by Guy Haley
‘But, you’re a commissar...’ said Bannick limply.
‘Commissars can be fools as readily as other men. The efforts of Jonas’ platoon are directed in the correct direction, at the enemy. That is all I ask.’
‘But he will shoot you if you disobey an order,’ said Jonas conversationally. ‘I’ve seen him do it.’
‘Ah, poor Captain Rannigen,’ said Micz.
‘But he’s not so stiff as some of the other... stiffs,’ said Jonas. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Suliban. ‘Leading men has more to do with understanding them than a strict adherence to the rules.’
‘Praise be to the Emperor to that,’ said Jonas. ‘Everyone got a drink? Very good.’ He raised his mug. ‘Here’s to making it out the other side,’ he said. They drank. Bannick shivered again as the gleece warmed him. The buzz the drink gave was enough to mask the apprehension of battle, and they spent ten minutes in pleasant conviviality.
Time ran out along with the gleece. Bannick looked at his chronometer.
‘We need to go.’ He saluted his cousin and the commissar. ‘Until later.’
‘I’ll walk you back,’ said Jonas.
‘It’s raining.’
‘I had noticed.’
Outside the dugout Jonas took Bannick’s elbow and leaned close, the hammering rain masking his voice.
‘You be careful. I’ve a bad feeling about all this.’
‘We’re facing monsters out of the deep past. We’re all scared.’
‘No, no – think. They’re Space Marines, but they are not invulnerable. There’s not so many of them, or we’d be done already. What’s worrying me is if they don’t have the ability to take us out in one go, why bother fighting us at all?’
They walked slowly. Lux Imperator emerged from the rain. The two Bannicks paused at the access ladder while Shoam, Meggen and Leonates clambered up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Emperor, Colaron! Think. Why are they here? As things stand, we’re bound to win. Though it will be harder for us with them being here, they can’t hope to overcome us. All this, these strikes and feints, they’re delaying tactics. They’ll slow us down, but they can’t stop us. It’s obvious they want to take this planet, otherwise they’d have hit us with an asteroid, or dropped virus bombs, or those planet crackers the Space Marines use. So my point is, cousin, what exactly are they waiting for?’
A chill ran down Bannick’s back.
‘Now, if I can see that, you can bet your last quart of gleece high command can too. Something bad is going to happen if this attack fails. Can’t you see it? The sense of desperation here. This mad rush for Magor’s Seat. It’s not the careful strategy Iskhandrian’s been following. Things have got a little sloppier, a little quicker, since the inquisitor arrived.’
Jonas nodded at Bannick, urging him to understand.
The vox-set chimed in Bannick’s ear.
‘Sir, Parrigar and Askelios are calling for all hands to prepare. The assault begins in two minutes.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
Jonas prodded Bannick gently in the chest. ‘We’d best pray to the Emperor all this works out. The funny thing about stories is that they’re no fun to be in, and the ones I’ve heard about Traitor Space Marines really are unpleasant.’
Bannick took his leave and clambered back aboard the tank. He tore off his poncho and hung it to dry on the back wall, closest to the reactor where Chensormen lurked. He ignored the commissar’s arched eyebrow. Parrigar and Askelios were conferring on open vox. Bannick half listened as he stripped down to his vest – even that was damp – and sat himself down in the Shadowsword’s command chair.
‘Everyone look sharp. The time for battle is upon us.’
The 18th’s support tanks withdrew, heading back to the safety of the castella. The four super-heavy tanks powered down to a bare minimum. Hidden by the storm in their earthworks, their voxes restricted to short range and operating on low power with their capacitors drained, they were virtually invisible to augur detection, but as soon as they charged to fire, their position would become obvious. The majority of Jonas’ thirty-strong platoon made a cordon around them, primarily either side of the tanks’ position, as the front was protected by a murky lake at the bottom of the crater, and the rear by the Stormlord. Upon Righteous Vengeance, a five-man squad, equipped with two meltaguns and two plasma guns, waited, culled from across Jonas’ platoon, weapons sure to crack the armour of the Space Marines where lasguns would fail. They were to act as a reaction force. Together with the vulcan mega-bolter on the front of the tank, they might deal with any major threat from the traitors.
From their positions the Shadowswords had a clear shot across the battlefield. The ground was much disturbed and offered plenty of cover, but their target would be the enemy’s god-machines, and those were so tall nothing on the surrounding terrain could offer them protection.
They could see little of the advance. The black rain blinded them to anything more than a quarter of a mile away. Flashes occasionally lit up the storm from the direction of the city, still some thirty kilometres distant. Bannick pitied the men having to traverse the sea of mud, but the Titans had to be lured out. In the cover of the towering blocks of Magor’s Seat, they would have a plenitude of cover to exploit, and so would be at their most dangerous. Tactical sense dictated that they be drawn into the open and dealt with from all sides. Ordinatum gunnery officers aboard the fleet and the Shadowswords awaited command from Princeps Yolanedesh as to the most opportune moment to strike. It was a bold strategy, three disparate elements working in concert. There was a lot of technology, a lot that could go wrong. There was no other choice.
Bannick watched the advance on his pict screen; there was no chartdesk as he had on Cortein’s Honour. No room or power to spare. Red dots and chevrons crept slowly across the map. Flashing icons denoted orbital weapons fire aimed at the city. The two largest denoted the Warhound War’s Gift and the Reaver Ultimate Sanction. They walked towards the eastern flank of the army, slightly ahead of the main body and moving away. They were the bait, acting the arrogant conquerors in a ploy to draw out the traitor god-engines. War’s Gift paced its advance in zigzags, scouting ahead in front of its slower companion.
In the centre a huge formation of tanks led the way, Honoured Captain Hannick’s amalgamated unit in the middle. A column of armoured personnel carriers came after it. Behind them marched hundreds of thousands of men, protected from air and orbital attack by the umbrella of the fleet. The column kinked slightly as it followed the route of the main highway into Magor’s Seat. It had probably been bombed to ruin, thought Bannick, and would offer no easier a road than the land around it. Everything was reduced to slurry.
The bitten-off talk of a large force going to war rattled over the vox-net, a staccato racket of acronyms and call signs. It would take a dedicated strategos to make sense of the battle chatter for an entire army group at the height of a fight, but for the moment the messages going back and forth all reported the same thing – advance proceeding smoothly, no opposition.
‘Range guns for focal points at five hundred feet, twenty-four hundred feet, thirty-seven hundred feet,’ said Askelios over the vox. ‘Test generatorum coupling efficacy – low motive force, let’s not give ourselves away.’
‘Testing focal points now,’ responded Bannick. ‘Meggen, Epperaliant.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Epperaliant. ‘Meggen, on my mark.’
On a tiny glass screen set into his station, Bannick watched Meggen press his eyes against the rubberised seal of his augur display. Fully operational, it piped in a constant stream of data. Everything from gross range to planetary curve and air pressure differentials. If the augur systems were knocked out, it could be used as a simple periscope. Meggen had taken to the more sophisticated targeting gear easily, impressing Bannick.
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br /> ‘Five hundred feet,’ said Epperaliant.
‘Marked and correcting. Corrected,’ said Meggen.
‘Twenty-four hundred feet,’ said Epperaliant.
‘Marked. Correct.’
At each adjustment, the small whining noises of shifting servo-motors sounded from the interior of the barrel as its lenses adjusted the focal point for the cannon’s terrifying laser.
‘Thirty-seven hundred feet.’
‘Thirty-seven hundred feet...’ Meggen sucked his lip. ‘Way off. Correcting... Starstan, could I have a little more torque on the beam focus?’
‘Most irregular, but I shall comply,’ said Starstan in his grating machine voice. He twittered at the machine. Data screed flickered over Bannick’s screens. Indicator lights performed a mysterious, flickering dance. Starstan touched nothing. ‘It is done.’
‘Thirty-seven hundred feet, corrected.’
‘I shall now apply the minimum current of motive force to the power couplings in order to gauge the efficacy of their functioning twixt blessed dynamo and most sacred capacitor. Exeunt electricum, Omnissiah desiderat,’ droned Starstan. ‘All ways are clear. Hail the Omnissiah.’
‘All Shadowswords present well, Parrigar. We shall now test the beam focus at steps of one hundred feet, beginning at three hundred. Begin.’
Everything on the Shadowsword was about the volcano cannon. No one armament on the Baneblade commanded so much diligent attention. The devices were millennia tested, and had a reputation for reliability that many of the old, half-forgotten creations of the Dark Age of Technology did not. But that only applied if they were handled well. The secrets of their construction were jealously guarded, and that did not help their maintenance or correct use. A Baneblade’s weapons were easier, more forgiving to the application of an unsanctified wrench. A Baneblade could also, Bannick reflected, shoot its way out of a poor situation. Shadowswords, on the other hand, had that awkward choice between movement and destruction. They were inflexible, all or nothing. With such a powerful armament, they were high on any enemy’s list of targets. He tripled the risk in his head because three were in close proximity. Then he doubled it again. They were to fight god-engines, whose own weaponry could annihilate a company such as theirs with a single blast.
‘Meggen?’ said Bannick.
‘Sir?’
‘Check the focusing ranges again.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘And when the time comes to fire just... don’t miss.’
Battlegroup Geratomro, Additional assets
Adeptus Mechanicus (Mechanicus Militarum assets only, see sheet #992 re. Adeptus Mechanicus support elements)
Titan Legion, Legio Crucis, 1/20th Legion
Commanding officer Princeps Yolanedesh
Ultimate Sanction – Reaver-class medium Titan, Princeps Yolanedesh
War’s Messenger – Warhound-class Scout Titan, Princeps Almodovar [note, recorded destroyed, Agritha IV]
War’s Gift – Warhound-class Scout Titan, Princeps Gonzar
Adeptus Astartes
Black Templars Chapter, Adeptus Astartes, Michaelus Crusade [note, probable name change from Kalidar Crusade]
Commanding officer Marshal Michaelus
Est. 90 battle-brothers and associated support
Non-Astra Militarum ground assets, Geratomro campaign, 398.M41
Chapter Nineteen
God-engine
MAGOR’S FIELDS
GERATOMRO
087498.M41
Thirty minutes can last an eternity. Time crawled by with excruciating sluggishness. Bannick lay back in his chair bathed in the red light of emergency lumens. He was finally drying off. The rumble of artillery had a symphonic quality, an orchestra of drums that swelled and dwindled, their rhythms taken up by other percussive instruments of destruction, so that the tune never died. Keeping time was a new, steady, metronomic beat, slow as a sleeping man’s heart. Boom, boom, boom. One thump after another, regularly paced. A faint tremor passed through the tank as the noise grew louder.
Bannick sat bolt upright. The sound... ‘Footsteps!’
‘God-engine!’ The alarm was given by Askelios’ second, Xetrexes, before Bannick reached the company vox-button, and was taken up by the entire unit.
Princeps Gonzar was on the vox a second later, the Shadowswords listening in but not daring to respond. ‘Confirm three enemy engines, Titan-class. Emperor preserve us, what has been done to them? I see two Reavers, and a third. The augurs are uncooperative... The third is a Warlord. Repeat, the third Titan is a Warlord.’
‘Steady as she goes, Gonzar. See if you can draw one of them off. Ultimate Sanction is moving to engage. Nominate enemy Titans prime, second and Warlord. Acknowledge.’
‘Battlesign nomenclature accepted and input. War’s Gift is ready.’
Neither princeps mentioned the existence of the dug-in Shadowsword unit, though half of what they said was for the tank commanders’ benefit. Bannick watched the two Titans pull further away from the Imperial column of advance. Large, menacing red dots appeared on his pict screen holo, indicating the position of the enemy engines, as telemetry gathered by the Titans’ augurs was fed via the army group datasphere to all its constituent parts. They were coming out from the city, heading on an oblique line to intercept the Imperial advance. War’s Gift picked up speed, the mess of the battlefield posing no more obstacle to it than a couple of inches of puddle does to a man in good boots.
‘They’ve taken the bait,’ voxed Askelios. ‘All crews stand ready.’
Yolanedesh continued speaking over an open vox. ‘Set intercept course, we’ll meet them halfway. Moderati, prepare turbo lasers for maximum burst fire, reactor ready for rapid recharge. Let’s see if we can take down a couple of shields at range.’
‘Stand ready to prime volcano cannon, at my command,’ said Askelios. Parrigar, nominally in charge, let the Atraxian get on with it.
‘Wake carapace rockets and bless,’ intoned the princeps of Ultimate Sanction, slipping into full communion with the spirit of his machine. ‘Targeting enemy designate Prime.’
Bannick looked out of the viewing slit. The bevelled edges of the armourglass refracted the meagre light from outside. All he could see was sheeting black rain.
‘Makes you wonder how much of this planet is up in the air, and how much is on the ground,’ said Epperaliant, catching Bannick’s peering.
‘Your comment is illogical. Although three hundred and seventy-eight megatonnes of soil, rock and various vapours were ejected–’ began Starstan.
‘It was a joke, coghead,’ said Meggen.
‘Really,’ said Starstan, managing somehow to imbue his emotionless voice with offence.
Bannick returned to his pict screen, eagerly awaiting each update from high command. The two enemy Reavers broke off from their advance on the loyalist Reaver, and were peeling off together towards War’s Gift, which was backtracking towards the armoured column, now only a few miles out from the city, leaving the Warlord to head right for Legio Crucis’ Ultimate Sanction alone.
‘They’re overmatching,’ Bannick said. ‘Doubling down in firepower. Those Reavers will make short work of Gonzar then turn on Yolanedesh. Even without them, he is not going to last long against a Warlord.’
‘Stand easy, Bannick. Gonzar is drawing the Titans towards our columns of medium tanks. We wait to do our part. If we fire up our reactors to charge the capacitors now, then the Warlord will kill us first before finishing off Yolanedesh,’ said Askelios.
Bannick held his tongue. He did not agree. The Warlord was moving past their position. If they attracted its attention, they would buy Yolanedesh valuable time. Ultimate Sanction was also more mobile than they. They should switch places, becoming bait themselves and allowing Yolanedesh more freedom to do his work.
‘We await the prin
ceps’ order,’ said Askelios. ‘Stand ready to charge.’
‘Firing carapace rockets on three, two, one. Loose,’ came Yolanedesh’s voice.
The rain flashed. Bannick saw neither the source nor the target. A series of explosions and further flashes marked the rockets’ detonation. Purple flares followed – the light of reacting void shields. Other flashes blinked in the rain as the enemy Warlord returned fire. Again, Bannick could not see its source. On the pict screen, the Reaver circled the Warlord like a smaller man makes use of nimbleness to outwit a larger opponent. The dark day blinked with lightning and weapons discharge. Booming in the sky that could have been simple thunder or explosions that brought the death of hundreds of men rolled over the Shadowswords’ emplacement.
On the display, a number of tanks had split off from the main advance and headed in full combat order towards Gonzar’s Warhound and the advancing enemy Reavers. Bannick’s headset filled with crackling orders, so many that they overlaid one another to become a rush of white noise. The two enemy Reavers split, trying to outflank the Warhound. The dark strobed again, this time to the discharge of hundreds of battle cannons.
Gonzar’s voice surfaced from the ocean of noise. ‘Second is losing its void shields. Keep it up.’
Brilliant lines cut across the horizon. The vox pulsed with throbbing discharges of energy weaponry.
‘Warlord’s coming closer,’ said Epperaliant. ‘Ultimate Sanction is leading it our way.’
Massive explosions drowned out the vox in a blizzard of interference.
‘-ative,’ Askelios was saying. ‘Maintain engine quiet. Do not charge capacitors.’
‘Fifteen hundred yards and closing,’ said Epperaliant.
‘Set beam focus for close range,’ said Askelios. ‘Prepare to charge cannons on my command, maximum power. We will get one shot. It must count.’
Bannick stood a little in his seat and leaned towards the viewing block. Through the gloom he spied a giant shape walking backwards towards them. He threw up his hand to shield his eyes as a roaring stream of plasma lit up the day where the sun could not, shining off the underside of the clouds of dust that masked the surface from the system’s star. The shock wave from the plasma’s heating of the atmosphere was visible to the naked eye, sketched by the black rain, which twisted in on itself and was flung outwards with ear-shattering force. The army group’s comms became an indecipherable racket.
