NOVEL NEXT B2 Chapter 46
With all his enemies dead, Angar's harness pulsed.
Warmth seeped into his body, addressing what it could. His head remained a throbbing mass of pain, the firearm wounds there untouched by the healing, evidently not rating in his top six injuries.
His thoughts swam in fog, the world tilting like a ship caught in a storm. Each step was a miracle, his legs dragging him forward on sheer willpower.
He coughed, spitting out heavy gunk that tasted of iron and rot. His body was crumbling, piece by piece.
He retracted his claws and pawed clumsily at his jaw, or what remained of the left side of it. Shattered bone and jagged teeth greeted his touch where smooth skin once lay, that shot having blown out a massive chunk of his face.
Gingerly, he probed the back of his head, finding the blood-slick round lodged in his skull, about five centimeters behind his left ear.
He tried to grip it and yank, but his thick digits slipped, the bullet stubborn as sin. Pain flared, a white-hot spike driving through his skull, forcing him to hiss and grunt out.
He could feel the other slug lodged in his nasal cavity, the air moving around it as he breathed.
A thick metal door stood on the other side of the waiting area, built like a fortress' gate. He retrieved his maul, and approached it.
Muffled shouts and machinery noises filtered through, too distorted to make out. He hit the panel, and the door hissed open, revealing a narrow balcony ringing the wall of a vast chamber.
A transparent floor looked down on a sprawling factory below. Armed sentries patrolled, their armored forms flashing as they roamed under the harsh, overly bright lights.
Workers clad in biochemical suits moved precisely amid machinery, boxes brimming with circuitry, and vats churning with strange substances.
His mind wouldn't count them, but their number didn't matter.
He gripped the balcony's railing, blood dripping from his shattered jaw, his vision wavering, sending up a prayer to the Lord. He hoped he had the strength to slay plenty of them before his body gave out.
Angar stared at the bloody hammer in his hands, disoriented.
Where was he? What was he doing?
His eyes swept the shadowed expanse of a vast warehouse, crates stacked high, pallet jacks and forklifts abandoned in the aisles. Small stacks of silver cases were piled separately, glinting under the soft lighting.
A dozen bodies littered the floor, blood pooling beneath them.
The Netherweb Syndicate. It came flooding back. They'd tried to kill him. Some sort of poison gas, maybe, or something worse, eating him from the inside.
He had to keep moving, slaughter as many as possible before his body failed.
But why was he kneeling?
More memories clicked into place. Theosis had demanded he purge the sin of killing innocents by confessing in the Sacrament of Penance, accepting whatever reconciliation absolution required, including turning himself in to the authorities if necessary.
He had to reply, set things straight.
He performed the sign of the trey. "Holy Theosis, I killed no innocents. The Netherweb Syndicate tried killing me, and they defy Imperial Law. It's known they provide material support to Heretical Enclaves."
His voice came out as raspy croaks, barely his own. His jaw hurt too much to say more.
Sharp words blazed across his vision, as if carved into his soul.
No, Knight.
By the sacred light of Holy Theosis, the coming and the arrival, no condemnation was cast upon you for smiting those first four who wronged you.
Did you have certitude that those slain afterward were steeped in Heresy, consorted with the Heretical, or even belonged to the Netherweb Syndicate, before you unleashed such wanton slaughter?
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Your sacred purpose is Holy War, ordained by my oath and unyielding decree. Matters of mere criminality, absent the taint of Heresy, fall outside the purview of your Holy estate. Most who dwell in the underbelly of criminal fraternities bear no mark of the Heretic's foul touch, nor do they traffic with such damned souls.
You believe a fellow Knight-Brother conspired to slay you through hired blades, which speaks of motives personal and material, devoid of the Heretical stain in both parties, contractor and contractee. This affair was for the Church's Ordo Sacris Iudicium or Lay Magisterium Legislatorum to investigate and judge, not a Crusader.
Divine Theosis, God's voice in this temporal realm, demands you seek absolution in the Sacrament of Penance. Though free will is yours, granted by God's sacred design, to spurn this demand is to court eternal damnation, barring your immortal soul from the radiant glory of Heaven.
Angar moved, ending dilated time. He disagreed. But he'd comply. "I accept your judgment, Holy Theosis. Glory be to the Lord, our wrathful Master."
His gore-slick maul weighed heavily in his hand. His muscles screamed as he tried hefting it, needing two hands to get it on his shoulder.
Then he went forward. This warehouse was the bottom of three storage floors. He'd already torn through the many factory levels above them.
He remembered now. He was searching for a way out. He was making his way back to the giant lift, its massive doors built for cargo.
The smaller lift was dead, or dead to him. It needed a code, and his hacking module didn't work on it.
The guards and security forces had used the big one, the same lift all the workers fled in.
He pushed the button to recall it. When it arrived and opened, he stumbled inside. The control panel glowed softly, buttons marked for every Syndicate-controlled floor except the top one.
There was a button the small lift didn't have, under the others, labeled 'D.' He slammed his fist against it, and the lift shuddered, descending.
He coughed, and his knees buckled, dropping him to the floor as the vision in his one good eye blurred.
Another cough wracked him, sending gunk splattering across the metal.
His mind went blank, his memories slipping away like sand through his fingers.
Where was he again? Why was he here? Killing…something about Heretics. Why'd he feel so weak, like his body was deteriorating? Some fell power of a cursed abomination?
He was in a lift, slowly descending. He'd find out where it went.
The lift groaned to a stop, and the doors parted with a hydraulic crank.
Angar lurched to his feet, trying to heft his maul. He couldn't. He needed two hands to get it on his shoulder.
He stepped into a large underground docking bay, where shipping vehicles sprawled like sleeping beasts.
Smaller transports lined the walls, and a personnel carrier with open benches on a large, flat bed sat idle nearby.
Some people were hiding in or behind vehicles. They didn't seem dangerous, nor interested in fighting, so he ignored them.
Far off, on the other side, a ramp sloped upward, curving into shadow. As that was the only path forward, he staggered toward it, each step heavier than the last.
Halfway up the ramp, his mind blanked again. He stood, wondering what was going on.
Where was he? Why was he so weak? His body felt like it was unraveling, thread by thread. His jaw wouldn't move, he couldn't see out of one eye, and he had a terrible headache.
He saw light above. Natural light, faint but real. He decided he'd head towards it, driven mostly by instinct, looking around for abominations and Hellspawn.
The ramp twisted, opening into a shadowed, empty bay, free of infernal taint.
On the opposite end, near a street, a massive gate barred the way, flanked by empty guard booths and silent turrets.
Beyond it, sirens wailed. As he approached, they grew louder and louder.
As he got to the gate, he could see lights accompanying the sirens, their red, orange, and yellow glows flashing through the slats.
Angar's grip tightened on the haft. He could crawl under the gate, but that'd be too much of a hassle. He smashed his hammer into it, crumpling the metal, allowing him to step through.
The sirens screamed closer, and vehicles screeched to a halt outside. There were two armored transports and four with open beds.
Out of the beds, vigiles spilled out, their blasters raised, shouting for him to drop his weapon and kneel.
Angar's brow furrowed, confusion clouding his mind. He didn't know if they were Heretics, if he was supposed to slaughter them.
Attack or surrender? His maul felt like an anchor, dragging him down.
He didn't get to decide. A shadow descended. A thick disc of rune-carved crystal and metal, marking it as Hidetada's drone.
Harc leapt from it, an imposing figure in his light, matte-black power armor, helmed, the four spindly mechanical arms curling outward and around him like skeletal wings.
A holo-image projected out of Harc into the air in front of him. It looked like a strange version of the Imperial Crest.
"By order of Imperial Command, you're all activated as Reserve Agents," Harc barked out, his voice blaring over the sirens. "If any signals or communications are detected leaving any of you or your vehicles, I start executing. Turn the sirens off and form ranks in front of me."
Two more drones dropped, one scanning Angar, releasing a mist of nanites. Another fired two darts into his chest, and warmth spread, dulling the pain, but not the fog.
Harc's gaze swept the formed ranks of vigiles. "Primus Vigilum Borro, Investigator Vigilum Sessei, step forward."
Two men in gray uniforms, unlike the armored vigiles, hesitated, glancing nervously at each other before complying, their faces tight with fear.
"Why is the precinct supervisor and an investigator responding to an alert?" asked Harc in an icy tone.
"Seemed like an important alert, uh…master," answered the man on the left. "Standard procedure in this precinct."
"Then why was no report related to this alarm or area received by a transmissor at your precinct's dispatch?"
Before either man could reply, moving so fast Angar couldn't even see it drawn, a pistol appeared in Harc's hand, and both men's heads vanished in a hiss of vaporized flesh. Their bodies stood, defying gravity and death for a moment, before crumpling to the ground.
The vigiles held their trembling blasters, trying to look small.
"Those two were crooked," Harc stated. "On the payroll of the Hoxha family, the Brothers' Pact, and the Netherweb Syndicate. Maybe some of you are too. If so, by the grace of the Three, you're getting a shot at redemption. Perform well, keep this operation confidential, and you'll survive."
He pointed at some vigiles. "Get the Knight behind me into a vehicle bed. You two, take him to the nearest cura-celeris. If he dies, you both follow. Move!"