by Toby Frost
Tanner pointed to the door leading out of the stairwell. ‘Look at that lock. It’s been picked.’
Pharranis lowered his flask. ‘By orks?’
Tanner was right. There were scratches on the metal. They looked recent.
Straken clicked his fingers. Heads turned; the men straightened up and came to life. Pharranis slipped his flask back in his thigh pocket and stepped to one side of the door. Tanner took up his knife, ready to run in.
Straken turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Three bodies hung from the ceiling by their heels: two men and a woman. They all
wore uniforms, the black and purple of the Dulma’lin local defence force. Their arms hung down, as though they were about to dive into a pool. Straken tapped Tanner’s arm and gestured for him to stay put.
Straken crept out – not towards the corpses, but around the edge of the room, keeping to the shadows as best as he could. Banks of controls filled the walls. A couple of diodes winked and glimmered, still running.
Straken gestured and Tanner’s men crept forwards to join him, splitting into three groups to cover the room.
The colonel stepped into the centre of the room. Behind him, Tanner whispered, ‘Careful…’
The nearest dead man had been killed by a single cut across the throat. It was a hideous wound, but it was neat work for an ork: they would often hack their victims apart in a fit of bloodlust. Straken paused, not able to place what was missing from the scene. He remembered the body of the soldier killed in the fight with the ork mech, and realised what had been taken from the dangling bodies.
Their collars had been torn open. They had no dog tags. With their shirts ripped like that, the tags ought to be dangling past their faces.
Straken looked around the room, at the consoles and the floor. Without touching the bodies, he squatted down and looked into the dead, empty faces.
They had all been scalped, just behind the hairline. It looked like a gory version of a monk’s tonsure. It was easy to miss when they hung upside-down.
Orks often took trophies, but whole heads and hands were their usual choice. Straken stepped away, shaking his head. ‘Xenos savages,’ he said. ‘Let’s get these people down. Tanner, mark this place on your map. I want an observation point up here.’
Two men cut the bodies down and laid them out neatly on the floor. A third Guardsman checked the room. A desk of switches and dials controlled the broadcast apparatus.
Pharranis ran a hand over his bald, dented scalp as he rooted through a rack of vox-phonograph tubes. ‘“Mass for the Golden Throne”,’ he read, slowly and carefully. ‘“Symphony of the Thousand Acolytes”. Who the hell listens to this kind of stuff?’
‘Just get on with it, sergeant,’ Straken replied, and he turned to the window.
He boosted his vision and looked out across the roofs outside. From their vantage point, he could see over the hab-blocks of the entire cavern. Most had small mushroom-gardens on their flat roofs. A few halls and workshops broke up the endless rows of apartment buildings. Nothing looked inhabited. Wondering where the music had come from, he turned to the north.
In a broad street, half hidden by the surrounding buildings, a river of vehicles was travelling north-west. Straken increased the amplification, feeling a twinge of pain behind his eye, and his stomach tensed. He was looking at a column of tanks.
There could be no doubt about it. They were the tanks from the Selvian Dragoons. Sheet metal had been welded to them, trophies fixed to the gun barrels and the turrets, but they were Guard vehicles. He was looking at the looted remnants of the army that had come to free Dulma’lin.
Seeing them, he realised that he had hoped that he was wrong, that he had made some mistake and that General Greiss’s armoured formations would roll in and smash the orks, just as they had been promised. There was no chance of that now.
Just you and me now, Killzkar. Not even a full regiment of us and who knows how many thousands of you.
Men had been tied to the front of a Chimera, strung between the guns. As Straken watched, one of them struggled to free himself. It was a feeble effort; the man’s uniform was filthy, his weary face streaked with muck. He lowered his magnoculars and tried to push the Guardsman out of his mind. The chances were that the orks would simply butcher their prisoners, or perhaps put them to work; had Straken had a sniper rifle, he would have killed the man to stop him falling into ork hands.
Tanner stood beside him. His round face was calm and hard, as if at a funeral.
Straken said, ‘You see that?’
Down in the city, the tiny tanks rolled past as if they were on a conveyor belt. Tanner said, ‘How could I miss it?’
‘They’re headed north,’ Straken said. He turned away from the window with an effort. Part of him felt guilty for doing that; it felt like he was sealing the fate of the man tied to the Chimera. Of course I’m not, he told himself. That had been decided a long while ago. ‘Get the map out.’
The soldiers pulled a table over and laid the map out. Straken tapped their location with a metal finger. ‘Gather round. We’re here. I want this tower permanently manned. We’ll set up a supply route between here and the guild outpost, rig it with traps and make sure none of the orks get down here. Our next task is going to be to spread our influence from the power station and the guild hideout up here, to make the whole cavern south of here a no-go area for the orks.’
‘Not a problem. Unless the orks bring those tanks back down here, that is.’
‘I don’t think they will.’ Straken swept his hand up the map. ‘Ever go up against an ork tank?’
‘Course,’ Tanner said, and there was a murmur of agreement from the men.
‘They can’t field anything without cutting it about first. So, I reckon they’ve got a workshop somewhere to the north. And,’ he added, tapping the map with his steel finger, ‘that’s where the big manufactoria are.’
Tanner peered at the map. ‘Specus Aedificata. Looks like that’s the name of the whole factory cavern.’
Straken said, ‘I’d bet that map we found on the ork enginseer was of places to loot. They’ll have taken the tanks they captured to the manufactoria, and they’re looking for other gear to use. That means that the manufactoria’s our main target. But first, I want this whole area scouted and purged of orks. We don’t need to go in as a horde – in fact, the quieter we do it, the better. Ten twenty-man teams ought to do it, with the Sentinels as backup. They’ll start to leave it alone when their patrols stop coming back.’
‘Yeah,’ Guardsman Orlow said, ‘the greenskins are too lazy to do a good patrol.’
Tanner nodded. ‘I like it. Take ’em out nice and quiet. They’ll never know what’s hit ’em.’
Straken nodded. ‘From what I’ve seen, there’s not much in the hab-zones that the orks’ll want to steal. That means we can take them without too much trouble – quietly.’ He swept his hand across the cavern. ‘Then we set up food and ammo caches, say, here and here. There’re shops and defence force stores, probably a couple of enforcer buildings we could fortify.’ He moved his hand north, the metal fingers spreading over the industrial caverns as if to grab them. ‘And once the hab-zones are ours, we’ll launch an attack on the Specus Aedificata. Because if we’re going to conquer this place, it’ll be a hell of a lot easier without the orks having armour on their side. If we smash up their armouries, we’ll only have the foot soldiers to contend with.’
No tanks, but foot soldiers by the tens of thousands, Straken thought. Once again he felt the urge to step out of cover, to lead his men in one great charge against the aliens – and suppressed it. Not yet, he thought, not here. There would be a time to burst from cover and give the ork leaders the surprise they so greatly deserved – but later.
He suspected that the men around him were thinking the same, but none of them showed it. He felt pleased, oddly comfortable in the knowledge that he had a plan and the men to put it into action.
&nbs
p; ‘Five of you are staying here,’ he added. ‘Get the vox-comm working and keep in contact. Let us know what’s going on with the orks. We’ll bring more people up.’ He turned towards the door. For a moment Straken recalled the man strapped to the Chimera, and thought that if he could not save the soldier, he would at least have the satisfaction of punishing the orks for their crimes. There might not be mercy for the Guardsmen of General Greiss’s army, but there would at least be justice.
11.
I have been on – or more precisely under – Dulma’lin for three months and six days, local time. We have been busy since the destruction of the invasion fleet, but the days have gone slowly – painfully slowly – for me.
I had anticipated that Straken would want to attack the orks, and I was not wrong. His reputation for ferocity seems deserved. But he has more self-control than I had expected. I had thought that, since we are clearly outnumbered and almost certainly going to die in this place, he would have wanted to end it with a final charge against the enemy, taking as many of them with us as possible in the Emperor’s name.
Instead, his plan is to take the city by stealth. Units have infiltrated several of the caverns, hunting out and killing orks whenever they venture in to loot. By now, about a third of Excelsis City is ‘ours’, in that the orks do not go there, either out of fear or the knowledge that there is nothing worth looting there.
But our numbers are low. We lost a tenth of our force to an accident even before we reached the city. Seventy-three more were put out of action in the fight for the gates. Although we have the advantage of surprise, the orks still take their toll on us. And it seems that they are getting harder to kill. Over the last month, men have disappeared from patrols; several have stumbled into traps or simply vanished. I find it hard to credit the orks with such skill, but do they have soldiers able to go as quietly as us?
We move almost constantly. The civilian militia train in the rear bases; the Catachans move gear between safe-houses in the forward areas. Straken believes that if one stash is captured, the loss will not be too great. His aim is to slip between the orks’ fingers when they reach for us, and then to stab them when their backs are turned. And I cannot deny that so far it has worked. Twice, whole groups of orks have come into the hab-caverns, perhaps looking for us. Once they simply gave up after a day and left; the second time Captain Piter Lavant, a more disciplined Catachan than most, set a careful ambush and wiped sixty of them out.
For now, it works. But the orks must surely know of the existence of an organised resistance by now. They must have some inkling that there are trained soldiers fighting them. Even creatures that stupid cannot miss the fact that sizeable numbers of their comrades have gone missing. Perhaps the local chieftains fear to inform their superiors of their losses. Straken may be skilled at evasion, but he prolongs the inevitable. Well, if I must die here, as I suspect will be the case, so be it. My soul is clean.
Which is more than can be said for the Catachans. They are a coarse, vulgar band, prone to irreverent conduct and dangerous levels of individualism. That said, there is no denying that these barbarians know how to kill orks. No doubt the jungle-fighting skills acquired on their wretched home world have helped them in this mess of deserted buildings and fungal forests. Nevertheless, I would advise any other commissar dealing with them to keep as stern a line as possible, as I have striven to do. It is well-said that the mind free to wander will inevitably stray from the path of righteousness.
I know that I am being watched, and not just by the xenos. During the destruction of the invading army, Catachan units retreated from the city gates without an apparent order from a senior officer. I attempted to restore order by executing a certain Lieutenant Zandro, who was calling for his men to fall back. Although I acted in accordance with Commissariat protocols, my actions inevitably created resentment among the men. I gather this Zandro was a friend of Captain Hal-Do Tanner, one of Straken’s chief subordinates. From what I know of the Catachan temperament, I expect this Tanner to seek revenge, and I fully expect Straken to turn a blind eye to any plot against me. Should I not return, I formally request an investigation into Captain Tanner and Colonel Straken, for murder and collusion respectively.
In the meantime I will continue with my duty in the name of the Emperor and the Imperial Guard. If, despite my endeavours, I do not return, I commend my soul to the Master of Mankind and this report to the Commissariat.
In faith and purity, Commissar Octavius Morrell.
Colonel Straken turned to the charts pinned to the wall, the spools of paper taken from servitor-scribes and now covered in the names of his men and the places they patrolled, the little desk with its neat piles of records noted down by Lavant. He reached up and ran his flesh-and-blood hand over his scalp, felt the prickles where he needed to shave his head.
He said, ‘Twenty-eight men don’t just disappear.’
‘I know,’ Tanner replied.
There were six of them in the room: Straken, his two captains, Commissar Morrell and the two civilian representatives, Larn Tarricus of the miners’ guild and Jocasta Ferrens, former senator of Dulma’lin. It had been Lavant’s idea to call meetings in the power station to check their progress. Red lines and circles marked their successes on the chart. Widening concentric rings showed the buildings falling quietly – but often bloodily – under Catachan control.
‘That’s a lot of people,’ Straken said. ‘First, an entire patrol, and then the men sent to look for them. And nothing left behind.’
‘Not a trace,’ Tanner said.
Lavant stood beside the charts, arms folded. It seemed like his natural habitat, Straken thought. The captain’s finger followed one of the red outlines on the map. ‘And all in this sector. Hmm.’
Tarricus leaned forward. His balding head gleamed in the harsh lumen-strips. ‘That’s a hab-zone.’
‘Then it should be ours,’ Straken replied. ‘It’s close to the edge of the industrial district, which means ork territory, but still… It’s us the orks ought to be fearing, not the other way around.’
Morrell sat bolt upright in his chair, like a grim-faced doll. There was a chipped cup of Barabo tea on the table before him. The Dulmalians took it cold, which seemed to suit the commissar. ‘I find it hard to believe that greenskins could do something like this. At least, not so quietly. It’s well known that the orks can barely move without bellowing at each other.’ He frowned. ‘Could there have been some kind of accident? A cave-in, perhaps?’
Straken glanced at Tarricus. ‘Guildmaster?’
The little man shook his head. ‘In that cavern? Not the way they’re excavated. The odds against it would be enormous.’
‘It’s round there that we heard that hymn,’ Tanner said. He looked at Straken. ‘You remember?’
It took Straken a moment to realise what he meant. ‘The one played over loudspeakers, up near the vox tower?’
‘That’s it.’
Lavant turned from the maps. ‘There are sewers in the hab-zones. Maybe the orks’ve been hiding in them.’
‘Maybe,’ said Tarricus. ‘But I don’t think the orks could fit in them. Maybe those gretchin things…’ He shuddered.
Jocasta Ferrens had spent the meeting sitting slightly back from the table, a lho-stick burning slowly between her thin fingers. She leaned forwards. ‘Might not be orks killing them,’ she said.
‘Then who?’ Morrell demanded.
The ex-senator smiled at him, without humour. It made her look feral and hungry. ‘Men, of course.’
Tanner said, ‘You think the orks have allies?’
Straken had expected the commissar to interrupt, to say that no man would lower himself to working with an ork. But perhaps Morrell had heard the same rumours as Straken, of mercenaries who would sell their own species out for money, or men who would rather prolong their lives under ork rule than accept a death that would commend them to the Emperor.
‘If they do,’ Straken said, ‘Emperor have mercy
on them. Because I won’t.’
‘Well said,’ Morrell added. Tanner glanced at the commissar, then looked quickly away.
Lavant rubbed his smooth chin. Unlike most of the others, he shaved every day. His neatness was peculiar, Straken thought: unnatural, somehow. ‘There was a child you brought back a while ago,’ he said, looking at Tanner. ‘A girl, I think. She said something about a father, I believe.’
Tanner nodded. ‘That’s right. In the north-west. They took her back to the civilians down at the mining camp.’
Tarricus said, ‘I can have my people find out her name. I’ll ask.’
‘Do that,’ Straken said. ‘Lavant, you’re good at pathfinding. Get some of your demolitions people together – ten good men should do it. We’ll head out to the vox tower tomorrow. Commissar, I’d like you to come along too.’
‘I was going to suggest it,’ Morrell replied. He paused a second and added, ‘Colonel, I’m sure you won’t want to hear this, but I do have to consider the possibility that these men may have decided not to come back. I’ll need to make sure.’
Straken said, ‘What? First, they’re Catachans, and my regiment. That doesn’t happen. And supposing it did – where would they go?’
Tanner snorted. ‘You think he cares?’ he said. ‘Our good commissar just wants to shoot someone, just in case.’
Morrell lurched forward in his chair. He suddenly looked huge, as wide as a bull. ‘Colonel Straken, I will not tolerate that sort of talk. Captain Tanner has hidden behind you for long enough. I am sworn to do my duty.’
‘And a little bit more, eh?’ Tanner said.
Morrell jerked upright. His chair clattered onto the floor behind him. ‘I will not tolerate this! Straken, you will keep your dogs in line, or my superiors will hear of it. And you,’ he added, turning to Tanner, ‘are treading close to the line. Be careful, captain. Very careful.’
Tanner’s eyes were hard and clear. ‘Why don’t we do it now?’ he said. His voice was flat. ‘Well? You want to hand out a beating, commissar. Here I am. Or do you have to shoot from behind, like you did Zandro?’ He unzipped his combat vest. The scars on his bare chest were like white ridges on the flesh. There was a dagger tattooed over his heart, point upwards.
