by Andy Hoare
Drawing his power sword in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other, Flint gathered up the remainder of his troops, including Lhor with his heavy flamer.
‘I want you going in with the wardens,’ Flint ordered Lhor as he broke cover and worked his way through the snaking mists towards the provost section. Lhor looked like he was just about to voice a complaint at serving alongside the penal generatorium’s staff, but he shut his mouth at Flint’s venomous glance. ‘Do it.’
Stooping as he ran across the open space between towering piston casings, Flint ducked into Bukin’s position. The chief provost had cleared his flank, as evidenced by the sight of a dozen or more dead rebels littering the open ground in front, pools of blood spreading out around each.
‘Cover the wardens, Bukin.’ Flint ordered. ‘And Vahn reports there are prisoners inside, so play nice.’
Bukin looked mildly hurt but any objection was forestalled by the sound of armoured boots pounding the rockcrete behind him. Claviger-Warden Gruss and his men appeared, ready to carry out Flint’s order to storm the opening.
Another ripple of gunfire sounded from the portal, stray shots spanging from the metal casing Flint and the provosts were sheltering behind and sending up a shower of angry sparks. The commissar peered around the edge and caught sight of a hugely muscled rebel armed with a primitive blunderbuss standing in the opening, blood covering his bare torso.
‘Ugly mother…’ said Bukin, puffing on his cigar before plucking it from his mouth and grinding it against the metal piston casing to extinguish it. Dropping the smouldering stub into a webbing pocket, he said, ‘That one’s mine, sir.’
Flint ignored Bukin’s boast and nodded to Gruss. With a command that Flint couldn’t hear, Gruss ordered his wardens forward out of cover and into the open. The clavigers set their shotguns against their chests, lowered their helmeted heads and charged forward across the corpse-strewn open ground.
The instant the clavigers were out in the open the rebels opened fire. Rough cast solid slugs and a hail of scatter-shot spat out from the opening, most of it missing its target but some slamming into the wardens’ hardshell. One warden staggered as a slug struck his bulky shoulder armour, but in a moment he was continuing in his advance, stepping over the corpse of a fallen rebel to rejoin the line. A second claviger took the brunt of a shotgun blast, the hammer blow almost casting him from his feet. Incredibly, he straightened up and carried on towards the objective, his armour having absorbed the worst of the impact.
‘Up!’ Flint bellowed, raising his power sword high and then chopping it downwards to indicate the axis of advance. Breaking cover, he sprinted forward after the claviger-wardens, ensuring that Dragoon Lhor was following close behind. Corporal Bukin shouted his own battle-cry, something that definitely wasn’t approved by any of the texts Flint had studied, but it had the desired effect. The provosts echoed Bukin’s shout and powered forward along with the remainder of Vahn’s penal troopers.
‘Loosen up!’ Flint shouted as the line advanced. As the clavigers closed on the opening, Dragoon Lhor took position, his heavy flamer ready to disgorge into the portal and incinerate any rebels sheltering within. As the wardens closed to firing range they set their shotguns at their hips and at Gruss’s bellowed order opened fire. The thunderous fusillade made a mockery of the rebels’ crudely improvised firearms and bodies twisted and fell or were torn to shredded rags as shot after shot was pumped into the opening.
Flint’s warriors roared in savage celebration at the spectacle, and it wasn’t just the soldiers of the 77th that did so. The penal troopers, until recently subject to the clavigers’ brutal stewardship, bellowed just as loudly. Clearly, the sight of the rebels being cut down was enough to overcome whatever misgivings the former convicts might harbour at fighting alongside Gruss’s men.
‘Lhor!’ Flint shouted as he closed on the sub-chamber’s outer wall. ‘Ready?’
The burly dragoon grinned and lowered his anti-glare goggles over his eyes as he followed behind the clavigers. At Gruss’s signal the line of wardens parted to make room for Lhor, and the weight of return fire increased as the defenders realised what was coming their way. Shots rang out from the opening, but Lhor ignored the torrent of lead screaming in his direction despite the risk that he would be transformed into a human torch if his fuel tank was struck and ignited.
‘Give him space!’ Flint ordered the nearby Firstborn dragoons. None, he realised, had seen a heavy flamer discharged at close range, but by the reaction of the penal troopers most of them had. The dragoons ducked away from Lhor as he set his feet wide, lifted the flamer and opened the valve wide. A raging cascade of burning chemical death spurted forth and arced right into the sub-chamber’s opening, incinerating the few defenders who had remained to guard it. Lhor washed the burning jet left and right, backwash billowing up and out of the portal in great raging sheets of fire. Though Flint was at least ten metres away from Lhor when the dragoon opened up, the heat was tremendous, forcing the commissar to turn his face away as he grit his teeth and screwed his eyes tight shut.
‘Disengage!’ Flint shouted, and Lhor closed off the heavy flamer’s valve. A cloud of greasy black smoke mushroomed upwards and flames sizzled from stray gobbets of flamer fuel. The fire that had engulfed the portal had burned itself out and no more movement was visible there.
Lhor lifted his goggles, his face now entirely black apart from the circle around each eye. From the look of sheer joy on his face, Flint knew he would have trouble getting the flamer off of Dragoon Lhor after the battle. Even before Flint could wave the force onwards again, Gruss’s clavigers were storming the portal. Though the opening was wide enough to allow five or more men to pass through at once, the wardens, experienced in such actions, split into two assault parties one taking each side of the opening.
‘Bukin!’ Flint called as he came to the wall and knelt down. ‘Take a multiple right and back them up!’ Acknowledging Flint’s order, Bukin peeled off to the right as he dashed across the open ground, waving two-dozen provosts and penal troopers ahead of him.
‘Everyone else,’ Flint bellowed, ‘With me!’ Two-dozen other troops clustered in behind Flint, and at that moment the wardens pressed in through the opening. They went through in two stacked groups, the front men ducked down while another two leaned in over his back to present as small a target as possible to any defenders left inside. A shot boomed out and a warden grunted as he fell to the ground. Another stepped forward and took his place as a third dragged the convulsing form clear.
The entire portal exploded in smoke as the clavigers opened fire as one. Massed combat shotguns roared and the wardens pressed in and were gone. ‘For the 77th!’ Flint shouted, rising and waving the troops onward. On the other side of the portal, Bukin made an equivalent shout to muster the penal troopers and the two groups rushed forward into the opening.
The ground around the portal was a bubbling mass of blackened rockcrete and flesh, and Flint felt something close around an ankle as he stormed through after the wardens. The twisted and blackened arm of a still-living rebel grasped upwards in an attempt to drag Flint down to share his gristly death. Flint sneered with disgust and swept his power sword downwards in a savage arc, severing the rebel’s arm at the elbow. Even as the man’s face twisted with hatred and pain, Flint levelled his bolt pistol and put a round right into the rebel’s open mouth, blowing out the back of his neck and severing his head.
‘Keep going,’ Flint growled at the penal troopers who had backed up behind him. ‘But watch your fire!’
Plunging into the darkness, Flint looked around for more enemies, his bolt pistol raised as he tracked it in a wide arc. The interior of the sub-chamber reminded him of some mad artist’s vision of eternal damnation, the only illumination provided by the guttering barrel fires and the flash of the wardens’ combat shotguns as they gunned down the cornered rebels.
Flint’s eyes started to adjust to the hellish gloom and he saw the prisoners. There wer
e hundreds of them, emaciated wretches cowering inside the ring of flame formed by the chain-linked barrel fires. Denied cover from the shots winging back and forth over their heads, the prisoners pressed themselves to the ground or cowered behind what little cover was afforded by the corpses of their dead fellows. While most made every possible effort to hide, some were becoming so maddened by the unfolding scene that they strained futilely at their chains in an effort to break their bonds. Sickened by the grim spectacle, Flint determined to end it, straight away.
But before he had the chance, a savage bellow filled the cavernous space; the prisoners cringed with what Flint could immediately see was a deeply ingrained fear response. The source of the terrible sound was an obese rebel leader, his shoulder a burned mess of ruined flesh, held out amidst his surviving companions at the far side of the holding pen and backlit by raging flames. He roared his defiance at the incursion into what must surely have been his personal fiefdom.
‘He’s mine!’ Bukin called out to his men as he led them forward. Flint was just about to grant the chief provost permission to engage when a figure appeared behind. Vahn stalked towards him, his dreadlocks silhouetted against a raging barrel fire and his eyes glinting with menace.
‘No,’ Vahn growled. ‘That’s Bing, one of the colonel’s bosses. We need that one alive’
Hearing Vahn’s words, Bukin hesitated, and looked to Flint for confirmation. Though the chief provost dearly wanted to take the obese rebel down, if Vahn was right, the man had to be spared, whatever his crime.
‘Agreed,’ Flint growled. ‘The rest are yours, corporal, but take that one alive.’
The far side of the chamber erupted in gunfire, a brief competition of combat shotguns and las-weapons against blunderbusses and breech-loaders. The exchange was over in seconds, and could only have one winner.
‘Well?’ said Flint ignoring the last of the gunfire.
‘Well what, sir?’ he replied.
‘Who’s in charge here, Vahn?’ Flint said, his voice low and dangerous.
‘Huh,’ said Vahn. ‘That’d be you, I guess, commissar.’
‘Correct,’ said Flint, his point made. ‘So what’s so special about this one?’ he said as Bukin returned leading the obese rebel leader in front. The man was huge, his shoulder wrecked and his bare torso smeared with his own blood. His face was a crumpled, twisted mask of bitterness, initially aimed at his captor but redirected towards Flint the instant he saw the commissar’s unmistakable uniform.
‘He knows where Strannik is,’ said Vahn. ‘Carceri control, they said.’
‘Does he now?’ said Flint, meeting the man’s hateful, porcine eyes. ‘He’d better speak up then, hadn’t he?’ he said as he racked the slide on his bolt pistol.
The rebel leader sneered, his flabby lips peeling back to reveal black teeth. ‘You ain’t no competition for the colonel, mister,’ he said. ‘Nothing, not a thing you could do to me would be anywhere as bad as what he would do if he found out I’d blabbed. I ain’t tellin’ you a thing.’
‘Is that so?’ replied Flint, glancing around at the crowd of troops gathering about the confrontation. It was clear the rebel meant every word and the simple threat of summary execution wouldn’t suffice. A nasty little germ of an idea forming, he cast his eye over each of the onlookers, discounting the Firstborn and settling on a knot of penal troopers watching sullenly. Solomon looked like he’d rather be somewhere else, but that appeared to be his normal state, while Karasinda was dressing a light wound to Stank’s left arm. Vendell and Skane were scowling, their hatred boring into the rebel. But neither of them was regarding the man with anything like as much unfettered bitterness as the Savlar, Trooper Becka.
A cruel grin twisted Flint’s lips and he leaned in towards the rebel. ‘You might not fear me,’ he whispered, his voice low so the other man had to strain to hear his words. ‘But I’m just a commissar, so I’ve only been indoctrinated into the first seventeen procedures of the Rites of Excoriation. I know I could flay the skin from your body and you’d still be more scared of your colonel, so that leaves me with just one option.’
The man’s leer faded as he followed Flint’s nod towards Becka. Slowly, the Savlar drew a serrated combat blade from a thigh-high leather boot and ran a thumb along its lethally sharp cutting edge. As she lifted the blade to examine it in the flickering firelight, a thin line of crimson appeared across her thumb.
‘She’s not indoctrinated into any of the Rites,’ Flint said even lower. ‘Not officially at least. Where she’s from, they make it up as they go along. Plus, she’s a she, and that means she knows more about inflicting pain on a man than you or me could ever imagine…’
‘May I, commissar?’ Becka said coyly, right on cue.
‘Not fair, sir,’ whined Bukin, causing Flint to suppress a snort of amusement. ‘I said he was mine.’
The rebel’s eyes darted towards Bukin, then back to Becka. It was clear which he was more afraid of. ‘He’s all yours Trooper Becka, but not here. Listen up!’ Flint called out. ‘We move by sections starting in two minutes, one minute intervals. Muster at grid three-three-nine. Understood?’
The assembled troops grumbled their understanding as Bukin’s provosts started mustering them into sections. Within a couple of minutes the first group was moving out to the map reference Flint had indicated, and he was looking around the charnel pit of the sub-chamber.
‘What about them?’ said Vahn, nodding his dreadlocked head towards the holding pen beyond the barrel fires and the hundreds of prisoners cringing inside. ‘They’re the reason I came back.’
‘I noticed,’ said Flint, though they weren’t the reason he came back. ‘Did you plan this far ahead?’
Vahn smirked slightly, and admitted, ‘Not really, commissar.’
‘Well,’ said Flint, holstering his bolt pistol as he made to follow Becka as she led the rebel leader away. ‘Do something, and quickly.’
Grid three-three-nine was a twisted mass of conduits Flint’s force had passed through on its way towards the excoriation sub-chamber. It had been chosen as a muster point because it offered a defensible position the entire force could lay up in. Pipes several metres across rose from the rockcrete ground, some snaking away across the surface, others running directly upwards and disappearing into the overhead murk. Some seemed to writhe around one another like mating serpents and none of them had any discernable purpose. Nevertheless, the sound of liquids and gases rumbling through the large, corroded pipes was audible as Flint waited for Vahn to catch up having dealt with the freed prisoners.
‘Anything?’ Flint asked Dragoon Kohlz, who was hunched over his vox-set in the shadow of the conduit.
‘I’m getting a carrier wave, sir,’ the aide replied. ‘I can attempt communion on your say so, though I can’t guarantee I’ll get a good signal.’
‘Good work,’ said Flint, knowing that Kohlz was right in not attempting to establish two-way communication just yet. Even if it worked the rebels might detect the signal and then the infiltration force’s presence and disposition would be betrayed.
‘Can you keep the carrier wave fixed until we need to call the main force in?’ Flint asked.
‘I can try sir,’ said Kohlz. ‘It’s a risk though. As Gruss said, the structure is shielded and I could lose the wave any time.’
‘Speaking of the Claviger-Primaris,’ said Flint, his voice low. ‘Anything?’
Kohlz glanced around the muster point to ensure that the nearest of the clavigers was out of earshot. ‘Nothing showing up, sir, but I’m on it.’
‘Good,’ said Flint, clapping his aide on the shoulder as he turned at the sound of someone approaching. The mists had come down again and ambient illumination was almost at whiteout, but Flint could just about make out a figure walking directly towards his position.
‘Contact ahead,’ Flint heard medic Karasinda hiss through the personal vox-net. ‘One target.’
‘It’s Vahn,’ Skane replied over the net, and by
the dark halo of dreadlocks around the figure’s head, Flint could see that Skane was correct. ‘Stand down,’ Skane ordered the medic, and she lowered her lasgun, reluctantly, it seemed to Flint.
A moment later, Vahn had climbed over the conduit and was standing before Flint. ‘Well?’ the commissar asked.
‘I freed them,’ he answered.
‘Where to?’ Flint asked.
‘I didn’t ask,’ said Vahn. ‘They were in a bit of hurry to get moving.’
So long as they don’t interfere with the mission, Flint thought. The last thing he needed was a body of freed convicts getting in the way. Besides, they would soon be returned to captivity once the rebels were defeated.
‘Anyway,’ said Vahn, looking around at the troops waiting to move on. ‘We ready to get going?’
‘As soon as Becka’s finished up,’ Flint grinned coldly. ‘I got what I needed and left her to her fun.’
‘Always knew your lot were cruel bastards,’ said Vahn. ‘But that’s just…’
Vahn’s words were cut-off when a blood-curdling scream rang out from deep amongst the nest of twisting pipes. The scream turned to a sob, and the sob to an unintelligible plea for mercy. Flint and Vahn shared a look of sympathy even for the vile rebel. Becka’s attentions were anything but gentle.
A moment later, Trooper Becka appeared from the nest of conduits the Savlar was using as an ad hoc interrogation cell.
‘Anything to add?’ Flint asked. Having gleaned the location of the rebel colonel’s strong hold early in the ‘conversation’, he doubted Bing had anything further to add, but it was worth trying.
‘I may have broken him, sir,’ Becka sneered. ‘But what he told you was the truth, I’m sure of that.’
Vahn smiled grimly at that, but Flint pressed the trooper for more.
‘Can he lead us to the rebels’ hiding place?’ asked Vahn.
Becka tilted her head playfully, and replied, ‘He won’t be leading anyone any place, not for a whiles anyway.’
