by Toby Frost
There was nothing to worry about. He’d give the medics a suitable story – a lookout falling from his post at the chapel down the road, perhaps – and even if they didn’t all go to check it out, he’d have enough opportunity to get to work. He thought about the laspistol at his side, and the knife on his left hip. It would be easy.
And yet he still wanted to search the area. Tanner looked back the way that he’d seen Lavant looking sometimes, as if expecting to see an evil spirit following him, or a sniper tracking him. As Tanner reached the power station, he realised what it was: not the fear of pain or death, but the knowledge that he was about to do something that his commanders, and the whole bureaucracy of the Imperial Guard, would never allow.
Morrell’s back was uncomfortable. He stood up from his chair, grimacing at the far wall. At least he’d been able to get the medic to remove his splint, and to move back to the room at the rear of the power station, taking a pallet-bed with him. He was not a good patient, and enforced idleness infuriated him. He’d been tempted to hack the bandages off with his power sword a month back, although that would probably have taken his leg off too. Morrell was an enthusiastic swordsman, but not a precise one.
He limped across the room and lowered himself onto the pallet. He could walk with a stick now, although he limped like a broken servitor. Good thing that he’d brought his marching boots; the other pair had been sliced open to get to his wound. Now the pain was no longer a sharp jabbing at the surface of the wound, but a deeper ache, steady and relentless, that told him that he was almost healed.
Not long, he thought, not long at all. Soon he’d be leading from the front again. That was the only way to get through to these Catachan louts, he’d decided; probably the only reason why they hadn’t left him for the orks was that he’d been surrounded by dead xenos when they passed by.
Strangely, he’d not heard from the medics for a few hours. Perhaps they thought they had better things to do. They weren’t a bad lot – technically out of his jurisdiction, not being military personnel, but sufficiently afraid of him to actually do their job and obey when he told them to leave him alone.
The stripe of light under the door flickered. Someone was outside. Morrell slid his hand to his side and called, ‘Medic? I need–’
The door opened. A fist that held an autopistol came in first, as a voice above it said, ‘Don’t move.’
Morrell froze, his hand near his own gun – but not quite on it.
Tanner walked in and closed the door behind him. ‘Commissar,’ he said. ‘And how are we today?’
‘Where are the guards?’
‘Busy elsewhere. They had a report of a fall a little way away. They’ll be back later… But not too soon. Anyhow, how are you these days?’
‘I was getting better,’ Morrell replied. ‘But now…’ The words came out with a little difficulty. He had always expected to laugh in the face of certain death, but now that it had come for him, he seemed destined just to sit and glare at it.
‘That was quite a fall you took, out of the back of that truck. I’m surprised you didn’t get more injured.’
And no doubt disappointed, Morrell thought.
‘I think you were pretty lucky. In fact,’ Tanner added, taking a step closer to the bed, ‘there’s a nasty rumour going round that you didn’t fall out at all. I’ve even heard people saying that you were pushed.’
Tanner’s face was quite round, for a Catachan, and while he wasn’t fat – none of them were – there was something about his features that suggested jollity. He was the sort of man who looked best smiling. The cold resolution of his features made him seem unwell, or crazed. The pistol appeared tiny at the end of his muscular arm, gripped in his massive fist.
Quietly, Tanner sat down on the end of the bed. Morrell felt the weight of the bed shift, and for a moment thought his leg was going to hurt. It didn’t.
‘I expect you want to talk about the man I executed,’ Morrell said.
‘His name was Zandro.’
‘Zandro, then. I suppose you expect me to have to explain myself to you?’
‘You can try. Seeing as I’m the one with the gun, you might want to try pretty damn hard.’ The calmness of Tanner’s voice was frightening. Morrell had expected him to rage, to wave his arms around to give the commissar time to grab his bolt pistol from under the sheet. No such luck.
‘He broke rank,’ Morrell said. ‘I saw him come running back from the gates, shouting about falling back, giving the order to retreat out of thin air. He gave no reason for running, no plan for a rendezvous or a second front. It looked like cowardice.’
‘Zandro was a friend of mine. He was a good soldier – not a coward. The Emperor knows that. So does everyone else.’
‘I can only tell you what I saw, and what I saw was a Guardsman attempting to initiate a full retreat. We all have our duty, captain,’ Morrell replied. ‘Yours is to destroy heresy on the worlds of the Imperium. Mine is to destroy it in the hearts of men. Better one man should die than a thousand, or even a dozen, risk corruption.’ He was reciting the phrases his tutors had drilled into him at the schola progenium, but they were not just a comfort – they made him feel proud. So what if he was a brutal man, doing a thankless job? So what if this half-savage Catachan was going to kill him over the death of some unimportant thug that he’d considered a friend? Morrell would die without fear, as hard and unforgiving as the Emperor could want a commissar to be.
Tanner didn’t pull the trigger. He still wanted to talk. ‘You know, I thought about that. Whether you really thought Zandro was breaking rank, or whether you just killed him because you didn’t much like the guy… Maybe you were honestly wrong. But you know what I think, commissar?’
‘No,’ Morrell said. ‘And I don’t care what you think, captain, no matter what sized gun you point at me.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought. You don’t give a toss. After all, it’s only some Guardsman. If you get it wrong, there’ll always be some other poor kid to take his place. The one thing the Imperium isn’t going to run out of is men. You people think you’re doing the Emperor’s work, which in actual fact means you get to do whatever you like. You don’t see many soldiers complaining to the Commissariat, do you?’
Morrell waited.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ Tanner said. ‘Want to know why? It’s not because you don’t deserve it, because as far as I’m concerned, you’re a murderer. I don’t give a damn about you – to be honest, the galaxy would be a better place with you not in it. But I’ve got orders not to harm you, orders from someone worth hearing. Catachan’s a hellhole, you know, for all we talk about it like we miss it. But anyone who can get out of there alive is worth listening to. If it wasn’t for Straken I’d be dead a dozen times over. You’d be dead too. So when he gives an order, I listen. As for you, you’re just another leash they send to keep us in line, while they give us the dirty work to do.’
He slid the gun into a holster on his hip. For a moment, Tanner could have been a friend come to visit a sickly relative.
‘Get well soon, commissar,’ he said, and leaned over as if to pat Morrell; instead, he thumped his palm down on the commissar’s leg.
Pain shot through the Morrell’s body like lightning. He yelped. He heard himself hiss between gritted teeth. Aftershocks ran through him. As Morrell took a slow, deep, pained breath, Tanner rose to his feet and opened the door. For a moment the light outside silhouetted the captain, and then the door closed and Morrell was alone again.
Very slowly, he reached out and touched his leg. Emperor be thanked, it hadn’t broken again. It hurt – the ache was as steady and pounding as a tide – but it was just the bruising that Tanner had hit. Already the agony had begun to fade, although it would be a long while before it was gone.
He sat there, feeling one emotion after another. First, relief, and then furious outrage that some ignorant jungle-crawler could address a commissar like that. And then confusion as to what he wou
ld do next. He wondered what would cause Tanner the most distress, and then what a perfect commissar would do. Only then, when he had answered none of those questions, did Morrell realise that he could easily have shot Tanner in the back as he left the room.
16.
Two days later, Straken moved his men up through the hab-caverns. He told Lavant to bring his best: a hundred infiltrators and demolitions experts, men with long histories of sabotage and reconnaissance. They swung out on an arc, to avoid the mouth of the tunnel that led into the industrial caves. They were the first team.
The second team consisted of several hundred men, under Tanner’s command. Once the infiltrators had hit the tunnel defences from behind, the main assault would begin, down the tunnel and into the caverns beyond. From there, they would fight their way to the gargant and blow the accursed thing apart.
Straken watched his troops advance. They passed as quietly through the empty streets as they would have done through a jungle. Faces, knives and gun barrels were darkened with soot. Commands were made in whispers and hand signs; for once, nobody joked. The sight of the Catachans advancing reminded him of the falling-back from the gates, when Killzkar’s mechs had brought the Guard tanks into the city. But this time, the faces were hard and determined, the pace of the men’s boots quick and businesslike. Emperor willing, today the war was truly going back to the orks.
Their heavy weapons were carried in mining trucks. Extra armour had been welded onto the vehicles, great slabs of plasteel cut out of the guild buildings, so that they looked like metal castles on wheels. A truck slowed before him, and Hal-Do Tanner jumped down. Seeing him approach, Straken realised how similar the captain’s usual jauntiness was to the hunger for battle on his face right now.
‘How’s it going?’ Straken asked.
‘Good. The men’re keen, that’s for sure. It’ll take an hour to get into position. Just give us the signal once you get to the top of the tunnel and we’ll come down to meet you. And Emperor help any ork that gets in between!’
‘What about the locals?’
‘They’re just as eager. They’ve got just as much love for the orks as we have – maybe even less.’ He smiled, without much humour. ‘If you tell old Tarricus that the raid’s been put back, he’ll probably go in there himself, with an autogun in one hand and a hammer in the other.’
‘He’s got cause,’ Straken said. Another truck rolled past, rumbling and creaking under its new armour. A Sentinel strutted along behind it like a handler driving a beast, a pod of krak missiles fixed beside the cab.
And then there were the orderlies, standing ready to take the inevitable wounded out of the line as quickly as possible. Even the stretcher bearers carried shotguns and autopistols: the orks made no exceptions as to who they killed. A groundcar stopped nearby, the back doors opened, and a familiar figure limped out.
Commissar Morrell walked with a stick. He wore tough army boots like a common soldier, but otherwise his uniform was undamaged, if dirty. He approached, grimacing a little, and stopped a couple of metres away. He saluted.
‘Colonel,’ he said. He looked up towards the cavern roof. It was the Dulmalian equivalent of the small hours, and the light diffusers were off. Shapes spun and wheeled in the dark; the great bat-birds sweeping lazily through the clouds.
‘Commissar. How’s the leg?’
‘Healing, thank you. Almost done, in fact. However, I doubt I’ll be running anywhere soon.’ He took his cap off, ran a big hand through his dark hair and jammed the cap back on. ‘Anyway, I’m ready to resume my duties.’
‘Good. You’re going in with the main force. Captain Tanner here will be leading. If any order to retreat comes through, check it on the vox with him before taking any action. Understand?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘The signal to advance is a green flare. Once you see that, the team you’re with will attack down the tunnel. It’ll be tough, commissar. My men will stick it out, but keep an eye on the locals. They want revenge, but they may run once they start taking casualties.’
‘Understood. I’ll make sure they stay put.’
Morrell saluted again and limped back to the groundcar.
Straken looked at Tanner. ‘Still got a problem with him? Because if you have, it waits until this is done.’
‘I’ll always have a problem with him. But don’t worry. He’ll live.’
Straken took a deep breath. ‘Are you all set?’
Tanner nodded.
‘Then get your people ready and wait for my sign. Once the flare goes up, get in there and kill every green scumbag you see. Remember, we can’t get any armour up to the gargant until the tunnel’s cleared.’
Straken headed off to join his team. He took the same route they had used two days ago, when scouting the way in.
Just over a hundred men waited at the entrance to the service tunnel. For Catachans they seemed heavily equipped, with satchels and rucksacks as well as their usual gear. It was almost all explosives. If they were to wreck the gargant, they’d need all the equipment they had.
Lavant gestured to his team. ‘We’re all set, colonel.’
‘Then let’s move.’
The captain whistled. ‘We’re moving out! Form up, men! The colonel’s command squad goes first, then the rest of first team follow Sergeant Dhoi. Second team, you’re with Sergeant Carrow here.’
‘Right.’ Carrow wore a broad-brimmed hat, the Catachan bandana protruding from under it. He wore his combat vest open – his forearms and bare chest were tattooed with camouflage patterns. ‘Second team, move out the way. Let the others through!’
Straken was the first to enter the Departmento Lux electrical room, Sergeant Halda and Private Marbo close behind. They lifted the trapdoor and descended quietly into the smell of damp concrete, taking the tunnel they had followed before. Lavant and Mayne followed.
‘Vox is out of range,’ Mayne said.
‘Turn it off until I say,’ Straken replied. ‘The orks may be able to target the signal.’ He wondered what they would face, once the fighting began. Ork mechs had a strange way with machines; for brutes, they could build some remarkably complex and deadly weapons. We can take them, he thought.
They advanced down the passage, boots quiet on the dusty floor. Up ahead, the steps rose to the trapdoor. Ork territory.
He gave the hand signal for silence, and motioned for the team to dim their torches. They waited behind him in near darkness, the edge of the trapdoor marked out by a strip of light. As he had done two days before, Straken put his metal shoulder to the trapdoor and carefully pushed it up.
He climbed into the shed, hearing Marbo and Halda behind him. He motioned them to one side. Taking hold of the door, Straken opened it a crack.
Outside, nothing moved. It was three hours before the artificial dawn. The great heaps of parts and junk looked like hills in a metal landscape.
‘Looks clear,’ he whispered.
‘Colonel.’
Straken looked round. Lavant crouched beside the trapdoor, shielding his torch with his hand, looking at something on the ground.
‘Colonel, there’s something here, tied to the trapdoor. It looks like a piece of wire.’
‘A trap?’
‘I don’t know. It leads off into the wall. Doesn’t look like it does much.’ Lavant ran a gloved hand over his chin. There was tenseness to him that Straken didn’t like. ‘At least, not any more.’
‘Was it there when we came here before?’
‘I don’t know.’
For a second, Straken wondered what to do. What if the orks had detected them, somehow? No, orks couldn’t do something like that, not secretly. Then he thought of the scalped bodies they’d found in the lead up to the raid on Father Sarr’s temple. But surely that had been the work of men, not aliens.
There was no real choice in the matter. ‘Follow me,’ Straken said. ‘Be careful.’
He crept out into the dark. His men followed, spreading out from th
e entry point in standard formation, splitting to cover the angles. Straken ducked behind a heap of engine blocks, piled up like ribcages outside a monster’s den. There was something almost elegant in the way his men moved out and divided into groups, as if he was watching a machine go to work. He counted twenty, then fifty of them.
As the eighty-sixth man emerged, the flares went up.
They shot up like frightened birds, a dozen lights shooting skywards to burst and flood the ground below. ‘Ambush!’ Straken cried, and a hand-cranked siren wailed.
In the stark light of the flares, massive figures lumbered towards the Catachans. They broke from cover, seeming to form out of the junk itself. Straken saw tiny red eyes and broad, stooping bodies covered in armour plate, and then the orks opened fire.
Half a dozen men went down in a second, their blood black in the hard light. ‘Take cover!’ Straken shouted, but his men had already thrown themselves down, firing from prone. Lasgun blasts smacked into the nearest ork, sending it stumbling in a weird dance before it hit the ground. Someone cursed. Straken fired his shotgun into a brute in goggles and the remains of a long coat, blowing its hand off. It bellowed and rushed him, waving a massive wrench, and his next shot destroyed half the beast’s head.
A storm of gunfire came from the left. Floodlights banged into life. On a raised platform, greenskins worked shoulder-mounted cannons. A corporal was hit by some kind of beam and blown to pieces. One of the orks staggered back in a flurry of sparks as his gun malfunctioned. Straken saw a trooper hurl a grenade. Lavant yelled something about covering fire.
Straken blasted at the walkway. He hit an ork gunner in the leg, and the weapon slipped off its shoulder as the alien’s knee buckled. Sergeant Carrow passed something to Marbo, a broad flat disc, and Marbo rushed out of cover, head down, towards the orks.
Somebody shrieked from behind. A huge ork, almost two and a half metres tall, had grabbed one of the demolitions team and was beating him against the ground. Straken tried to get a clear shot, couldn’t, and ran straight at the monster.
