by Toby Frost
Morrell looked puzzled as well as angry. ‘What?’
‘Colonel Straken is referring to the incident that rendered him unconscious,’ General Greiss explained. ‘Troops from the Gordarian Sixth Mobile Artillery incorrectly–’
‘Ah, them. They’ve been removed,’ the commissar replied. ‘The tank crews, that is. One of my colleagues took care of it. Criminal waste of munitions.’
‘Never mind the crews. They did what they were told. What about the fool who gave the order?’
‘The officer who gave the order, you mean?’ Morrell’s face had lapsed back into its surly scowl.
‘Same difference.’
‘I’ll take it up with High Command,’ Morrell replied. ‘A formal request for inquiry will be sent through the appropriate channels.’
No doubt he would, Straken thought, and no doubt High Command would inscribe it into some tome a billion kilometres away, with a billion other grievances, and no doubt in a thousand years some notary-subordinate would pass judgement on men who were nothing but dust. He had been a soldier of the Guard too long to expect much else. Justice was either so distant as to be almost meaningless, or so random and brutal as to be hardly worth the name.
‘Let’s talk about the campaign,’ Greiss said. ‘Or to be more precise, your part in it.’
Morrell sniffed. ‘In which case, I shall leave you gentlemen. I have a report to write. Rest assured I have already studied the briefing, Colonel Straken. General.’ He tugged the brim of his cap down and strode past in a hiss of soft black leather.
Straken closed the door behind him. ‘Pleased to meet you too, commissar. Enjoy your report.’
Greiss sighed and shook his head. ‘Seventy years in the Guard and they never change,’ he said. ‘Puffed up like a barking-toad. Commissars – all the same.’
‘Some are smart and let us get the job done,’ Straken replied. ‘Others aren’t so smart.’
‘Some are so stupid they walk into their own men’s fire,’ Greiss said, turning to the cabinet by the wall. ‘Some even trip over and fall onto their own soldiers’ bayonets. Let’s not have any of that, not this time.’ He took out two mismatched glasses and poured a couple of centimetres of amasec into each. He held out a glass.
Straken took the glass. ‘I would never dream of wishing ill to a noble commissar,’ he said, ‘and nor would my men.’
‘You’ve always been a bad liar.’ General Greiss smiled. The expression looked unnatural on his dour face. ‘I prefer not to drink to victory,’ he said. ‘It always seems presumptuous, somehow.’
‘Tempting fate?’
‘Exactly. Welcome back.’
The general finished his glass in one quick, hard swallow. Straken, never much of a drinker, sipped carefully. The amasec burned slightly on the way down.
Greiss lifted a flat box onto the table. It was polished red wood, beautifully constructed. He opened the case and a tiny projector hummed into life inside. The general’s long fingers turned a little dial, and a map of the galaxy formed in the air before him, a three-dimensional projection.
‘A present from the Mechanicus,’ he said. Greiss turned the galaxy, rotated it and zoomed in. Straken recognised the planets in front of him. They constituted the great warzone of the Ultima Segmentum, with Ryza in its centre and Catachan at one edge.
‘The Navy have widened the response zone around Ryza,’ Greiss said. ‘They thought they had the orks contained, but they’ve come to realise that their calculations were rather, er, optimistic…’
‘That sounds like the Navy.’
‘It’s not their fault, for once. The orks are flocking to Ryza like pilgrims to Saint Celestine’s cloak – or flies to a turd, if you prefer. And that means that the worlds around it are a lot less safe than they thought they were. One of those worlds is Dulma’lin, and that’s where we’re headed.’
‘So,’ Straken said, ‘apart from the commissar, who’s with us on this one? You made it sound like a joint mission.’
‘The bulk of the invasion force is coming from the Selvian Dragoons,’ Greiss replied. ‘They’re not my first choice, but you know how it is. The Munitorum provides, as they say, although what it provides you with, that’s another matter. The Selvian colonel is a man named Richello. I don’t know what to make of him. From what I’ve heard he’s got his own Leman Russ, covered in his heraldry. Likes to ride into battle on it, sword in the air.’
‘Keen, huh?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Greiss replied. He glanced at Straken’s metal hand, still holding the glass. ‘Are you drinking that,’ Greiss demanded, ‘or just taking care of it?’
Straken sipped. Greiss motioned him to sit down.
‘Dulma’lin is, by galactic standards, a rather unimportant place,’ the general said, his back to Straken as he fixed himself a second drink. ‘It’s pretty inhospitable. The surface is dry, for the most part, and windswept. And I do mean windswept – up to five hundred kilometres an hour, in the storm season.’
Straken nodded.
‘There’s some native flora, but it’s evolved to survive in the wind. Only a Catachan could get through the stuff. As far as the Imperium is concerned, there are half a dozen cities, all underground, most of them small. Power comes from heat sinks. Food is grown underground as well. There’s some xenos life but nothing much that can pose a serious threat, at least not to us. The only really dangerous things to come out of Dulma’lin were diseases, and they were wiped out long ago.’
Straken nodded. Predators were one thing, but disease was far worse. It would be better to land on a world populated entirely by Fenrisian wolves than to have to struggle against alien viruses.
‘There’s a fair amount of resources down there, mineral ores and the like,’ Greiss continued, taking a seat. ‘My understanding is that the orks have some interest there. At least, they’ve been digging.’
‘That sounds unlike them.’ Much of the hard work in ork society was done by slaves, either human or smaller greenskins. When it came to anything other than fighting and preparing to fight, the orks were surprisingly lazy.
The general looked into his drink. ‘They’ve captured a lot of the heavy industrial facilities and got to work making something or other. Intelligence suggests that the orks have stripped down most of the heavy mining gear and turned it into weaponry.’
‘They do that.’ Given enough time, an ork would try to make a primitive tank out of virtually anything with wheels.
‘We believe that the ork in charge of their invasion force – he goes by the name of Killzkar – is using Dulma’lin as a staging post. No doubt he intends to gather his troops before heading off elsewhere. Chances are, he’ll strip the place, wreck whatever he can’t use and then make for somewhere more populated.’
‘Do we know where?’
‘Inwards. Ryza is the obvious choice, to link up with the one they call Rargut and his troops. From there, who knows? At the end of the day, of course, they all want Terra.’
‘And so we cut him off before he can join them?’
‘Exactly. And there’s another reason to go in fast. They’re gathering, and the longer they spend together, the bigger and better equipped they get.’ Greiss studied his drink again. ‘They feed on war, I’m sure of it.’ He sighed. ‘When I was out on Balar, the Guard had to drive the local farmers into battle with whips. An ork would have leaped at the chance to run at the enemy guns. I tell you, Straken, every time a gun fires, or a shell goes off, it just makes the orks all the more keen. It’s as though they soak the anger up out of the air.’ He looked up, almost guiltily, and drank again.
‘So I’ve heard.’ Straken took another sip of the fiery liquor. Something about his bionics had taken away his appetite for alcohol. He wondered whether it was some side effect from the symbiosis of metal and flesh, or simply that he had much less blood to soak up the drink than before.
‘But then you don’t need me to tell you that orks thrive on battle,’ General
Greiss said. ‘If anything, a big frontal assault would be just what this Killzkar creature wants. It’d toughen up his soldiers, and if he’s lucky, allow him to capture more materiel for his next attack. No – what we need to do is cut his tendons before he can even start to fight.’
Straken nodded.
‘There’s a resistance movement down there, formed out of what remains of the Dulma’lin miners’ guild militia – between you and me, that’s the granddads and old maids too weak to pass muster for the Guard. At any rate, they can’t be all bad – it was them who got out the message to the Navy in the first place. Killzkar’s building war machines. Your people will be going in and destroying them.’ Greiss got up, and pulled a file down from a narrow shelf. He passed it to Straken. His right hand shook a little. ‘Background material on Excelsis City, the capital. That’s where you’ll be operating, where most of the orks are.’
Straken took a dog-eared pict out of the file. It could have been an Imperial manufactorum complex anywhere on ten thousand worlds. No doubt it was in a somewhat different state now that it had fallen into the hands of the orks. Straken couldn’t help noting the entrances and exits, the best points for laying down covering fire and the spots where a timed charge would do the most damage. He put the pict back in the file. Under it was a good cheap map, produced on-world, with a picture of some local saint on the front, a pickaxe over her shoulder and her hand outstretched to bless Excelsis City. Straken wondered how blessed Excelsis was looking right now.
Last of all was a pict, seemingly taken from long range. It showed a particularly large ork. The thing was clearly a high-ranking leader: size determined rank among the greenskins, and this specimen was huge. It must be more than twice man-height, Straken thought. The ork’s face was exposed, and although it had the same features as its kin – massive fangs, snub nose and tiny, vicious eyes – this one was even uglier than usual. Two diagonal scars crossed its face like the crossed bones on a pirate flag, giving the impression that its head had been assembled out of four mismatched pieces.
‘And that’s Killzkar,’ Greiss said. ‘Nobody knows where he is – perhaps he’s in Excelsis City, perhaps he’s elsewhere on Dulma’lin. He’s not your target, but if you see him, feel free to stick a las-shot through his head from me.’
‘He’s quite a sight.’ Straken closed the file and made himself finish his drink. ‘So, sir, what exactly is my mission here?’
Greiss said, ‘Your regiment will be taken in by drop-ship, as quietly as possible. You’re to approach through the forest and enter Excelsis City by subterfuge. There are surface vents you can use – they’re in the file you’ve got. Proceed into the main cavern, the Mommothian Vault. Secure the city gates, which are the only way to get anything much bigger than a truck in or out. Once our armour is in the vicinity, open the gates and assist with the attack. The rest of the army will hit the orks like a sledgehammer, while you stab them in the back. Following that, you will be assigned to destroy all major weapons production in Excelsis City. In particular, wipe out all production of heavy armour.’ Greiss smiled, showing too many neat little teeth.
‘That’s a wide objective, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘It is. And I need experts to do it.’
‘Well, the Catachan Second are the men for that.’
‘And you’re the man to lead them.’
‘Thanks.’ Straken stood and put his glass on the side. ‘Mind if I take the file?’
Greiss gestured towards it. ‘By all means.’ He held out his hand, and Straken shook it. He could have broken the general’s bones like eggshells. ‘Let me know if you need anything, colonel.’
‘I shall.’ Straken saluted and left the room. Nork watched him go, suspicion glowing in the ogryn’s deep, small eyes.
There was less than a week until they dropped out of the warp and into Dulma’lin’s atmosphere. It was time to sharpen the troops up. Straken ordered morning inspection, which he conducted himself, and ordered the sergeants to keep the soldiers busy and sharp: training and drill during the day, and briefings on planetary conditions on their few hours off. Not that they needed to get into shape – Catachan’s inhabitants had always been too busy surviving to get fat – but they needed to remember what it was to think and act fast, to work as a quick, cunning unit, and to live on hard rations and little sleep. More than that, Straken knew, men with nothing to do got themselves into trouble, and the closer they came to the warzone, the nastier that trouble was likely to be.
Two men began a fight over nothing that barely got past the preliminary shoving before they were pulled apart. Straken had them race round the holds in full kit until each could barely stand. A rumour did the rounds that Morrell had wanted them lashed. One of the Navy officers, normally the subject of mockery as high-orbit combat-dodgers, deigned to give the regiment a briefing on drop-ship warfare at Straken’s request. Straken was pleased to see that his soldiers were as attentive as he was. They would not have dared to be otherwise.
Besides, he knew, when they met the orks even Catachans would need every advantage they could get.
In his room, Straken listened to Guttman’s Ko-Iron Symphony while he looked over the intelligence file on Dulma’lin. He knew from experience that orks had little in the way of forward planning. Too often they let bloodlust take the place of tactics. A good commander could turn that mad fury to his advantage. They could be drawn into killing-zones, or incited to charge heavily-defended emplacements. Straken remembered how, on Hauseman’s World, a pack of them had run straight through a minefield to get at the human lines. The mines hadn’t stopped the orks, exactly, but they were much easier to kill when they were crawling towards you instead of running.
He was studying a street plan of Excelsis City when one of the orderlies knocked on his door.
Straken glanced up. ‘What is it?’
‘Colonel Straken, sir, we’ve got a problem down in Hold Four. A few of the demo boys have been caught making something. I’m told it’s a still, sir, for alcohol.’
‘Damn it, don’t they get enough in their rations?’
The man’s face gave the strong impression that nobody in the Guard got enough.
Straken sighed. ‘So?’
‘Captain Lavant found it. He sent me to tell you, sir. The thing is, Commissar Morrell’s heard about it too.’
Straken flicked the vox-phonograph off with a metal finger as he stood up.
They hurried down the spiral stairs, into the rumbling depths of the Radix Malorum. The orderly led Straken through the cavernous guts of the ship, past the armoured feet of a pair of huge carved saints, and into Hold Four.
Bunks ran down the length of the hall, separated by folding partitions and decorated with anything the soldiers could find. The Catachan II, Straken thought as he strode down the huge space, had always been good at finding things. Even in space, you could still source booze and dirty pictures, both of them of very low quality. Sometimes, in his less pious moments, he wondered whether there was a secret parallel organisation to the Departmento Munitorum, devoted to shipping out gut-rotting alcohol and dog-eared copies of Girls of Cadia and Wicked Sisters.
Morrell stood, hands on hips, looking down at an apparatus that seemed to have been made from machine parts and a jerry can. Four Guardsmen were before the commissar. Lavant stood beside him, clearly trying to reason with the man. Straken didn’t need to hear what Lavant was saying to know that it would do no good.
‘Problem, commissar?’ he demanded as he approached.
‘Infringement of discipline.’ Morrell looked up. ‘These men were found in possession of what looks very much like some kind of distilling apparatus. As such, this constitutes a blatant breach of the disciplinary code.’
One of the four troopers said, ‘Sir, I’ve been trying to explain–’
‘Shut up, Guardsman,’ Straken barked. ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask.’ Straken glanced at Lavant.
‘I believe it’s combustib
le fuel,’ the captain said. ‘Very useful for laying traps. We’ve used that sort of thing to burn renegades out of bunkers before.’
Sure it is, Straken thought. He turned to Morrell. ‘Can we discuss this?’ The commissar started to object, but Straken was already moving away from the men. Scowling, Morrell followed him.
‘Commissar, this isn’t a large force. My understanding is that we are due to put down on Dulma’lin to support a scratch army made up of whatever the Guard can pull together as quickly as possible. We need every man we can use.’
Morrell frowned. ‘Aye, that’s right, more or less. Although I prefer to look at it more as–’
‘Once we land, we’re going to be up against tough odds. I’m going to need every man in the best shape I can get them.’
The commissar nodded. ‘So what are you saying, colonel?’
‘I don’t want any of these men physically harmed. Doing so will impair their combat ability.’
Morrell’s eyes, already set deep in his head, seemed to shrink. ‘I believe that’s my decision, colonel.’
Straken paused. The hall had become quieter. He could hear lowered voices and almost no boot steps. That meant that people had stopped to listen. ‘It’s our duty to the Imperium to get this job done. Let me deal with this.’
‘I’d need to be sure that this was being taken care of properly.’ The commissar’s voice, seemingly made for bellowing, sounded very hoarse when lowered. Straken wondered how old the man was. It was always hard to tell with commissars: age seemed to desiccate and harden them.
‘It will be.’
Morrell raised a hand. He was one of those men whose strength came from his size, Straken thought. In twenty years’ time, much of the commissar’s muscle would have turned to fat. Assuming that he lived another twenty years.
Trumpets blared from the roof, sudden and deafening. Men glanced up; one corporal fumbled sharpening his knife and cut himself. His cursing was lost in the voice that boomed out of the ceiling, as if sent by the Emperor Himself: ‘Audite, milites! Warp travel has been successfully completed, by the Emperor’s grace. We are now entering close orbit of Dulma’lin and will commence descent in two hours standard time. All soldiers are to make ready for landing. Loading and sanctification procedure is to be commenced immediately. Full blessing will occur immediately prior to drop-ship embarkation. Emperor protect.’
