Dan Abnett - Necropolis

Let's hope you're right, Vor, he said. Let's hope it's a gakking malfunction.

* * * * *

In the Commercia, the general mercantile district north of the Main Spine, in the shadow of the Shield Pylon, Guilder Amchanduste Worlin tried to calm the buyers in his barter-house, but the sirens drowned him out. The retinues were leaving, gathering up servant trains and produce bearers, making frantic calls on their vox-links, leaving behind nothing: not a form-contract, not a promissory note, not a business slate and certainly none of their funds.

Worlin put his hands to his head and cursed. His embroidered, sleet-silk gown felt suddenly hot and heavy .

He yelled for his bodyguards and they appeared: Menx and Troor, bull-necked men in ivory-laced body-gloves with the crest of Guild Worlin branded on their cheeks. They had unshrouded their laspistols and the velvet shroud-cloths dangled limply from their cuffs.

Consult the high guild data-vox and the Administratum links! Worlin spat. Come back and tell me what this is, or don't come back at all!

They nodded and went off, pushing through the packs of departing traders.

Worlin paced back into his private ante-room behind the auction hall, cursing at the sirens to shut up. The very last thing he needed now was an interruption to trade. He'd spent months and a great deal of Guild Worlin funds securing mercantile bonds with Noble House Yetch and four of the houses ordinary. All of that work would be for nothing if trade and income went slack. The whole deal could collapse. His kin would be aghast at such losses. They might even strip him of his badge and remove his trading rights.

Worlin was shaking. He crossed to the decanter on the wrought-brass stack table and was about to pour himself a hefty shot of ten-year-old joiliq to calm his brittle mood. But he paused. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer with the geno-key that he kept around his wrist on a thin chain and took out the compact needle pistol.

He checked it was primed and armed, then fetched the drink. He sat back on his lifter throne, sipping his liquor and holding his badge of credit the mark of his rank gazing at the Worlin crest and its bright ornament. He waited, the weapon in his lap.

The klaxons continued to wail.

At carriage station C4/a, panic had begun. Workers and low-classers who had ventured into the mercantile slopes for a day's resourcing began to mob every brass-framed transit that trundled in along the cogged, funicular trackway. Carriages were moving out towards the Outer Habs and the Main Spine alike, overloaded, some doors only half closed.

Crowds on the platforms, shivering at each yelp of the alarms, were getting fractious as more and more fully laden transits clattered through without stopping. A slate-seller's stall was overturned in the press.

Livy Kolea, hab-wife, was beginning to panic herself. A body-surge of the crowd had pushed her past the pillars of the station atrium. She'd kept a firm grip on the handles of the child-cart and Yoncy was safe, but she'd lost sight of Dalin.

My son! Have you seen my son? she asked, imploring the frenzied crowd that washed around her. He's only ten! A good boy! Blond, like his father!

She grabbed a passing guilder by the sleeve. A rich, lavish sleeve of painted silk.

My son she began.

The guilder's bodyguard, menacing in his rust-coloured mesh, pushed her aside. He jerked the satin shroud off the weapon in his left hand, just briefly, as a warning, escorting his master on. Take the hand off, gak-swine, his vox-enhanced larynx blurted gruffly, without emotion.

My son Livy repeated, trying to push the child-cart out of the flow of bodies.

Yoncy was laughing, oblivious in his woollen wrap. Livy bent down under the segmented hood of the cart to stroke him, whispering soft, motherly words.

But her mind was racing. People slammed into her, teetering the cart and she had to hold on to keep it upright. Why was this happening to her now? Why was it happening on the one day a month she carriaged into the lower Commercia to haggle for stuff? Gol had wanted a new pair of canvas mittens. His hands were so sore after a shift at the ore face.

It was such a simple thing. Now this! And she hadn't even got the mittens.

Livy felt tears burst hot onto her cheeks.

Dalin! she called.

I'm here, mam, said a little voice, half hidden by the klaxons.

Livy embraced her ten-year-old son with fury and conviction, like she would never let go.

I found him by the west exit, a new voice added.

Livy looked up, not breaking her hug. The girl was about sixteen, she reckoned, a slut from the outer habs, wearing the brands and piercings of a hab-ganger.

He's all right though.

Livy looked the boy over quickly, checking for any signs of hurt. Yes, yes he is He's all right. You're all right, aren't you, Dalin? Mam's here.

Livy looked up at the outhab girl. Thank you. Thank you for

The girl pushed a ringed hand through her bleached hair.

It's fine.

The girl made Livy uneasy. Those brands, that pierced nose. Gang marks.

Yes, yes I'm in your debt. Now I must be going. Hold on to my hand, Dalin.

The girl stepped in front of the cart as Livy tried to turn it.

Where are you going? she asked.

Don't try to stop me, outhab! I have a blade in my purse!

The girl backed off, smiling. I'm sure you have. I was just asking. The transits are packed and the exit stairs are no place for a woman with a kid and a cart.

Oh.

Maybe I could help you get the cart clear of this press?

And take my baby take Yoncy for those things scum like you do down in the outer habs over the river!

No! Thank you, but No! Livy barked and pushed the gang-girl aside with the cart. She dragged the boy after her, pushing into the thicket of panic.

Only trying to help, Tona Criid shrugged.

The river tides were ebbing and thick, ore-rich spumes were coursing down the waters of the Hass. Longshoreman Folik edged his dirty, juddering flatbed ferry, the Magnificat, out from the north shore and began the eight-minute crossing to the main wharves. The diesel motor coughed and spluttered. Folik eased the revs and coasted between garbage scows and derelicts, following the dredged channel. Grey estuary birds, with hooked pink beaks, rose from the scows in a raucous swirl. To the Magnificat 's port side, the stone stilts of the Hass Viaduct, two hundred metres tall, cast long, cold shadows across the water.

Those damn sirens! What was that about?

Mincer sat at the prow, watching the low-water for new impediments. He gestured and Folik inched the ferry to starboard, swishing in between the trash hulks and the river-sound buoys.

Folik could see the crowds on the jetty. Big crowds. He grinned to himself.

We'll make a sweet bundle on this, Fol! Mincer shouted, unlooping the tarred rope from the catheads.

I think so, Folik murmured. I just hope we have a chance to spend it

* * * * *

Merity Chass had been trying on long-gowns in the dressing suites of the gown-maker when the klaxons first began to sound. She froze, catching sight of her own pale, startled face in the dressing mirror. The klaxons were distant, almost plaintive, from up here in mid-Spine, but local alarms shortly joined in. Her handmaids came rushing in from the cloth-maker's vestibule and helped her lace up her own dress.

They say Zoica goes to war! said Maid Francer.

Like in the old times, like in the Trade War! Maid Wholt added, pulling on a bodice string.

I have been educated by the best tutors in the hive. I know about the Trade War. It was the most bloody and production-costly event in hive history! Why do you giggle about it?

The maids curtseyed and backed away from Merity.