[Imperial Guard 01] - Fifteen Hours

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  Now, three quarters of an hour’s worth of hurried preparations later, Larn found himself running in full kit as he and the rest of his company were herded like sheep through the troopship’s maze of corridors. Here and there they passed naval crewmen who paused from their duties long enough to cheer them on, offering half-heard words of encouragement in place of the sardonic laughter that had greeted their earlier training exercises. With the prospect that their erstwhile passengers might soon be seeing combat, it seemed the normal antipathy between the Navy and the Guard had abruptly given way to mutual respect. With a sudden tremor in the pit of his stomach, Larn realised he was about to go to war.

  “You shall know no reward other than the Emperor’s satisfaction!” the vox-caster continued. “You shall know no truth other than that which the servants of your Emperor tell you!”

  This is it, Larn thought. After all the training and briefings, all the preparations, the moment for which it was all in aid of is here at last. I am finally going to war. As much as that thought filled his mind, he found himself distracted as a second thought pushed itself insistently to the fore. Three weeks, he thought. Three weeks, maybe four. That is what the naval officer said in the briefing only yesterday. He said it would be at least three weeks before we saw any action. Confused, Larn wondered what could have changed in the meantime. If yesterday they were still three weeks from combat, how was it today they were about to make their first drop?

  “The mind of the Guardsman has no place for questions,” the vox-caster screamed unnervingly. “Doubt is a vile cancer whose symptoms are cowardice and fear, steel yourself against it. There is room for but three things in the mind of the Guardsman: obedience, duty, and love of the Emperor.”

  Abruptly, as though the blaring of the vox-caster was somehow the sound of his own conscience, Larn felt a sudden shame. He thought of his family far away on Jumael, and how every night they would be offering a prayer for his safety as they knelt before the votive picture of the Emperor above the fire mantle. He thought about the tale his father had told him, about his great-grandfather and the lottery. He thought about all the promises he had made his Pa about doing his duty. He realised, for all his talk and promises then, how close he had coming to failing them at the very first hurdle. It did not matter that the facts given him in yesterday’s briefing now seemed at odds with today’s reality. He was a Guardsman, and all that mattered was that he did his duty. Putting his questions aside he found himself comforted by the memory of his father’s words in the cellar, his recollection of his father’s voice serving as a kinder and more gentle counterpoint to the vox-caster’s wail and bombast.

  “Trust to the Emperor,” his father had told him with tears in his eyes. “Trust to the Emperor, and everything will be all right.”

  Emerging from the cramp and narrowness of the corridor, the launch bay seemed huge as Larn followed the men in front of him inside it. Ahead he saw the imposing bulk of a lander, steam rising from the hydraulics of the platform it rested on as tech-adepts scurried around it like mindful ants giving succour to a fallen giant. He saw adepts manning the massive fuel lines that ran from a recessed spout in the far wall of the launch bay to the lander’s engines, while others anointed the surfaces of the lander with unguents, burned incense, performed blessings, or made final adjustments to the lander’s systems with the diverse instruments of holy calibration. All the while the lander hummed with power, the thrumming of its restive engines vibrating through the metal floor of the launch bay towards where Larn and the others stood gazing at it uncertainly, like wary travellers unsure whether to risk waking a sleeping tiger.

  “Get moving, you inbreeds!” Sergeant Ferres yelled, the volume of the continuing vox-caster broadcasts around them having been diminished enough by the open spaces of the launch bay for them to at last hear their sergeant’s commands. “A man might almost think you bumpkins hadn’t seen a lander before.”

  In truth, none of them had: their journey from Jumael to the orbiting troopship having been undertaken inside local planetary shuttles of much less startling dimensions. As Larn rushed towards the lander with the others he found himself in awe to be approaching so enormous a vehicle. It looks like it could hold a couple of thousand men at least, he thought. Not to mention tanks and artillery besides. For the first time he truly appreciated the extraordinary scale of the troopship he had been travelling within for the last twenty-nine days. Sweet Emperor, he thought in amazement, to think they say this ship carries twenty such landers!

  At the front the mouth of the lander lay open, the primary assault ramp stretching towards them like the tongue of some improbable metal beast. Running up the ramp into the cavernous and dimly lit interior of the lander itself, Larn and the others found a grim-faced member of the lander’s crew waiting to point them in the direction of a nearby stairwell. Then, following the stairwell to its summit, they came to the vast rows and aisles of seats of the lander’s upper troop-deck.

  “Find a seat and fasten your restraints,” Ferres barked. “I want you seated together in fireteam, section, and platoon order. Any man who isn’t in his seat and ready for drop in two minutes’ time is going to find himself on a charge.”

  Hurrying to his seat Larn quickly sat down, carefully fastening the buckles of the seat’s impact restraints across his waist, shoulders and chest, before tightening them to fit him. Making sure the safety on his lasgun was set to “safe”, he pushed the gun upright and butt-first into the shallow recess of the weapon holder set at the front of his seat and clipped the barrel lock closed to hold the gun in place. Then, looking about him at the other Guardsmen as they did likewise, Larn found himself briefly confused as he realised just how few men there were inside the lander. Despite the fact that the lander was built to house a minimum of two thousand men, there was at most a single company of men inside it. It looks like they are only dropping my company, he thought. 6th Company. But that would make no sense. Why would they only put only two hundred men on board, when this lander can hold ten times that? No. They must be going to load more men on board. No doubt we are just the first aboard and rest of the regiment will be following us soon enough.

  “Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus two point zero zero minutes,” a harsh metallic voice announced over a hidden vox-caster speaker as, in the distance, Larn heard the slow grinding of the lander’s assault ramp closing.

  “Sounds like we got into our seats just in time, Larnie,” Jenks said, as Larn realised he had taken the seat next to him. “Good thing, too. Never mind old Ferres and his threats, I wouldn’t want to be wandering around out of my seat when this monster finally gets going.”

  With that Jenks turned away to fasten his own seat-restraints. For a moment, still confused, Larn found himself fighting the urge to ask Jenks where he thought the rest of the regiment was. Then, abruptly, he realised it made no difference. It was too late to turn back now. Like it or not, it looked like 6th Company would be making their first planetary drop on their own.

  “Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus one point zero zero minutes,” the voice said again, as Larn felt the vibrations of the lander’s engines grow stronger.

  “Don’t worry, Larnie,” said Jenks by his side as, trying as much to allay his own anxieties as comfort a friend, he turned to give Larn a kindly smile. “They say it’s not the fall you need to worry about. It’s hitting the ground that kills you.”

  “Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus zero point three zero minutes,” the metallic voice continued its countdown as Larn realised, too late, he had forgotten to pray to the Emperor for a safe descent.

  “Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus zero,” the voice said as the lander’s engines fired and Larn found himself feeling suddenly weightless. “All systems ready. Launch!”

  And then, quicker than Larn would have thought possible, they were falling.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  23:12 hours Imperial Standard Time

  (Revised Real-Space Close Planetary Appro
ximation)

  Evasive Manoeuvres — Falling and the Taste of Vomit — Landfall, Death and Grim Realisation — The Calamity of Sergeant Ferres — No-man’s land and the Eagle in the Distance — Welcome to Broucheroc

  “Bearing one eight degrees one five minutes,” the navigation servitor’s voice croaked, the parchment-thin tones of its voice barely audible in the lander’s crew compartment over the roar of engines. “Recommend course correction of minus zero three degrees zero eight minutes for optimal atmospheric entry. All other systems reading normal.”

  “Check,” said the pilot, automatically pushing his control stick forward to make the adjustment. “New bearing: one five degrees zero seven minutes. Confirm course correction.”

  “Course correction confirmed,” the servitor said, its yellowing sightless eyes rolling back in their sockets as it rechecked its calculations. “Atmospheric entry in T minus five seconds. Two. One. Atmospheric entry achieved. All systems reading normal.”

  “Look at that glow, Dren,” Zil the co-pilot said, his eyes lifting from his instruments for a fraction of a second to look out the view-portal at the nose of the lander as it was surrounded by a nimbus of bright red fire. “No matter how many planetary drops we do, I never get used to it. It’s like riding in a ball of flame. It makes you thank the Emperor for whoever first made heat shields.”

  “Heat shields reading normal,” said the servitor, gears whirring inside it as it mistook the comment for a question. “Exterior temperature within permitted operational thresholds. All systems reading normal.”

  “That’s because you’ve only got a dozen drops behind you,” the pilot said. “Trust me, by the time you’ve done another dozen you won’t even notice it. How’s the signal from the landing beacon? I don’t want to miss the drop point.”

  “Beacon signal reading strong and clear,” Zil replied. “No air traffic, friendly or hostile. Looks like we’ve got the sky to ourselves. Wait! Auspex is reading some—”

  “Warning! Warning!” the servitor interrupted, the whirring of its mechanisms reaching an abrupt crescendo as it burst into life. “Registering hostile missile launch from ground-based battery. Recommend evasive manoeuvres. Missile trajectory eight seven degrees zero three minutes, airspeed six hundred knots. Warning! Registering second missile launch. Missile trajectory—”

  “Evasive manoeuvres confirmed!” the pilot said, pressing his control stick forward as he pushed the lander into a dive. “Servitor: belay hostile trajectories and airspeeds until further orders. Zil, deploy chaff!”

  “Chaff activated. Instruments reading chaff successfully deployed,” Zil said, his voice growing suddenly hoarse as he looked at one of the screens before him.

  “Wait. The chaff, it’s not done any good. It’s as though… Holy Emperor! None of the hostile missiles have guidance systems!”

  “What do you mean?” the pilot asked as he saw Zil’s face go pale. “If that’s the case we have nothing to worry about. If they’re firing blind there’s not one chance in a thousand of them being able to hit us.”

  “But that’s exactly it,” said Zil, his voice frantic. “I’m reading a thousand hostile missiles as airborne already. And hundreds more are being launched every second. Holy Throne! We’re flying into the biggest shitstorm I’ve ever seen!”

  “Emergency evasion procedures!” the pilot said, barking out orders as he pushed the lander forward into an even steeper dive while from outside they could hear the first of the missiles exploding. “Servitor: override standard flaps and navigation safety protocols — I want full control! Make sure your strapped in tight, Zil — we’re going to have to go in hard and heavy! Looks like this is going to be a close one…”

  Falling.

  They were falling.

  With nothing to slow or stop them.

  Like a comet.

  Falling headlong from the stars.

  In the lander’s troop compartment, slammed back in his seat by the force of acceleration, it felt to Larn as though his stomach was trying to push its way up from his throat. Around him he could hear men screaming, the sound all but drowned out by the dull thud of explosions from outside the lander. He heard cries for pity and muttered oaths, all the while the skin being pulled so tight across his face he was sure it was about to rip free from his bones. Then, sounding much louder than any noise he had ever known before, there came the boom of another explosion and with it the gut-wrenching sound of tearing metal. With those sounds he found himself forced back against his seat with even greater force as the fall began in earnest.

  We’ve been hit, he thought, overcome with sudden panic while the world began to spin crazily around him as the lander turned over and over on its axis out of control. We’ve been hit, the thought crowded his mind and held him at its mercy. We’ve been hit! Holy Emperor, we’re in freefall!

  He felt himself struck in the face by a warm and semisolid liquid, the acrid smell and the taste of the droplets dribbling past his lips telling him it was vomit. Half mad with desperation, he found himself wondering incongruously whether it was from his own stomach or someone else’s. Then another thought forced its way fearfully into his mind and he no longer cared who the vomit belonged to. A thought more terrible than any he had ever considered in his seventeen years of life to date.

  We are falling from the sky, he thought. We are falling from the sky and we’re going to die!

  He felt his gorge rise in a tide of sickly acids, the half-digested remnants of his last meal spewing uncontrollably from his mouth to soak some other unfortunate elsewhere in the lander. Certain he was on the brink of oblivion he tried to replay the events of his life in his mind. He tried to remember his family, the farm, his homeworld. He tried to think of fields of flowing wheat, magnificent sunsets, the sound of his father’s voice. Anything to blot out the terrifying reality around him. It was hopeless though and he realised the last moments of his life would be spent with the following sensations: the taste of vomit, the sound of men going screaming to their deaths, the feeling of his own heart beating wildly in his chest. These were the things he would take with him to death: the last sensations he would ever know. Just as he began to wonder at the unfairness of it all the world stopped spinning as, with a bone-jarring impact and a terrible screech like the death-knell of some mortally wounded beast, the lander finally hit the ground.

  For a moment there was silence while the interior of the lander was plunged into total darkness. Next, Larn heard the sound of coughing and quiet prayers as the men in the lander drew a collective breath to find, despite some initial misgivings, they were very much alive. Abruptly, darkness gave way to dim shadowy light at the activation of the lander’s emergency illumination system. Then, he heard a familiar strident voice begin to bark out orders as Sergeant Ferres sought to re-establish control of his troops.

  “Fall in!” the sergeant shouted. “Fall in and prepare to disembark. Get off your arses, damn you, and start acting like soldiers. You’ve got a war to fight, you lazy bastards.”

  Releasing his seat-restraints Larn staggered unsteadily to his feet, his hands warily prodding his body as he checked to see whether any of his bones were broken. To his relief, it seemed he had survived the landing little the worse for wear. His shoulders were sore, and he had the painful beginnings of a bruise where the clasp of one of the seat-straps had bitten into his flesh. Other than that, he had escaped from what had seemed like certain death remarkably unscathed. Then, just as he began to congratulate himself on surviving his first drop, Larn turned to retrieve his lasgun and saw that the man sitting in the seat next to him had not been so lucky.

  It was Jenks. Head lolling sideways at a sickening angle, eyes staring blankly from a lifeless and slack-jawed face, Jenks sat in his seat dead and unmoving. Staring at his friend’s body in numb disbelief, Larn noticed a thin stream of blood trickling from Jenks’ mouth to stain his chin. Then, spotting a small bloody-ended piece of pink flesh lying on the floor of the lander beside his feet,
Larn realised that with the force of the landing Jenks must have inadvertently bitten off the end of his tongue. As horrified as he was by that discovery, Larn could not at first understand how Jenks had died. Until, looking once more at arrangement of seat-restraints around his friend’s body and the way his head lolled sideways like a broken puppet, Larn realised the restraints had been improperly fastened, causing Jenks’ neck to snap at the moment of their landing. The realisation brought him no comfort. Jenks was dead. Understanding how his friend had died did nothing to lessen Larn’s grief.

  “Fall in,” the sergeant shouted again. “Fall in and get ready to move out.”

  Still numb with shock, Larn grabbed his lasgun and stumbled past Jenks’ body to join the rest of the company as they lined up in one of the aisles between the upper deck’s endless rows of seating. As he did, he became aware for the first time of the sound of distant ricochets clanging off the exterior of the hull. We are being fired at, he thought dully, his mind still reeling at the sight of Jenks’ corpse. Until, noticing an almost palpable sense of unrest among the other Guardsmen as he took his place in the line and waited for the order to move out, Larn realised he could smell smoke and with it, there came an unwelcome realisation that cut through the fog of his grief and seemed to grip at his heart with clutching icy fingers.

  The lander was on fire.

  Spurred on by horror at the prospect of being trapped in a burning lander, the Guardsmen began to hurry for the stairwell while behind them Sergeant Ferres shouted profanities in the vain hope of maintaining some form of order. No one was listening. Frenzied, they rushed down the stairs towards the lower deck, treading on the corpses of those already killed in the landing.

  Running with the others, Larn caught a brief glimpse of their company commander, Lieutenant Vinters, sitting dead in his seat with his neck broken just like Jenks. He had no time to dwell on the lieutenant’s death: caught in the crush of fleeing Guardsmen he could only run with the crowd as they made for the lower deck, to the assault ramp and freedom. As they came within sight of it they found that the assault ramp was still sealed shut, while from all around them the smell of smoke grew ever stronger.