The Last Ditch

by Sandy Mitchell

  Gaining the slightly less precarious sanctuary of the cargo crawler’s hull, I looked round to see that our Sentinels were beginning to join the convoy at last; the command one was jogging comfortably alongside the snowliner, and eliciting no end of excited gesticulation from the passengers aboard it.

  ‘Nicely done, commissar,’ Shambas said, waving cheerfully from the open cockpit of his mechanical steed. ‘That flushed it out.’

  ‘For a moment,’ I said. ‘But it’ll be back after the snowliner now.’

  ‘Grenades, sir,’ Jurgen voxed, leaning out of the shattered window at what seemed to me a near suicidal angle. He had a webbing pouch in the hand he wasn’t employing to hang on for dear life, and as I glanced up in his direction, he lobbed it at me. The package arced through the air, clanged against the grubby metal hull of the cargo hauler, and began to slide down the sloping metal, before coming to rest wedged against one of the promethium drums lashed to it. There were, at least, plenty of handholds in between, and I began to make my way from one piece of stowage to the next, heedless of the grime transferring itself to my already much-abused uniform, which by now was beginning to take on a distinctly russet hue, thanks to my passage up the oxidising chain. I can’t pretend it was an altogether enjoyable experience, my movements slowed by the biting cold, and the metal rendered slippery by the encrustation of ice which had built up in every crevice, but I managed to cling on somehow, my resolve boosted no end by the realisation of what would happen if I fell to the ice below.

  ‘Got them,’ I confirmed at last, as my hand closed around the pouch, and cast around for something to lob them at. There was no obvious sign of the subterranean monster, but that didn’t mean much in itself; I already knew it was bound to return to the snowliner.

  So fixated, in fact, had I become with this idea, that I didn’t notice the real danger until it was almost too late.

  ‘Shambas,’ I shouted, suddenly noticing the telltale wave in the snow a score or so metres away from where I’d expected to see it, ‘look out!’ The ice was rising at the Sentinel’s mechanical heels, the huge bulk of the great worm bursting out of the ice, its obscenely wide jaws agape.

  Shambas reacted instantly, directing power to the walker’s legs, and it leapt clear, kicking back at the ’nid’s malformed snout as it did so, in a spectacular display of piloting skill, the equal of which I’ve seldom seen before or since. The Sentinel landed a few metres away, and staggered, gyros whining hysterically as Shambas fought to regain its balance. The mawloc turned to follow, and with a blinding flash of insight, I suddenly realised what was happening: the hideous creature was unable to distinguish the mechanical footfalls of the walker from natural ones, and had mistaken it for prey.

  All too aware of the scrutiny of hundreds of snowliner passengers expecting the Hero of the Imperium to save their hides, not to mention that of the beleaguered walker pilot, I cast around desperately for some kind of diversion which would at least give Shambas time to regain control, and allow the other pilots in the squadron to get a shot off too114. Fortunately, inspiration struck: priming one of Jurgen’s grenades was the work of a moment, as was wedging the pouch containing them into the strapping round the nearest cluster of fuel drums. A couple of swipes with my chainsword was sufficient to sever the lines securing them to the rattling crawler, and within seconds the whole bundle was bouncing across the ice.

  The stratagem succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. At best, I’d hoped merely to confuse the beast, and possibly inflict some minor hurt from the detonation and the subsequent conflagration; but, no doubt confused by the pattern of movement, the creature apparently mistook the collection of objects for prey. Whipping its head around, it lunged for the promethium cannisters, and swallowed them in a single gulp.

  A moment later the serpentine form convulsed, as the grenades detonated inside its gullet and the spilled promethium from the ruptured tanks ignited. A billow of fire erupted from its mouth, and it crashed to the ice, where it thrashed for a few moments, wreathed in the spreading flames, before gradually becoming still.

  ‘Nicely done, sir,’ Jurgen said, his voice in my comm-bead all but swamped by the hysterical cheering of the civilians around him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Shambas said, with another wave.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I told him, trying to sound as modest as possible. ‘Now can somebody stop this bloody thing, so I can get warm?’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Unsurprisingly, I felt I’d had enough of the dubious comforts of the snowliner by now, and elected to continue our journey in the scarcely less cramped, but at least reassuringly familiar, confines of a Chimera. On the downside, protocol, and the fact that there was more room in it due to the smaller size of her command squad115, meant travelling in Sulla’s; but by now even the prospect of her company for the remainder of the trip seemed an acceptable trade-off for the extra security afforded by the heavy bolters the AFV carried. I wasn’t really expecting another attack, after driving off the last one so decisively, but you never could tell with ’nids, and I was in no mood to take on another behemoth single-handed.

  Fortunately, Sulla seemed fully occupied with coordinating the escort, especially given the Sentinel pilots’ tendency to do whatever they saw fit without bothering to clear it with her first, so I was spared the worst of her excessive enthusiasm. Better still, even though the vox and auspex systems the command Chimera were fitted with gave her a thoroughly comprehensive overview of the tactical situation, she persisted in the habit she’d acquired in her days as a platoon commander of riding in the turret for much of the journey, half out of the hatch, where she could see the lay of the land directly, and act as a visible rallying point for her subordinates. (Though this may have had as much to do with the fact that Jurgen was accompanying me, and his presence in the confined space of the passenger compartment was somewhat hard to ignore.)

  ‘Sounds like you’re in for quite a reception when we get to Underice,’ she said, on one of the occasions she favoured us with her presence, possibly attracted back inside by the smell of fresh tanna one of the troopers had just drawn from a samovar in the corner116 next to the weapon rack.

  ‘Does it?’ I asked, wondering what in the name of the Throne she was driving at, and warming my hands (apart from the augmetic fingers) gratefully round the mug Jurgen had just handed to me. The jolting personnel carrier was a good deal warmer than the landscape outside, but internal heating was hardly a priority for Valhallans, and I still found it more than a little chilly for my tastes.

  ‘Of course it does,’ Sulla told me, wedging herself into a narrow gap between the auspex console and the ammunition locker, where she could sip at her own drink without having most of it spilled by the jolting of the tracks. ‘Everyone on the snowliner with a portable vox has been talking non-stop about the way you killed that burrower single-handed.’ She glanced at the vox operator, who nodded confirmation, and I felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My own comm-bead was only tuned to the command frequencies, of course, so the civilian chatter had passed me by, but it was his job to monitor everything, so he should know. ‘The casters and printscribes will be all over the crawler park when we arrive.’

  ‘Good,’ I said decisively. ‘Then we’ll disengage from the convoy as soon as we get within the defence perimeter, and make directly for the PDF garrison.’ I’ve no objection to being the centre of attention under most circumstances which don’t involve incoming fire, but right now the last thing I felt like was being surrounded by a mob of gawping idiots asking imbecilic questions. A hearty meal and a large goblet of amasec seemed a far more appealing prospect. Sulla looked at me a little oddly, so I added ‘we could all do with a little downtime before we head back.’ No harm in appearing more concerned about the troopers than myself either; it all helped to keep them focused on watching my back when the need arose.

  ‘We could,’ she agreed, no doubt impatient to start in on the ’nids again at the earliest
opportunity.

  We reached Underice without further incident, just as dusk was beginning to fall across the endless snowfields117; a sight I was able to enjoy (in so far as it was possible to take pleasure in anything while losing all sensation in my extremities) from the command Chimera’s turret hatch, Sulla having relinquished her favourite perch while she dealt with the formal handover to the local forces. Loath as I was to face the freezing temperatures again, I felt it wouldn’t hurt to afford the local media the chance of a pict or two, as a form of consolation prize for the interviews I’d be denying them. (And which they’d probably just make up anyway.)

  Musing thus, I was a little startled to see a thin plume of rising snow, which I assumed had been thrown up by the tracks of vehicles like our own, forming a thin streak of white against the bruise-coloured clouds lowering in the distance. This latter sight filled me with foreboding, as I’d spent enough time on iceworlds, including this one, to recognise the harbinger of the kind of ferocious whiteout which would make venturing out into the open almost suicidal; but the oncoming storm seemed reassuringly distant, and we’d certainly be under cover before it hit. More immediately disturbing was the approaching group of vehicles, which must have been quite sizeable judging by the height of the plume.

  ‘It is,’ Sulla’s auspex op informed me cheerfully. ‘I’ve got around twenty blips so far, and more coming on screen all the time. It looks like half the city’s turned out to meet you.’

  ‘Emperor’s teeth,’ I said, taking Sulla’s remarks seriously for the first time, and quietly congratulating myself on having already taken steps to avoid the worst of it.

  The vanguard of the oncoming blips was, of course, composed of the local forces coming out to escort our charges to safety, which was just as well, all things considered. They managed to take up their positions just in time to keep the majority of the sightseers off our backs, but even so, we were soon surrounded by uncounted numbers of utility crawlers, light and heavy, along with a goodly proportion of tracked cycles, which reminded me a little too strongly of the peculiar hybrids favoured by orks; although I couldn’t deny that these seemed fast and manoeuvrable enough for these icy conditions. Wherever I looked, someone seemed to be pointing an imagifer at me, and I even had to duck on a couple of occasions as lens-toting cyberskulls swooped at my head. Fortunately I managed to overcome the impulse to bring these down with a couple of bursts from the pintle mount, although my tiredness and irritation made it a close run thing.

  At last we broke free of the crush, our Chimeras and Sentinels forming up in a protective cordon around the command vehicle, and went barrelling across the relatively open icefield surrounding the south-west quadrant of the city118. Like most urban areas on Nusquam Fundumentibus there was little to show the existence of a thriving subterranean community just beneath the snow, although a few low structures broke the surface from time to time, their purpose for the most part obscure.

  Given the regularity of the landscape, it wasn’t hard to pick out the occasional exception, and I was particularly intrigued by a line of much larger shapes, partially hidden by drifting snow, which loomed in the middle distance. Impelled by curiosity I raised the amplivisor I’d found in the turret, doubtless so Sulla could keep a more effective eye on her underlings, and brought the enigmatic structures into focus.

  ‘Throne on Earth,’ I said in astonishment. ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘Commissar?’ Sulla asked, her voice in my earpiece sounding almost as puzzled as I felt. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘It’s the cargo shuttles that were supposed to collect us from the Fires of Faith,’ I said, as their hull markings gradually became clearer, partially obscured by the crust of snow adhering to their fuselages. ‘They look like they’ve been abandoned here. But why would anyone do that?’

  It was Sulla who solved that particular little mystery, of course, her logistical expertise coming to the fore once more. Perhaps her sense of good order was affronted by the cavalier waste of so potentially useful a resource, or perhaps she was simply looking for something to do while we sat idly in the PDF garrison at Underice waiting for the storm I’d seen approaching to blow itself out. Throne alone knew, I was chafing at the enforced inactivity more than a little myself, and I was hardly the most eager among us to get back to Primadelving and meet the tyranid threat head-on again.

  ‘Typical Administratum cock-up,’ she assured me cheerfully, dropping uninvited into the chair on the opposite side of my table in the mess hall some three days after our arrival, where I’d been nursing a mug of recaff and a hot grox bun for some time, in the vague hope that something would happen to lift the tedium. The local PDF officers might not have been quite so effusive in their adulation as the civilians, but they were so in awe of my supposed heroism that it was almost impossible to hold a conversation of any kind with them anyway, let alone try to get a card game going. ‘As the shuttles had been assigned to meet the Fires of Faith before we crashed, they’ve been written off as destroyed along with it.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, my head spinning as it so often did from the sheer idiocy of the bureaucratic mindset. ‘So how did they end up here?’

  ‘The pilots couldn’t get clearance to leave the planet,’ Sulla said, ‘because they officially didn’t exist. But the starport authorities in Primadelving ordered them to clear the pads in any case.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, trying to grasp it. ‘They sent an official order to shuttles which they refused to acknowledge were there.’

  Sulla nodded, her prominent teeth growing more visible than ever as she grinned at the absurdity of it. ‘They did. But not in so many words, of course. Just a general order closing the pads for routine refurbishment, and requiring all traffic currently grounded to withdraw. Which they did.’

  ‘But why here?’ I persisted.

  ‘It has relatively few incoming shuttle flights,’ Sulla told me, ‘so they never got round to building permanent landing pads. They just land on the icefield, and their cargoes are brought in by crawler.’

  ‘So no one in Underice can tell them to frak off,’ I concluded, and Sulla nodded.

  ‘Which is lucky for us,’ she added, in tones so cheerful I automatically began to fear the worst.

  ‘How’s that, exactly?’ I asked, already sure I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  ‘They can take us back to Primadelving,’ Sulla said, as though that should have been obvious. ‘These are heavy duty cargo shuttles, remember, not aircraft. They’ve got enough power to punch though the weather regardless, or even take us out of the atmosphere entirely if that makes the job easier.’

  ‘They have,’ I agreed, nodding slowly. And drop us right back in the centre of the tightening tyranid noose, which was not a prospect I relished. On the other hand, try as I might, I couldn’t think of a good reason to oppose the idea; which, given my reputation, would raise too many eyebrows in any case. ‘How do you suggest we get our hands on the shuttles?’ I asked at last, clutching at straws. ‘If the Administratum’s blocking access...’

  ‘They can’t,’ Sulla told me, clearly carried away with her own cleverness. ‘They’ve already recorded their deployment as part of a Guard operation. So we just tell them they were right all along, and the shuttles are part of our regimental assets.’

  ‘They’ve also listed them as destroyed in the crash,’ I pointed out, sure she’d have an answer for that one too, and intrigued enough in spite of myself to wonder what it might be. ‘How do you account for them being back in operation?’

  ‘Salvage,’ she said, with a perfectly straight face. ‘But we probably won’t have to: military operational requirements automatically overrule Administratum protocols119.’

  ‘They do,’ I agreed. ‘What about the pilots? How do they feel about this?’ Knowing Sulla she’d already tracked them down and twisted their arms, although under the circumstances I doubted that she’d have to apply much pressure. They had literally nowhere else to go.


  ‘All for it,’ she assured me, confirming my intuition. ‘So long as they can get back on the flight deck, they’re happy.’

  ‘Well done, captain,’ I said, with all the enthusiasm I could counterfeit. ‘Your initiative does you credit.’

  Sulla beamed at me, as though I’d just offered her a sugar lump.

  ‘I do my best,’ she said smugly.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I was right, the situation hadn’t improved at all while I’d been away: quite the reverse, in fact. The hellish weather conditions hadn’t bothered the ’nids in the slightest, and the first thing I saw when I arrived back in the command post was a ring of icons poised to choke the life out of Primadelving. The realisation that we had at least acquired the use of some spacegoing shuttles, which could loft me to the safe haven of the orbital docks, well out of reach of the tyranids if the worst came to the worst, was something of a comfort, of course, but on the whole I’d much rather have been somewhere else entirely.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Broklaw greeted me, without a trace of irony. ‘I was beginning to think you’d miss all the fun.’

  ‘I’m sure there are enough ’nids to go round,’ I replied, reflecting that if this really was his idea of a good time then he desperately needed to get out more. ‘What did I miss?’ Not that I cared a jot, but it never hurt to look interested, and at least finding something else to concentrate on kept my mind from dwelling too much on all the worst case scenarios.

  ‘The ’nids are still on the move,’ Kasteen said, with a wave at the hololith, apparently in case I hadn’t realised for myself just how badly we were frakked. ‘And the whiteout’s put paid to any more refugee convoys.’ She shrugged expressively. ‘Which were getting more and more chancy anyway, since the ’nids started closing in.’