by C Z Dunn
The ork advanced, all sounds of anguish replaced by a malevolent, expectant laughter. It drew a knife from its belt, the blade as long as an Astra Militarum-issue chainsword, and raised it above its head.
The beast was just about to drive the blade down when the captain emerged from the trees and shot it point-blank in the face with his sawn-off shotgun.
Captain Ladbon Antilov knew what was going to happen before it happened. He had seen it all: the heavy bolter jamming, the ork getting to its feet, Dmitri struggling in vain to recover his flamer, what the ork did next.
He also knew that he was the only one who could prevent the last thing from happening.
Though his view of the ork was obscured by foliage, his augmetic eye could read the xenos’ heat signature and tell from how quickly it was moving towards Dmitri that he only had seconds to act. Reaching into the folds of his long coat he pulled out the stubby form of his shotgun, the barrels much shorter than when he had gone back out into the toxic wastes of Vostroya a decade ago to avenge his brother and retrieve the weapon. It was far from standard issue but despite Ladbon and his unit being shunned by the majority of the Firstborn regiment, his rank did still carry some privileges and the gun was given heirloom status in the same way as other officers were allowed to carry antique swords and bolt pistols into battle.
The barrels had been sawn off to give him an edge over the greenskins, who liked to fight hand-to-hand, where their superior strength gave them an almost unassailable advantage. That had come at the expense of range, range he could have done with right now.
Springing to his feet, he half-ran, half-slid down the incline of the slope he had positioned himself atop to coordinate the ambush. Launching into a sprint once he was back on level ground, he held the gun in one hand, bursting from the treeline and discharging both barrels into the ork’s face before it knew what was happening. It dropped the blade it was carrying and put both hands to its face, blood pouring through its fingers from where thousands of pellets had bitten into its flesh. Ladbon continued past the ork, slamming against it as he ran and causing it to falter on its wounded leg, but it remained on its feet. It howled again, then stopped abruptly as though it had just realised that something was wrong.
Taking its blood-slicked hands away from its face, the ork reached down to its belt and fished something out from where its blade had recently been sheathed. It held the object close to its face for inspection, wiping blood from its brow with the palm of its other hand. Its vision cleared, the greenskin’s eyes grew wide with realisation, just before shrapnel from the grenade it was holding tore them from its skull.
Its head and arm disappeared in a crimson cloud, the muscles covering its upper body flensed away from bone with the force of the blast. For what seemed like an eternity it staggered around, flailing its remaining arm blindly, not realising its life was forfeit, before eventually collapsing to the ground, dead.
Certain that the threat was nullified, Ladbon proffered a hand to the still-prone Dmitri and helped him to his feet.
‘Thank you, captain. That was a close one,’ the albino said, brushing snow from his uniform.
‘This damned heavy bolter,’ Kas spat, getting up and kicking it. ‘How do they expect us to fight a war with guns that only fire half of the time?’
‘It’s cold and the mechanism jammed, Kas,’ Ladbon said, putting a hand on Mute’s shoulder to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. ‘These things happen.’
‘Ah, but how do you always seem to know these things are going to happen before they happen?’ asked Grigori, emerging from the trees with Allix in tow.
‘Yes, captain,’ added his twin, entering the clearing from the opposite side. ‘What is your secret? Do you carry the tarot around with you in your back pocket and make readings while our backs are turned?’
‘I reckon it’s that eye of his,’ added Allix. ‘Lets him see things others can’t.’
Ladbon sighed. ‘We could stand around here until nightfall sharing children’s stories and tall tales but I for one am freezing and hungry, and would very much like to get back to camp. Why don’t we all just agree that I saved your backsides – again – rather than discussing outlandish theories about how I saved your backsides – again?’
The other six Vostroyans looked to one another, stifling grins.
‘Good. That’s agreed then,’ Ladbon said, slipping the shotgun back into his trench coat. ‘Dmitri, how about getting us a ride back to base?’
The albino reached for the long-range vox slung at his waist, which split into three unusable pieces as soon as it was free of its cover. ‘It must have broken when I ducked out of the way of the heavy bolter.’ His squad mates sighed, cursing him under their breath. Mute threw a snowball, packed just a little too tightly so that it left a welt when it struck Dmitri’s cheek.
‘Looks like we have a long walk ahead of us,’ Ladbon said. ‘Be ready to move out in five.’
The squad dispersed, Grigori and Gaspar assisting Mute and Kas with dismantling the heavy bolter, Allix helping Dmitri find the flamer that was buried somewhere under the snow.
‘And burn that thing’s corpse,’ Ladbon added as he stepped over the remnants of the ork. ‘We don’t want it multiplying.’
The seven Vostroyans sat cramped and shivering in the rear of the Salamander as it passed through the gate of the camp they had called home in the months since they had deployed on Honoria.
Following the encounter with the ork, Ladbon’s squad had begun the long march back, but less than an hour in, a patrol convoy had spotted them and detoured to pick them up. Upon discovering exactly which squad they had diverted to help, the patrol leader – a boorish little man from Hive Septus – had allowed them to travel in the rearmost vehicle of the convoy, a battle-damaged Salamander Scout with no working heaters or weapons systems. If the cold didn’t get them, any run-ins with the greenskins on the way back to base certainly would.
The driver ground the vehicle abruptly to a halt and banged on the armour plating between compartments to signal for Ladbon and his squad to disembark. Wearily, they gathered together their kit and clambered over the side, careful not to let any bare flesh touch the frozen hull. Once they were all off the vehicle and up to their ankles in mud, Ladbon hit the side of the Salamander nearest where the driver sat, using the butt of his shotgun to ensure the noise would be uncomfortably loud inside the compartment. Over-revving the engine, the driver sped off, spraying wet filth that Ladbon and his troops had to scramble backwards to avoid.
‘Get warm, get some food and then get some sleep,’ Ladbon said, wiping mud from the lapels of his trench coat. His augmetic eye was labouring in the cold climate, its red lens slow to adjust focus. ‘We head out at first light and do it all again.’
A collective groan went up from his squad. On the horizon, the sun was falling like a stone through water and dawn was no more than four hours away.
‘Dismissed,’ Ladbon said, edgily. He was as tired as the rest of them but would not be able to head straight back to the tent for some much-needed rest as he had to find the brigadier and deliver his report. He turned to head off in the direction of the command centre, only to bump straight into another Vostroyan officer moving at speed.
‘Out of my way, secondborn,’ the officer said, shoving Ladbon aside with such force that he barely retained his footing in the quagmire underfoot. ‘Let the real soldiers through.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that if I ever see one, Captain Kowalski,’ Ladbon replied.
The other captain, flanked by two of his lieutenants, stopped dead and turned to face him. Ladbon’s squad did likewise, forming a semicircle behind their commanding officer.
‘You need to learn to show your betters some respect, secondborn,’ Kowalski said, getting so close to Ladbon that he could smell the recently smoked lho-stick on the other captain’s breath.
‘My “betters”?’ Ladbon queried. He pointed to the epaulets on his trench coat. ‘These stripes say that you and I are equals, captain, and that I outrank this pair of jokers.’ He pointed to the two lieutenants, their moustaches almost as thick and dark as Kowalski’s.
Kowalski laughed derisively. ‘We will never, ever be equals, secondborn. I am the firstborn son of a family descended from a hundred generations of noble blood, whereas you are merely a spare, the runt sent to make up the tithe after he got his big brother killed.’
Ladbon balled his fist ready to strike Kowalski but suddenly got a brief flash of what was about to happen. His hand relaxed and he let the future follow a different path.
‘And who are you to criticise my men? Let’s take a roll call of your freak show, shall we?’ Kowalski said. He pointed to each of Ladbon’s squad in turn. ‘An albino. A mute. A man big enough and ugly enough to suggest that one of his parents was an ogryn. Twins so stubborn that neither will admit to being the youngest, so they’ve both ended up in the Emperor’s service. And as for that? I don’t even know what that is.’
Grigori and Gaspar restrained Allix before anything regrettable happened.
‘And then there’s you,’ Kowalski said, returning his attention to Ladbon. ‘The secondborn son of a rat-catcher from a backwater hive, who somehow clawed his way up to captain. I’d probably have some admiration for you if your promotion hadn’t come at the expense of somebody more worthy. Tell me, secondborn, did you and your family eat those rats after you killed them?’
The two lieutenants joined in their captain’s laughter.
‘Only if you tell me whether it’s true that your mother is also your sister,’ Ladbon said.
The laughter stopped. It took Kowalski a few seconds to figure out the implications of what Ladbon had just said. When he did, he advanced on the other captain, his cheeks turning red with rage.
‘You’ll pay for that, you worthless cur.’
‘Captain Ladbon Antilov?’ said a voice from behind where the two captains were facing off. Kowalski, who was facing the source of the voice, stopped in his tracks and saluted. Ladbon already knew who was standing behind him, but not the reason why he was there.
‘That is me, commissar,’ Ladbon said, turning and saluting. He had hoped that Kowalski would have reacted a little sooner to his insult, that the commissar might have come upon them both just as the other captain had struck him.
The commissar was taken aback for a moment, uncertain how Ladbon knew who had addressed him. ‘You are to come with me.’
Ladbon’s squad began to mutter among themselves. Their captain put a finger to his lips ordering them to be quiet.
‘Am I under arrest?’ Ladbon asked, turning both palms outwards and upwards in surrender.
‘Not at the moment,’ the commissar replied, cagily. ‘But that could soon change if you give me any trouble. You’re not planning on giving me any trouble, are you, captain?’
Ladbon shook his head. ‘Might I ask where you are taking me?’ He began walking to an idling Chimera the commissar had motioned towards.
‘To the capital,’ the commissar said, following in Ladbon’s muddy wake. ‘The governor wishes to speak with you.’
Chapter Three
‘And we are still no clearer as to why this request for aid came from the Mechanicus?’ said Interrogator-Chaplain Puriel without looking up from the sheaves of starmaps and parchment strewn across the cold granite of the strategium table.
‘I know only what Grand Master Danatheum has told me,’ Ezekiel said, addressing the entire command squad stood around the table, ‘along with the scant information in the orders we received from the Rock. Master Serpicus, perhaps you could enlighten us regarding Mars’ interest in this planet?’
The Techmarine picked up a handful of the sheets and scanned them with his twin augmetic eyes, processing the information faster than any of the others would be capable of. ‘Its location is of little strategic importance, and it’s too far from any forge world to suggest they want to annexe it. My best assumption is that they’ve found something there and they need our aid to prevent it from falling into the hands of the xenos.’ Like most of his Techmarine ilk, Serpicus had taken on aspects of the machine; thus in addition to his replacement eyes, both of his arms were augmetic, along with his right leg. The former were a result of design, the latter necessity after a run-in with a tyranid splinter fleet.
‘What kind of something?’ said Brother Rephial, the Apothecary’s voice heavy with the accent of his desert home world, his skin the colour and texture of worn leather.
‘A world that has been cut off for that long could be harbouring anything. It may be a whole new class of troop carrier that could be put to use by the Astra Militarum, a barrel variant for a lasrifle, or a previously unknown power source for use by the Titan Legions,’ Serpicus said impatiently. ‘But it’s just as likely that they’ve discovered a different-shaped rivet to affix armour plates to Rhinos, longer flanges for use in exhaust systems or a device that calculates the exact time needed to brew the perfect cup of recaff.’
‘But if it was something so trivial, why would they invoke the Pact?’ asked Puriel.
His Dark Angels brothers were accustomed to seeing the Interrogator-Chaplain wearing the skull mask of the Reclusiam, smiting the foes of the Lion with the power fist he wielded so effectively. Even away from the battlefield, clad in simple robes, he was no less imposing.
‘This is the Adeptus Mechanicus we are talking about here,’ Serpicus replied. Everybody understood his meaning.
‘What about you, Brother Ezekiel?’ said Company Master Zadakiel, the last member of the command squad. ‘Have your ministrations and ruminations uncovered anything?’
All eyes were on the Librarian. ‘That particular future is occluded to me at present. Brother Turmiel, has the warp revealed anything to you?’
The hooded Lexicanium took a step forwards out of the shadows, from where he had been observing proceedings at his mentor’s request. ‘It has not. The currents ebb and flow but the waters do not part.’ He nodded respectfully before resuming his original position, watching from the darkness.
‘What about the orks? Do they also desire whatever the Mechanicus seems so intent on recovering?’ Puriel asked.
‘Unlikely,’ Zadakiel said, pulling one of the star-charts towards him. ‘Several worlds have fallen to the greenskins in the past year. Honoria was just unfortunate enough to be in the path of the ork army when the warp storm abated.’
‘And we know nothing about the ork general leading this army?’ asked Rephial.
‘Same as it always is. The beast who’s the biggest, the strongest, and has the most weapons and the loudest vehicles,’ said Ezekiel. ‘Chances are that whichever ork was leading the invasion force when it began its rampage has long since been replaced. What we do know for sure is that the army is vast. Upwards of two million orks with reports of more heading towards Honoria.’
‘What are the Imperial numbers?’ asked Serpicus.
‘Twenty regiments each of Mordians and Vostroyans, assorted local defence forces plus an unknown quantity of skitarii,’ Ezekiel replied after consulting a data-slate.
‘So no more than half a million men,’ Puriel concluded.
‘Who is leading the Mechanicus forces?’ asked Serpicus.
‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Ezekiel said, consulting the data-slate once more.
Serpicus smiled, something he very rarely did.
‘Do you know this Diezen, Master Serpicus?’ asked Zadakiel.
‘He was one of my tutors during my time on Mars. One of the most devious wretches I’ve ever met, with a ruthless streak wider than a Land Raider.’
‘You sound almost happy, Serpicus,’ Rephial said. ‘A good friend of yours, is he, you two being so similar in character?’
‘I doubt I’ve
ever met anybody I despise more, even you, Apothecary.’ Serpicus was still smiling. Though one tended to the flesh and the other the mechanical, Rephial and Serpicus had a strong bond that had developed over decades of fighting alongside one another. ‘I’m just pleased that I know what kind of bastard we’re going to be dealing with.’
‘Are the ork forces already engaged planetside?’ Zadakiel asked, returning the discussion to the subject at hand.
‘The latest report was filed three days ago, Terran standard. Imperial Navy vessels are blockading Honoria but several ork landing craft have made it down. Astra Militarum and skitarii forces are attempting to contain them,’ Ezekiel said.
‘And we’re another three days from reaching them, warp willing,’ Puriel said.
‘So it’s safe to assume that by the time we get there, the orks will have already invaded,’ Zadakiel said. ‘Unless you have foreseen otherwise, Brother Ezekiel?’
Once again, all eyes turned to the figure in blue. He closed his eyes, giving the others in the strategium the impression that he was calling upon his second sight to provide a divination.
‘Your assumption is correct, company master. We will arrive too late to make a difference to the void battle, but may yet turn the tide on the ground,’ Ezekiel said, opening his eyes and looking at each of the other Dark Angels, unblinking.
Zadakiel nodded sagely. ‘Shipmaster Selenaz will bring us out of the warp beyond the Mandeville point but clear of Honoria’s gravity well.’ He held up a hand to curtail the expected protest from Serpicus. ‘Yes, brother. It is a risky manoeuvre but one that the shipmaster has performed on numerous occasions before. With the element of surprise on our side, we’ll launch the drop pods and Thunderhawks the instant we’re back in real space and tear apart the ork forces before they know what’s happening. We’ll meet their barbarity with our own brute force and extract a toll so heavy that we’ll soon have them in rout.’
