Gianfranco Mancini > Recent Status Updates

We hadn’t even gone a full mile when my back window shattered. I heard barking dogs, shouting, and more gunshots. I drove faster. More shots hit the car. I felt, rather than heard, one of my tires blow, causing us to skid into a guard rail. My front bumper was stuck in the twisted metal. We weren’t going to be able to drive out of here.

Robin planned on taking hundreds of pictures in Chamlett. Look at the poverty in Appalachia. See the cracked, scarred hands of the old women. Hovels in the hills with corrugated tin walls. The thick smoke rising from breaking chimneys. A region mired in its own filth, a people mistaking their own death throes for survival.

In the distance, another scream rang out, sustained and strangled. Somewhere in this building, agony was being inflicted regularly. It was like the chime of a chrono.
‘I’ll look,’ Theokon growled. ‘I’ll see what you’ve scraped together. But this is a small place. What you plan is insane.’
‘Colchis was a small world, and yet it lit the flame that devoured the galaxy.’

It looked ridiculously small, but neither one of them were about to complain. It was the first shelter they had seen since straying off the Appalachian Trail and, although they weren’t about say it, both men wondered if this was a sign that they had finally stumbled back onto it. They were asleep as soon as they lay down. And they both dreamed of dead things.

When they finally reached the shelf of rock, their bodies doused in sweat and their legs laced with burning, copper wires, they were disheartened to see that they had already used up most of the day’s light. Worse still, the scene before them was a seamless, hilly carpet of forest that stretched in all directions to a horizon that looked to be a hundred lifetimes away.

The night passed badly for both men. They lied awake for most the night, listening to the wind hammer at their flimsy tents and to a spattering of flint-like rain that drifted over a shade or two past midnight. And then there was the screaming. The crying. The wailing. Some of it was distant and barely audible in the wind, but some of it was closer to home. Neither one of them went out to investigate.

He shivered and hugged his knees tighter to his chest. No; there was no point getting into a fight. He didn’t want to be out here alone. They were quiet for a while, listening to the breeze and the occasional creeping footfall of unseen wildlife. The shadows lengthened and started to encroach upon the clearing, pooling like spreading blood.

«McGrath?» fece. «Vai nell’armería. È la baracca in fondo, quella distanziata dalle altre.» «Va bene», rispose McGrath. «Che cosa vuoi?» «Sai com’è fatto un Barrett?» domandò Reacher. «È un grosso fucile nero, con un cannocchiale e un grande freno di bocca. Prendi anche un caricatore pieno. Probabilmente sarà lì vicino.» «Va bene», ripeté McGrath. «E fa’ presto», aggiunse Reacher.

L’assistente zoomò. Il primo uomo era a terra, le braccia strette intorno alla gola e al viso, le mani insanguinate. Holly disegnava dei rapidi cerchi, sferzando l’aria come una pantera in gabbia, facendo perno sulla gamba rigida e usando la gamba sana per scagliarsi a destra e a sinistra, come in una danza. Dal ricevitore giungevano all’orecchio di Webster respiri alterati e rantoli, grida e urla.

Now, looking at the stars again, a part of him remembered how it had been before, when the galaxy was laid out before them, largely unknown, a haunt of xenos and the forgotten treasures of the past. That was where he belonged. That was where they, the Astartes, had always belonged. To be confined was to slowly kill them, and so much of the withering of his soul, he realised suddenly, was down to that alone.

Guilliman spoke once more, detailing more of his long-gestated plans. There would be no delay now – the ships were already waiting, and as soon as they were provisioned the assault would begin. For the first time since the days of the Crusade itself, the Imperium would be launching a true offensive. The long retreat was over, and the reconquest would soon begin.

Prayto had been at Ullanor. That already felt like more than a lifetime ago, in a galaxy that had now become foreign and unknowable. The grandeur of it had been entirely deliberate, a show of force to inspire the Imperium to even greater heights and to daunt the xenos dregs who still lurked on the margins of a dominated galaxy.

«Li ha sentiti?» chiese Reacher. «Quando?» «Sempre», sussurrò. «Fanno sempre piani, Borken e i suoi. Le donne e i bambini devono morire, dicono. Ci costringeranno a suicidarci, in massa: le nostre famiglie, i nostri figli. Alle cave. Credo che abbiano intenzione di portarci alle cave e di obbligarci a toglierci la vita.»

Novecentonovanta passi, pari a ottocentonovanta metri. Borken s’inginocchiò sulle stuoie e prese il binocolo di Ray: riusciva a malapena a vedere l’albero bianco. Reacher lo osservò mentre tentava di contenere lo stupore. Volevi un grande spettacolo, e l’hai avuto, pensò. Ti è piaciuto, grassone? «D’accordo», fece Borken. «Adesso vedremo se sarai altrettanto abile.»

‘Lied to? Of course you were. Though no more so than the Imperium did.’ He tried to shift, to move what remained of his body, but the effort merely brought new rivulets of blood coursing over that shattered armour-bulk. ‘The Warmaster is dead. His soul is annihilated. Those who marched with him are scattered. You should run. Just keep going. Perhaps the tide of vengeance will not reach you.’

A Legion was a fractious, violent thing – a horde of gene-bred monsters, only disciplined and moulded by the superhuman presence at its head. Dark stories abounded of the Revenant Legion, the predecessor to the Blood Angels. Maybe they would revert to that. If so, it would be a poor reward for their loyalty. That fate had to be prevented, if it could be.

«Succede. Gli uomini validi possono perdere la ragione. Ne ho visti alcuni fare questa fine, è un bel guaio.» McGrath girò le foto sul tavolo e le guardò. «È vero», disse. Johnson lo fissò. «Posso tenere quella foto?» domandò. «La prima?» McGrath scosse il capo. «No», rispose. «Se vuole una fotografia, gliene farò io una: sua figlia e lei davanti a una lapide col nome di questo coglione.»

«Chiamo un testimone», decise Fowler. «Stevie Stewart.» Il Piccolo Stevie si alzò di scatto e Fowler gli fece cenno di sedersi al vecchio banco dei testimoni, posto al disotto e a fianco di quello del giudice. Borken si sporse per dargli un libro nero. Reacher non riuscì a capire di che libro si trattasse, ma non era la Bibbia, a meno che non avessero cominciato a stamparla con la svastica in copertina.

«Devo prendere una decisione», annunciò Borken. «E tu mi dovrai aiutare.» Jack si accorse di aver distolto lo sguardo da lui: aveva la sensazione che quell’aura lo annientasse. Si costrinse allora a girare lentamente il capo e a fissare il suo viso largo e slavato. «Quale decisione?» chiese. «Se tu debba vivere», rispose Borken. «O morire.»

Thus was the curse transmitted from the Palace to all the realms below it, like some hex placed on generations to come. That mortal slurry carried every foulness the gods had devised. It was their legacy. Their noxious libation, poured over mortal lands to stew and bubble and cultivate fresh misery until the end of days.

Sometimes, just for short moments, the sky would fall back into its natural darkness. Those were the hours that they ran, breaking out of whatever miserable hole they’d buried themselves in, sprinting towards the next potential sanctuary, expecting at any moment to hear the whine of a lascannon powering up or a gunship roaring after them.

Holly assunse un’aria perplessa. «In Canada?» L’uomo scosse di nuovo il capo. «Non siamo in Canada, puttana», disse. Holly scrutò gli alberi e le montagne circostanti. Poi guardò il cielo notturno e rabbrividì per un’improvvisa sensazione di freddo. «Be’, non siamo neanche in Messico», commentò. L’uomo sollevò entrambe le braccia come se volesse mostrare qualcosa. «Questo è un nuovo Paese.»

Avevano commesso un errore: l’avevano trasformato da spettatore in nemico. Ed era davvero un grave errore. Avevano aperto la porta proibita, senza sapere che cosa avrebbero trovato. Jack rimase disteso e si sentì come una bomba ticchettante, portata da loro stessi nel loro covo. Percepì l’ondata di rabbia e ne fu eccitato: l’assaporò e la tenne in serbo per il futuro.

This was a fleet that had come right out of combat, bloody and weakened but still driven and desperate to reassert itself. Some of the First Legion craft were of an unusual profile, the product of their access to ancient and powerful technology. The Wolves had their own flavour of belligerence, of course – somehow they made everything they travelled in look ragged and obnoxious.

‘You were a magister,’ Thalis said, looking up at her hopefully. ‘You spoke the words. My troops need that now. They doubt. I had to shoot one myself, just to keep order. You need to speak to them.’
But what could she say? Her dreams, the ones that had told her so much, had ceased. The certainty that had fuelled her had been replaced by a dreadful emptiness. She was alive, just, but that was all.

L’uomo aprì il sacco. La prima cosa che vide fu un dito. Bianco, gelido, perché ormai privo di sangue, e pieno di callosità giallognole. Apparteneva a un uomo che svolgeva un lavoro manuale. «Adesso, la chiuderò in quella stanza», annunciò il cliente. «Se non ne uscirà entro domani mattina, le farò lo stesso servizio, ha capito? Con la sua dannata sega, perché la mia si è rovinata tagliando questo qui.»

Dietro la catasta c’era anche qualcos’altro. Qualcosa di strano. I due falegnami fissarono nel buio alcune sagome curve. I due falegnami studiarono quelle strane sagome curve, poi si guardarono negli occhi e si voltarono. Il cliente sorrise, quindi sollevò un’automatica nera opaca.

Kah’s light could not be dimmed. She had flown—for just a brief moment, she had flown. And now she had friends who cared about her. That was a lot more than she’d ever hoped for before she came to this place named for dread. This was her great adventure.

“If you do not wish to watch this part, I can have my servants bring tea to the salon.” “Tea?” Chivarion made a face. “Is there anything stronger?” The doctor started up the saw, and flecks of blood sprayed the room. “We’ll take tea.” Alishai grabbed Chivarion’s arm and steered him toward the lab door, where the homunculus waited. Rotrog swiftly followed, plugging his ears as the saw bit into bone.

“You there!” he said, brusque and accusatory. “State your business.” Alishai seemed at a loss for words, so Chivarion said, “Um…not getting caught?” And then his elbow crunched into the man’s nose. “We talked about this,” Alishai said. “He’s a guard. He would’ve raised the alarm. And look! He’s not dead, and now we have another coat.”