He forced himself to put her out of his mind. He had to trust the PDF to bring her back to him. In the meantime, he could see the ring-shaped edifice of Hieronymous Port approaching; he was almost blinded by the lights that streamed out from the centre of that ring, so bright after so long in the dark. The flyer was manoeuvring to land amid those lights, its belly almost scraping the crenellations of the space port wall, and this meant that Hanrik had a job to do. A world to save.
Of course, he was recognised.
As he marched through the main space port terminal, Hanrik was surrounded by desperate civilians, jostling to get to him, to have their pleas heard by him. His escort drew their lasguns, and the implicit threat was enough to keep the crowds at bay. For his own part, Hanrik kept his eyes fixed ahead, ignoring them, concerned with more important matters than their petty grievances.
He had asked a proctor to take him to the man in charge. He was led up a flight of stairs to a carpeted corridor, which was mercifully free from refugees. It was, however, teeming with Krieg soldiers, ferrying equipment and furniture between the space port’s administrative offices. The near-total silence in which they carried out their duties unnerved him; it reminded him of the sub-human servitors.
‘Colonel,’ he said, recognising the rank insignia of the officer in charge of the operation, ‘care to bring me up to speed?’
The colonel turned and regarded Hanrik for a long moment through the dark eyepieces of his all-concealing mask. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said.
Hanrik frowned, then noticed the regimental number on the Krieg officer’s shoulder flashes. ‘I apologise,’ he said, ‘I mistook you for Colonel 42. We met earlier. You must be Colonel… 186, I take it. My name is Hanrik. I am the Planetary Governor.’
‘I see,’ said the colonel brusquely. ‘Then it is my duty to inform you, Governor Hanrik, that Hieronymous Theta is under martial law. You are hereby relieved of your position.’ He turned and marched into the nearest office, leaving Hanrik slack-jawed.
‘Now, hold on a minute,’ he blustered.
He made for the open door, but a figure stepped into his path: a lean, silver-haired man in his seventies, who loomed over Hanrik’s shorter, rounder form. ‘Commissar Costellin,’ the man introduced himself. ‘Perhaps I can answer your questions.’
Hanrik threw one last, disgruntled look after the Krieg colonel, who was now directing a small group of his Guardsmen in the assembly of a communications console. Then he shook the commissar’s proffered hand, and allowed himself to be ushered away from there, albeit with a scowl on his face.
Costellin had commandeered a small office at the end of the corridor. He had already procured for himself a small jug of recaf, which sat warming on a plate on his desk. Hanrik declined the offer of a cup, with an impatient wave, then regretted it because a hot dose of stimulants was just what he needed right now.
As Costellin settled into his chair, his expression grew grave. ‘We have a serious situation developing here,’ he said, ‘perhaps more so than you know. Our troops in the capital city report that–’
‘You have sent troops into my city?’ spluttered Hanrik.
‘Just a couple of platoons for now. The objective is to–’
‘I don’t care what their objective is, I am still the Imperial Governor of this world, no matter what your death-masked colonel out there might say. I am responsible for the welfare of its people, and I insist on being consulted before–’
‘I do appreciate your position, Governor Hanrik,’ said the commissar calmly, ‘and I am aware that Colonel 186 does have rather a blunt manner.’
‘I’d call that an understatement,’ Hanrik muttered.
‘I can assure you, however,’ said Costellin, ‘that the colonel is acting solely in the best interests of this world and its people.’
‘In what he judges to be our best interests,’ Hanrik corrected him, ‘and surely I am more qualified than he is to decide that.’
‘As the colonel has explained to you, Governor, this is a military operation, and time is very much of the essence. We have had to make some difficult decisions and make them quickly, and if sometimes that means–’
‘Go on then,’ snapped Hanrik impatiently, ‘tell me the worst of it.’
So, Costellin told him. He talked about the metal insects, about which Hanrik had already heard, and about ghoul-like creatures lurking in the wreckage of Hieronymous City’s towers, about which he had not. He explained that, according to scans run by his orbiting troop ship, over a hundred towers had lost at least their top forty storeys – far more even than the Governor had feared.
‘One of our platoons came under attack,’ said Costellin. ‘Fifty Krieg grenadiers, about a quarter of them armed with melta guns, against half as many ghouls, and even they took almost thirty per cent casualties.’
‘But they won?’ said Hanrik hopefully.
‘Indeed,’ said Costellin. ‘Unfortunately, we suspect that these creatures are only the vanguard of a far larger necron force.’
Hanrik had never heard of the necron before, and yet somehow the very sound of the word chilled his soul. ‘You think there… there’s no hope?’
‘I think you should get on to Naval Command again,’ said Costellin, see if you can get a rush on those rescue ships.’
As the commissar took a sip of his recaf, the ominous rumbling of distant guns shook the walls of his office and sent plaster flakes cascading from the ceiling into his cup. Hanrik felt numb. He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. ‘What are you doing about this, Costellin?’ he demanded.
‘You must have seen, as you came out of the city, that we have it surrounded. The intention is to seal off the exits, and contain the necrons within–’
‘You can’t!’ cried Hanrik. ‘There are millions of civilians still trapped in there.’ Arex, he thought.
‘Of course,’ said Costellin, ‘we will allow more time for the evacuation to proceed. We will save as many people as we can. However, we must also consider the lives of those thousands who have already fled the city, and the billions who live on this world outside of it. We can’t take the risk that–’
‘You’ll abandon them,’ said Hanrik, ‘those who can’t make it out in time. They’ll be sacrificed for the sake of the rest of us.’
‘There will come a time,’ Costellin confirmed, ‘when that decision must be made.’
‘And who will make that call? Who decides who lives and who dies? No, no, don’t tell me, I’m sure I can guess: Colonel 186, I presume?’
Hanrik was waiting for Colonel Braun as his convoy of open-topped half-tracks pulled up at the space port entrance. The acting commandant of the Planetary Defence Force was a heavyset, mid-forties man with ruddy cheeks and a bristling moustache. He was accompanied in the lead vehicle by a major and two lieutenants, all of whom were glued to their voxes, receiving reports and barking out orders.
‘We’ve lost contact with almost half our squads on the ground,’ Braun told the Governor breathlessly. ‘Some of them have reported encountering creatures: vile, ghoulish creatures with skull faces. I’ve instructed them to start pulling out, but–’
‘Sir, I can’t raise Squad 84,’ interrupted one of the lieutenants. ‘I think we may have lost them too. They were nearing the generatorum. They reported that the skyways there seemed quiet, too quiet. Then… Squad 17 is en route there too, a few sectors away and four floors up. I could send them to–’
‘No,’ said Hanrik. ‘Forget the generatorum. All squads are to focus on the evacuation effort. They’re to get the civilians out of there.’
‘Sir,’ said the second lieutenant, ‘I’m receiving reports of a firefight on the ground level, by the north gate. Mutants, breaking through the cordons.’
Colonel Braun opened his mouth to reply, but Hanrik beat him to it again. ‘Send reinforcements,
any and all squads that can reach them. We must not lose control of that gate. It must remain open for as long as… It must remain open.’
‘Sir, Squad 15 reports rioting in–’
‘–attacking civilians on Level 82. Sergeant Kutter wants to know if–’
‘–stranded up there. They can’t find a staircase–’
‘–lost five men, but they managed to kill that–’
‘Sir, another ambush on Level 204. Squad 47 engaging five – no, six – of the creatures. Sergeant Calder reports that–’
Amid the barrage of information, one name stood out to Hanrik’s ears like a sudden gunshot. He snatched the vox-handset from a startled lieutenant, stabbed at the ‘transmit’ rune. ‘Sergeant Calder, this is Hanrik. Your squad are not to engage the enemy. You are to withdraw from combat, do you hear me? Withdraw!’
‘–easier said than done, sir. Pinning us down. We can’t–’
‘Listen to me, Calder. Your priority is to find and rescue my niece. You can’t… You are no match for those creatures.’
‘–taken one down, but they got Reynard, sir, they… Oh, Emperor, they… they’re skinning him alive. I… trying to withdraw, but two of the men… when they saw what happened, what those things did, they tried to run, but the creatures are faster than we are… cut them down… coming for me now, I can’t–’
‘Get out of there, Calder. That’s an order. Sergeant Calder!’
There came no answer, only vox static.
‘Do you read me, Sergeant Calder? Calder, are you there?’
It seemed that everything around Hanrik had stopped. The assembled officers were staring at him, taken aback. He realised he had been shouting. He took a deep breath, switched the vox to an open channel and said, in as calm a voice as he could muster, ‘All units in the vicinity of Level 204, Sector… I don’t know, somewhere near the centre… we have lost contact with Squad 47, repeat, we have lost contact with Squad 47. I… I need you to locate them. Please.’
He handed the handset back to its owner, who immediately received another distress call and stepped aside to deal with it.
Hanrik swallowed hard, pushed Arex to the back of his mind again and turned to Colonel Braun. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘so we’ve lost our base in the city. We need to follow the Imperial Guard’s lead, set up a field HQ in the buildings here. Get on to the other bases worldwide, tell them to keep sending men, all the men they can spare. I want an office no more than two doors away from Colonel 186, and I want… I want a jug of fresh recaf on my desk.’
‘Governor, does this mean…?’
‘I’m sorry, colonel, this is no reflection upon your abilities, but I think this crisis requires an experienced leader.’ Hanrik didn’t miss the look of relief that Braun tried to hide at that statement. ‘As a former Imperial Guard officer, and as the Governor of this world, I am assuming command of the PDF, effective immediately.’
Hanrik had had his aides locate the crate containing his old war gear. They busied themselves about him, strapping him into his time-dulled armour, polishing his cap badge, lubricating his bolt pistol. His old greatcoat was too tight about his shoulders and its buttons wouldn’t fasten, so they had had to procure him a new one. Hanrik stood in the midst of all this activity, stock still, his eyes open but not really seeing the space port office around him, lost in bittersweet memories.
He had thought these days were long behind him.
He marched along the corridor, into the next-door office without knocking. ‘Mr Hanrik,’ said Colonel 186, sparing hardly a glance for his visitor, ‘I would prefer it if you addressed any future concerns to my commissar. I believe you’ve met.’
‘That’s Governor Hanrik,’ said Hanrik. ‘Or General Hanrik, if you’d prefer.’
If the colonel was surprised by that, it showed only in the short pause he took before deducing, ‘You have taken command of the Planetary Defence Force.’
‘It seems we will be working together, after all, the two of us.’
The colonel leaned forward in his seat. ‘As I understand it, your troops have not proved especially effective so far. What are your losses to date?’
‘I... don’t have those figures yet, but I’m certain we can still play a part in–’
‘I don’t dispute that… general. Any man who is prepared to lay down his life for the Emperor, no matter how able or equipped, is a valuable resource to us.’
‘Um, quite, yes.’
‘However, those resources could be more effectively deployed by a single leader. I suggest that I should be–’
‘They’re my men,’ said Hanrik. ‘They will take their orders from me and from no one else, and if you wish to argue that point with the Administratum–’
‘You will, of course, begin the draft immediately.’
The interruption rendered Hanrik momentarily speechless. His jaw worked silently as the colonel continued, ‘This space port and its environs, General Hanrik, are packed with able-bodied refugees, bereft of purpose. Whatever functions those people once had in your society, they can no longer serve them.’
‘But how…? We just don’t have the equipment to outfit them. Ours has always been a peaceful world, colonel, we have never had need of a substantial armed force.’
‘You agreed,’ said the colonel, ‘that your people are a resource, and we must surely utilise all the resources at our disposal. They are loyal subjects of the Emperor?’
‘Of course. Of course they are loyal, but–’
‘Then they will be pleased to offer their lives to Him. Better that than allowing our enemies to escape the city, in which case those lives will be lost for no gain.’
‘About that,’ said Hanrik. ‘I understand you are planning to close the city gates. As it is primarily my men who are inside the city, it should be my decision when to–’
‘Your men have until dawn,’ said the colonel. ‘Then they too shall be honoured to give their lives for the greater glory of the Imperium.’
The refugee camp had swelled in size. From the top of the space port hill, Hanrik could see new tents lining the roads, stretching almost to the neighbouring cities. He was talking into a vox-handset, trying to hear another PDF sergeant through frequent bursts of static and over the constant chatter of troubled voices.
‘…think one of the lads has something, sir. Something in the rubble. It’s… Oh, Emperor preserve us, it’s a body. It looks like… I think it’s one of ours sir, it…’
‘Be careful, Sergeant Flast, watch your step down there.’
A long pause followed. Hanrik was on the verge of transmitting again when the sergeant’s voice returned, sounding strained and nauseous. ‘Confirmed, sir. The body, it’s one of… found his lasgun, but the body has been stripped… I mean, its skin, sir, stripped from the bones… It’s… I don’t know what could have done something like…’
‘Concentrate, Sergeant. You have to hold it together. I need you to… Can you make an identification? Is there anything…?’
‘…found his dog tags. According to these, he’s… Trooper Vasor, sir, Squad 47. And there… there’s two more… three more… Golden Throne, this was a massacre!’
‘Do you see Sergeant Calder? It’s imperative you find Sergeant Calder.’
‘…found him, sir. The same as the others. Whatever it was that did this…’
‘Listen to me, Flast. I need you to… Does Calder have a tracking device with him? It should look like a vox-handset, but smaller, black, with–’
‘Confirmed, sir. The tracker is here, but it… Calder must have fallen on the machine when he… It’s in pieces, sir, inoperative. We’d need a tech-priest to begin to…’
The rest of the sergeant’s words were obscured, but Hanrik had heard enough.
He let the handset fall from his numbed fingers; one of his guards hastened to retrieve i
t. Of course, Hanrik had known even before this latest blow that Arex was lost to him. Not two kilometres away from here, the Death Korps of Krieg was beginning to lay siege to his capital city. They were setting up minefields around its edge, laying demolition charges to bring down some of the outer towers. They would probably cause as much devastation as the insect swarm had done – and, like the insects, they didn’t seem to care much how many lives were lost in the process.
It would have been easy for him to give up, then, to leave this war to Colonel 186, to slink away in the first rescue ship to arrive. It would have been easy, and it would have been safest, but Governor-General Talmar Hanrik prided himself on having the bloodline of heroes. As long as there was the smallest grain of hope, he would soldier on. He wouldn’t disgrace the memory of his father, his brother, or his sons.
So, he reached for the loudhailer that one of his guards had been carrying for him. He surveyed the sea of imploring faces that had gathered before their leader, and he raised the metallic cone to his lips, and he spoke:
‘My citizens,’ he said, ‘I know you have questions; I know you are afraid, and I will not lie to you, our world is under threat. That is why I… I need your help. I am asking all able-bodied males between the ages of fifteen and forty-five to make themselves known to a PDF officer by midday tomorrow. You have been chosen… We have all been chosen for the honour of serving the God-Emperor – and as long as our hearts remain pure, as long as we fight in His name against the forces that beset us, I believe He will not allow what we have built here to fall. Praise be to the Emperor!’
Chapter Eight
The sky was lightening in the east, and the shadows of the night were being washed away. The skyways of Hieronymous City seemed unusually tranquil, painted in pastel blues and greys, and Trooper Carwen could see hope at last.
His squad had reached the outskirts of the city – nine weary troopers and the indomitable Sergeant Flast, along with a handful of civilians they had picked up en route – but they were still almost a hundred floors up. In the darkness, Carwen had been sure they had no chance of reaching ground level before the city gates were closed. Now, in the cleansing pre-dawn light, anything seemed possible to him.
Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden Page 66
