'I have done as you instructed/ she told me as she led us down the spiral steps into the cold vault. 'But it is irregular. Rules state I must begin examinations, prelim examinations at least, as soon as possible/
'I thank you for your diligence, mortress. I will be done quickly. Then you can follow protocol/
Pulling on surgical gloves, I moved through the lines of dead – there were nearly twenty of them – dictating observations of Aemos. There was virtually noming to be learned from the men. Some I gauged from build and coloration to be off-worlders, but they had no documents, no surgical identifiers, no clue whatsoever about their origins or identities. Even their clothing was blank… manufacturing tags and labels had been torn or burned off. I could begin a forensic investigation to identify the source of the clothing, but that would be a massive waste of resources.
On two of mem, I found fresh scars that suggested subcutaneous idem markers had been surgically removed. Ident marking was not a local practice, so that at least suggested off-world. But where? Hundreds of Imperial planets routinely used such devices, and their placing and use was pretty standard. I had carried one myself for a few years, as a child, before the Black Ships selected me and it was dug out.
One of the corpses had a curious scarring on the forearms, not deep but thorough, searing the epidermis.
'Someone has used a melta-torch to remove gang tattoos/ Aemos said.
He was right. Again, it was tantalisingly incomplete.
I looked to Eyclone, where I thought my best bet lay. With the Mortress's help, I cut away his clothes, all of which were as anonymous as his followers' garb. We turned his naked corpse, looking for… well, anything.
There!' Fischig said, leaning in. A brand mark above the left buttock.
The Seraph of Laoacus. An old Chaos mark. Eyclone had it done to honour his then-masters twenty years ago. A previous cult, a previous employer. Nothing to do with this/
Fischig looked at me curiously. "Vou know the details of his naked flesh?'
'I have sources/ I replied. I didn't want to have to tell the tale. Eemanda, one of my first companions, brilliant, beautiful and bold. She
had found that detail out for me. She had been in an asylum now for five years. The last report I had received said she had eaten away her own fingers.
'But he marks himself?' Fischig added. 'With each new cult he involves himself in, he carries their mark to show his allegiance?'
The man had a point, damn him. We looked. At least six laser scars on his body seemed likely to have been previous cult marks, burned off after he left those associations.
Behind his left ear, a skin inlay of silver was worked in the form of the Buboe Chaotica.
This?' asked Tutrone, shaving the hair aside with her finger blades to reveal it.
'Old, as before/
I stepped back from the body and thought hard. When I'd killed him, he had been reaching for something on his belt, or so it had seemed to me.
'His effects?'
They were laid out on a metal tray nearby. His laspistol, a compact vox-device, a pearl-inlaid box containing six obscura tubes and an igniter, a credit tile, spare cells for the gun, a plastic key. And the belt; with four buttoned pouches.
I opened them one by one: some local coins; a miniature las-knife; three bars of high-calorie rations; a steel tooth-pick; more obscura, this time in an injector vial; a small data slate.
At the moment of death, which of these things had he been reaching for? The knife? Too slow and small to counter a man who has a naval pistol wedged into your mouth. Then again, he was desperate.
And then again, he hadn't reached for his bolstered lasgun.
The data-slate, perhaps? I picked it up and activated it, but it needed a cipher to gain access. All manner of secrets might be locked inside… but why would a man reach for a data-slate in the face of certain death?
Track marks, along the forearm/ Tutrone stated, continuing her exam.
Hardly surprising, given the narco-ware we'd recovered from him.
'No rings? No bracelets? Earrings? Piercing studs?'
