I jammed my signet ring against the reader and cued information.
Alert code 946 decimal 2452 – irregular breach of window seal, window 146, car three, upper.
■I clambered over the steward's corpse and made my way up the stairs.
The upper hallway of car three was even colder than the chill of car eight. The end window on the port side, beside the intercarriage articulation, was wide open and freezing air and snow was whirling in. The window had been cut out of its frame with a powerblade or melta torch.
The light was bad. Gloomy, half-dimmed lamps aggravated by the fretful blink of the alarm lights. The klaxons still whooped.
I realised there were three dark shapes halfway down the hall ahead of me, skulking low. They hadn't heard me arrive over the howl of the blizzard and the shrill of the alarms.
I hugged the panelled wall. Barbarisater throbbed, hungry. Even passively, I could sense the three men were psi-shielded. They made big silhouettes. Combat armour. I saw the ugly shadow of an assault weapon as the point man waved his partners forward.
Forward towards the doors of our compartments.
I edged closer.
The point man, oozing professionalism as he visually checked his rear, saw me.
And all hell broke loose.
FOURTEEN
Barbarisater versus the janissaries.
Etrik, blade to blade. Lunchtime drinks in New Gevae.
The two killers nearest me turned and opened fire with blunt, large calibre autoguns. I suppose the sword in my hand was a damn give away, but they'd have killed me anyway, even if they had mistaken me for a wayward bystander.
They were professional killers, Vessorine janissaries. They had a job to do, a contract to fulfill, and anyone in their way was a target.
The fact that they were using solid-round weapons confirmed they were Vessorine. The ultimate military pragmatists. They'd tailed the train in a poorly-insulated speeder and deployed through a blizzard. In those conditions, standard las-weapons might have died, their cell-power drained by the cold. But a well-lubricated autogun would fire below freezing. It had only to rely on its percussive hammer action.
Vessorine janissaries. I had faced them before without knowing what they were. Now I knew, and their formidable reputation almost gave me pause. Vessorines, three of them. Plated in combat armour and firing heavyweight man-stopper ammunition. Frankly, I'd rather have squared off with angry Kasrkin.
But Barbarisater was in my hand, alert and alive. I had been using my will openly for some time, and that had quickened its strength. I made a