Rogue Trader

by Andy Hoare

  ‘Choristeaus!’ Sarik bellowed over the vox-net, though loud enough that the tank commander probably heard him with his own ears. ‘Bail out, brother, now!’

  ‘Negative,’ the sergeant replied calmly. ‘Engaging capacitor surge.’

  With its power systems crippled, the Predator was unable to traverse its turret to fire on the enemy vehicle. But the tank was not dead yet, as Choristeaus knew. By activating the capacitor surge device, every ounce of power remaining in the Predator’s machine systems would be flooded to the turret actuators. Enough power would be provided to turn the turret and line up a single shot, even as every fuse in the entire vehicle blew out. It was a last resort, and Choristeaus grasped it.

  A dozen angry sparks went up from various points on the wounded Predator’s hull as the capacitors were squeezed dry and the vehicle’s fuses blown. Then the turret tracked right, and the autocannon lowered. The Son of Chrysus opened fire even as the tau grav-tank found its mark. The Predator’s first shot struck the enemy’s left thruster pod, the cannon shell slamming right through the slatted armour protecting the intake and exploding within.

  Sarik fought the unseemly urge to punch the air in celebration. Before the second autocannon round could cycle into its chamber, the tau grav-tank fired. The alien gunner’s aim must have been spoiled when his vehicle’s thrusters had been struck, for the shot clipped the rear of the Predator, tearing through the armour protecting its rear section. The hyper-velocity slug was transformed into plasma as it impacted against the solid mass of the Predator’s armour, which in turn burned its way through one of the tank’s ammunition hoppers. A hundred shells detonated as one, and blow-out panels intended to protect the crew against such cata­strophic damage were automatically jettisoned from the rear, a great gout of fire and burning debris erupting forth.

  Less than a second passed between the projectile striking the Predator and the second autocannon shell cycling into its chamber. Even as the ammunition hoppers detonated, sergeant Choristeaus fired the last shell, which boomed from the cannon mouth and struck the tau grav-tank a metre to the left of the first shot. The joint between the grav-tank’s thruster unit and its main hull was shattered, and the entire pod split off to slam to the ground.

  The enemy tank slid sideways through the smoke, its pilot struggling in vain to control his vehicle now it was bereft of the thruster. He failed spectacularly, the solid bulk crashing into a nearby dome, slewing sideways and then flipping over entirely. At the last, the upturned tank ploughed into the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt as flames spouted from its wounds.

  But that was not the last of the engagement. The rear of the Predator blew outwards as more of its ammunition detonated, its failsafe systems unable to contain the extent of the damage the hyper-velocity weapon had inflicted. Sergeant Choristeaus braced his arms against the rim of his cupola and pulled himself upwards, even as gouts of flames erupted around his waist. Then the rear of the Predator blew apart, the over-pressure escaping via the open wound at the tank’s prow and the open hatch through which the tank commander was attempting to escape. The blast propelled the sergeant from the hatch and he was hurled through the air. He slammed to the ground hard ten metres behind his now furiously burning tank, and miraculously, rose to his feet.

  Sarik had seen enough. He opened the vox-channel and bellowed, ‘All commands, I want that bridge taken, now!’

  Tank engines gunned to life and the Space Marine column ground forwards towards the bridge, dozens of weapons trained on the far bank lest any more ambushers show themselves. The two Predators that had followed the Son of Chrysus forwards powered up the bridge’s ramp and sped towards the wreckage of their fellow. Then the three Rhinos that Sarik had ordered to support the Predators powered forwards, the first one slowing and dropping its rear ramp so that Sergeant Choristeaus could board.

  As the first of the Predators approached the wreckage in the centre of the bridge, Sarik’s Rhino started moving. The sergeant stood tall in his cupola, his magnoculars trained on the banks of drifting smoke on the far shore. He zoomed in on the scene of the destroyed tau grav-tank, the view jumping wildly as his Rhino pressed on. Flames were guttering from the tank’s flank where its thruster unit had been blown away, and they were spreading, greasy black smoke spouting from several vents across the vehicle’s hull.

  Then the grav-tank’s commander clambered out from the vehicle’s rear hatch. He was obviously wounded, his entire left side blackened and his chest armour shattered. As the commander staggered from the wreck, several figures appeared behind the tank. Within moments, a squad of fire warriors was surrounding the wreck while two of their number dragged the wounded commander to safety.

  At a shouted order from the aliens’ leader, another warrior clambered under the grav-tank’s upturned prow, risking the flames to reach the driver’s hatch.

  ‘I have a clear shot. Engaging…’ the voice of a Predator vehicle commander came over the vox-net. It was Sergeant Larisneaus, the commander of the Predator called Wrath of Iax. The Ultramarines battle tank was aiming its autocannon directly at the fire warriors, its commander keen to avenge the destruction of the Son of Chrysus.

  ‘Negative, Larisneaus!’ Sarik snapped. ‘They recover their fallen. Let them do so.’

  ‘Sarik,’ the tank commander replied. ‘They killed my kin. It is my–’

  ‘Negative!’ Sarik shouted. ‘They honour their fallen, as we do our own. You will obey my order, Sergeant Larisneaus.’

  The other tank’s autocannon lingered on the scene of the fire warrior dragging the unconscious or dead tau pilot from the burning grav-tank. The Predator pressed forwards at combat speed, its turret tracking to the right as its commander kept the object of his wrath in his sights.

  The Wrath of Iax slowed as it passed the smoking wreck of the Son of Chrysus, forced to manoeuvre through the gap between the bridge’s edge and the ruined Predator. Sarik’s Rhino mounted the bridge and he was afforded a clear view across the shimmering waters of River 992 to the devastation beyond. He trained his magnoculars on the wrecked enemy tank, seeing that the pilot and commander had been dragged clear. The alien squad leader was shouting orders, gesturing for his fire warriors to re-deploy.

  Then the scene in the viewfinder exploded in purple blood and orange flashes. With the wounded tau clear, Sergeant Larisneaus had opened fire. The Predator’s turret-mounted autocannon and its two sponson-mounted heavy bolters opened fire as one, unleashing a terrible storm of explosive metal that caught the tau in the open. Rounds tore through alien bodies, ripping them apart in a welter of blood as limbs were sent cartwheeling through the air. The flank of the grav-tank erupted in sparks as stray rounds hammered into its armour, gouging huge ragged chunks out of the alien material. Within seconds, the fire warriors were reduced to smoking meat scattered around the upturned grav-tank, their blood splattered across its side.

  ‘Honour is settled,’ Sergeant Larisneaus said flatly over the vox-net. Sarik could scarcely argue.

  ‘Contact front!’ another voice yelled over the vox-net. It was Sergeant Jhkal, of the White Scars Predator Stormson. An instant later the sound of the tank’s autocannon and heavy bolters opening fire rang out.

  On the far side of Bridge 992, the tau were counter-attacking.

  Battlegroup Arcadius, Lucian Gerrit and his officers at its head, charged through the ruined settlement on the nearside bank of River 992. Explosions erupted all around and deadly bolts of searing blue energy whipped through the air. The Rakarshans were at the army’s extreme right flank, guarding against the possibility of the enemy launching rapid strikes against the host’s otherwise exposed edges. Five minutes earlier, such a strike had been launched.

  Lucian threw himself against a mass of burned-out machinery as a volley of energy bolts scythed through the air not a metre from him. The air sizzled as the bolts zipped past and he felt his skin tingle at their passing. Lo
oking back along his path, Lucian saw that a platoon of Rakarshans were following close behind, Sergeant-Major Havil at their head.

  ‘Havil!’ Lucian called out, but the warrior ignored him, running past his position with his power axe raised two-handed and his beard trailing behind him. More shots whined past and Lucian momentarily lost sight of Havil.

  ‘Well enough,’ Lucian growled. ‘We’ll do it the Rakarshan way.’

  Lucian propelled himself to his feet, his plasma pistol instantly raised as more of the riflemen ran forwards. He tracked the pistol left, then movement from the right caught his eye and he brought his weapon to bear on it. A tau warrior had risen from a previously concealed position, a short, stubby carbine braced against his shoulder and pointed straight at the charging sergeant-major.

  Lucian fired, and the roiling blast of raw plasma took the tau’s right arm off at the shoulder, the backwash of lethal energies spraying across his blank faceplate. The alien screamed horrifically as he fought with his one remaining hand to tear the rapidly melting helmet away before the liquid energies melted through.

  For an instant, Lucian felt a stab of guilt for inflicting such a grisly death upon another sentient being. He was just about to fire again, to end the alien’s obvious suffering, when Sergeant-Major Havil did it for him. Voicing a shrill, ululating war cry that drowned out the alien’s pain-wracked wailing, Havil stormed in and brought his power axe in a wide, horizontal sweep that scythed the tau’s head clean from his shoulders. The decapitated head flew in one direction, while its helmet spun away in the other.

  Lowering his plasma pistol, Lucian glanced around, scanning the ruined buildings for more targets. Furtive movement further ahead suggested the tau he had just shot was not alone, but no solid targets showed themselves. The sergeant-major’s maddened voice sounded a second time, and Lucian saw an arc of purple blood spurting outwards from behind a shattered dome. He started forwards, the platoon of Rakarshans at his side. As they closed on the cover where Lucian had seen movement, the riflemen drew their blades and uttered their own chilling war cries.

  Lucian and the riflemen pounded forwards after the sergeant-major, rounding the corner to see Havil standing over the bodies of three more tau. These wore lighter armour that the main line infantry, suggesting they were scouts or spotters of some sort. And where there were spotters, Lucian knew, there was inevitably something to be spotted for.

  Lucian turned to find the platoon commander, seeing the officer running towards him in the midst of his men. He opened his mouth to order the man to get his men to cover, when he saw a red light paint the ground at his feet.

  ‘Get–!’

  It was as if lightning struck the ground not ten metres from Lucian. An instant before, the air became charged and his skin stung, then everything went white. He was propelled backwards to crunch painfully into the side of a building, though his power armour absorbed the worst of the impact.

  Temporarily blinded, Lucian had little idea what had struck the Rakarshans. The air had crackled as a deafening wail had screamed in from somewhere to the south, and it sounded as if the air itself had been ripped in two.

  Even after the explosion, the air was filled with crackles and buzzes, not unlike the sounds that dominated a warship’s generatorium.

  Then, just as Lucian’s vision began to clear, the screaming began.

  ‘What the…’ Lucian started. The surface of the road along which the Rakarshan platoon commander had been running was a blackened crater, seething with arcs of bright energy. Inside the crater was scattered the charred remains of the officer and at least five of his riflemen, every single bone of their bodies pulled apart, their flesh burned away by whatever had struck them.

  The screams were coming from those riflemen not caught in the blast’s full effect, but who had been close enough to suffer from its blast wave. Men writhed upon the ground, arcs of what looked like electricity sweeping up and down their bodies and burning their flesh wherever they passed.

  ‘Medics!’ Lucian bellowed into his vox-link. ‘All commands, I need immediate–’

  Lucian stopped, the channel howling with interference that popped and crackled in time to the energies spitting from the crater. He looked around, and located his signalman, who had only recently returned from treatment for the wounds he suffered at the hands of the alien savages what seemed like many weeks ago.

  The vox-officer was furiously working his vox-set, desperation written clearly on his face.

  ‘It won’t work,’ Lucian said as he grabbed the man’s shoulder. ‘Go get help. Find Subad and tell him to get some anti-tank up this way too. Now!’

  The signalman nodded, hoisted his vox-set onto his back and dashed back through the settlement towards the battle group’s rear. As he ran he passed another platoon pushing forwards, grabbed the command section’s medic, and pointed towards the crater. The medic followed the gesture, nodded grimly, and in an instant was at the side of the nearest wounded rifleman.

  Lucian’s skin tingled, and this time he took the warning. He dived across a low, ruined wall and rolled into cover just as a seething ball of energy crackled overhead. He did not see where the shot impacted, but he heard the detonation, and guessed that it had been aimed at the second platoon pressing forwards through the settlement.

  ‘Damn it…’ Lucian spat. ‘Havil!’

  When he heard no response, he raised his head above the ruined wall and looked about for the sergeant-major. It was no wonder the man had not heard his call, for he was up and running already, a handful of Rakarshans at his heels. Then Lucian saw what the sergeant-major was charging towards. It was a tau grav-tank, its turret surmounted by the previously unknown weapon that had unleashed the devastating energy ball. The tank was moving down the far end of the street, several dozen tau infantry flanking it as they passed quickly through the ruins on either side.

  ‘Mad bastard…’ Lucian growled, stepping out from the ruins. ‘Rakarshan!’ he bellowed, drawing his power sword and raising it high so that every rifleman nearby would see him and have no doubt as to his meaning. ‘Rakarshans, forward!’

  ‘Rakarshan!’ dozens of voices repeated, accompanied by the metallic ringing of ceremonial blades being drawn from jewel-

  encrusted scabbards. Seconds later, scores of Rakarshans were charging headlong down the street, and Lucian was caught up in the ferocious charge, carried forwards by its inevitable momentum.

  The Rakarshans discarded all notion of tactics and subtlety as they closed on the tau. Though expert stealthers and mountain troopers, when it came to the charge the Rakarshans fell back on the atavistic nature of their ancestors. The tau unleashed a desperate fusillade as the Rakarshans closed, felling at least a dozen in the last seconds. The rifleman to Lucian’s left was felled by a gut shot, doubling over as he grasped his stomach to keep his innards from spilling out of the smoking wound. The rifleman to Lucian’s right was shot in the knee, his entire lower leg blown away as he collapsed to the ground. Lucian bellowed along with the Rakarshans as he closed on the tau warrior only twenty metres ahead.

  The alien raised his carbine and brought it to bear on Lucian’s head. For one awful second which felt to Lucian like an eternity, he felt the alien’s crosshair settle right between his eyes. Then an alien voice called out an order, and the alien lowered his weapon to the ground. He pumped the action of an underslung launcher, and a projectile spat from a secondary barrel. It slammed into the ground between the aliens and the charging humans, and Lucian’s vision was filled with flickering motes of energy.

  He kept going, as did the Rakarshans. Everything around him swam as the air distorted and perspective slewed out of kilter. Colours bled into one another and the spectrum abruptly reversed. Then he was through the bizarre effect, which was evidently intended to disorientate an assaulting foe, and upon his enemy.

  The tau in front of him raised his carbine inst
inctively as Lucian swept his power sword downwards. The energised blade scythed the weapon clean in two, and then did the same to the alien’s torso, spilling its internal organs across the ground at Lucian’s feet before the two halves fell apart. Lucian continued forwards, and the next tau warrior died as its head was split in half by a high strike.

  On either side of Lucian, the Rakarshans were butchering the tau infantry. What little resistance the aliens had been able to mount was rapidly turning into a rout as the enemy sought desperately to break off. The melee swept into the ruined buildings on either side of the road, and for a moment, Lucian found himself alone in the open, his power sword smoking in his hand as he took a great gulp of air and looked around for another enemy to slay.

  A high-pitched whine assaulted Lucian’s senses, and he looked up. Thirty metres ahead, the grav-tank was advancing, its huge main weapon lowering towards him.

  ‘Sir!’ the voice of Lucian’s signalman rang out. ‘Down!’

  Lucian dived to the right and an instant later a hissing roar thundered down the street. He came up in a roll as the missile streaked overhead, and flung himself into the cover of the nearest ruin.

  Less than a second later, the missile struck the grav-tank with a deep, resounding wallop. Then something detonated within, and the entire tank blew itself apart. The blast wave vaporised the road surface, throwing up an instant curtain of dust within which flames danced. The grav-tank’s turret was thrown directly upwards into the air, the barrel of its weapon shearing off and spinning away into the distance. Then the turret crashed down into the ruins of the building Lucian was sheltering in, showering him with shrapnel and embers.

  Lucian’s power armour took the worst of the shrapnel, though its livery would have to be lovingly reapplied much later, and triple-blessed by a confessor. Though the skin of his face felt singed and bruised, Lucian was alive.