by Andy Hoare
‘Is there a problem, commissar?’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss as he approached. Flint suppressed an irritated rejoinder, annoyed with Vahn for his challenging of his orders, and with the chief warden for noticing it.
‘No problem, Gruss,’ said Flint. ‘Just having issues with the low-pass carriers.’
Gruss nodded. ‘Your scout element has pushed too far ahead and your vox-sets cannot penetrate the structural interference.’
‘Something like that,’ Flint replied flatly. ‘My scouts have reached the sub-chamber housing the walkers,’ he changed the subject. ‘It’s been fortified and it sounds like there’s a substantial rebel presence guarding it.’
‘Then we leave it to the main force,’ said Gruss. ‘As per mission parameters.’
‘Indeed,’ said Flint, feeling that the chief warden was somehow mocking him behind that glossy visor.
The force moved out, passing through the drifting banks of smog towards the sub-chamber Vahn had reported on. Soon, the fog thinned and the glare of white arc lights became visible up ahead, but just as soon it began to rain once more. Flint pulled his peaked cap down to cover his face and fastened his storm coat over his cuirass, though the oily downpour could hardly be kept out. As he trudged on, ever vigilant for signs of the enemy, Flint pondered the issue with Vahn. He’d thought the leader of the penal troopers a reliable, if hard to read soldier, but now he was showing signs of weakness. The scouts were pushing forward out of personal vox range, and Flint suspected it was a deliberate attempt to make communications between the two groups difficult. The next time Vahn found a group of rebels he thought he could take out, he might not ask for permission to engage. And that, Flint knew, could very well compromise the entire mission.
‘Anything?’ Flint snarled to Kohlz, his aide trudging along beside him with the collar of his coat turned up to ward off the downpour. ‘Any word from the scouts?’
Kohlz had his headset pressed tight to his ear in a vain attempt to keep the water out of its machine systems, and after a moment more listening to the churning garbage, he shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir, just background hash.’
‘What about the main force?’ said Flint. He still hadn’t heard a thing from the main bulk of the 77th, which should by now be ready to push into the complex once Flint’s force located the rebels’ stronghold. He knew the answer even before his aide shook his head in the negative.
The advance continued in smaller groups better able to make use of the cover afforded by the clumps of massive generatoria machinery. As he marched, the thought struck Flint that the interior of the installation was more akin to that of some grotesquely oversized engine, though he was beginning to suspect that the effect might be partly cosmetic, designed to dehumanise and brutalise the worker-convicts. Sometimes, he fancied he spied movement amongst the gears and shafts, as if the machinery was stirring. He couldn’t help but dwell on what might happen to the small, soft bodies of the troopers were they to get caught up inside those gears and pistons. He knew they would be mashed to a pulp in seconds. The tech-masons that had built the place were true masters of their art, Flint thought as he cast off the grim thoughts the architecture conjured in his mind.
Marking the sub-chamber’s position, Flint took the force in a wide loop around it. He knew his forces were easily sufficient to defeat the rebels manning the strongpoint, but equally, he wanted to avoid the alarm being raised were he to order a direct assault. Far better, he knew, to log the enemy’s strengths and push on, ever deeper into their territory.
As the force infiltrated further its members reported ever more gruesome signs of the rebels’ activities. Great smears of blood and gristle stained the rockcrete ground, even the chemical rain failing to wash them away. One group had thought to take temporary shelter from the downpour in the lee of a vast piston housing, only to find the ground crunching beneath their feet. On closer inspection, the troopers had found the blackened remains of scores of bodies carpeting the entire area, and moved on quickly. Bukin’s provosts discovered an open conduit stuffed with hundreds of mutilated bodies, the sight causing even those hardened individuals to blanch. As the force pressed on, its members became somewhat cold to the sights they were seeing, though Flint was ever watchful for signs of some individuals being pushed too far. They would either get angry, he knew, or they would crack, and it was his job to anticipate which.
‘We’re approaching another sub, sir,’ said Flint’s aide, snapping the commissar from his musings. Raising his hand to shield his face from the downpour, Flint saw that Bukin’s provosts had reached another structure, this one taking the form of a slab-like blockhouse at least ten storeys high. The frontage was dominated by an armoured portal, and from the light cast up from the top Flint judged it was roofless.
‘Gruss?’ he said as the Claviger-Primaris appeared at his side, three other wardens close behind.
‘Excoriation block, commissar,’ the chief warden responded. ‘I’m sure you know its purpose.’
Flint eyed the man’s featureless visor with suspicion, barely able to curtail his lip from snarling in response to the comment. Gruss was correct in that as a commissar he was well versed in the Rites of Excoriation, but such methods were only ever used by the Munitorum as a last resort. Clearly, the masters of Alpha Penitentia made use of them, though for no reason Flint could fathom.
Little wonder the convicts had rebelled.
‘Kohlz,’ Flint addressed his aide, deliberately not answering Gruss. ‘Anything from Vahn?’
Kohlz was fiddling with the controls of his vox-set, his face set in concentration. ‘A sub-carrier communion, sir,’ he answered. ‘I can’t read the transmission, but I can get a fix on where it’s coming from.’
Squinting through the rain towards the distant excoriation block, a sense of dread came over Commissar Flint. ‘Where?’ he growled, his gaze settling on the armoured portal.
Kohlz followed Flint’s gaze, before replying, ‘Down there, sir. Somewhere…’
‘Go!’ Vahn waved Solomon forward as he covered the alleyway with his carbine. The Jopalli disappeared into the shadows between the carceri wall and the free-standing block and Vahn lost sight of him within seconds.
‘Rotten, you’re next,’ he hissed. ‘Get moving!’ If anything, the Asgardian was an even better stealther than Solomon, melting into the darkness the second he moved into the alley.
That left just Skane.
‘You up for this?’ Vahn asked the big Elysian, just to be sure. There were still tensions between the two men, and now would be a bad time to air them.
‘After what we saw back there?’ Skane cocked his head back in the direction the scout group had come from. ‘Abso-fragging-lutely.’
‘Get moving then,’ said Vahn. ‘I’ve got you.’
Skane checked his weapon’s charge counter one last time and then ran after the first two men. Skane was nowhere near as stealthy as Solomon or Rotten, he was the wrong shape and size for it for a start and his regiment’s specialisation was entirely different. As a former Elysian drop-trooper, Skane was far more used to plummeting from a great height with only a grav-chute to save him from a messy end, or going into battle in the troop bay of a Valkyrie airborne assault carrier. Vahn grinned in wry amusement as he watched Skane move off down the alley, guessing that the Elysian was passing the other two troopers even if he couldn’t see either. With one last look around him to ensure that no enemies lurked nearby, he followed after Skane.
Although Vahn thought of the space as an alleyway, it was really just a void between the cliff-like wall of the carceri chamber and one edge of the free-standing structure. The shadows swallowed him the moment he stepped into the space, the only light that of a hazy, orange illumination flickering far overhead. The ground was covered in detritus that crunched painfully loud under Vahn’s tread. He slowed his pace and lightened his step, feeling the texture of the ground under his booted feet to ensure he didn’t give his presence away any more than he may alr
eady have done.
The alleyway was around a hundred metres in length, and all that was visible overhead was a thin strip of orange illumination. Vahn forced himself not to look upwards, knowing that even that wan light might ruin his night vision. He slowed as he saw the bulky mass of Skane’s back a few metres ahead, turning slowly to face back the way he had come, his carbine at his shoulder.
Movement. Vahn froze, the fold-down stock of his weapon pressed tight against his cheek. Whatever he’d seen, it had passed across the mouth of the alleyway at some speed but was now gone. Had it looked down the alley and seen them? He had no way to tell, but he wasn’t going to stick around and find out the hard way.
Walking backwards with his carbine still trained on the opening, Vahn caught up with Skane, who had seen something was up and was waiting with his own weapon raised and his back pressed hard against the rockcrete. Skane didn’t ask what was wrong, but Vahn raised his left hand and pantomimed a fast-walking figure moving from left to right with two down-turned fingers. Skane patted Vahn’s shoulder to indicate his understanding.
Vahn ushered Skane onwards and in another few seconds he sensed more than saw the other two scouts not far ahead. He felt a tap on his leg and looked down to see Rotten kneeling in the shadows. Vahn went down beside the Asgardian.
‘There’s an entrance round the corner,’ said Rotten. ‘Left of the end of the alley.’
Vahn realised that Rotten’s deduction was based on the quality of the sounds bouncing around the chamber. Though he hadn’t noticed it before, a low murmuring was steadily growing as the men pressed further on. Straining his ears, Vahn realised the sound was that of dozens of voices, moaning or whimpering in hushed tones. The sound dripped with misery, seeming to rise to a mournful dirge the more Vahn concentrated on it. He knew he had to find out its source.
‘To the left?’ Vahn whispered to Rotten as the other man appeared at his shoulder. Rotten nodded, and Vahn leaned out to take a look.
Another thirty or so metres along the wall, Vahn saw a tall opening. The same orange light that flickered high above shone from the portal, reflecting on the damp floor in front of it. But it wasn’t just the light that emanated from the portal, the sound of misery spilled forth too.
Vahn scowled as he guessed that the sub-chamber was being used as a holding pen for those inmates who had dared stand against or flee from Colonel Strannik and his rebels. The murderous bastards had rounded them up and brought them here to await whatever vile end they decided to mete out. Vahn had seen it dozens of times in the weeks since the uprising and he was reaching the limit of his endurance.
‘Vahn?’ said Rotten. ‘What’s up?’
Vahn didn’t answer straight away, but concentrated on the flickering orange light pouring through the portal and the sound emanating from the chamber within. From his hiding place, he couldn’t see through the opening, but his mind was conjuring images of hellfire and damnation the most rabid preachers of the Imperial Creed would be hard-pressed to invoke.
‘Vahn,’ Rotten said again, placing a hand firmly on Vahn’s shoulder.
‘We’re going in,’ he hissed. ‘Get ready.’
Rotten sighed. ‘I knew you were gonna say that.’
‘What?’ said Solomon from further back inside the alley. ‘What’s up?’
‘We need to see what’s happening inside,’ said Vahn as he turned towards his companions. ‘And maybe do something about it.’
Solomon’s mouth hung open for a moment as if he were about to object, then he nodded with resignation. Rotten looked grim-faced while Skane nodded his agreement with Vahn’s statement.
Another wave of misery spilled from the orange-lit portal and Vahn stepped out of the alleyway in to the open.
‘Sir?’ said Karasinda, squinting down her scope towards Excoriation Block 412. By her tone Flint could tell it was important. ‘The tunnel mouth, to the right of the portal.’
Flint followed Karasinda’s direction and saw a group of figures emerging into the open, carbines raised as they approached the opening.
‘Vahn,’ said Flint, to no one in particular. The medic didn’t answer, but continued to track the scouts through her scope. ‘What are they…’ he started.
‘Enemies,’ Karasinda hissed. ‘Five, correction, seven, contacts at the portal.’
A group of rebel convicts were emerging from the guttering depths of the orange-lit portal, and the scouts couldn’t yet see them. ‘Damn it,’ said Flint. ‘Kohlz, you’re going to have to–’
‘I really wouldn’t, commissar,’ interjected Claviger-Primaris Gruss. ‘If you transmit on that set in this chamber Strannik will know it.’
‘How can you be certain?’ said Flint, instantly suspicious.
Gruss paused as if caught off guard by Flint’s question. ‘Strannik has already transmitted various threats and demands using vox equipment captured during the initial uprising. Would you risk the rebels detecting the full extent of this operation?’
Flint stared into the blank, glossy depths of Gruss’s visor for a moment. ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done to complete the mission. Karasinda,’ Flint turned his back on the chief warden. ‘You have them in your sights?’
‘Confirm target, sir,’ said the medic, not taking her eye from her scope. ‘I have Trooper Vahn in my reticle.’
‘Stand by,’ Flint growled, distracted by a new sound only just audible at the edge of hearing. An image from a battle fought two decades ago flashed into his mind; the plains of Delta Suthi, the survivors of his storm trooper detachment ambushed by the home-made stalkers of the isolationists…
‘Sir?’ said Kohlz.
‘Wait,’ Flint hissed as he turned sharply towards the source of the faint, subsonic noise. Squinting into the damp shadows of the chamber he saw a glint of light as it caught on a shallow pool, ripples spreading slowly across its oily surface…
‘I hear it too, sir,’ whispered Karasinda as she swung her rifle sharply about, bringing it to bear on the darkness beyond the pool. All that was visible was a twisted mass of girders and debris.
‘Bukin,’ said Flint. ‘Get the–’
The commissar never completed his order. At that moment a white light strobed sharply from behind, accompanied by a sharp whip-crack and the screams of several provosts and penal troopers.
‘Enemy walkers!’ Flint bellowed into his vox, the bead churning with a mass of angry static. ‘Rally to me!’
The first of the Dictrix-class walkers pressed in from behind as Flint spun about. It was three times the height of a man, its caged, angular cockpit mounted on a pair of reverse-jointed mechanical legs. On one side of the cockpit was a harpoon-like weapon, into which was retracting the glowing white neural whip it had just unleashed upon the rearmost of Flint’s force while they were distracted by what was happening up ahead.
It was that thought that saved Commissar Flint from the same painful fate. The second of the walkers burst suddenly through the mass of twisted girders, scattering debris in all directions as its cockpit tracked left and right in search of a target. The pilot saw Flint straight away and unleashed the massive harpoon whip in his direction. But Flint had seen it coming.
The darkness was lit blinding white as the whip fired straight forward out of its tubular launcher. Flint ducked as the air was split by the weapon’s deafening crack and a moment later he was rolling across the floor as the whip scythed overhead. Though Flint had avoided the strike, so potent were the disruption charges surging along the whip that he felt the half of his body turned towards it burning as he rolled away, but others of his force weren’t so fortunate.
A penal trooper not three metres away was struck across the chest and one of Bukin’s provosts was caught across the shoulder. A third man, one of Dragoon Lhor’s assistant flame troopers, took a glancing hit to an ankle as he dived clear. The effect on all three men was immediate. A disruption charge powerful enough to debilitate a bull grox surged through the whip, all three men screaming li
ke the wailing souls of the damned as they went down. Even as the whip retracted, its victims’ bodies went into violent spasm where they had dropped, each alive but very much out of the fight.
Knowing he had just seconds before the first Dictrix discharged its weapon a second time, Flint cast about for Dragoon Lhor, his flamer one of the few weapons that could take down the marauding walker. But Lhor was too far away to intervene before the walker fired again.
The half-forgotten battle against the isolationist stalkers flashed across Flint’s memory once more and in an instant he knew what had to be done. The only way to avoid being gunned down by those, or any similarly constructed walker, was to get inside its reach before it could react…
‘Engage it!’ Flint bellowed as he powered forward, his gaze fixated on the machine’s whip launcher. ‘Get in close and take it down!’
Too shocked to react to Flint’s order, most of those nearby stood transfixed while others simply dove for cover. Fools, he cursed, vowing to hammer home some discipline if he survived the next few seconds. The launcher on the walker’s side glowed white as it charged its disruption systems, the cockpit swivelling towards Flint as he dashed across the open ground before it.
Then, it fired again.
This close, it was a simple matter for Flint to sidestep the attack, but its passage less than a metre to the left still inflicted burning pain down his entire side, ripping a snarl of anger from his throat. More screams from directly behind told him more of his troops had gone down, but by that point Flint had more pressing concerns.
Ducking left past a clanking mechanical shin, Flint found himself directly beneath the walker’s cockpit. Up close, its pneumatic articulation seemed crude and ill-maintained, but just one slip could spell death if the pilot tried to stamp down on him. The walker lurched right and Flint guessed the pilot had seen the danger. Its metal limbs squealed and hissed but Flint caught another sound in amongst the cacophony. It was a warning, delivered just in time.
Flint dove forwards straight between the walker’s legs as the neural whip snapped back into its launcher with a shockingly violent discharge of arcing disruption charge. Glowing corposant streaked outwards from the launcher to chase up and down the metal legs, the sight highlighting what Flint had to do next.
