by Toby Frost
A rumble of talk rose up from the men as the speakers fell silent. Morrell grimaced. ‘It appears we’ll have to discuss this later, colonel.’
‘I’ll let you know when I get back from Dulma’lin.’
‘You won’t have to. I’ll be setting down with you and your men.’
‘What?’ Straken had never been good at hiding his emotions. ‘Why?’
‘To enforce discipline, of course,’ Morrell replied. He rocked on his heels. ‘We can’t have incidents like this when we’re on the ground. It will impair operational efficiency.’
I know damn well what will impair operational efficiency, Straken thought, and it’s not my men. ‘There won’t be,’ he replied.
‘That’s good to hear, colonel,’ Morrell replied, and, almost smiling, he turned and marched away.
Lavant nodded at the guilty men. ‘What shall I do with these soldiers, colonel?’
‘They’re carrying the extra gear when we land. For now, get them cleaning the latrines. Next time they decide to make themselves a still, they’ll know not to get caught.’
3.
In the vast transport hall of the Radix Malorum, in front of the row of drop-ships that would carry the Catachan II to the planet’s surface, General Greiss addressed his men. Almost nine hundred Guardsmen watched him climb onto the stage at the far end of the hall, striding up the steps two at a time. Commissar Morrell followed, watching the general closely. Greiss’s coat was heavy with medals and epaulettes.
Straken was next up, followed by a fussy little Ministorum priest. A tech-priest readied the vox-amp, then stepped away. It was not the same priest who had admired Straken’s bionics: this one, perhaps a higher-ranking adept, sported a pair of extra arms from its shoulders, folded down the length of its back like metal wings.
Greiss leaned close to the vox-mic. ‘Attention, Catachans,’ the general began. ‘Gentlemen, it’s a great pleasure to be addressing the Catachan Second again, especially after your sterling work on Signis, not so long ago.’ For many of them, Straken thought, not long enough. ‘Once again, the Imperium has called upon the Imperial Guard to defend its worlds from the corrupting taint of xenos aggression, and once again I am honoured to call upon my old regiment.
‘As you know, it is not tyranids we face now but the old enemy of both the Guard and its Catachan regiments, the orks. Orks have invaded Dulma’lin in force, and have committed sacrileges and atrocities so great that they cry out for justice. The strategos of Holy Terra have heard that cry, and we are their response.
‘I have been asked to command a rapid reaction force, largely comprised of armoured elements from a number of different worlds, which will carry out the main assault. It will be the job of the Catachan Second to support that force. Your role will be to destroy the orks’ ability to re-equip – to put it another way, as the main force smashes down the gate, the Catachan Second will be torching the enemy armoury.’
Straken looked across the faces of his men, and felt both pride and a sense of deep responsibility. They were fixed on Greiss, listening intently. The Catachans were a rough lot, tough and often insubordinate, but they knew to show respect when it was deserved. And if anyone deserved respect, it was General Greiss.
We’ll get the job done, Straken thought. We’ll kill as many orks as we can find, and blast their vehicles into scrap. Sure, we don’t have the neatest uniforms, or a bunch of pretty flags, but since when have we needed things like that? He glanced to his right, at the commissar in his neat red and black, and doubted that Morrell would have the sense to understand it.
‘You will work alone,’ Greiss continued. His voice, made even more cracked by the vox-amplification, sounded barely human. ‘Contact with the other Guard regiments, at least to begin with, will be very limited. That means you’ll be relying on your own equipment and abilities. To most men, that would be a hindrance. But I grew up on Catachan, and I know that for you it is an advantage. So be swift, men. Travel light and walk quietly. Leave no ork alive. Destroy their factories and their means of armament, and leave them with nothing. Strip them of their weaponry, root them out of the factories they have stolen and defiled. For, thanks to the Catachan Second, the cleansing of Dulma’lin will begin in Excelsis City.’
Straken looked at Greiss, as did the rest of his men. He wondered what was going on on Dulma’lin now, whether its inhabitants knew that they had not been abandoned. The Imperial Guard was not a cruel organisation – nor were the masters of strategy who controlled it, somewhere on the far side of the Imperium – but it was callous in its slowness to respond. A world like Dulma’lin would be as likely to be left to fall as to be rescued, just because in the grand strategy of the empire of man it mattered so little. The inhabitants, all twenty million of them, might simply be eclipsed by the need to preserve billions more elsewhere.
Standing there beside Greiss, a man he had trusted a hundred times, Straken knew that there was more to this than he had been told – perhaps more than Greiss himself knew. He looked down the line, from Greiss to Morrell to the tech-priest lurking in the shadows like a half-forgotten statue, and wondered who had called for the planet to be liberated.
‘Colonel Straken,’ Greiss said, and he carefully stepped back.
Straken moved up to the vox-mic. A high-pitched buzzing rose in his head, seeming to come from behind his bionic eye. It must have been damaged when he was knocked out. He ignored it. ‘All right, you know how it is. All of you will have fought orks before, and probably in a city as well, so you know the sort of thing we’ll be up against. The greenskins will be down there with not much to do except fight each other, which will make us a godsend for them. That means we’ll be busy, and you know they won’t back away from a scrap.’
He flexed the fingers of his metal hand. ‘All of which suits me fine, and if you’re half the men I’ve trained you to be, ought to suit you pretty well too. We’re going to go in, do what needs doing, and get out. I’ll be working for you, so Emperor help me if you don’t work for me. That’s all I’ve got to say, except give ’em hell, Catachan!’
Straken got the cheer he had hoped for. Morrell puffed his chest out and cocked his head back. Greiss nodded, satisfied.
The Ministorum priest stepped forward and his scratchy, amplified voice echoed across the massive hall. Heads lowered, the regiment received the Emperor’s blessing.
The priest stepped back and Greiss prepared to leave the platform. It was time to get to work.
The longer Straken served the Guard, the less there seemed to be to leave behind. He locked his few possessions in the metal chest in his room, loaded his pack and headed out. He’d miss the vox-phonograph, but that was the only thing he’d regret having to leave. Other men had families and rooms full of clutter picked up on campaigns, but Straken had always travelled light. It was part of growing up on a death world – when life was dangerous and delicate, you began to treasure sights and memories, not things.
In the hall, spinning warning lights threw strange shadows across the hold. The drop-ships stood in a row, their noses jutting out like bullets in the same magazine. The drone of engines mingled with the amplified chanting of tech-priests: a rising, growing wall of noise. It had not reached its peak yet, for Straken could hear the sergeants yelling at their men as they jogged up the ramp into their transports. Straken looked down the row of ships. The nearest was to carry the command staff. The words Fist of Drusus were written in scrolling script on its massive flank.
Twenty soldiers trooped past, one of them hauling a packed-up mortar, and their lieutenant gave Straken a quick salute before leading them into the hold.
Captain Tanner stood at one side, arms folded, watching the men carefully. Straken wondered if he was counting them on – a servitor’s job, surely. He stepped to the captain’s side.
‘Something wrong, Tanner?’
‘No, sir. Nothing at all. They’re looking good, that’s all.’
‘Glad to hear it. After being stuck on t
his crate, I can see why they want to hit planetside. Now, get ’em packed in and let’s go.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And watch for the commissar. Don’t let him trip over his coat.’
Tanner smiled. Straken walked away.
He watched the entire division load up. They moved well, quick and efficient. Even the mounted guns, always a curse on the men who carried them, were stowed as rapidly as he could have wanted. Finally, their heavy support moved up: six Sentinel walkers, one for each drop-ship, stalked by on jointed legs like giant wading birds, their pneumatics wheezing. They passed the colonel, each cockpit two-and-a-half metres off the ground, and stomped up the ramp of their assigned ships. Every Sentinel bore a fresh purity seal; they all had white kill markings painted on their fuselages.
Straken looked to the left and saw figures in the observation bay on the far side of the hall. General Greiss gave him a brisk salute.
Straken returned it and followed Captain Tanner up the ramp of Fist of Drusus. At the top, Lavant was talking to one of the drop-ship crew, pointing to something on the man’s roster sheet. ‘All good to go, colonel,’ he called over the engine noise.
The colour sergeant, Halda, sat by the door. He looked as quiet and gloomy as ever, frowning into his beard. Straken knew better. He took his seat and strapped himself in. Commissar Morrell sat opposite, carefully brushing a speck of dirt off his lapel.
The ramp swung up like a drawbridge. The sound of it closing boomed through the drop-ship’s hull, setting the floor quivering. Buckles clattered as the men fastened their harnesses.
‘Here we go,’ Halda said.
Clamps banged open. The drop-ship fell, and Straken’s guts churned. Teeth gritted, Morrell took a gilt-edged copy of the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer out of his jacket and flipped it open. The metal glinted in the dim light.
Far away, at the other end of the hold, someone retched, and someone else gave a mocking cheer. Engine noise roared around the hold, as if a storm battered it, and the ship rushed towards Dulma’lin.
Two turbulent hours into the flight, and the vox-comm called Straken’s name. He unfastened his harness and walked down the length of the hold, keeping his footing with an effort. He reached the steps, where a notice in Gothic warned that only Naval personnel were allowed. An orderly met him there, and pointed him down to the cockpit. ‘The captain thought you might want to see the city from above, colonel.’
Bundles of wire dangled from the ceiling like creepers. Straken headed to the cockpit. In an alcove, two servitors clattered to one another in binaric. A tall, thin man sat by a vox screen, carefully tuning a dial in the manner of someone trying to crack a safe. The ship shuddered in the turbulence as Straken reached the cockpit.
The doors parted and he found himself looking at a small person in a heavy, silver-visored helmet. It took him a moment to realise it was a woman. She sat in a massive, throne-like chair, the back shaped like the wings of a double-headed eagle. Behind her, banks of dials clicked and flickered. Wires from the chair ran into the back of her helmet.
The command seat turned her to face Straken. The woman gave him a quick, functional salute, but did not rise. Straken wondered if the chair contained a neural interface, linking her mind to the ship itself. He’d heard of such things being used in spacecraft. ‘Colonel. I’m Captain Mortenz. This is Flight-Lieutenant Essler. I thought you might want to get an overhead view.’
‘Appreciated.’
Straken stepped past a row of levers to get to the viewports. There was one other occupant of the cockpit, a young man who seemed to be doing the actual manoeuvring. Presumably Essler. ‘Colonel, sir,’ he said, not looking round, and he pressed his mouthpiece and resumed the clipped, rapid jargon of the Navy: ‘Confirming a five-oh-seven, decensis facilis. Emperor protect you too, over.’
‘How long till we touch down?’ Straken asked.
‘Sixteen minutes, estimated,’ the pilot replied. She flicked up her visor. There were scars around her left eye, as if the eyeball had been pulled out by clawed hands. The pupil was discoloured, but did not seem to be blind. Her features were sharp. She reminded Straken of a hawk. ‘There’s no way a ship like this can put down without a few greenskins noticing. You’d be surprised how effective some of their scanning kit can be. Given the area, we’ll probably get some small arms fire, light support weapons and such, but we’ll be away before they have the chance to bring any heavy weapons up.’
‘I hope so. I need a quick dispersal.’
‘Not a problem, colonel. We can lay down suppressing fire easily enough. This crate’s equipped with ordnance that’d make a Baneblade envious. Half a dozen autocannons – twin linked, of course–’
Flight-Lieutenant Essler looked round. ‘Captain. Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got a clear visual. Here, colonel.’
‘I see it,’ Straken replied. He could hardly not. Fist of Drusus had pushed through the last layer of cloud, and Excelsis City lay before it. Image enhancers in the onboard pict screens gave the city a pale, ghostly quality. Fifty kilometres to the planetary south, the captive city lay almost completely buried, like a landmine. A grey-brown rash of thick forest surrounded it. To the north, a lattice of fissures glowed in the screen. Lava glowed in the cracks.
It looked exactly the sort of place to find monsters. And with the orks in charge of the place, they would be doing just that. Straken felt a tightening in his gut: not fear, exactly, but the sense of being wary and alert, the knowledge that a fight was not far away.
The city protruded from the ground in the form of domes containing wind-traps, air vents and meteorological stations. No doubt, Straken thought, the orks would have been doing their utmost to turn it into a chaotic hell. He thought of the briefing, and of the civilians driven out and murdered for no apparent purpose other than to insult the Imperium. The wariness was joined by impatience. Soon he would be doing what he did best.
‘We’re above the landing point,’ Captain Mortenz announced. ‘There’s a clearing in the forest where we’ll set down. The info says the ground’s solid enough – all the caves make most of this place risky to touch down.’
‘Sensorium detects pinging from the ground,’ Essler said. ‘Looks like light armour. Probably a looting crew with a wagon.’
‘We can take that out once we land,’ Straken said.
Mortenz shook her head, and a wad of cables flicked out behind her helmet like a wire braid. ‘No need, colonel. The Fist of Drusus can do that easily. Allow me.’
The chair’s hydraulics whined, and it rose up smoothly. It halted a couple of centimetres from the ceiling. In a tiny shrine mounted above the doors, the scrimshawed skull of a former ace looked down on them all. Mortenz kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the skull’s forehead. She checked a rotating counter in a plasteel frame, then knocked a row of switches down with the side of her hand. The chair hissed as it lowered her back down.
Straken frowned. No doubt the Navy could clear the path for them, but he would rather have made the kill himself. His men were easily up to the task, and he preferred the certainty of knowing that the orks were wiped out. Some lander crews had a different definition of securing a perimeter to the unfortunates they left behind.
On a screen to his right, images flickered. A pict-feed in the belly of the ship picked out tiny scurrying things, like insects. As they dropped he made out broad shoulders and thick bodies: ork troopers, seen from the top down. A transport vehicle stood beside them.
A beam of bright light lanced from the Fist of Drusus and the front of the ork truck burst in a flower of white fire. Servitor-guided assault cannons opened up, raining shells on the remaining xenos. They scattered and the guns swung to follow them. A few ork guns flickered on the ground, then went dark.
‘Orks,’ Mortenz said. ‘Thick as grox. You’re clear.’
‘Thanks,’ Straken said.
He turned and hurried back down the corridor, past the clattering servitors and the man hu
nched over his dials, and rejoined his men. He sat down by his command team and pulled his shotgun across his lap.
Opposite, Morrell had crossed his legs. He was wearing a pair of tough combat boots; otherwise, his commissar’s dress uniform was parade-ground pristine.
‘One minute to landing,’ the vox-comm announced. ‘Emperor protect you, Guardsmen.’
The man on Straken’s right murmured ‘You too.’ At the far end of the hold, a soldier made the sign of the aquila across his chest.
Straken stood up. ‘Listen up,’ he called. ‘When we touch down, I want full combat dispersal as soon as that door drops open. The Navy’s shot up a few orks down there – there may be more left. Vox, get up here. Halda, where’s that banner?’
The colour sergeant made his way to join Straken at the door. The regimental standard was rolled up, like a spear in his big hands.
‘Get ready!’
The ship hit the ground. A massive clang rang through the dark hold; voices cursed, and suddenly the air was full of the sound of harnesses clicking open. Straken looked round, and saw Morrell beside him, bolt pistol already drawn. The ramp swung down and hit the ground with a sound like thunder.
‘Move it,’ Straken barked. ‘With me!’ And he strode into the warm night air, the standard raised behind him.
4.
The Catachans spread out from the landing point like a ripple. Twenty men under Sergeant Carrow secured the landing point and checked that none of the orks around the drop zone had survived. A second team took charge of unloading the ship, portioning out the gear according to Guard doctrine. The others cleared the area as quickly as possible, Straken at the front.
They slipped into the forest like a rising tide between the trees, preceded by a bow wave of scouts. They kept vox chatter to a minimum, deploying like the parts of an unfolding machine.
