Radimir withdrew his knife and cautiously opened his eyes, then went to work on her forehead as well, covering her warp eye with his hand as he cut, just to be sure. He got her eye out in a matter of seconds, dropped it into his belt pouch and wiped his blade clean on the taller Navigator’s robes. Now it was definitely time to leave…

The door crashed open to admit a woman with a shotgun, who slapped the wall as she entered. There must have been a settings switch there, as the room’s illumination suddenly kicked up to full. Radimir blinked desperately as the song of darkness ceased entirely.

‘Who the–?’ Nansi began, raising her shotgun to her shoulder and bringing both barrels to bear on him.

Radimir was faster. He snatched up the autopistol again and fired, half-pulping her skull. Nansi fell backwards, collided with the door and knocked it shut as she slumped to the floor, the shotgun slipping from her hands.

Screams from outside, running footsteps, and light, cursed light everywhere. Radimir had been trained in combat by his masters, but he’d seen how many people were in the bar. The gangers, the manufactorum workers… If they decided to investigate, and wanted vengeance for the woman who served them alcohol every day, then he would die. The gangers would probably be armed, too. The door was out of the question, and he couldn’t stay here.

There were four uplighters, one on each wall. He took aim at each in turn and pulled the trigger. The first one dissolved in a shower of sparks, then the second. Then the third.

The Encarmine buzzed an alert as he turned to the fourth. It was out of ammunition.

Radimir muttered a prayer to all of his gods and threw the cursed thing. It struck the lumen true, smashed it, and the room was plunged into total, blessed blackness.

There was no time to look; someone could push the door open at any moment. Radimir threw himself into darkness’ embrace, trusting to chance and the mercy of his true patrons.

Opening Doors

Opening Doors

Prefect Bezamor Gurrit was in charge of the Administratum’s functions across Vorlese, at least so far as Chetta could work out, and she’d already decided that he was about as much use as a hydraulic wrench in a void battle. Which was to say, he had a specific function, and he was very well suited to it, and he would not benefit her in any way. He was ninety-seven Terran years old, apparently, with only one remaining human eye. The stare from his bionic was possibly warmer.

‘High lady,’ he rasped, with all the respect and reverence that might infuse a proctor’s utterance of the word ‘citizen’ when addressed to someone in possession of goods that weren’t strictly theirs. ‘Do you have any idea, any whatsoever, of how ridiculous this request is?’