by C. L. Werner
‘The walls shall be broken. The gate shall be opened,’ Logis Acestes declaimed, his face upturned, watching Vindex Lartius slowly rising towards the distant ceiling.
‘The xenos shall be the Omnissiah’s instrument,’ Heroditus agreed.
Logis Acestes turned towards the enginseer and bowed. ‘The orks will destroy this place. They will break apart the works of the enemy, smash them to bits, pull them asunder. Nothing shall be left. The profanations of Castellax will be purged by the brute.’
Heroditus felt an upswelling of regret, a flicker of doubt that nagged on the edge of his consciousness. ‘Must this be the way?’ he wondered aloud.
‘The grace of the Machine-God is wisdom,’ Acestes answered him. ‘Do you despair because Castellax is to be scoured by the alien? Would you pray even now for the armies of the Imperium, the Adeptus Astartes themselves, to descend upon this world as saviours? That is compassion, emotion, illogic. The failings of flesh.’ The tech-priest drew back the sleeve of his synthfibre robe, exposing lean rods of steel and cable, the mechanical semblance of bone, muscle and vein. ‘We purge ourselves of flesh to become closer to the Machine-God. To remove from us the distractions and temptations of organic existence. To gaze with unclouded eyes upon Knowledge.’
The vox-casters built into Acestes’s chassis crackled to life. He turned away from Heroditus, addressing the dozens of other tech-priests ministering to the ascension of Vindex Lartius.
‘Castellax must be purged, razed in the fires of the foul xenos,’ Acestes pronounced. ‘Perhaps you would prefer liberation from the enemy by our fellow man. That is weakness. That is selfishness. That is, itself, faithlessness and betrayal. The fear of flesh is to die and that fear cries out against what we know we must do. Castellax cannot be saved. Castellax must not be saved! The works of the arch-enemy must be annihilated, all those who laboured upon them, all those who gazed upon such profanations of technology must be exterminated. Nothing must be left!
‘Liberation,’ the word came as a hissing sigh from the speakers. ‘What could such a thing have accomplished? Destroy the Chaos Marines, but leave their works intact! Bear these violations against the Machine-God back into the Imperium, allow their taint to spread, their unclean concepts to corrupt! No!’ The word boomed like cannon-fire from the speakers. ‘Better the xenos with its axes and hammers. All must be consumed! All must be destroyed!’
Acestes raised his arms in appeal to Vindex Lartius. ‘Only through total extermination can we honour our oaths to the Omnissiah!’
Heroditus bowed his head as the crackle of a Lingua-Technis prayer streamed from Logis Acestes. What the tech-priest said was true. Castellax had to be destroyed. Nothing could be allowed to survive. Fabricator Oriax and his perversions could be allowed no legacy. It all had to end here, beneath the alien paws of the orks.
The enginseer focused for a moment on the binary chant he was transmitting to the sentinel-implants buried within his own body. Oriax’s little cybernetic spies. A flicker of irrational fear swept through him. If the spies weren’t dormant, if they weren’t disrupted by the chant… But, no, it was absurd to think their conspiracy could have come so far if the Fabricator was aware of it. Oriax would have alerted the other Traitor Marines long ago.
Still, as he watched Vindex Lartius ascend, Heroditus couldn’t escape the persistent sense of alarm, the illogical feeling of unease that refused to be subdued by reason or probability.
This close to achieving their aims, Heroditus worried that something would interfere. That at the last moment the Iron Warriors would reach out and snatch their victory from them.
The bulky plane shuddered, waggling its wings, threatening to unbalance and spill itself into a sideways roll. Rhodaan clenched his teeth, reaching out and sinking the fingers of his gauntlet into the scrap-work fuselage, bracing himself against such an accident. The ork bomber was barely aerodynamic as it was, the slightest attempt at any sort of aerial manoeuvring was liable to bring it down. After their bold escape from Dirgas, to end up scattered across the desert in the wreckage of a xenos plane was too ignoble a doom to countenance.
‘Brother Gomorie,’ Rhodaan growled at the cockpit. ‘Keep this flying junkyard stable!’
‘The controls are erratic, lord captain,’ Gomorie apologised. ‘There is no regulation to their degree of responsiveness.’ The Raptor made a disgusted hiss. ‘The xenos must be mad to fly…’
‘I do not care about xenos or their madness,’ Rhodaan stated. ‘Just get us back to Vorago in one piece.’ He turned away from the cockpit, watching Pazuriel manipulating a box-like contrivance across the belly of the bomber.
‘It is almost ready, lord captain,’ Pazuriel said, rummaging about in the guts of a primitive relay. Wires ran from the cabinet-like device to either wing of the bomber. It had been a hazardous operation, rigging lights to the wings while the aircraft was in flight. There was no standardization to the materials the orks had employed building the plane, allowing the wings several patches built from diamagnetic alloys. Uzraal had nearly been lost when his boot slipped on one of the treacherous spots, only the speedy employment of his jump pack preventing the Raptor from being dumped into the Mare Ossius.
Yet the lights were essential. Their escape from Dirgas had been remarkably smooth once they seized the bomber and Gomorie consumed the knowledge of its pilot. Most of the ork gunners manning the city’s defences were restrained enough to avoid shooting at their own aircraft and those few who were more bloodthirsty confined themselves to the odd, hasty pot-shot.
The poor communications among the orks had allowed the Space Marines to fly away in the xenos’s own plane, but Rhodaan knew there would be a much different situation when they reached Vorago. There it would not be the besieging orks who would be a danger, but the guns of their own defences. Deadly, precise and coordinated, a lone bomber would be easy prey.
Somehow, if they were to survive, Rhodaan had to inform the Iron Bastion of their identity. Towards that end, he had implemented a two-fold plan. The lights on the wings were set up to flash a constant signal, a stream of visual binary that any of Oriax’s servitors would be able to understand and relay. The machine-men would inform the Iron Warriors of their observation and the plane would be allowed to land.
However, that plan relied too much on chance and proximity to make Rhodaan comfortable, so he was counting upon it as a back-up contingency. His main hopes were vested in Pazuriel’s current labour. The bomber had been outfitted with a vox, a primitive crystal set intended to receive the babble of ork transmissions littering the atmosphere of Castellax. A confusion of military commands and visual braggadocio it had taken time to refine the transmission stream into something that would stand out from the general discord. If the signal could be rendered powerful enough, it would be noticed by the mamelukes in the Iron Bastion monitoring ork communications. The hazard, of course, was that they wouldn’t be able to drown out the other transmissions from any great distance. Like the flashing lights, they would need to be in close proximity to Vorago to be heard.
How close? That was the big question that bothered Rhodaan. It would do them little good to be identified as Iron Warriors just as their plane went diving down in flames.
The distant boom of guns rose to reach the bomber, an instant later the fuselage was rattling from the sound of flak clattering against it.
‘Some overenthusiastic xenos,’ Uzraal grumbled from one of the plane’s gun turrets. He leaned away from the glass viewport, waiting until the clatter against the fuselage subsided. ‘Don’t those stupid animals understand we’re on the same side?’ he added in a surly hiss.
Baelfegor looked aside from his own station. The side of the Iron Warrior’s armour was stained red, his shoulder spitted by a sliver of flak that had punched its way into the bomber during their flight from Dirgas. ‘We could drop a few bombs on them. Then they might believe us.’
Uzraal shook his fist at the other Raptor and swung back into his station. It
had been his suggestion that the bomb load be dumped shortly after they were away from Dirgas. It was a sound decision, the ork ordinance was volatile and unstable, just the sort of thing they could do without if forced into a crash landing. Even so, the other members of Squad Kyrith delighted in taunting their battle-brother over the decision.
‘Nearing Vorago now,’ Gomorie announced from the cockpit, at once silencing the banter between Uzraal and Baelfegor.
Rhodaan marched to the fore of the plane, staring at the black sprawl of Vorago, watching as the besieged city emerged from the clouds of dust and smoke that obscured it. Seen from this vantage, he found a new appreciation for the havoc the orks were inflicting. Except for the Iron Bastion itself, hidden behind its void shields, there wasn’t a section of the city that hadn’t been pounded by the enemy. Hundreds of fires burned unchecked, whole districts were blackened rubble. About the perimeter walls and firebreaks, swarms of alien warriors clamoured and fought, striving to pierce the defences and rampage through the unconquered city. There seemed to be many more of the orks than Rhodaan remembered. He wondered how many reinforcements the horde had received in the hours since he’d been transported through the immaterium by Oriax’s sinister Daemonculum.
The flak that had peppered the bomber was, as Uzraal said, haphazard fire from the orks. As yet they were still too distant to take fire from Vorago’s defences. Yet that would change very quickly. Rhodaan could see the black, vulture-like shapes of ork planes flying above the city, could see some of the same suddenly blazing into brilliance as they were burned from the sky.
‘Brother Pazuriel!’ Rhodaan shouted. ‘Start transmission! If our brothers believe us to be orks, we will be shown no mercy.’
‘All is in readiness, lord captain!’ Pazuriel yelled back. ‘Light flashes have commenced and I am making vocal transmission now.’ The Raptor removed his helmet and placed the crude ork vox-transmitter up to his lips. The alien device would only recognise the loudest tones and could somehow differentiate between organic and synthetic emanations. In a thick, deep tone, Pazuriel snarled into the fat vox handset the code Rhodaan had decided upon. Something simple and direct that not even the lowest mameluke could fail to recognise and interpret.
‘Iron within!’ Pazuriel shouted. ‘Iron without!’
The war cry of the Iron Warriors, a chant none but the Space Marines were allowed to utter. The monitors within the Iron Bastion couldn’t misinterpret the message. The broadcast would be instantly relayed to their battle-brothers. The plane would be given safe passage into Vorago.
The distance continued to decrease, the walls and ruins of Vorago becoming larger and more distinct. Still all Rhodaan could hear from behind him was Pazuriel’s voice repeating the battle cry. He looked through the glass, watching the flashing lights bolted to the wings. If the vox failed, then their only chance to be identified was by the sequence of lights. Rhodaan kept his eyes fixed upon the starboard wing, watching the sequence run and then repeat.
As the stolen bomber neared the reach of the batteries on the perimeter wall, the crackle of a voice from Pazuriel’s receiving set brought Rhodaan away from the cockpit and back into the hold. He stared down at the vox, listening as the subservient voice of Flesh addressed Pazuriel.
‘Unknown aircraft,’ the slave said. ‘You are requested to terminate transmission and switch to a secure channel.’
Pazuriel’s face contorted into a scowl of frustration. ‘If we had the apparatus for secure transmission, would we be fiddling with dark-age broadcast,’ he snapped.
There was silence for a moment, then the slave was back. ‘Unknown aircraft. Please transmit your Castellax Air Cohort identity code.’
‘I’ll shoot that flesh-maggot when we land,’ Uzraal promised.
‘Not if I get my hands around its neck,’ Pazuriel growled back, then returned his attention to the vox. ‘We are Iron Warriors returning from a raid against Dirgas. We weren’t issued a daily identity code. This is an ork plane without means to process any code even if we did receive one.’
The slave transmitting from the Iron Bastion was either stubborn or afraid of straying from his training. ‘Unknown aircraft. Do not approach the city without proper identity confirmation.’
Rhodaan could hear Pazuriel’s knuckles crack as he clenched his fingers around the stem of the handset. ‘Listen, Flesh. Do I sound like an ork?’
A moment of silence, then a reluctant answer. ‘No.’
‘Is there any human on Castellax who would dare say “Iron within, Iron without” except an Iron Warrior?’
The answer this time was soft, almost timid. ‘No.’
‘Then that means this plane is full of Iron Warriors, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes… my lord.’
Pazuriel grinned in triumph. ‘So what should you be doing?’ he demanded.
‘Clearing you to land and telling the defence batteries to hold their fire.’
‘Get to it,’ Pazuriel snarled, smashing his fist into the receiver and shattering it into wreckage.
‘Was that wise, brother?’ Baelfegor asked.
Pazuriel lifted his helmet and set it back on his head, locking it into place with a twist of his arms. ‘Perhaps not, brother,’ he replied. ‘But it was immensely satisfying.’
Rhodaan glowered at the other Iron Warrior. ‘That was foolish and impulsive,’ he reprimanded Pazuriel. ‘Neither are qualities worthy of the Legion. I will determine suitable penance.’
Chastened, Pazuriel bowed before Rhodaan. ‘Of course, lord captain,’ he said.
Rhodaan turned away, marching back to the cockpit. Once more he stood at Gomorie’s shoulder, watching as the bomber flew towards the perimeter wall. They were within range of Vorago’s guns now. At any moment, they might expect the chatter of anti-aircraft batteries. Rhodaan glanced at the wings, assured himself the lights were still flashing their signal.
The moment passed. The bomber flew over the outer wall, into Vorago proper. Carefully, Gomorie manipulated the bulky steering column, even his enhanced physique taxed by the strength required to control the instrument. No mere human could have possessed the brawn the orks demanded, only a Space Marine could match their alien strength.
The bomber’s wing tipped, the plane shuddered into a slow turn, banking towards the Iron Bastion. Still the guns below presented no menace. The bold gambit had succeeded. Squad Kyrith was returning in triumph to Vorago!
Suddenly, the ramshackle plane shook furiously, flames erupting along its side. Baelfegor cried out, his armour pierced by shrapnel. He lurched away from the gun turret, using his combat knife to saw away at the projecting slivers of steel.
Again the bomber was shaken, wobbling in the sky. Rhodaan glared through the cockpit glass, trying to find whatever ork pilot through suspicion or simple perversity was firing on them. As near as he could see, the sky around them was clear.
From the corner of his vision, upon one of the firebreaks, a puff of grey smoke. An instant later, the bomber lurched drunkenly, its starboard wing holed by flak. One of their own batteries! One of their own anti-aircraft emplacements was firing on them!
Rage boiled inside Rhodaan’s breast. Treachery. That was his first thought. If Pazuriel’s transmission had been discounted or failed to be relayed, then every gun in the city would have tried to bring them down. For only a single battery to turn against them…
The hand of Vallax, or perhaps Uhlan! The Faceless might have left provision in case Squad Kyrith returned before them. A convenient accident that could eliminate Rhodaan without anyone the wiser.
‘How bad are we hit?’ Rhodaan snarled at Gomorie.
Gomorie looked up at him, his infected hand lengthening into argent claws. ‘This rubbish shouldn’t have been airborne before we started getting shot at,’ he said.
Rhodaan braced himself as another salvo of flak slammed into the bomber, pitting its belly. ‘Can you get us out of range?’
‘That depends how well they can track a fall
ing target,’ Gomorie replied.
Rhodaan took a second to digest that report. ‘Open the bomb-bay doors,’ he ordered. Gomorie stabbed his silver claw against one of the many buttons littering the control terminal. He stared at it a moment, waiting for an indicator to light up. He stabbed it again, then pounded on the terminal in frustration.
‘Never mind,’ Rhodaan said. He drew his chainsword from his belt, thumbing the activation stud. Marching down the cabin, he snapped orders to the other Raptors. ‘Make obeisance to your jump packs. We free-dive in ten seconds.’ He could hear the other Iron Warriors invoking the machine-spirits of their wargear as they trooped after him, a strange admixture of respectful appeals and callous threats. Whatever was necessary to make the machines function in the crisis.
The chainsword bit into the locked bomb-bay doors, sparks flying as its churning edge sawed through the hinges. Wind roared through the plane as one of the doors ripped free.
‘Bomb-bay doors are open!’ Gomorie shouted over the vox.
Rhodaan growled back at him. ‘No, the doors are gone. Lock those controls and get back here. Unless you’d prefer to go down with the plane.’ Rhodaan gestured with his thumb and Uzraal dropped through the opening, the thrusters of his jump pack activating as he fell, turning his plummet into a controlled dive. Baelfegor followed, blood streaming from his impacted armour. Rhodaan watched the Raptor descend, waiting expectantly for the glow of his jump pack’s thrusters.
The glow never appeared.
‘I’ll kill that filthy flesh-maggot,’ Pazuriel cursed. ‘I can’t understand how they failed to identify us.’
Rhodaan motioned him through the door. ‘I think they knew exactly who they were shooting at,’ he announced over the squad vox-channel. ‘Keep that thought with you on your way down and when we avenge our battle-brother’s wasteful death.’
Vallax awoke to pain. It felt as though a dull knife was slowly sinking into his brain. The pungent stink of promethium, melted plastic, burned hair, corroded metal and fresh blood all assaulted his senses, striving to overcome the one stench that overpowered them all. The midden-heap scent of ork.
