‘Coordinates, watch-captain?’ Launo asked.
‘We’ll hit them just below the bridge.’
Archelaos righted himself. ‘No. Wait,’ he snapped.
Jerrell ground his teeth. Of course, the Dark Angel had some objection. He always did. ‘What is it?’ he growled.
‘I disagree with your choice,’ Archelaos said.
Carbrey shook his head, and returned his attention to his weapon. Launo shifted his weight in strained patience.
After a moment, Archelaos added, ‘Respectfully.’
Jerrell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am tired of having conversations like these,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I am the watch-captain, and I give the orders.’
Archelaos pulled back his hood. ‘I am your Second, and your technical advisor. It’s my duty to present you with the best course of action.’
‘And what would you have us do?’
Archelaos tapped the display for emphasis. The blue and white schematic they had been studying was suddenly replaced by a pict-capture of Rackinruin. ‘We board here. Aft quarter. It’s the shortest route to their primary engineering core.’
Jerrell shook his head. ‘The hull plating is too thick on the rear sections. A torpedo will never be able to punch through.’
‘We go in through the engine bell.’
Jerrell was incredulous. ‘Are you mad? They are moving at full thrust. Their plasma trail would disintegrate us before we even got near them.’
‘I’ve given this no little amount of thought,’ Archelaos said. ‘I believe the heat shielding on the torpedo will hold.’
‘If you’re going to suggest a course of action then make it a plausible one. We’ll board them just below the bridge, fight our way in, and slay their leader.’
‘We should go in through the engines,’ Archelaos repeated. ‘We can exit directly into the master control room and eliminate their technical experts.’
‘In half an hour that ship will have passed Chestirad’s moon and will accelerate beyond our range. We have only this one chance to stop it.’
‘Yes,’ Archelaos nodded, ‘and my plan will do that. Orks can’t maintain their ships or weaponry without their engineers.’
‘Orks fight less effectively without a commander.’
‘Our mission is to is discern why Rackinruin can travel the way it does, and then stop it from ransacking more Imperial worlds. We don’t need to seek out the ork leaders in order to do that.’
A tense silence suddenly filled the briefing chamber. Jerrell’s voice was little more than a growl. ‘That almost sounds like cowardice.’
Archelaos’s eyes flared. ‘What it sounds like,’ he said slowly, ‘is the recommendation for a surgical strike as opposed to a sledgehammer blow. It is tactically sound, given the time constraints and our low squad strength.’
‘Is it what the Dark Angels would do?’ he asked.
‘Without hesitation.’
‘But you are not in your home Chapter any more,’ Jerrell said pointedly.
The members of the Deathwatch were drawn from a wide variety of Chapters, and during his term of enrolment, each member was expected to don the sombre battle colours of the Ordo Xenos and work wholeheartedly with those he might not otherwise get along with. It was only natural for everyone to keep some small reminder of home, be it a trinket or pre-battle prayer, a salute or heraldic symbol. Jerrell himself wore a red clenched fist on the left pauldron of his otherwise matt-black Terminator armour that he would never paint over or disgrace.
Archelaos, on the other hand, had dyed his suit as black as space, but it seemed his immersion stopped there. His shoulder plate bore the white winged sword of Caliban. A cluster of pale feathers hung from the hilt of his power sword. He continued to wear the long beige robe and deep hood that were the hallmarks of his Dark Angels brethren.
‘The previous order stands.’ Jerrell picked up his helmet and stomped heavily out of the room. Launo and Carbrey followed without a word. Behind them, there was a cracking sound as Archelaos slammed his fist down on the display in frustration.
The boarding torpedo was a windowless, narrow tube. The forefront was occupied by a pilot servitor: the emaciated upper half of a heretic whose punishment was to serve the Ordo Xenos even unto a fiery, crushing death. Behind that five alcoves were recessed into each wall. Jerrell, Launo, and Carbrey each backed into one. Restraints automatically sprung around their feet, waist and shoulders.
Archelaos entered and closed the hatch. He performed a final check on the pilot, and then locked himself into place beside Jerrell.
‘Synchronise countdown on your displays,’ Jerrell ordered, and in each of their helmets a timer appeared, frozen at ten seconds.
‘Ready,’ Launo grunted.
‘Aye,’ Carbrey replied.
‘Synched,’ Archelaos muttered.
A massive bulkhead slammed down, separating the Space Marines from the pilot. Then, the torpedo rocketed forwards with an intensity that would have liquefied the bones of a normal man. The numbers in their displays began to race towards zero, counting off the time until they smashed through Rackinruin’s armoured skin.
The actual impact came and went in a heartbeat. From where they were ensconced, Jerrell and the others felt only a single, wrenching lurch. There was a dull thump from behind the blast door, and a staccato clacking as their restraints let go.
‘Five seconds!’ Jerrell announced. He hoisted his shield in front of him with his left arm, and drew his sword from its scabbard. Both were highly polished and crackled with destructive power.
Launo slid into place behind Jerrell and to his left. The assault cannon mounted to his right arm hummed softly. Carbrey took up position opposite him. Archelaos filled in behind. His storm bolter was decorated in an outlandish pattern of red and green, typical of the Dark Angels.
No one spoke. They simply waited until the bulkhead detonated outwards in a hail of thick shrapnel, and then, as one, they rushed forwards.
They emerged into a humid scrapyard that apparently served as a spare parts storage facility. Tall piles of rusted metal and broken machinery, salvaged from countless different planets, lay everywhere. Each pile was being tended to by a multitude of tiny, pale green creatures. They had spindly limbs and grossly oversized noses, and in the dim light looked almost like ork children. Several dozen of them had been turned into gristly chunks by the torpedo’s explosive arrival. The rest stood frozen in shock, mouths agape and watery eyes wide. They were alien rabbits caught in the glare of the Emperor’s purifying light.
Jerrell pointed towards them wordlessly. The others opened fire, filling the chamber with thunder. Launo’s assault cannon, in particular, produced a deafening roar as it swept back and forth. The pathetic little creatures flew apart in droves, or tried to bury themselves under the scrap. A few who were either too brave or too stupid to accept the inevitable tried to fire back with clunky revolvers. The slugs impacted futilely against the Space Marines’ Terminator armour. It was over in moments.
Archelaos kicked away a pile of the dead creatures, reached into the folds of his cassock, and produced a bulky scanner. He turned in a slow circle before pointing down a dark corridor to their left.
‘This way,’ he said.
Jerrell took the lead with Launo and Carbrey by his sides. The walls of the passageway were typically ork: a haphazard collection of metal plates, salvaged over the years from the wreckage of other civilisations, welded together in a slapdash fashion. Everything had the look of refuse about it, broken and corroded.
‘Fifty metres,’ Archelaos reported, ‘then a large open area. There’s a shaft or lift of some kind. Should take us straight up to the bridge.’
Behind his faceplate, Jerrell smirked in anticipation. ‘That’s where it will start,’ he said needlessly. They had all received extensive lessons in xeno-b
ehaviour as part of their Deathwatch indoctrination, but Jerrell knew the greenskins well. Nothing was more pleasing to a mob of orks than a close-quarters brawl in which they could dogpile their opponents. It sustained their barbaric natures, but it also required a lot of space.
The ‘open area’ was two storeys tall and lined with discoloured metal and sparking cables. A large set of double doors was directly opposite them. Three more corridors branched off at odd angles. There was a catwalk above them where several more of the diminutive scrap-tenders cowered. At the Space Marines’ approach, they screamed and began to flee. Archelaos aimed his storm bolter at them when a piercing trumpet blast suddenly rang twice, followed by a booming, metallic voice. Its staccato words were harsh and clipped, and in a language familiar to none of them. It cut through their armour’s sound filters, and left a ringing in their ears.
Launo spoke in the stillness that followed. ‘What was that?’
‘Rackinruin’s voice,’ Carbrey replied.
‘You jest?’ Launo asked.
The auspex began to chirp before Carbrey could answer. Archelaos glanced down to see clusters of illuminated dots closing in on them from all sides. The wet air was filled with the rushing sound of innumerable, iron-clad boots.
Launo turned down the closest corridor, steadied himself, and let the assault cannon roar. Orks flew apart, dismembered. Archelaos and Carbrey each positioned themselves in a doorway, and emptied the clips of their storm bolters into the rushing throng. The muzzle flashes were blinding in the dank light. Discarded casings piled around their feet. The orks bellowed and cursed and died in droves, but still they came on, pushing closer, closer. They trampled over the bodies of the fallen. Their eyes were as red as blood. Their screaming maws were filled with razor fangs.
In the midst of it all, Jerrell stood smiling. The part of him that would always belong to the Crimson Fists could have stayed there for an eternity. If he could have fought nothing but greenskins from now until death, he would have counted his life well spent. Still, there was a Deathwatch mission to complete. They had to press on.
‘Archelaos! Carbrey!’ Jerrell thundered. ‘Set your charges!’
He ploughed his fist through the lift door and shoved it aside. There was an open platform beyond, large enough to hold the four of them. Immense chains vanished into the black shaft above. Behind him, Launo was firing down one corridor, then another, covering Archelaos and Carbrey as they released the safety locks on the melta bomb each was carrying. They set them for the shortest possible delay, dropped them to the floor, and then backed into the lift. Finally, Launo joined them.
The orks were pressing within melee distance. Carbrey ejected his spent magazine and slapped a fresh one into place. He fired several bursts into the orks at a range so short that blood and brains splashed across his chestpiece and soaked Archelaos’s robe. On one side of the platform there was a heavy switch which Jerrell slammed down. The platform made a grinding sound, and began to slowly ascend. Below, they could hear the orks screaming with ferocious bloodlust as their prey escaped.
The bombs the Space Marines had left behind were designed primarily to penetrate thick armoured targets with a concentrated burst of thermal energy. When they detonated seconds later, their power was such that they literally set fire to the air. The orks’ flesh was blacked into ash even as their lungs combusted. The walls, floor and ceiling glowed red-hot and liquefied in several places. A roiling, orange fireball raced up the shaft and washed around them. They paid it no heed.
‘Report,’ Jerrell said.
‘No apparent injuries, watch-captain,’ Archelaos replied.
‘Materiel?’
‘Two melta bombs left,’ Carbrey answered. ‘I’d say fifty per cent ammunition remaining.’
Jerrell turned to Launo. ‘Special weapons?’
Wisps of smoke curled from the end of the cannon. ‘I used two-thirds of my munitions, but the mechanics are still sound.’
Jerrell nodded, satisfied. ‘Then ready yourselves.’
The lift trundled to a stop at Rackinruin’s laughably primitive bridge. It was square and cluttered with a mismatched array of cogs, levers, oversized buttons and cranks. There were no view-screens or cogitators, only pipes spouting steam and rusty boxes filled with blinking lights. A massive window dominated one entire wall. A series of piloting chairs were set before it, as was a raised platform featuring a steering wheel of some kind. Scores of the little green creatures milled about, carrying wrenches and hammers and tending to the machinery.
Towering over them were eight hulking orks. Their skin was a deep green hue and their faces meaty. They sported exotic melee weapons and thick sheets of metal plating on their shoulders and chests. Pistons and gears were imbedded throughout their bodies at seemingly random points: the greenskin version of bionic augmentation.
Things happened very quickly then. Reacting instinctually, the burly orks moved to close the distance between themselves and the Space Marines. They fired their oversized pistols as they went. Jerrell exited the lift first holding his shield before him. Huge, heavy bullets slammed into it and fragmented. A lucky shot shattered part of his helmet and he noted with cold detachment that he was now blind in his left eye. It mattered little. The other three Space Marines fanned out and opened fire around him. The eight ork lieutenants screamed defiantly and surged forwards. The little gretchin, buoyed by the presence of their massive overseers, also gave cackling battle-cries and ran forwards. They took no notice as two of them were torn in half by bolter-fire, and crashed into the Space Marines with the force of an avalanche.
The little ones posed no threat, but Jerrell noted that the ork weapons were surrounded by crackling power fields. They would be slow to hit with them, but when they did, they would be enough to test even a Terminator’s redundant layers of protection. He had to strike first. He threw his full weight against the orks, shoving two of them back a few paces, and squashing a half dozen of the little runts beneath his foot. He slashed out with his sword, lopping a limb off of one and a head from another. Through a red haze, he wondered if Archelaos was doing likewise. He parried two more blows against his shield, and glanced to his left.
The Dark Angel’s hood had fallen back off of his helmet. His blade was indiscernible amidst a whirlwind of parries, but even he couldn’t stop them all. A rough-hewn claw, mounted to one of the ork’s forearms, punched straight through his armour and imbedded itself in his chest.
Carbrey and Launo had moved up to reinforce their leaders. They each bore a crushing mechanical glove on their left hands. The servos in their armour groaned as they wound back and drove them into the foe. Launo punched clear through one of the orks, and sprung back into a riposte. Carbrey, however, swung his entire arm downwards like a lumberjack cleaving logs. He ripped his opponent in half from shoulder to hip, but overextended himself in doing so. A pair of greenskin claws hammered down, catching him between the shoulders. He convulsed, and dropped face first onto the blood-soaked deck plates.
Jerrell roared in anger and came at them like a thing possessed. He chopped and bludgeoned, and before Archelaos or Launo could even react the orks were dead. The remaining gretchin, bereft of their protectors, scrambled and hid, diving for cover behind machinery banks or wriggling up through ventilation shafts. Jerrell stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He stuck his sword into the floor and peeled off his ruined helmet.
Launo dropped to one knee, and rolled Carbrey over. His teeth were clenched as he gave a thick, gurgling sound.
‘Easy, brother,’ Launo said softly. ‘Easy.’
Archelaos looked down. The wound was obviously fatal, and without an Apothecary there was nothing to be done. They had taken the bridge, but at a terrible cost. Now there were only three of them. ‘Captain?’ he called.
Jerrell didn’t respond. He was preoccupied with surveying the dead orks.
‘Jerrell
!’ Archelaos yelled.
Jerrell’s head snapped up. His augmented biology was already at work. The gush of blood that had been pouring from his shattered eye socket had reduced itself to a trickle.
‘He isn’t here,’ Jerrell muttered.
Archelaos stormed over to him. ‘What?’
‘The ork leader. He’s not among them.’
Archelaos looked about quickly. ‘You’re certain?’
‘These bodies are all the same size,’ Jerrell sighed. ‘Bigger than regular orks, but not one of them larger than the rest.’
Archelaos sheathed his sword. He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, and walked away to scrutinise the crude control panels. Launo appeared beside Jerrell. He had a helmet in his free hand, and held it out.
‘Carbrey?’ Jerrell asked hopefully.
Launo’s posture was supremely rigid. ‘Fallen in the service of the Emperor,’ he said proudly. ‘The watch-captain has need of a new helmet. It would honour our brother if you take his.’ Jerrell reached out and took it with a heavy solemnity.
Archelaos cursed and stared out the window. A mottled grey and brown planet was looming large. ‘We’re well past Chestirad’s moon,’ he announced, ‘and still under full thrust. This ship is preparing for a low orbital raid.’
‘Sir, how can that be?’ Launo said to Jerrell. ‘We’re in control now.’
Archelaos shook his head. The ork machinery made absolutely no sense to him. ‘I’m not certain that we are,’ he said. ‘There might well be controls hidden amongst all this refuse, but it would take weeks to discern them.’
The watch-captain did not reply at first. He was still gazing down at Carbrey’s helmet, cradled in his massive hands. ‘I should have seen it before. A drive that lets the greenskins leap across space? What could be more valuable? What could be more rare?’
Hammer and Bolter Presents: Xenos Hunters Page 13
