Death Mask Page 2

  The governor couldn’t tell what was real or not anymore. Everything was a blur. The news that mutants were swarming through the underhive. The power going down. The sound of stuttering gunfire outside his office. Big Bruvva grabbing his aide by that lovely, slender neck Vinter had admired on so many occasions. The neck that cracked with the sound of splintering wood.

  He hadn’t seen her body hitting the carpet that she had so admired. He was too busy reaching for his gun.

  The same gun Big Bruvva had twisted from his grip and used as a bludgeon.

  His mind had blanked out most of the details – except for the pain. He remembered the pain. He’d lived with it ever since.

  Big Bruvva turned and sniffed loudly, the bone thrust through his flat nose twitching obscenely.

  ‘Should kill you for that,’ his tormentor snarled, offering Vinter a glimpse of a terrifying row of filed teeth.

  Please, the governor thought, proving that just when he couldn’t disgust himself any more, there was further still to fall.

  ‘Know why I don’t?’ Big Bruvva asked, thudding forward to bring himself face-to-face with the broken man. When Vinter didn’t respond, the cultist roared in his face, spittle flying from his pierced lips. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ the governor whimpered, trying to turn his head away from the brute’s fetid breath. His head lolled forwards weakly instead.

  Big Bruvva gazed up to the ceiling as if his piggy eyes could see the heavens.

  ‘Because Gork wills it.’

  The governor’s stomach clenched at the name – one he hadn’t even heard just over a month ago. He’d heard it enough since, chanted over and over again as the cult leader had daubed icons of his false god across Vinter’s walls in lurid green paint. At least, he hoped it was paint.

  Gork, Gork, Gork, Gork.

  Big Bruvva would whirl towards him, his eyes wide with fervour, foam flecking the sides of his mouth.

  ‘He’s coming for us, governor. Coming to make us whole. Coming to make us ork!’

  And that was the scariest thing of all. These simpletons believed, really believed, that this ork god, if that truly was what it was, was coming for them, to transform them into their twisted idea of perfection.

  Not human, but greenskins. Xenos scum.

  ‘Coming for us, coming for me.’

  Oh, they were coming for him all right.

  And then were Big Bruvva’s followers, trooping in front of him, falling over each other to prove their devotion. Each one seemed larger than the last, muscles straining beneath taut skin that bled freely where the imbeciles had carved intelligible runes into their own flesh. It couldn’t be natural. He’d seen big men before, men who’d worked hard to sculpt their bodies, but not like this. Throne knew what poisons they were pumping into their systems to swell their muscles to such unnatural proportions.

  Yet the bigger the idiots were, the more damage they had lavished on their bodies, the warmer the welcome they received from their leader.

  As long as they didn’t dare to be bigger than Big Bruvva himself. Then they’d suffer. Then they’d be cut back down to size.

  All over the governor’s rug.

  How desperate had things got in the underhive that deviants such as these could take control so easily? That their influence would stretch so far.

  Why hadn’t he been warned? Why weren’t the authorities prepared?

  Of course, the truth of the matter was that he had been told, his advisors shuffling into his chambers, reporting the existence of a lowly mutant with an ork obsession.

  ‘He believes that he is a herald,’ Prefect Bodil had sneered as a hololith of the cult-leader appeared over the governor’s table, turning slowly in the air. ‘Sent to convert us to the xenos’ blasphemous faith.’ Bodil had chuckled as he’d made his report.

  The ashen-faced man in the emerald robes sitting beside the prefect didn’t share the humour. This was Murkel, an astropath who had served Vinter well for many years, looking beyond the hive, feeding the governor secrets. Murkel’s sunken eyes seemed more troubled than ever. ‘There is a disturbance within the hive,’ the astropath muttered, his voice rarely louder than a whisper. ‘A presence I cannot identify.’

  ‘This herald?’ Vinter asked.

  The astropath’s gaze dropped. ‘A devil from below.’

  Bodil couldn’t hide his distain. ‘At the worst, he displays some low-level pysker abilities.’ His thin lips twisted into a superior smile. ‘Perhaps the bore is picking up on the coming troubles.’

  The coming troubles. That’s how Bodil had described them. Such small words for the fleet of ork warships that were rampaging towards Ghul Jensen.

  ‘You think that’s what is galvanising this Big Bruvva character?’ the governor asked Murkel, and ignoring Bodil. ‘Fuelling the riots in the lower levels?’

  ‘We believe so, sir.’

  Vinter thumped his fist sharply on the table. ‘Then it will only get worse the nearer the ork threat gets.’

  The governor realised now that he should have listened, should have acted as soon as this muscled oaf had emerged from the Pit. If he’d cleaned that cesspool up years ago, when the sinkhole had first opened deep below the hive, none of this would have happened. His advisors had told him that the Pit had been a blessing in disguise, taking slums and crime-dens with it. Hundreds had died on that day, but thousands more had shed blood since. The wound in the bowels of Hive Vinter had since become an amphitheatre of sorts. The dregs of what could laughably be called society gathered on the edges, peering down into the Pit as combatants fought. Some used their fists, others caved in their rivals’ skulls with the debris that still littered the floor, the remnant of life before the sinkhole. The results were the same. The blood. The cheers. The gangs taking bets on the sidelines.

  According to the reports, a rare few went voluntarily into the pit. Most were thrown in kicking and screaming. If they survived the fall they’d fight for their lives. Winner takes all.

  Until the next bout.

  Big Bruvva had survived more fights than any other champion, but had used his newfound infamy to spread his unholy gospel. The word of Gork.

  And now his followers had clambered out of the Pit to ‘save’ anyone who would listen, and slaughter those who would not. All while a plague of real ork ships was carving its way across the system, destroying everything that stood in its way.

  Bodil reached forward and extinguished the hololith, snapping Vinter’s thoughts to the here and now. ‘I’m sure it is nothing to concern ourselves over, governor,’ Bodil he said, but Vinter wasn’t having any of that.

  ‘Nothing to worry about?’ the governor repeated, not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘Bodil, Obstiria has already fallen. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘The hive should be preparing for incursion.’

  ‘As indeed we are–’

  The governor had always hated being interrupted. ‘Not facing dangers from within,’ he continued. ‘For the last time, how much of a threat is this cult?’

  ‘The so-called ‘Bruvvahood’?’ Bodil offered another of his shrill laughs. ‘Mindless rabble, governor, nothing more. Violent, yes, but easily controlled.’

  Vinter wondered if Bodil still believed they could be easily controlled when his head had been twisted from his scrawny shoulders.

  He always thought Bodil was spineless.

  The governor giggled at the words crossed his mind. The sound of a crazy man.

  Big Bruvva buried his fist in Vinter’s empty stomach to shut him up.

  ‘You’ll see,’ the cult-leader said, grabbing Vinter’s once immaculate hair and yanking his head back to face him. ‘You’ll all see when Gork comes.’

  An alert blared from the cogitator embedded into the governor’s desk. No, it was B
ig Bruvva’s desk now, perfect for resting his filthy boots on. The cult leader plodded over and jabbed a glyph with a calloused finger.

  ‘At last,’ he growled. ‘What happened? Did we break out?’

  ‘No Boss,’ replied in an equally guttural voice. ‘There was a problem.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’ Big Bruvva asked, the chords on his neck standing out like ropes.

  ‘You need to see for yourself.’

  A grainy image flashed up on the monitor behind Big Bruvva. The Gork worshipper turned to see three of his men rushing down a dark corridor, armed to their sharpened teeth.

  Vinter recalled the similar images he’d watched. His private defence force, the army he had spent years training, slaughtered at the hands of the insurgents. The dead mounting up one by one. All that effort keeping the extent of his empire building secret, skirting around rules and regulations, keeping his activities away from prying Administratum eyes whatever the cost, wasted.

  Sounds hissed over the vox. Angry yells. The bark of weapons.

  Screams.

  The cultists dropped out of frame as a figure swept forward. A figure clad in black. A figure wearing the face of death itself.

  Big Bruvva slammed his hand down on the controls, freezing the image. He took a step closer, almost pressing his flat nose against the screen, examining the stranger who had just cut down three of his best men.

  And then he started to laugh; a deep, horrible sound.

  ‘This is it,’ he boomed, throwing his hands out wide in rapture, before whirling on Vinter. ‘The Day of Reckoning is coming. This is the final test, as it was foretold!’

  When Vinter didn’t respond, Big Bruvva brought the back of his hand across the governor’s cheek. ‘Are you listening?’

  The cultist snorted to himself as Vinter let out a pathetic whimper. ‘Puny human,’ he grinned, jabbing at the vox-control one more time.

  ‘Take him down, boys,’ Big Bruvva ordered, eyes blazing with sinful fervour. ‘Take him down hard!’

  Greenie had never felt so alive. Life had always been hard in the underhive. Ever since he was a kid he’d spent his days scavenging for tech, breaking into his neighbour’s habs to pilfer whatever they’d stolen the day before, running home before his ill-gotten gains could be taken from him in turn and selling it to the highest bidder.

  You never knew which gang would be in charge of the block when you woke up in the morning, not until you ventured outside to see which bodies were lying in the gutters. Not that the victors remained in power for long. Events moved quickly in the undercity.

  Not anymore. The gangs were all gone, and for once Greenie was on the winning side.

  On Gork’s side.

  He belonged here now, with his ‘bruvvas’ by his side and a gun in his hands. Greenie ran his pierced tongue over his newly pointed teeth. Shaving them into fangs had hurt like hell, but that’s what Gork had commanded.

  ‘It’s a message to your enemies,’ Big Bruvva had explained as Greenie had gone to work with the file. ‘If you’re willing to do this to yourself…’

  ‘Imagine what we’ll do to them!’ Greenie had replied happily.

  The pain had been worth it. Big Bruvva had even given him his new name. His parents had christened him Halcum, a weak human name. He wasn’t weak any more. Now he was Greenie, on account of the fact that he’d dyed his hair the colour of jade before the teeth-filing ceremony. Yeah, it was falling out now, the chemicals having scorched his scalp, but he’d proved his devotion.

  The Day of Reckoning was coming. Gork would make them whole. Would make them ork.

  Greenie couldn’t wait.

  ‘He’s in the power plant,’ Rippa shouted from up front. Rippa was Greenie’s hero. Other than Big Bruvva, Rippa was the largest cultist he’d seen so far, and therefore the best. He had more tattoos than anyone else too, thick green runes snaking across his broad back. Most of them were weeping, of course, the edges encrusted with dried blood. Rippa had made the ink himself, using the fungus that had started spreading across the walls of the hive the day that Big Bruvva had taken control.

  Old Raine had said Rippa was an abomination – the mould had got into his blood.

  Rippa had torn the old man’s tongue out and left him to die in the street. Served him right. Greenie had always hated the arrogant old git. Always thought he knew best. He’d meant to go back and take Raine’s head, boil off the flesh and present it to Big Bruvva himself as an offering, but the rats had got there first. There wasn’t much left.

  This was his chance to prove himself to them all. To Rippa, to Big Bruvva – to Gork.

  ‘You’ll go far, Greenie,’ that’s what Rippa had said. ‘Just do what you’re told.’ And today he was being told to kill. Best kind of telling there was.

  Of course, he didn’t really know who it was they had to kill.

  Rippa had shrugged when Greenie asked. ‘Some git from outside the hive.’

  ‘An invader?’

  ‘Big Bruvva reckons it’s a test, sent by Gork.’

  Greenie didn’t care about that. He just wanted to try out this new gun. He ran his head over the smooth barrel. What had Rippa called it? Yeah, that’s right – a ‘shoota’!

  ‘Main generator room,’ Rippa yelled. ‘Come on!’

  They obeyed without question. Of course they did. Rippa would crack their skulls otherwise. Greenie wanted his skull to stay the way it was – although he did fancy getting some of those fancy horn implants he’d seen on the others. Maybe he’d get one after he’d killed the git. A trophy.

  The cultists ran into the vast chamber, giant turbines stretching up on either side like vast metallic cliffs. There was a narrow path down the middle, similar channels on either side. The noise was incredible, generators roaring like mud-lizards.

  Greenie’s skin tingled. You could almost feel the power in the air, the energy that the spire-scum had denied the underhivers for so long. Not now. Big Bruvva had shut off their power on the first day. Made them beg, just so that they could use their stupid little machines again – and then Big Bruvva had killed them anyway.

  ‘Where is he, then?’ one of the other cultists called out, struggling to be heard. They swept down all three paths, checking between the turbine towers, firing around corners, just in case the git was hiding in the shadows like the cowardly human it was. Not like them. They were going to be orks. They were going to win.

  Greenie stuck close to Rippa, itching to find a target. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Shots rang out across the generator room, mixed with cries of triumph and then fear, as Greenie’s brothers finally found their prey. He soon wished they hadn’t.

  ‘Get him!’ Rippa yelled, running between two of the turbines and firing wildly ahead. ‘Knock him down! Stomp him good. Dakka, dakka, dak–’

  Rippa’s head exploded. Just like that. One minute it was there, the next it was gone. His body continued to run before his legs realised that his brain had been pulped and simply stopped. Rippa’s headless corpse toppled forward to land wetly on the floor.

  Hot metal buzzed through the air like a swarm of angry hornets. Greenie ducked, slipping on Rippa’s blood, and fell, a tumble that saved his life – for a few moments at least.

  He never saw who fired the mortar that screamed above his head and barely even registered its trajectory in the chaos, but by Gork did he feel the fireball that burst out of the turbine behind him, the clothes on his back melting in an instant. The pain of filing his teeth was nothing compared to this, but even with the world going mad, he knew what he had to do. For Rippa. For himself. Gritting his teeth so tight he thought they would crack, he scrabbled across the slick floor towards where his gun had fallen. Someone else snatched it up – another new recruit, hardly a tattoo on his skin. The runt hadn’t even been granted an ork name yet. He was still called Vorn, th
e same snivelling wretch Greenie had known in the schola.

  ‘Hey, that’s mine,’ Greenie cried, staggering back up to his feet, ready to pull the weapon out of Vorn’s hand, to kill him if necessary – but he didn’t need to. A look of complete surprise flashed over the runt’s face, four sharp points bursting out of his chest. They vanished as quickly as they’d appeared and Vorn dropped to the floor, his body convulsing.

  Greenie didn’t hang around to see Vorn’s veins blackening, blood streaming from his dimming eyes. He was running from the thing that had already stepped over Vorn’s corpse. Turned out Greenie didn’t care about proving himself so much after all. All he cared about was survival.

  As he fled, Greenie threw a look over his shoulder, more a reflex than any desire to know how much distance he’d put between him and certain death.

  Not enough.

  The claws raked against Greenie’s skull as they slashed clean through his screaming face.

  Big Bruvva roared in fury, sweeping a heavyset arm across the governor’s table, sending its contents flying across the chamber.

  Behind the cult leader, Vinter allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

  Are you scared, yet Bruvva? Are you feeling as helpless as I was when I watched my own guard trampled beneath your followers’ boots?

  The governor knew what that thing was down there, knew what it could do. He’d seen reports, highly classified reports that no one outside Hive Jensen had been supposed to see. Secrets that had been commodities to trade, back when the world made sense, when he’d had been lord and master. Before this brute had ruined everything.

  Big Bruvva wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy hand, shoulders heaving. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he growled. ‘That freak will bleed soon enough, whatever it is.’

  ‘He’s coming for you, you know?’ Vinter was surprised to hear a voice challenging the oaf, even more so when he realised it was his own. ‘He won’t stop until he’s killed you too.’

  Big Bruvva peered at the governor over his shoulder, a cruel grin spreading over his blunt features.

  ‘I’m counting on it…’