Turk, meanwhile, had forcibly grabbed Master Gunner Nubis by the arm and pulled him back. Kortan noticed all this, and took measure of where the lines were being drawn.
“And for that,” Turk said, keeping his eyes on Nisri, “Captain Abantu has my thanks. Captain Toria was searching for Major Anleel, First Company’s commander, during the storm.”
“And have you found him?” Nisri asked.
“No sir. Five men went missing last night, from both companies. The electric discharges may have rendered them senseless long enough for the storm to get the better of them.”
“I sent two Sentinel squadrons searching for them,” Major Hussari said. “There’s no sign of them.”
“Unfortunate,” Nisri said. “Very well, Captain Toria and Sergeant Ballasra will coordinate their efforts to locate food and water. What else, Captain Kortan?”
“Plasm-tins,” Kortan replied, “to cook the food, we have enough for twenty days.”
“Perhaps we can siphon vehicle fuel?” Nisri asked, looking at Abantu.
“What’s mine is yours, but we were only sent half of what we needed. The storm robbed us of the other half, and we’re low on power cells for the vehicles.”
Nisri thought for a moment, before sighing. “Ration the fuel as well. The command Chimera has priority on the power cells—”
Lieutenant Osam Djeer, the command staffs engineering officer, quickly interrupted. “We can tether the command vehicle to the solar generators.”
“Do so. Major Hussari’s squadron receives priority on the fuel, whatever is required to stretch our reserves to two months. Regular patrols will use any dromads and mukaali that Duf adar Sarish can spare. Now tell me, good quartermaster, and for the love of the Emperor make it favourable news, is there anything we do have in good supply?”
“Yes,” Kortan replied with a smile. “We have plenty of sand.”
2
“Put yours backs into it,” Nubis barked at his men as they struggled at the lip of the plateau. He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm. The night air was graciously cool, and he was happy to be away from the sun. He watched as his men struggled to pull open the collapsible wire-frame cubes. The articulated mesh expanded to form interlinking baskets ten metres long. These would form the battlements atop the plateau. Once they’d riveted them into the hard rock, the companies would fill the layered rows of baskets with sand, creating walls that could absorb heavy bolter fire and shelling.
Nearby, a Turenag work detail was laying the foundations for the command bunker, and singing about their beautiful wives and the children they had left at home. A couple of men in Nubis’ group began singing the praises of their wives in retort, when Nubis pushed through his men and slapped one across of the back of his head.
“What are you doing?” Nubis said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Singing with them? These are Turenag! They killed the Orakle Murha and they’ve ambushed our fathers and our uncles. Go on, then! Sing! Sing like women, because you certainly aren’t acting like the men of the Banna!”
The men hesitated, and then returned to their work, their prides stung and their skin flushed with heat. Nobody spoke, and even the Turenag work detail watched in silence.
“Well?” Nubis shouted at the Turenag. “Keep singing! My men deserve to be entertained by women.”
The Turenag exploded into curses and insults, and several men moved forward with their pickaxes ready. Nubis and his men positioned themselves to face the enemy, pry bars and shovels in their hands. They were only metres apart when a white las-shot, instant and lethal, lit the night and scorched the earth between them. Two more landed in quick succession, for emphasis, stopping everyone in their tracks. Duf adar Sarish held two dissimilar laspistols, one trained on each group of men.
“Get back to work,” the Sen’tach rider told them. “You are frightening my animals.”
Nubis eyed Sarish and motioned his men back to work. Slowly, the work crews returned to their details, but none of them sang any more. They glared at one another and at Sarish, who was watching them carefully in return.
3
Major Ias’r Dashour stood at the opening of the tent, waiting to be acknowledged by Nisri. He was a dour-looking man, his brow constantly knotted in some distant thought. He was light skinned with a pale olive complexion, and he kept his face clean.
Nisri sat at his desk, a folding table with thin, spindly legs. Stacks of data-slates and print-sheets covered the surface in neat, ordered piles. The colonel shook his head and motioned to the information.
“Useless,” he said.
“Sir?” Dashour said, taking the opportunity to step into the cool dark of the modular tent, with its open peel-back front and peaked roof.
“All this information, and it tells me nothing. You know what nearly killed us at Absolomay.”
“The tyranids?” Dashour asked. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of firing round after round into the advancing wall of screeching, chittering xenos, their claws scrambling at the rocky terrain, their strength undiminished despite the steady, winnowing salvos. The tyranids operated as an organism, sacrificing individuals to advance the whole. They leapt into lines of dismembering fire, protecting those behind them like living shields of carapace armour. Dashour felt humbled by the purity of their… faith. Faith was the only word that fitted, Dashour decided. He couldn’t stop thinking about them.
“No, the tyranids took advantage of our weakness, but what almost killed us was lack of useful intelligence, stretched supply lines and poor support. Now where are we? We have a mind-witch’s word of a massacre, and no evidence to support it; we have a ghost of a regiment with two meagre companies that are at each other’s throats; and we have limited stocks with no guarantee of resupply. We’re back where we started.”
“Not exactly true,” Dashour said. “At least there are no tyranids.”
“That we know of,” Nisri said, laughing. “But, after Absolomay, I expect the whoresons to pop out of the ground again.” He shook his head. “You came to see me about something?”
“I wish it were good news.” Dashour took a quick breath. “Some of my men found Major Anleel’s body. He was murdered. It looks like las-burns to the chest and shoulder.”
Nisri shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Do you know who did it?”
“No sir.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“I would tell Prince Nisri of the Turenag, and perhaps even Lieutenant-Colonel Dakar of the 351st who it was that made his tribe proud, but, no, I wouldn’t tell Colonel Dakar of the 892nd. His loyalty to the Aba Aba Mushira would humble me.”
“I see,” Nisri said, chewing on his lip. “Do Turk’s men know?”
“No sir. We hid the body until we could speak with you.”
“Very prudent.” Nisri closed his eyes, a scowl pulling at his face. “Bury the body,” he said, his decision a heavy weight as far from here as possible. “Major Anleel vanished in the storm and that is the end of it. Oh… and tell your men to keep their mouths shut. They do not celebrate. They do not speak of it, even to each other. Tell them this. Tell them I’ll keep my blade sharpened just in case they choose to wag their tongues.”
Dashour nodded.
“I can trust you to do this, Dashour?” Nisri ask. “I serve you, prince-colonel. I am therefore doubly loyal to you.”
Nisri dismissed Dashour with a nod of his head and returned to his work.
4
Kortan nodded to Dashour as he left the tent, though he received no recognition in return. He waited at the tent flap for Colonel Dakar to bid him to enter.
“More bad news?” Nisri asked, looking at the reports.
“No,” Kortan said, smiling. “In fact, it’s a small blessing, my good sir.”
Nisri looked up, the veins on his forehead strained and a glint in his dark eyes. “I do not appreciate your familiarity with me.”
“Of course, sir,” Kortan said without miss
ing a beat, “but the Emperor blesses.”
“No praise for your Orakle this evening?” Nisri asked.
“The Orakle is a man,” Kortan said with a smile, “a rather humourless one at that, no sport for drink or gambling, or women.”
“Are you trying to get on my good side?”
“Certainly not,” Kortan said. “I’m merely charming by circumstance. I cannot help who likes me and who doesn’t.”
“So the Emperor’s blessing? What form might that take?”
“In last year’s case, it took the form of a beautiful daughter of a salt merchant of Abusida Rehan. I was very blessed that night, and by morning, blessed twice more, but,” Kortan said, holding up his hands to forestall an irate looking Nisri, “today, our blessing comes in the form of this.” Kortan held out a data-slate.
Nisri snatched the data-slate from the quartermaster’s hands and studied the information. It was a topographical scan of the region with three triangular glyphs marked at the extremes of the map.
“What are these?” Nisri asked, studying the map.
“The location of three emergency orbit-drop containers, courtesy of the fleet before it weighed anchor.”
“They sent supplies?” Nisri said. A broad and cautious smile snaked across his lips.
“It appears so. The storm jammed their torch beacons until half an hour ago. I just confirmed their locations, though one… that one,” Kortan said, tapping a glyph on the screen, “appears to have been damaged in the drop.”
“Do we know the contents?”
“Some food, water and clothing… ammunition; enough to extend the rationing for a couple of extra weeks.”
“No fuel?”
“Too volatile for an orbit drop.”
“We’ll take what we can get, eh? I’ll send three squads to recover them. I want one of your men with each squad to make sure there’s no pilfering of supplies. Coordinate with Duf adar Sarish for the pack animals. Make several trips if you have to. We can’t waste fuel for this.”
5
Kortan was on his way to the supply tent when Captain Lornis Anuman and a handful of his hard-nosed cadre stepped in the quartermaster’s way. Anuman was a boorish looking man with a thick growth of peppered stubble on his jaw and a bulging chin. He was squat with a permanent tan to his flesh and a crooked bulge to his nose. He scratched at it his jaw with lazy disinterest.
“Captain Anuman,” Kortan said, spreading his arms. “The Orakle delights me with your company.”
“I’m sure he does,” Anuman said. “You were in Nisri’s tent. I hope you’re not getting too comfortable with the new colonel.”
Kortan laughed. “Ah, captain, you’re too ugly to be my wife, so why are you meddling in my business?”
Anuman and his men stepped forward, their hands resting casually on the pommels of their scimitars. “Take care, Kortan. You should never turn your back on your own tribe.”
“Trust me, the last thing I’d do around you is turn my back. Now, out of my way,” he said, shooing them away.
“I have work to do. And, if you find yourself in my way again, I’ll make sure some broken glass finds its way into your rations, or have you forgotten who handles your food?”
Anuman’s grip closed around the pommel of his blade. Kortan could see the anger in his eyes and a tremble at the corner of his lips, but the quartermaster’s smile never diminished. After a moment, Anuman stepped to one side. The captain’s men followed suit, and Kortan brushed past them with no further trouble.
6
“How is Commissar Rezail?” Turk asked. He continued walking among the cargo containers atop the plateau, watching chains of men tossing box after box to one another down the line. Tyrell walked alongside him.
“Better,” Tyrell responded, speaking in tribal cant. “He is resting in his tent. By day, he’s in the command Chimera. It is the coolest place I could find.”
“Good. Should he need anything, let me know.”
“Of course.”
“One other thing,” Turk said, stopping to face Tyrell. “Has he heard about the incidents?”
“The incidents, sir?”
“Don’t play me the fool,” Turk said, a friendly smile on his face. “The fights, the two companies almost coming to blows?”
Tyrell looked around. “I am not comfortable discussing this behind the commissar’s back.”
“But he hasn’t heard about them, correct?”
“No,” Tyrell said, “not yet, not with his heat exhaustion.”
“Good, then I have a great favour to ask of you.”
“You want me to lie to the commissar. I cannot do—”
“Yes you can, just for now, for the sake of the men. The two companies need time to adjust to their new conditions. They are Guardsmen, and they are good soldiers, but their hatred runs deep. They need more time. If Commissar Rezail starts executing men, they will not only despise one another all the more, but they’ll also come to despise the commissar. How long do you think he’ll last then?”
“Not long,” Tyrell admitted.
“Give us time,” Turk said.
Tyrell bit his tongue for a moment and privately mulled over the matter. “You have two days, at best,” Tyrell said, finally.
“That’s not enough—”
“Are we speaking as soldiers, lieutenant-colonel? Or are we speaking as tribesmen, Prince Iban Salid?”
Turk straightened. “I am a prince of my people, first and foremost, but my duties as prince require that I serve my people as the Emperor’s soldier. You are speaking to both.”
“Then may I be honest, as Hawadi and as a soldier?”
Turk nodded.
“You want more time? You and the Turenag have had generations to settle your differences. I could give you a year, two even, and it would solve nothing. Your men are soldiers; they should follow your example and act like it. The same goes for Colonel Dakar’s men, but he hasn’t asked for my council.”
“What are you saying?” Turk asked.
“I am saying I will not tell the commissar what has happened in his absence. But when he returns, rest assured I will report everything that happens from that moment forward. I have no other choice. If reason will not rule your men, then perhaps fear will.”
7
Day Five.
The large bonfire was weak, the growths of dry brush found on neighbouring plateaus being poor fuel for the flames. The animals refused to eat the bone-white branches and thorn-brush leaves; all that was left was for the fire pit.
The half-finished base camp was clustered around the bonfire, just beyond the skirt of light. The command centre and the barracks were nothing but sandbag walls, and were still being built. Tents with peaked roofs, box frames, and black cloth, designed to absorb the heat, littered the interior compound. A grid of solar panels plastered along the walls of one tent glistened under the stars, quietly awaiting morning.
The camp’s modular, sand-filled walls were completed. They measured seven metres high, with an interior ledge for the gun emplacements, and barbed wire topping the battlements. At the base of the wall rested funk holes, alcoves to protect troops during shelling.
The atmosphere around the bonfire was quiet, the men finding little reason to socialise or interact beyond their small circles. As always, the Turenag sat on one side, the Banna on the other, and the command staff in the middle. Angry glares passed between the two tribal alliances, but with Commissar Rezail sitting there, still pale, but ever fierce in his vigilance, nobody exchanged words or pursued feud-oaths.
Sergeant Nubis reclined on his prayer roll and stared at the fire. Captain Anuman was at his side, his tone decidedly venomous.
“I’m sure of it,” Anuman said. “Kortan is an opportunistic snake.”
“Yes,” Nubis said, “but he is our snake.”
Anuman shook his head. “Aya, but you can be sure of one thing, a snake always bites. It has no friend. It has no master.”
�
�Perhaps.”
“Listen to me; I’m sure Kortan is giving more supplies to Nisri and his dogs. We’re on strict rations so they can keep themselves fat. Sabaak was on recovery duty with Sergeant Raham’s squad.”
“So?”
“Let me finish. When the squad returned, Majri saw one of Raham’s men pay Sabaak for extra meals, and Baloos says that neither the squad nor the animals looked particularly dehydrated after their trip. His father was a Mukowwa’en, a dromad driver, and he knows the look of thirst and water rationing. What do you think?”
“I think your men gossip like old women at the market… but there’s use in that. Keep your eyes open. Let me know if you find anything else.”
Colonel Nisri Dakar and Lieutenant Colonel Turk Iban Salid sat on a large carpet with Sergeant Ballasra, Major Hussari and Captain Toria. The bonfire crackled gently, and they were studying the samples of things that Ballasra had wrapped in cloth strips, and was now unfolding for them.
“This desert is not entirely without hospitality,” Ballasra said. “These small animals are meagre on meat and taste, but at least they are not poisonous.” He showed them several small strips of brownish meat, all cooked, and all looking dry and tough. “Take it,” he said. “Eat. It’s cooked.”
Reluctantly, the men each took a strip and bit into the meat; grimaces all around. They chewed harder to force their meals down, the slightly rancid flavour filling their mouths with unwanted tastes and coating their tongues. Major Hussari chuckled at his compatriots’ expressions while fighting to control his own. Finally, he burst out laughing.
“By the Emperor,” Hussari said, “it’s like eating feet.” The others chuckled as well. Only Ballasra appeared indignant.
“I’ll need all my water rations to wash that taste from my mouth,” Nisri added, slapping Ballasra on the back.
“Speaking of water,” Toria said, swallowing his meal hard. He struggled a moment to retain his composure. “I found more river beds scattered throughout the area, all dry. I also found a small oasis. It’s three metres wide, at best. It’s being fed by an underground spring.
[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Page 4
