by Sam Bradbury
‘Jammer, do you read?’ asked Rico over the comlink.
‘Copy that,’ she replied.
‘You got company?’
‘Couple of guards neutralized. Otherwise negative. I couldn’t begin to guess why, but I’m not complaining.’
‘Maybe because they know the main force is in this one,’ I said, pointing to the aperture where we could see Hig infantry moving along the walkways of the lower ring. The ring at which we were about to dock. They were moving towards the docking station.
‘Shit,’ said Rico.
‘Shit’s about right,’ I said, sighing, and now the men began to stand from the rack, reaching to grab overheard bars as the elevator shuddered to a halt.
We took up our rifles and checked ammo. Grim-faced, Narville joined us and the door to the pod slid open to reveal the walkway ahead of us. It led to the main ring, and there, we knew, they’d be waiting for us.
‘All right, people,’ said Narville, ‘we’re going to head for gravitational control. Let’s buy Jammer some time.’
We moved forward, expecting to find the first of the Hig infantry we had seen mobilizing. Instead what came at us first were spidermines. They scuttled at us and we withdrew, knowing that the best method of dealing with one was to shoot it as it came towards you. You don’t want to let it touch you; they have a nasty explosive radius. So we stayed clear and destroyed them before moving forward. We knew they’d been sent to soften us up, that was all – delay us while they got their asses in gear.
It looked as though we were in some kind of storage or engineering unit. As well as crates moving overhead on rails, there were chests and container boxes littering the walkway, and we used them for cover as we made our way further into the space station, every sense on high alert, expecting the first crack of gunfire any second now. Or maybe the attack would come another way. Gas, perhaps. Or vent all the air and let us suffocate to death? Obviously not, because the curve of the ring allowed us to see further along it and now we could make out multiple troops gathering.
Outside the window I could still see the fleet and it struck me that there must be thousands upon thousands of Helghast within feet of us, the thought spurring me on that if I was going to go I was going to take as many with me as I could. I was going to do things Rico Velasquez style.
Now we saw them around the curve of the ring, beginning to take up position. Like us, they were finding cover behind the supply boxes, as well as getting up high, taking elevated positions, waiting for us to get closer.
Then the first shots rang out. Sniper fire. So our heads went down and we took cover behind our position. Their infantry moved forward, the module suddenly full of the rattle of automatic gunfire.
And it was game on.
I crouched behind a crate, shouldered my M82 and fired off a clip at three Helghast infantry running headlong down the corridor towards us. One of them spun as a line of bullets ripped across his chest and into his face mask. A second tried diving for cover, but not before the back of his head exploded and he was crumbling to the floor with blood and brains sliding down the module wall behind him. More enemy infantry took up position ahead of us and for a moment or so we exchanged fire, neither groups making any ground. The M82 thumped into my shoulder as I finished a clip, hot empty shells raining to the metal walkway at my feet. Bullets ricocheted around us, off the metal of the module walls, off the toughened glass of the observation ports, and off the crates behind which we sheltered, and Christ it was hot.
Somehow we had to fight our way forward and do something about the gravitational control of the station. But for the moment they had us pinned down. I felt in the pouches of my ACU for frags and found none, screaming at Rico to toss me a couple. Pinned behind a box to my right he threw me the frags and I caught and began cooking them in the same movement, then called for him to provide cover fire, bobbed from cover and tossed them forward. Good shot. We heard screams then Gedge and Rico were moving forward, providing cover for each other, doing it by the numbers, textbook forward movement – I bet Narville was loving that.
And now we made our way quickly along the walkway, knowing that it wasn’t over yet and, sure enough, it wasn’t. Because next we found ourselves facing sentry bots and I was thinking, Shit, sentry bots. It would have to be sentry bots.
Chapter Thirty-six
‘What is the name of Stahl’s new ship?’ enquired Autarch Orlock of one of his men. Orlock stood on one of the upper rings of the space station, in a corridor not far from the airlock to Pier Two.
‘I believe he has called it the Khage, sir,’ said the soldier.
Orlock nodded without replying. Of course. How very touching. Stahl had named his new toy after his father.
Well, a ship could easily be renamed, he thought as he continued to wait for Stahl, his hands clasped behind his back.
None could see, but he held them this way in order to hide the fact that they were shaking slightly, though even he himself did not know why they trembled. It was not fear that made them shake, of that at least he was certain, for there was nothing in this world or the next that frightened Orlock; from his days streetfighting in the dirt of Pyrrhus to his time fighting side by side with Scolar Visari in the military, and to facing down the Helghast senate, he had never known fear.
No, it was the anticipation perhaps, the thought of finally seeing the end of Jorhan Stahl, who had been a permanent thorn in his side and in that of the senate.
As he stood gazing out of the window, alternating between looking at the industry of his fleet and casting covetous glances at Stahl’s gleaming new ship, another officer approached him, a nervous officer by the name of Zabiela, who cleared his throat to announce his presence.
‘Sir,’ said Zabiela timorously, ‘the ISA army is here. They took out the MAWLR and came up in the space elevator.’
Zabiela delivered the news in a faltering voice, then waited to gauge the reaction of the autarch. He trembled, and unlike Orlock he knew exactly why it was he trembled, and it was nothing to do with anticipation and everything to do with outright terror.
He had good reason. Orlock was a man who showed his emotions more readily than his great opponent Stahl, and the hapless officer started to fret as his leader began to turn crimson and quiver with raw emotion.
‘Enough with the ISA,’ exploded Orlock at last. ‘Either they die … or you do,’ and he looked at Zabiela and smiled a thin, mirthless smile. A smile that made it very clear indeed that he would stay true to his word.
In response, Zabiela scuttled backwards, bowing his head in submission to his leader, then moved away, using his comlink to order that further defences be deployed against the invaders. ‘Send sentry bots,’ he commanded in an urgent, low voice. ‘Send jet packs. Send everyone – everyone.’
Zabiela heard the sounds of gunshots and explosions over his comlink, swallowing hard as his second-in-command replied, ‘Sir, we have reports of a further incursion close to the communications room. They’ve sent a small team. Your orders, sir?’
‘Well, send a small squad to neutralize their small squad, but concentrate on the main attack, you idiot,’ he hissed, and then added, ‘either they die … or you do.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the officer on the other end of the comlink, who ended the communication and turned to his subordinate officer, ordering him to increase the attack on the ISA intruders, adding, ‘either they die … or you do.’
Orlock, meanwhile, had his attention arrested by the arrival of his nemesis Jorhan Stahl, who as usual came accompanied by his troopers, and who as usual wore an expression that Orlock did not especially care for: a rather self-satisfied expression. An expression Orlock very much looked forward to wiping from his face.
Stahl and his men stopped before him and Stahl did all but stifle a yawn, saying, his voice tinged with a rather contrived bored-sounding tone, ‘By the order of the High Council, I, Jorhan Brimve Stahl, report for duty. I am willing to serve in whatever capacity the sta
te wishes.’
His whole attitude indicated the exact opposite, and when he smiled it was the smile of a man merely pretending to be reasonable. At the same time he glanced at the autarch’s personal guard and, though he tried, could not keep the grin from his face, adding with an audible sneer, ‘This is it? I thought you’d have more security.’
In reply Orlock said nothing for a moment. Instead he simply stared at Jorhan Stahl and for once he managed to keep his emotions in check, though behind his eyes his feelings churned. He reminded himself that all was going according to plan and that whatever confidence Stahl currently displayed was woefully misplaced – and that the fact would all too soon become readily apparent. In the end Stahl found himself unable to hold the man’s gaze, and his eyes dropped away, leaving Orlock to enjoy a moment of small victory, and cap it with a further taunt.
‘Like father, like son,’ he said. ‘It seems failure is the family business.’
He enjoyed watching his words strike home. The way Stahl tightened and bristled in response. He noted Stahl’s fist clench, and what a pathetic, impotent gesture that was.
Nevertheless, to his credit, Stahl once again held his gaze. And this time he came back to say, ‘Ironic … that you needed both of us to help get you where you are.’
Now that was debatable, thought Orlock, though he let the matter rest, instead wishing to move on to the next order of business: the irradiated petrusite Stahl was due to deliver.
The weaponized irradiated petrusite.
And he turned to one of his officers, asking, ‘Did he bring the weapons?’
The officer keyed his comlink, spoke into it and then listened. ‘Station confirms electrostatic energy profile on the chairman’s cruiser,’ he reported. ‘They are all there.’
Orlock nodded, satisfied. He turned his attention back to Stahl. ‘You should be proud, Stahl. Your weapons are going to usher in a new era of Helghast dominance. I’ll speak highly of you at your funeral …’ He paused for impact, before indicating to the troops behind him and saying, ‘Arrest the chairman.’
Arrest him, take him away and torture him. That’s what Orlock had decided (and he thought he might well invent one or two new tortures just for Jorhan Stahl. There was something involving the introduction of a beetle into an internal cavity that he’d been rather looking forward to trying). But when he looked at Stahl afresh he realized that the chairman was looking rather unworried for someone about to submit to the custody of one of the planet’s most sadistic men. He was not whimpering, crying or begging for his life – all of which were reactions Orlock might have anticipated, indeed hoped for. He did not even look unduly concerned.
In fact, he merely smiled.
Suddenly, with a sickening realization, Orlock spun to see his men behind him, and saw that two of them held their guns on the other two who, as he watched, dropped their weapons with a clatter on the metal floor and meekly raised their hands.
Betrayed!
‘Ah, yes,’ gloated Stahl, ‘the men of our proud and painfully underpaid military. They are all so pathetically predictable.’
Orlock spun about, looking for his officers – any other men. But his soldiers were away seeing to it that the ISA were swiftly defeated (because either the ISA died or they did) while all other troops were similarly engaged. Apart from the two guards now held at gunpoint, he was alone. Outside, was his fleet. The entire Helghast military under his command, all within spitting distance. Yet he was a prisoner.
He turned back to face Stahl, who beamed as though having reached the end of the greatest banquet of his life. Then into his pick-up he said, ‘Commodore, are you ready?’
The commodore was ready.
Stahl directed Orlock’s attention to the huge observation window and Orlock knew that something very terrible was about to happen. His gaze went back to Stahl.
Who was smiling at him. An awful, triumphant smile that Orlock did not care for very much at all. As Orlock watched, Stahl said into the radio the single word, ‘Fire.’
Orlock jerked his head to look out, his gaze going to Stahl’s ship, the Khage, hanging in space like a malevolent black knife blade. On its underside the huge petrusite cannon was moving, targeting one of the battleships.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said Orlock, though it was clear that Stahl dared.
The Khage opened fire. A bolt shot from the cannon to the ship, and for a second it seemed as though the shielding might thwart it. Orlock had a moment of hope. But then it pierced the entire hull, striking another ship hanging directly behind it, and Orlock was closing his eyes as his two battleships exploded into fire, breaking apart and spinning slowly away from the rest of the fleet, bodies falling from the cracked-open hulls into space.
Fire at will, thought Orlock. Destroy it.
And his officers did that. A salvo of missiles cut orange lines into the sky as the fleet returned fire. At least, thought Orlock, he would live to see Stahl’s pride and joy destroyed.
But instead of exploding as the battleships had before it, Stahl’s cruiser seemed to somehow absorb and disperse the missiles and Orlock wheeled to confront Stahl, unable to keep the surprise and even a hint of admiration from his voice as he said, ‘You’ve developed energy shielding?’
Stahl simply smiled. Indeed he had developed energy shielding. In the laboratories of Stahl Arms on the frozen shores his men had worked not only to harness the power of radiated petrusite to use as the most deadly weapon the universe had ever seen, but also to utilize it in defence. Now he had the most powerful weapons ever created by man, and the most powerful defences too. He was, quite simply, unstoppable and how sweet the irony that the first to see it should be his arch-enemy Orlock.
And, still smiling, he told the soon-to-be-ex-autarch, ‘You’re not watching.’
Once again their gaze went through the observation port as a batch of bombers deployed from the underside of the Khage. They passed through the shielding – another innovation from Stahl’s development labs – the shielding was one way. And launched missiles at the fleet.
Nuclear petrusite missiles.
Two ships were vapourized instantly. And in the next moment bombers and fighters were launching from both sets of ships, and there was full-scale warfare in the skies outside. A civil war. Chairman versus autarch.
Orlock watched. He took a measure of satisfaction from the fact that his fleet had responded quickly, but it was clear to him that Stahl had more powerful weaponry and that his fleet would soon be lost. Unless …
He turned to Stahl. ‘This is how you’ll get the senate to accept you?’ he asked, trying to think fast. Trying to use any leverage he could.
And Stahl knew it. He knew that Orlock was desperately stalling because … the very idea of him wanting to be accepted by the senate. He had no need of those decrepit old men. He would see them slowly dying at the bottom of a toxic pit as soon as his current business was complete. He laughed. ‘The senate will beg me to forgive them,’ he jeered, ‘right after you do.’
He drew his pistol, reflecting that the last time he had used it was to punish an incompetent subordinate, and that this was a very similar situation.
‘Get on your knees, Orlock,’ he said. And he raised the pistol, pointing it at Orlock’s head.
Now it was Stahl’s turn to have things take an unexpected twist. Now it was he who was to be denied the pleasure of an eagerly anticipated reaction. For Orlock was not whimpering, crying or begging for his life. He did not even look unduly concerned.
Stahl took a step forward, bringing the barrel of the gun close to Orlock’s forehead.
‘I said get on your –’
But he never finished his sentence.
One thing Orlock had learned as a streetfighter was the value of a concealed weapon. In fact, he had long ago made it his policy never to leave home without a concealed weapon, and today was no exception, so that about his person he had a knife. It was, in fact, the very knife that he had confiscated from t
he dead fingers of the man who’d inflicted the wound to his face, a totemic knife in many ways, and he wore it in a wrist mechanism specially calibrated to deliver the knife into the palm of the wearer with a certain flick of the wrist.
Which is what Orlock did. With one tiny movement the knife was in his hand and he was stepping forward and ramming it into Stahl’s guts at the same time as he knocked aside the pistol.
Stahl screamed, dropped his gun and reeled away. Orlock’s two loyal men used the sudden confusion to reach for their weapons and in a moment the two traitors were falling as the air was full of bullets, men dropping around him as Orlock plunged the knife into the stomach of one of Stahl’s guards. The years fell away from Orlock and he was back on the streets again: agile, powerful and ruthless.
Stahl, one hand at his stomach, with blood seeping through his fingers, aimed his pistol with his other hand, his arm shaking violently, but Orlock, his blood up and sensing victory, and using all his streetfighting instincts and his guttersnipe guile, drove his fist into Stahl’s jaw. Stahl groaned and staggered, bent double. Orlock snatched an arc cannon from the floor and hefted it, distantly realizing that despite the turn of events he was enjoying himself more than he had done in years.
But it was short-lived.
As he moved forward to finish Stahl – already anticipating breaking the man’s scrawny neck – a petrusite bolt flashed past him, taking a chunk of his flesh with it. He wheeled to see one of Stahl’s guards looking at him with a mixture of fear and surprise. Surprised no doubt that his shot had hit its target. Fearful no doubt of reprisals. Indeed, Orlock’s reply was swift and brutal. He raised the arc cannon and pulled the trigger, frying the guard, and then turned to look for the traitor Jorhan Stahl.
There was no sign of him.
Orlock hissed in frustration. He looked around himself and everywhere there were bodies. His own guards and Stahl’s guards. But there was no sign of the chairman. The corridor yawned emptily at him. However, he knew that Stahl had not escaped out of the airlock, nor had he escaped past him. Which meant he was still here somewhere. Hiding. Like a cowardly dog.
