Dan Abnett - Eisenhorn Omnibus

'Have it your way!' bellowed Fischig and rolled in, pumping his shotgun. The blasts were deafening.

I clambered up a drain-spout onto the second level balcony, my shotgun dangling around my shoulders on its strap. Furious exchanges of fire rumbled below me.

I went in through a gauze-draped opening into the main bedrooms.

The room was over-warm and dark, dressed in red velvet with soothing, ambient music welling from hidden vox-speakers. The bed was in disarray. In one corner, on a gilt credenza, sat a portable vox-set. I padded forward and studied the responder log. Fischig's chaos down below rumbled through the floor like a distant storm.

The girl came out of a side room, a bathroom I imagine, and shrieked when she saw me. She was naked, and dived under the bedclothes for cover.

The muzzle of my shotgun tracked her.

'Who's here?'

She whimpered and shook her head.

'Inquisition/ I hissed. 'Who's here?'

She began to sob and shook her head again.

'Stay down. Get under the bed if you can/

In the adjoining room, I heard whistling. A voice called out a name.

'Don't answer/ I told the weeping girl.

I moved slowly round to the side room door. Light shone out. There was a hint of steam and a smell of bath-oils. The whistling had stopped.

He was wary, I'll give him that. He didn't bluster out, gun blasting.

I tipped open the door with the snout of my weapon and five high velocity rounds shredded holes in the wood panel.

I fell to my belly on the floor and fired three shots in through the door

gap-

'Inquisition! Throw down your weapon!'

Two more shots punched through the door.

I crawled backwards from the doorway and stood up, the gun resting in my hands.

'Come out/1 said, using my will.

A large, tattooed, naked male blundered out of the bathroom, half his face shaved and half covered with sudsy foam. A Tronsvasse Hi-Power autopistol was still in one hand.

'Put it down/1 commanded.

He hesitated, as if my will had no force. A conditioned mind, I supposed. Take no chances.

The autopistol was just pulling up to find me when I blew off his half-shaved face with the shotgun and sent his body splintering back through

the half-open door.

The girl was still crouched, naked, at the end of the bed, shivering. I was surprised she hadn't bolted out of cover at my command too.

I spun to face her.

'What's your name?'

'Lise B/

'Full name!' I snapped. I wasn't concentrating on her especially, but there was something about her. An air. A tone.

Alizebeth Bequin! Pleasure girl! I worked the Sun-dome these past four Dormants!'

'You're here why?'

'They paid up front! Wanted a party! Oh lords…'

Her voice trailed away and she collapsed on the bed.

'Get dressed. Stay here. I will want to talk to you.'

I moved to the door of the chamber and looked out into the unlit hall. Below, down the stairwell, gunflashes and shouts echoed up.

Seeing my shape in the doorway, a man ran towards me.

'Wylk! Wylk! They've found us! They've-'

A moment before he realised I was not Wylk, I decked him with the butt of my weapon. He fell hard.

Two solid shots raked the doorframe next to me.

I ducked back in, sliding back the grip of the shotgun.

Shots punched through the wall above the bed-head. Bequin screamed and rolled off the bed.

I blasted back, punching two more large holes in the door.

Two men slammed into the room, wild-eyed and desperate. Both were dressed in light interior clothes. One had a laspistol, the other an autorifle.

I dropped the lasgunner with one direct shot that hurled his body against the wall. The man with the autorifle opened fire, his shots chewing through one of the bed-posts.

I dived for cover as the automatic fire ripped up tufts of carpet, shattered mirrors and demolished furnishings.

Rolling, I frantically sought cover.

My would-be killer dropped face-down onto the bed. The girl pulled a long retractable knife out of the back of his neck.

'I saved your life/ she told me. 'That'll make it better for me, right?'

I told the girl to stay put in the bedroom, and from her nod I was pretty sure she would.

I stepped out into the gloomy hall. The level below had fallen silent.

'Fischig?' I voxed.

'Come down/ his reply crackled back.

A spiral stairway led down into a large, split-level lounge area. The air was thick with smoke, which coiled out of the terrace window-doors we had opened. The hard daylight of the Sun-dome streamed in, making ladder-bars of light in the drifting haze. The opposite wall of the room

was a wide segmented shutter. If opened, it would reveal a view over the freezing wastes beyond the dome.

A storm of gunfire had ruined the expensive furniture and decorative fittings. Five corpses lay twisted at various points on the floor. Fischig, his visor raised, was hauling a sixth man up into a high-backed chair. The man, wounded in the right shoulder, was wailing and crying. Fischig cuffed him into place.

'Upstairs?' Fischig asked me without looking round.

'Clear/1 reported.

I walked round the room, eyeing the dead and examining items left scattered on tabletops and bureaux.

'I know some of these men/ the chastener added, unsolicited. 'Those two by the window. Locals, low-grade labourers. Long list of petty convictions on both/

'Hired muscle/

'Seems to be your man's way. The others are off-worlders/

'You've found papers?'

'No, it's just a hunch. None of them have got any ID or markers, and I haven't found a cache anywhere/

What about this one?' I walked over to join him by the prisoner he had cuffed to the chair. The man coughed and whined, rolling his eyes. Unless he possessed unnaturally boosted strength thanks to drugs or hidden aug-metics, this man wasn't muscle. He was older, spare of frame, with grizzled salt and pepper growth on his chin.

'You didn't kill this one deliberately, did you?' I asked Fischig. He smiled slightly, as if pleased that I had noticed.

'I– I have rights!' The man spat suddenly.

'You are in the custody of the Imperial Inquisition/ I told him frankly. 'You have no rights whatsoever/

He fell silent.

'Off-worlder/ Fischig said. I raised an eyebrow. Accent/ Fischig explained.

I'd never have detected it myself. This was one of the reasons I used local help whenever I got the chance, even a potential troublemaker like the chastener. My work takes me from world to world, culture to culture. Slight differences in dialect or incongruities of slang regularly pass me by. But Fischig had heard it at once. And it made sense. If this was a leader rather than muscle, one of Eyclone's chosen lieutenants, then the odds were he was from off-world.

'Your name?' I asked.

'I will not answer/

'Then I will not have that wound treated for a while/

He shook his head. The wound was bad and he was obviously in considerable pain, but he resisted. I was even more certain he was a ringleader. He was no longer shaking or whining. He had switched in some mental conditioning, no doubt taught by Eyclone.

'Mind tricks won't help you/ I said. 'I'm much better at them than you are.'

'Go screw yourself.'

I glanced at Fischig out of courtesy. 'Brace yourself.' He stepped back.

Tell me your name/1 said, using my will.

The man in the chair spasmed. 'Saemon Crotes!' he gasped.

'Godwyn Fischig/ spat the chastener involuntarily. He blushed and moved away busying himself with a search.

Very well, Saemon Crotes, where are you from?' I didn't employ any will now. In my experience, it took only one blow to loosen mental defences.

'Thracian Primaris/

'What was your job there?'