He was right—the walls had been blasted away. In fact most of the buildings on this side of the spaceport lay in ruins, and the landing pads themselves were cratered with massive shell-holes and littered with the debris of all sorts of orbital craft. At the western end, three tall towers of twisted wreckage stood out, the smoke wreathing them, fires still burning deep in their tangled hulls.
“Punishers’ drop-pods,” the Astartes said. “We got all three.”
“There’s another one,” the boy spoke up, pointing.
They peered together, squinting in the smoke. The boy was right. A fourth, undamaged drop-pod was squatting to the east, where the damage to the landing pads was less severe. Infantry was marching down its ramps.
The Astartes’ face creased with hatred. “It would seem my brothers and I were not as thorough as we thought. We must get word to my company, or your planet will fall to the enemy after all. We must have comms!”
“It’ll be in the control tower, out yonder—if it’s still intact,” the man said, jerking his head to the north. Dimly through the smoke they could make out a pale white pillar with a cluster of grey plascrete buildings around its foot. There seemed to be no enemy activity out in that direction, but with the smoke and gathering darkness it was hard to be sure.
“Then that is where we go,” the Astartes said simply. “My brothers must be brought back to this world to cleanse it—or else they will have to extinguish it from space—get down!” This last was in a hiss. A troop of enemy infantry marched past. Strange, angular bald-headed men with heavily tattooed faces. They wore long leather coats adorned with studs and chains and what seemed to be human body parts. They bore lasguns, and chattered and snarled incessantly as they passed by.
“Their talk hurts my ears,” the boy said, rubbing his head.
“The warp infects them,” the Astartes told him. “If we cannot cleanse this place, then it will begin to infect the remainder of your people.” He lifted a hand to the wound where his eye had been, then dropped it again. “To the tower, then.”
They ran, right into the heart of the foul-smelling smoke. The boy became dizzy, and found it hard to breathe, and the distant chanting of the cultists seemed to cloud over his thinking. He faltered, and found himself standing still, staring vacantly, aware that he was missing something.
Then he found himself lifted into the air and crushed against an enormous, fever-hot body. The Astartes had picked him up and tucked him under his free arm, still running.
Out of nowhere a cluster of pale faces appeared in the smoke. Before they could even raise their weapons the Astartes was upon them. A kick broke the ribcage of one and sent him hurtling off into the darkness. The heavy bolter was swung like a club and smashed the heads of two more into red ruin, almost decapitating them. The fourth got off a red burst of lasgun fire that spiked out harmlessly into the air, before the Astartes, dropping the boy, had him by the throat. He crushed the man’s windpipe with one quick clench of his fist, and tossed him aside.
“Get the weapons,” he said to the man and the boy, panting. “Grenades, anything.” He bent over and coughed, and a gout of dark liquid sprayed out of his mouth to splatter all over the plascrete landing strip. He swayed for a second, then straightened. When his companions had retrieved two lasguns and a sling of grenades from the bodies he nodded. “Someone may have seen that las-fire. If we run into more of them, do not stop—keep running.”
They set off again. The giant was hobbling now, and left a trail of blood behind him, but he still set a fearsome pace, and it was all the man and his son could do to keep up with him, as they fought for air in the reeking hell that surrounded them.
At last the white pillar of the control tower appeared out of the smoke—and a band of cultists at its foot. They saw the shapes come running out of the darkness at them and set up a kind of shriek and began firing wildly. Las-fire came arcing through the air.
In return the Astartes halted, set the bolter in his shoulder, and began firing.
Short bursts, no more, two or three rounds at a time. But when the heavy ordnance hit the cultists it blew them apart. He took down eight of them before the first las-burst hit him, in the stomach. He staggered, and the bolter-muzzle dropped, but a second later he had raised it again and blew to pieces the cultist who had shot him.
The boy and his father lay on the ground and started firing also, but the heavy Chaos lasguns were unwieldy and hard to handle—their shots went wild. The boy fumbled with the sling of grenades and popped out one thumb-sized bomb. There was a tiny red button at the top of the little cylinder. He pressed it, and then tossed the thing at the cultists. It clinked on the base of the tower and lay at their feet. One looked at it with dawning horror on his face, and then the grenade exploded, and splattered him in scarlet fragments across the white painted wall of the control tower, along with three of his comrades.
The rest broke and ran, quickly disappearing into the toiling darkness. The Astartes sank to one knee, leaning on his bolter. His other hand was bunched in a fist where the lasgun had burnt a black hole through his torso from front to back.
“You need my shoulder again, I think,” the man said, helping up the maimed giant. “Not far to go now. Lean on me, my friend. I will get you there.”
The Astartes managed a strangled laugh, but said no more.
They found the door ajar, a tall steel affair whose command-box had been blown out. The man made as if to enter but the Astartes held him back. “Grenade first,” he rasped.
The boy tossed another of the little explosives inside. He was smiling as he did so, and when the thing went off, he laughed.
“I am glad everyone finds this so amusing,” his father said, as he stepped inside.
Two dead bodies, blown to pieces in the confined chamber at the base of the tower. There was an elevator, but the boy punched its buttons in vain.
“No power, Pa,” he said. “The whole place is dead.”
“Stairs,” the Astartes gasped.
“Listen,” the man said. “Outside—can you hear it?”
A confused babel, a roaring, bellowing sound of voices, some shrill, some deep. Even as they listened, it grew louder.
“Get the door closed,” the Astartes snapped. “Block it, jam it—use anything you can.”
They slammed the heavy steel door shut, and piled up whatever they could find in the way of wreckage and furniture against it. The Astartes, with an agonised cry, wrenched a stretch of iron piping free of the wall and wedged it against the steel. Seconds later, the cacophony of voices was right outside, and they were hammering on the door. Gunfire sounded, and shells rang loudly against the metal.
“That won’t hold them,” the man said. He and his son were white-faced, and sweat was cutting stripes down the grime on their faces.
“Up,” the Astartes said impatiently. “We must go up. You first, then your boy. I will hold the rear. Any sounds ahead of you, start firing and keep firing.”
“We’re trapped here,” the man said unsteadily.
“Move!” the giant barked.
The stairs wound round the inside of the tower like the thread of a screw. They laboured up them in almost pitch darkness, the sound of their own harsh breathing magnified by the plascrete to left and right, their feet sounding hollow on the metal steps. Several times the Astartes paused to listen as they ascended, and once he ordered them to halt.
“Anyone got a light?” he asked.
“I have,” the boy said. There was a whirring sound, and then a feeble glow began, yellow and flickering. It strengthened as the boy kept winding up his torch.
“Good for you,” the Astartes said. “Give me those grenades.” He popped one out of the sling and peered at it.
“They copy us in everything—these are just like Imperium charges. They have three settings: instant, delay and proximity. The most obvious one is delay, the red button on top—give thanks to the Emperor you picked that one back outside. You twist the top
of the cylinder for the other settings.” He did so. “Move up the stairs.” He set down the little cylinder upright, pressed the red button on its top, and then followed them. Behind him there were three tiny clicks, and then silence.
“The next thing to approach that is going to have a surprise. I just hope there are no rats in here. Move out.”
Round the tower they went by the flickering glow of the boy’s clockwork torch. Finally they came to another steel door. It was very slightly ajar, and there were voices on the far side. The boy reached for the grenades, but the Astartes stopped him. “We need this place intact. Get behind me.”
He kicked open the door and there was a roar of bolter fire, a stuttering series of flashes, and then a click as the bolter’s magazine came up empty. The Astartes roared and lunged forward.
Behind him, the boy and his father burst through the doorway, coughing on the cordite stink that filled the space beyond. They were in a large circular room filled with consoles and monitors, with huge windows that overlooked the entire spaceport. A trio of cultists lay dead, their innards scattered like red streamers across the electronic wall-consoles of the tower. On the far side of the room, a titanic battle was raging, smashing back and forth, sending chairs flying, filling the air with broken glass. The Astartes was struggling with a dark, armoured figure almost as massive as himself, and the two were grappling with each other, bellowing like two bulls intent on mayhem. The boy and his father stood staring, lasguns almost forgotten in their hands.
The Astartes was knocked clear across the room. He crashed into the heavy blast-proof glass of the tower and the impact spidered it out in a web of cracks. His adversary straightened, and there was the sound of horrible, unhinged laughter.
“Brother Marine!” the voice gargled, “You have not come dressed for the occasion! Where is your blue livery now, Dark Hunter? Can’t you see you are on the wrong world? This place is ours now!”
The speaker was clad in power armour similar to that they had found the Astartes wearing, but it was bone-white in colour, and a black skeleton had been picked out upon it with ebony inlays. Its bearer wore a helm adorned with two great horns, and the light from his eye sockets glowed sickening green. The many-arrowed star of Chaos had been engraved on his breastplate, and in his hand he held a cruel monomolecular blade which shone with blood.
“How many of you are left now, heretic?” the Astartes spat. “My brothers will wipe you from this system as a man wipes shit from the sole of his boot.”
“Big words, from the mouth of a cripple,” the Chaos warrior snarled. He drew a bolt pistol from its holster and aimed it at the Astartes’ head.
The boy and his father both raised their lasguns and fired in the same moment. The man missed, but his son’s burst caught the enemy warrior just under the armpit. The fearsome figure cried out in pain and anger, and dropped the knife. The pistol swung round.
“What are these, brother—pets of yours? They need chastising.”
He opened fire. The pistol bucked in his hand and the impact of the heavy rounds sent the boy’s father smashing back against the wall behind, ripping open his chest and filling the air with gore. The Chaos warrior stepped forward, still firing, and the bolter shells blew open the wall in a line of explosions as he followed the flight of the boy, who had dropped his lasgun and was scrabbling on hands and knees for the shelter of the consoles. The magazine clicked dry, and the warrior flicked it free, reaching in his belt for another one. “Such vermin on this world—they must be exterminated to the last squealing morsel.”
“I agree,” the Astartes said.
The Chaos warrior spun round, and was staggered backwards by the force of the blow. He fell full length on his back. Dropping his pistol, his hands came up to his chest to find the hilt of his knife buried in his own breastplate. There was a thin, almost inaudible whine as the filament blade continued to vibrate deep in his body cavity.
The Astartes, his face a swollen mask of blood, dropped to his knees beside his prone enemy.
“We have two hearts each, you and me,” he said. “That is how we are made. We were created for the betterment of Man, to make this galaxy a place of order and peace.” He gripped the knife blade, slapping his struggling adversary’s hands aside, and pulled the weapon free. A thin jet of blood sprang out, and the Chaos warrior grunted in agony.
“Let me see if I can find that second heart,” the Astartes said, and he plunged the knife downwards again.
The boy crept out of his hiding place and crouched by the mangled remains of his father. His face was blank, wide eyes in a filthy blood-spattered mask. He closed his father’s staring eyes and clenched his own teeth on a sob. The he stood up and retrieved his lasgun.
The Astartes was lying by the wall in a pool of his own blood, his dead enemy sprawled beside him. His body was white as ivory, and the blood leaking from his wounds had slowed to a trickle. He looked up at the boy with his remaining eye. They stared at one another for a moment.
“Help me up,” the Astartes said at last, and the boy somehow climbed behind him and pushed his immense torso upright.
“Your father—” the Astartes began, and then there was a dull boom from below them.
“The grenade,” the boy said dully. “They’re on the stairs.”
“Toss another one down there and then lock the door,” the Astartes said. “Bring me over that bolt pistol when you’re done.”
“What’s the point?” the boy asked, sullen. His eyes were red and bloodshot. He looked like a little old man, shrunken and defeated.
“Do as I say,” the Astartes cracked out, glaring. “It’s not over while we live, not for us, not for your world. Now toss the grenade!”
The boy looked round the door.
“There’s movement on the stairs,” he said, calm now. He pressed the red button on the explosive and threw it down the stairs. It bounced and clinked and clicked as it went down the steps. He shut the heavy metal door and slid the bar-lock in place. Another boom, closer than the first. There were screams below them, and the floor quivered. The boy handed the Astartes the bolt pistol, and the giant ripped the ammo belt off the fallen Chaos Marine, clicking in a fresh magazine and cocking the weapon.
“I’ve found the comms,” the boy said, across the room. He flicked several switches up and down. “At least I think so—it looks like a comms unit anyway. But it’s dead. There’s no power.”
The Astartes laboured over to the boy on his hands and knees. Blood dripped out of his mouth and nose and ears. He sounded as though he were breathing through water.
“Yes, that’s it. Old-fashioned. But it still needs power.” He sighed deeply. “Well, that’s that then.”
The boy stared at the dead lights on the console. He was frowning. He did not even start when the first battering began on the door to the control room, and a slavering and snarling on the other side of it, as though a herd of beasts milled there.
“Power,” he said. “I have power—I have power here.” His face quickened. “My torch!”
He drew it out of the bag of oddments at his waist. “I can attach it—I can plug it in and get it running!”
The Astartes drew himself up and sat on the creaking chair before the console. “A fine idea, but you’ll never crank up enough power with that little handheld dynamo.”
“There must be something!”
They stared at the dead array of lights and switches before them. The comms unit was a relic, a patched up antique for use on a far-flung border world. The Astartes’ good eye narrowed.
“Plug in your torch and start winding,” he said.
“But—”
“Just do it!” He scrabbled open the wooden drawer below the console, while behind them both, blow after heavy blow was rained down on the door to the chamber. The lock-bar bent inwards. A chorus of cackles and growls sounded on the other side, like the memory of a fevered nightmare.
“Sometimes they hang on to the most obsolete of technol
ogies on worlds like yours,” the Astartes said. He smiled. “Because they still work.” From a tangle of junk in the drawer, he produced a contraption of wires and a small knobbed device. He stared at it, considering a moment, and then set it up on the bench, plugging it into the adaptor socket. Immediately, a small green light came on within it.
“Built to last,” he muttered. He closed his eye, and then began tapping down on the device. A high series of clicks and tones was audible. He adjusted the frequency with an ancient circular dial, and there was a faint crackle.
The two of them were so intent, the boy turning the handle on his creaking torch, the giant tapping away on the strange device, that they were almost oblivious to the grinding and banging at the room’s door.
“Is it working?” the boy asked.
“The signal is going out. The code is ancient; a relic of old Earth, but we still use it in my Chapter, for its simplicity. It is elegant, older even than the Imperium itself. But like many simple, elegant things in this universe, it has endured.”
The Space Marine stopped his tapping. “Enough. We must see if we can get you out of here.”
“There’s no way out,” the boy said.
“There’s always a way out,” the Astartes told him. He turned and fired at the plexiglass of the control tower. It shattered and cascaded in an avalanche of jagged shards. Then he reached into the console drawer with a fist and produced a long coil of dull coppery wire.
“It will slice your hands as you go down,” he said to the boy, “but you must hold on. When you get to the bottom, start running.”
“What about you?”
The Space Marine smiled. “I will be on the other end. Now do it.”
The door burst open, and was flung back against the wall with a clang. A huge figure loomed out of the darkness, and more were behind it.
The Astartes was slumped by the huge broken maw of the plexiglass window, a glint of wire wrapped round one arm, disappearing into the smoky vacancy beyond. He bared his teeth in a rictus.
Legends of the Space Marines Page 27
