I tried to follow Hadrian out into the hall but almost immediately was borne backwards by a trio of passengers blindly fleeing the gunfire further up the train. I shoved through them and started forward when fire and smoke exploded from what had been our cabin. Glass and smoke billowed out tinkling musically against the far wall. Before I could get up, a trio of men emerged from the inferno. They wore grey on white arctic camo gear and body armor. Their faces were obscured by ski masks and reflective goggles and they carried cut down las carbines. They turned and spotted me, raising their weapons in unison. I lashed out with my will attempting to convince them to turn their weapons on each other. Absolutely nothing happened. I suddenly realized that I felt blunt as though my mind had somehow been taken away from me. The cavernous bores gaped as wide and pitiless as the void and I realized I was about to die, I fumbled furiously for a weapon but I was dressed to dance, not go into battle. Blood sprayed over me and three heads thumped to the floor like grotesque fruit. General Aranson stood in his silken nightgown, a smoking powerblade in his hands. It was long and thin, evidently concealed within a sword cane.
"Rather rude fellows," the old general commented with commendable sangfroid. I tried again to reach my will but I could feel nothing, not even the thoughts of the man standing five feet in front of me. There was some kind of psi baffle at work or perhaps these mysterious attackers had untouchables with them. Both ideas seemed too fantastic to credit. Thieves or hijackers would never be able to afford such esoteric advantages, nor would they need them. Which had to mean they had specifically gunning for Hadrian and me. Scrambling forward, I scooped up one of the carbines. It felt awkward in my hands but it went some way to quelling the terror I felt to be suddenly bereft of my will.
"Do you know how to use that my lady?” he asked sceptically. Clara had asked me the same thing on numerous occasions, although somewhat less politely. Luckily our attackers had weapons loaded and safeties off. My nose wrinkled at the odor of burnt blood and voided bowels that permeated the corpses. The actinic tang of las fire tickled my sinuses but I managed to avoid sneezing.
“I’ve hunted a time or two… I…,” I trailed off in explanation as something in the soldiers webbing. It was a simple plastec card, not too dissimilar from an identification card that an Administratum clerk might wear on a lanyard. On one side was a holo pict of Hadrian, the reverse had a still image of me. Both appeared to have been taken at Agesilaua ,probably some time ago judging by the curls I had in my hair. I twisted my lip, stomach sinking as I realised how much preparation had gone into this. These were no mere bandits, they had the pict of an Imperial Inquisitor, had done surveillance on him even, and then showed up with equipment designed to nullify my mind.
“They have your picture my lady?” Aranson asked. He had come up behind me while I rifled the pockets of the downed soldier. A landspeeder howled along the length of the train, rattling the glass. A powerful stab light blazed through the windows like a naval lance.
“Down!” I yelled but I had no cause to instruct an Astra Militarum general. Aranson extinguished his powerblade and sank down as the searchlight swept past. It slowed ahead of us and I heard the thump of more men leaping onto the roof of the cars ahead of us. Emergency claxons continued to whine, proclaiming fire, equipment failure, and environmental warnings all at once.
“Are they kidnappers?” Aranson asked. The idea took hold at once. I didn’t know if preserving my cover had any value but I had learned that keeping a few lies alive is always useful. Every truth should have a bodyguard of lies.
“Perhaps but my husband has enemies, it might be an assassination,” I admitted.
“Bloody strange way to go about it, awfully noisy,” Aranson observed.
A heavy bolter chartered nearby, the dull whump whump whump of shells punching through the walls buzzing through the floor panels. I heard someone scream, a deep guttural scream of pain and horror, it faded quickly as the victim bled out through an opened chest or a severed limb.
“I’ll be sure to tell them you disapprove,” I replied tartly. I wanted to go forward and help Hadrian but it was clear there were multiple enemies between us. I wasn’t a soldier or an operative who could fight her way past a dozen killers with a lasgun and a can do attitude. I needed my psykana to even the odds. The odds that the enemy, however well financed, had enough untouchables to blank me seemed insane. Psy baffling equipment was less expensive but even so…
The credit dropped.
The enemy did not need a psy baffler. There was one in the gaming car, millions of credits worth of engineering to keep high rollers from cheating at cards. All the enemy had to do was boost it’s range. I cursed myself for being an idiot and turned heading down the car at a crouch that kept me below the line of the windows. Another landspeeder howled past, stab light searching for victims. I counted at least four machines and that was probably an underestimate. Some were undoubtedly flying air cover while others delivered their cargos of troops. I wondered how many men the enemy had, and what our chances were of getting out of this alive. Not good if I were any judge.
The rear of the train was in somewhat better order than the front section, a few of the staff were about, some cowering others attempting to pull on cold weather survival suits with the apparent intention of making a run for it. That was a doomed plan, even if the attackers lacked infrared auspex units, they would be certain to pick up the high visibility emergency gear. A few of them started when we passed, but none attempted to block our passage, I must have looked ridiculous with my stockings and ball gown accessorized by a las carbine but no one was laughing. The Montelo Car was empty save for a bartender who had taken cover in the ring shaped bar in its center. I crossed to him quickly, plucking the bottle of amasec from his hand. It was a Svarian vintage, a hundred years old and worth five times the man’s likely salary. He gave me a bitter look but didn’t protest.
“Where is the psy baffler?” I demanded. The barman looked blank.
“The what?”
“The machine you use to stop psykers from cheating at cards, where is it?” I demanded.
“The Orb… it is down below on the engineering level,” he stammered, “why do you want to…” I snapped my fingers in front of his face to keep him on topic.
“Engineering level?” I asked. The drunken barman shrugged. Another explosion rocked the train and several crystal glasses fell in a cacophony of shattering glass that made the barman whimper and cover his head. I grated my teeth, this would be so easy with my psykana. Luckily General Aranson came to my rescue. With surprising strength for an old man he grabbed the barman by the lapels and lifted him bodily.
“Where is the Engineering level man?!” he demanded, shaking the fellow back into something like sobriety. The barman was very young, I noticed, hardly more than a boy.
“Below us, all the tech is there and we use the passages so as not to disturb the muck… err the passengers,” the fellow stammered. Aranson threw him down on the diamond inlaid benchtop. I took a surreptitious sip of the amasec and let the liquid warm me. Enough damage had been done to the train’s integrity that the alpine chill was beginning to make my breath fog.
“There is an access hatch…” the barman began but Aranson gave him another shake.
“Show us laddie, let's not stand here playing Alderai whispers till we are all dead.” His voice was grim. For the first time I wondered what had happened to Dame Aranson but right now, with my own skin on the line, was not the time to ask. He propelled the barman with a directionless shove, but the boy stumbled to the starboard side leading us to a second bar whose clear armorcrys windows would have normally given a look out over the vista as the train passed. Metal emergency shutters had closed over them now, which was why whe hadn’t already been shredded by the prowling landspeeders outside. Behind the shelves of liquor was a narrow corridor large enough for a small grav pallet to be maneuvered. A caged lift gave access to a level of the train below what I had thought of as the floor. I opened the cage and stepped inside, beckoning the general and the barman to follow.
The engineering level was as different from the opulent upper deck as it was possible to be. It was a maze of ductwork, machinery, and fluttering mechanicum prayer strips. The smell of lubricant, incense and hot metal were heavy in the air. I briefly wondered what Lazrus would make of it, though I would never have admitted to thinking about him.
“The Orb is just round here miss,’ the barman said stepping out into the central hallway. A las blast exploded his chest, pitching him back in a spray of superheated blood and tissue. A dozen more bolts scythed through the hallway, some hitting him, pitching his body about like a stone in a tumble drier. The shooting stopped and coarse gutural shouts sounded from somewhere to the aft of the train.
“We need a damned mirror,” Aranson groused, as unmoved by the death of our guide as he had been by a poor hand at Cardinals. I reached into my dress and produced a compact makeup case sheathed in gold and inlaid with mother of pearl. I opened it and used the makeup mirror to peer around the corner. Thirty yards down the corridor opened up into a large space in the center of which hung a large brass sphere festooned with wires, cables, and chemical tubes, the purpose of which I could only get at. A dozen men in servants livery were clustered around it, they were armed with a variety of ornate but demonstrably effective looking firearms. They were lead by the lean figure of none other than High Count Vidar of Tollery. He was clutching a bolt pistol and a chain sword. Behind them a tech priest clucked and hissed in binaric as he made some arcane adjustments to the orb.
“Is that you Deckard?” Vidar called in his cultured accent, the sneer almost biting the machine warmed air. “Why don’t you come out and we settle this like gentlemen.” Pieces were falling into place now. Vidar had come aboard with an entourage of servants who were in reality an advanced team tasked with securing the psy-baffle. A rich man would have no trouble bringing hunting rifles and other such equipment with him, many nobles travelled with enormous arsenals of ornate weapons and armor. I thought of the explosion that had stopped the train, no doubt these men had set that as well.
“We cannot stay here my lady,” Aranson advised, his hand opening and closing on the hilt of his powerblade.
“Do you think a burst of las fire would disable the baffle,” I asked, hefting the carbine.
“Perhaps if you had a las cannon my lady, we used these during the War to blank our command points, rugged tech I’m afraid.” I growled in frustration at coming so close to my goal only to be frustrated by its impossibility. What would Hadrian do. Charge in sword swinging handsomely and cut them all to pieces. Inspiring but deeply unhelpful.
“They may be flanking us, we need to leave,” Aranson prompted. I nodded and we slipped down another passage that led towards the front of the train, crossing the barrier between two cars. The connection was marked with yellow and black slashed paint and a tingling in my skin that told me very high voltage magnets were at work nearby. This car appeared to be an enginarium of sorts, control lecterns lined up against both walls, linked to the bones of the train by snaking cable swaths. Aranson closed the door behind us and threw a mechanical interlock which made me feel a little safer. I stepped up to the control lecturns and prodded a few buttons with my fingers.
“Do you have a plan my lady?” Aranson asked, watching me uneasily as I worked at the terminal, making various screens cycle passed. Some were obvious, steam pressure, fuel, wind and the like. Others were deep mysterious panels of arcane information.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I admitted. General Aranson stroked his mustache.
“The weather report said there was a storm front coming up the other side of the pass, if we could get over the top the landspeeders might not be able to follow us, at least until we clear the squall,” he mused. I opened my mouth to reject the idea as unworkable, we were near the rear of the train and had no way to get it going again, even if that were possible. Hadrian, if he was alive, God Emperor let him be alive, might be near the front of the train but I had no way to contact him with the vox and mind jamming. I reached over and lifted a red bakelite handset off one of the control lecterns. The audible pong that preceded announcements sounded over the public address system.
“Admiral Deckard, your wife is on line one, Admiral Deckard line one,” I said in an imitation of the sing song the usually announcer used. Aranson was staring at me. I held my hand up to the receiver to block it from picking up my words.
“What, he might be near a phone,” I said defensively.
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