, ugly face with a full beard that sprang out from the armour-seal. Before Spinoza could make another move, she felt the pistol’s muzzle press against her forehead.
‘Name, rank, service,’ the man demanded, his voice throaty, aggressive.
She glared back at him, then managed to reach for her rosette, which she twisted in his direction. He looked at it, and slowly moved the pistol out of her face.
‘Just the name, then,’ he said.
‘Yours first.’
He laughed, a rumble that erupted from his barrel chest. ‘Aido Gloch. Interrogator to Lord Inquisitor Quantrain. See, I have one too.’
He pulled a rosette from under the shoulder-plate of his complex armour, and it dangled on a chain — an iron skull within a shield, bearing the sigil of the Ordo Hereticus in black obsidian.
Spinoza pushed herself upright, twisting around to see where her quarry had gone. The gantry was empty — the soldiers under Gloch’s command had pursued the target back into the shadows, back towards the mech-hauler shaft and the warrens of the underhive. More troops tramped past them both, swinging searchlights across the hall. Down below, menials were being accosted and slammed up against the walls of their nutrient vats.
‘What are you doing here?’ Spinoza asked, testily. She got to her feet, deactivating the still-fizzing crozius and shackling it to her belt.
Gloch remained squatting where he was, looking amused. ‘I could ask the same thing,’ he said, keeping his pistol in a heavy gauntlet.
Spinoza rolled her shoulders, feeling the effects of the long chase. Once again, the bitter taste of defeat swilled in her mouth. Part of her wished to walk away, but the man had saved her life. There were decencies to observe, even in the ordo.
‘Luce Spinoza, the Ordo Hereticus,’ she said.
‘Ah, Crowl’s new blood.’
‘Why do you people say that? New blood? Throne, it sickens me.’
Gloch started to smile, forced it down, and regarded her with some seriousness. ‘You know who that was?’
‘Clearly you do.’
Gloch looked thoughtful for a moment, then finally stowed his sidearm and got to his feet. Standing, he was daunting, a giant of nearly seven foot, only a fraction of that accounted for by his thick body armour. His face was scarred and lined, his beard grey-streaked. ‘How long have you been on Terra, interrogator?’ he asked.
Spinoza felt impatience rise within her. All she wanted to do was get out, get after that damned woman. She had been so close. To go back to Crowl, now, and admit another failure…
‘Long enough,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘My whole life, and I love it. Now, to come down here, alone. I’m not telling you your business-’
‘Damn right.’
Gloch shrugged. ‘She’s called Falx.’
‘The woman?’
‘A case-name. Quantrain’s been after her for weeks. You’ll have noticed she’s well trained.’
‘And what else?’
Gloch looked up, then around, then down. His troops were moving through the nutrient hall now, scanning, arresting, closing down processor units. ‘I can shunt the details to you at Crowl’s tower. You’ve seen these kills, the ritual ones? She’s always there, always close. The Angel’s Tears — I guess you know the name. I’ve not seen cameleo-plate for ten years.’ He started to chuckle. ‘I shot her once. In the chest, close as you are to me now, and she still got away. She’s got a tough hide, I’ll give her that.’
‘I might have broken that a bit.’
‘Good. Next time she’ll feel it more.’
‘What do they want?’
‘They’re unbelievers and killers. I don’t give a damn what they want.’ Spinoza felt the comedown of the long chase. Her muscles ached, her innards felt empty. ‘They’re going for weapons,’ she repeated, thinking back to the pseudo-abhuman’s agonised thrashing. ‘Throne, how has this been tolerated?’
‘Tolerated?’ Gloch lost his smile. ‘You really haven’t been here long, have you?’
‘This is His world,’ Spinoza insisted, feeling lightheaded. ‘It makes me want to vomit. In four days-’
‘Yes, in four days. We are aware.’ Some of Gloch’s troops began to return, limping along the gantry. He shot them a quizzical look, but the lead sergeant shook her head. ‘You want my advice?’ Gloch said. ‘Go back to your old crow. Tell him if he wishes to assist us in this, it’d be better to attend in person. You understand?’
That, at least, Spinoza could agree with. ‘I’ll tell him.’ She turned, ready to stalk off, her cheeks hot. Then, grudgingly, she turned. ‘And… my thanks. And, just so you know, I will pursue her. And I will end her. Then we will talk again.’
Gloch looked back at her. Another laugh had died on his chapped lips.
‘See, now I believe you,’ he said, bowing. ‘Until next time, then.’
Crowl’s storm troopers, some of the finest mortal troops in the Imperium, lay across the floor of the cell-zone corridor as if a Rhino had bludgeoned through them. Most were out cold; a couple had had their carapace plates ripped apart and slumped in growing pools of blood. Thirty hardened Ordo Hereticus soldiers, cast aside as if they had been nothing more than children playing at warfare with model guns and paper armour.
Crowl drew himself up to his full height. In normal circumstances that stance would have been imposing — he was a head taller than most human males, and his master-crafted armour added to that heft — but just then he felt little more substantial than the broken warriors who littered the floor.