The Eisenhorn TrilogyXenos(科幻战争)-第39章

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I　sank　down　behind　one　of　the　stations；　which　vibrated　and　chattered　against　my　back。　The　sudden；　inexplicable　life　was　daunting　and
alarming。　Somewhere　close　by；　one　particular　machine　was　rattling　and　repeating　like　an　old　machine　gun　on　full　auto。
As　suddenly　as　it　had　started；　the　life　died　away。　Stations　fell　silent　and　their　lights　went　out。　The　throb　of　power　leaked　away　into　the
darkness。　The　Titan's　underlights　dimmed　and　died。　One　by　one；　the　holograms　extinguished　and　the　desks　fell　dormant。　The　chirring
of　cogs　and　servos　and　the　throb　of　valves　ebbed　into　stillness。
The　last　sound　to　go　was　that　autogun　racket。　It　continued　for　a　good　few　seconds　after　everything　else　had　stopped；　then　it　too　ceased
abruptly。
The　chapel　was　then　as　dark　and　quiet　as　it　had　been　when　I　first　entered。
I　got　to　my　feet。　There　had　been　no　power　in　this　place；　no　feeding　source。　What　had　started　and　woken　the　machines？　It　had　to　have
been　some　signal　from　outside。
Using　commonsense　and　guesswork；　I　went　around　the　circle　of　stations　nearest　to　me；　hunting　for　the　one　that　had　chattered　like　a
stubber。　The　most　likely　candidate　was　a　bulky　desk　that　seemed　to　have　external　and　general　gain　vox　functions。　But　its　keys　were
dead　to　my　touch。
On　a　whim；　I　got　down　on　my　knees　and　peered　behind　the　desk。　There　were　fixings　where　a　basket　hopper　should　have　been　sitting　to
catch　the　print…outs。　The　hopper　was　missing。　The　sheaf　of　print…out　had　fallen　down　into　the　dust　under　the　desk。
I　scooped　the　sheaf　out。　It　was　about　nine　metres　long；　punch…cut　by　the　printer's　jaws　into　shorter　sections。　Clearly　this　desk　had　been
disgorging　print…outs　for　some　time　without　anyone　around　to　collect　them。　The　sections　at　the　bottom　of　the　spool　were　beginning　to
yellow。
I　looked　them　over；　but　they　meant　nothing。　Tabulated　columns　of　machine　code　in　close；　regular　bands。　Carefully；　I　laid　them　out　on
the　travertine　floor　and　rolled　them　tightly　into　a　thick　scroll。
I　was　nearly　finished　when　my　vox　pipped。
'Aegis　wishes　thorn。　By　halflight　disabused；　in　Administratum　by　heart。　Scales　fall　from　eyes。　Multifarious；　the　grasp　of　changelings。
Pattern　thimble　advised。'
'Pattern　thimble　acknowledged。　Thorn　arising　by　heart。'
Medea's　words　had　told　me　all　I　needed　to　know。　They　had　found　something　in　the　Administratum；　and　they　needed　me　back　swiftly。
There　was　danger　from　Chaos　all　around。　I　should　trust　no　one。
I　bolstered　my　laspistol　and　tucked　the　print…out　scroll　into　my　waistband。
As　I　ran　out　of　the　annex　and　down　the　red…striped　tunnel；　I　tugged　my　combat　shotgun　out　over　my　shoulder　and　racked　the　slide。

EIGHTEEN
PATTERN　THIMBLE。
GOING　ROCKSIDE。
GEARD　BURE？S　TRANSLITHOPEDE。
GLOSSIA'S　NOT　SO　hard　to　understand。　It　uses　subliminal　symbols　and　''head　words''。　Don't　look　for　a　mystery　in　it；　it　isn't　there。　That's
why　it　works　so　well　as　a　private　code。　There　is　no　encryption　…　at　least　no　mathematical　encryption　…　to　be　calculated　and　broken。　It　is
idiomatic　and　visceral。　It　is　verbal　impressionism。　It　uses　the　uncalculable；　unregulated　mechanisms　of　poetry　and　intimacy　to　perform
its　functions。　There　have　been　times　in　the　last　…　well；　the　increasing　years　of　my　career；　let's　say　…　there　have　been　times　when　an　ally
or　retainer　of　mine　has　sent　me　a　Glossia　message　using　terms　and　words　that　have　never　been　used　before。　And　still；　I　have
understood　them。
It's　a　knack。　It's　knowing　how　to　use；　and　improvise；　a　shared　cant。　There　are　basic　rules　of　construction　and　metaphor；　of　course；　but
Glossia's　strength　lies　in　its　nebulous　vagueness。　Its　idioms。　Its　resonance。　It　is　akin　to　the　gut…slang　of　the　Ermenoes；　who　have
replaced　language　with　subtleties　of　skin…colour。
Pattern　thimble；　for　example。
''Pattern''　indicates　a　course　of　action　or　behaviour。　''Thimble''　is　a　qualifier；　disclosing　the　manner　or　mode　of　said　action。　A　thimble　is
a　small　tin　cap　that　you　might　use　to　protect　your　finger　from　the　short；　sharp　stabs　of　a　needle　during　darning。　It　wouldn't　fend　off；
say；　an　atomic　strike　or　a　horde　of　genestealers。　But；　in　the　idiom　of　Glossia；　it　would　seal　you　against　sudden；　spearing；　close　attacks。
It　is　also　quiet　and　unremarkable。
And　so；　quietly；　unremarkably；　I　slipped　down　the　tunnel　ways　of　Cinchare　Minehead　towards　the　officium　of　the　Administratum。　I
was　stealthy　and　secretive；　and　my　motion　tracker　and　shotgun　were　my　thimble。
Pattern　thimble。　Gideon　Ravenor　had　coined　that　particular　phrase；　adding　it　to　the　vocabulary　of　my　Glossia。

I　thought　of　Ravenor；　alone　in　his　plastic…sheeted　cot　on　Thracian。　My　anger；　dimmed　these　last　few　months；　welled。
MY　MOTION　TRACKER　warned　me　into　cover　at　a　junction　of　transit　tunnels　about　half　a　kilometre　from　the　plaza。　Hidden　behind　a
stack　of　empty　promethium　drams；　I　watched　as　two　electric　buggies　buzzed　past；　heading　towards　the　concourse　area。　Bandelbi　was
driving　the　lead　one。　There　were　two　miners　with　him；　and　three　more　in　the　buggy　behind。　They　all　looked　grimy　and　slovenly。
THERE　WERE　MORE　buggies　in　the　plaza；　parked　out　in　front　of　the　security　office。　I　saw　a　couple　of　labourer…types　lounging　in　the
building　doorway；　smoking　lho…sticks。
I　slipped　into　the　miner's　welfare　through　the　back。　Medea　and　Aemos　were　waiting　for　me　in　the　shabby　rec…room　billet。
'Well？'
'We　nosed　around　the　Administratum；'　said　Aemos。　'It　wasn't　even　locked。'
'Then　the　place　started　to　crawl　with　Kaleil's　people　and　we　skedaddled；'　said　Medea。　Both　of　them　looked　tense　and　pensive。
'They　see　you？'
She　shook　her　head。　'But　there　is　a　damn　sight　more　than　twenty　of　them。　I　counted　thirty；　thirty…five　at　least。'
'What　did　you　find？'
'Recent　archives　are　non…existent；　or　they've　been　erased；'　said　Aemos。　'Nothing　for　the　last　two　and　a　half　months；　not　even　a
caretaking　log；　the　sort　of　thing　you'd　expect　Kaleil　to　have　been　obliged　to　keep。'
'He　could　be　recording　it　at　the　security　office。'
'If　he　was　following　official　protocol；　it　would　have　been　automatically　copied　to　the　central　archives。　You　know　how　anal　the
Administratum　is　about　keeping　full　records。'
'What　else？'
'Well；　it　was　a　cursory　examination　…　we　didn't　have　much　time。　But　Kaleil　told　us　Imperial　Allied　pulled　out　nine　months　ago　and
Ortog　Promethium　followed　them　two　months　later。　According　to　the　archive；　both　corporations　were　active；　working　and　fully
crewed　as　recently　as　three　months　ago。　There's　no　record　of　any　〃Grav〃　cases；　nor　any　filed　reports　or　memos　about　the　possibility　of
such　a　problem。'
'Kaleil　was　lying？'
'In　all　respects。'
'So　where　is　everyone？'
Aemos　shrugged。
'Do　we　leave　now？'　Medea　asked。
'I'm　determined　to　find　Bure；'　I　replied；　'and　there's　something　afoot　here　that　really　ought　to—'
'Gregor；'　Aemos　murmured。　'I　hate　to　be　the　one　to　point　this　out；　but　this　isn't　your　concern。　Although　I　know　full　well　you　are　as
loyal　to　the　Golden　Throne　now　as　you　ever　were；　in　most　respects　that　matter；　you're　no　longer　an　inquisitor。　Your　authority　is　no
longer　recognised　by　the　Imperium。　You're　a　rogue…　a　rogue　with　more　than　enough　problems　of　your　own　to　sort　out　without
involving　yourself　in　this。'
I　think　he　expected　me　to　be　angry。　I　wasn't。
'You're　right…　but　I　can't　just　stop　being　a　servant　of　the　Emperor；　not　just　like　that；　no　matter　what　the　rest　of　mankind　believes　me　to
be。　If　I　can　do　any　good　here；　I　will。　I　don't　care　about　recognition；　or　official　sanction。'
'I　told　you　he'd　say　that；'　Medea　sneered　at　Aemos。
'Yes；　you　did。　She　did；'　he　said；　looking　back　at　me。
'Sorry　to　be　so　predictable。'
'Moral　constancy　is　nothing　to　apologise　for；'　said　Aemos。
I　took　the　scroll　of　paper　I'd　recovered　from　the　annex　and　showed　it　to　my　old　savant。
'What　do　you　make　of　this？'　I　told　them　what　had　happened　in　the　sanctum　of　the　Machine…God。
He　studied　the　curling　sheaf　for　a　few　minutes；　checking　back　and　forth。
'There　are　elements　of　this　machine　code　that　I　can't　make　out。　Adeptus　encryption。　But…　well；　look　at　the　text　breaks。　These　are　the
filed　records　of　regular　transmissions　from　outside　the　minehead。　Every…　six　hours；　to　the　second。'
'And　the　sanctum's　dormant　systems　would　wake　up　the　moment　an　external　transmission　came　in？'
'In　order　to　record　it；　yes。　How　long　were　the　machines　in　life？'
I　shook　my　head。　'Two；　maybe　two　and　half　minutes。'
'Two　minutes　forty…eight　seconds？'　he　asked。
'Could　be。'
He　ran　his　finger　along　a　line　of　header　text　above　the　last　code…burst。　'That's　exactly　how　long　the　latest　transmission　lasted。'
'So　someone's　out　there？　Outside　the　minehead　on　Cinchare　somewhere；　sending　regular　transmissions　back　to　the　Adeptus　annex？'
'Not　just　someone…　it's　Bure。　This　is　the　Adeptus　code…form　for　his　name；'　Aemos　leafed　back　through　the　sheets　and　studied　the
yellowest　and　oldest。　'He's　been　broadcasting　for…　eleven　weeks。'
'What　is　he　saying？'
'I've　no　idea。　The　main　text　is　too　deeply　codified。　Mechanilingua…A　or　C　or　possibly　some　modern　revision　of　one　of　the　hexadecimal
servito…ware　scripts。　Possibly　Impulse　Analog　version　nine。　I　can't—'
'You　can't　read　it。　That's　enough　for　me。'

'All　right。　But　I　know　where　he　is。'
I　paused。　'You　do？'
Aemos　smiled　and　adjusted　his　heavy　augmetic　eyewear。　'Well；　no。　I　don't　actually　know　where　he　is。　But　I　can　find　him。'
'How？'
He　pointed　to　a　vertical　strip　of　coloured　bars　that　ran　down　the　side　of　each　transmission　burst。　'Each　broadcast　is　routinely
accompanied　by　a　spectrographic　report　on　the　location　of　the　transmitter。　These　colours　are　a　condensed　expression　of　the　type；　mix
and　density　of　the　rock　surrounding　him。　It's　like　a　fingerprint。　If　I　had　a　good　quality　strata　map　of　Cinchare；　and　a　geologicae　auspex；
I　could　track　him　down。'
I　smiled。　'I　knew　there　was　a　reason　I　kept　you　around。'
'So　we're　going　after　him？'　asked　Medea。
'Yes；　we　are。　We'll　need　transport。　A　prospecting　pod；　maybe。　Can　you　handle　one　of　those？'
'Piece　of　cake。　Where　do　we　get　one？'
'Imperial　Allied　has　an　excursion　terminal　full　of　them；'　Aemos　said。　'I　saw　a　schematic　guide　of　the　minehead　screwed　to　a　wall。'　I
had　seen　just　the　same　sort　of　thing；　but　I　didn't　recall　a　detail　like　that。　It　reminded　me　of　the　extraordinary　photo…memory　Aemos
possessed。
'W