“In the last thirty days the productivity of the city’s manufactoriums has fallen by a figure of four point three four per cent,” the Magos said in a dry monotone voice, apparently so long past remembering what it was to be human he made no attempt to leaven the bad news as he delivered it. “The reasons for this fall in productivity are as follows. One, the loss of five manufactoriums in Sector 1-49 when the sector in question was partially overrun by the orks. Two, the destruction of another manufactorium in Sector 1-37 by an ork raiding party who had gained entrance past the city’s defensive perimeter by unknown means. Three, damage to a further fifteen manufactoriums in Sectors 1-22 through 1-25 caused by the orks’ long-range artillery. Four, further damage to three of the same manufactoriums caused by gretchin suicide bombers. Five, the slowness of repair to these facilities caused by a chronic lack of qualified personnel. Six, the outbreak of an unknown viral pathogen among the lay manufactorium workers of Sector 1-19, causing the loss of 180,757 working man-hours through either sickness or death. Seven, the loss of 162,983 working man-hours caused through civil unrest occasioned by food shortages among the lay manufactorium workers of Sector 1-32, said unrest having since been suppressed at the result of a further 34,234 working man-hours lost through either injury or death…”
His face emotionless, the magos continued, droning out an apparently endless catalogue of doom. As he listened, Grand Marshal Kerchan once more found himself falling into despair. According to his strategic calculations, the battle for Broucheroc should have been won weeks, if not months, ago. More than that, by now they should have broken out of this Emperor-forsaken city and be pushing the enemy back on every front. Yet, impossibly, after ten years of warfare the orks still showed no sign of defeat or collapse. While day after day, hour after hour, Grand Marshal found himself confronted by defeatism at every turn: his every waking moment spent in the company of dozens of mewling incompetents, all of them with their pleas of extenuation and tales of woe.
The Adeptus Mechanicus complained about not having enough workers or raw materials for the manufactoriums. The Medical Corps complained of not having enough surgeons or medicines for the apothecariums. The militia authorities he had placed in command of the civilian infrastructure complained of not having the resources to provide enough food or clean water for the city’s population. Worst of all, his own generals complained of not having enough men, or arms, or artillery support, or any other damned thing. Complaint, after complaint, after damn complaint. All the while, the Grand Marshal knew all these complaints for what they truly were. Excuses. It was hardly any wonder that sometimes he felt such outrage he was tempted to pick out one of his generals at random and put a lasblast through his head just as an example to the others.
A lasblast, he thought, hand straying unconsciously to the finely filigreed surface of the ceremonial laspistol at his side. Right here and now. That really would put the fear of the Emperor into them!
“Fifteen, the loss of 38,964 working man-hours through reason of power shortages in Sectors 1-42 through 1-47.” the magos droned relentlessly on, his mechadendrites still attending to the machines of his body as though with a life of their own. “Sixteen, the loss of a manufactorium to explosion in Sector 1-26, said explosion believed to have been caused by a malfunction in an incorrectly fitted power conduit. Seventeen…”
And on and on and on. Seeking relief from the depressing tedium of the Magos’ report, hearing the sound of a door opening behind him the Grand Marshal turned his head enough to the side to watch from the corner of his eye as one of Vlin’s aides stepped into the briefing room from the anteroom outside. Holding a data-slate the aide advanced to the table to hand it to Colonel Vlin, before saluting and smartly turning on his heel to march away. Pressing the display stud to bring up the report stored on the data-slate, Vlin studied it for a full minute. Then, his face visibly growing pale, he raised his eyes to look uneasily toward the Grand Marshal.
“What is it, Vlin?” Kerchan asked as, from further down the table, the magos’ briefing continued inexorably.
“I have just received the latest estimates from the Office of Strategic Analysis, your excellency,” Vlin said, a wavering tone of uncertainty in his voice. “But there must be some mistake—”
“Let me see it,” the Grand Marshal said, holding his hand out for Vlin to give him the data-slate.
For a moment, as though unsure whether he should surrender it, Vlin hesitated. Then, the habits of obedience engrained by fifteen years in the Grand Marshal’s service proving too strong to resist, he reluctantly complied. Curious as to what could have so unnerved his adjutant, Kerchan took the data-slate and skimmed through the report to see for himself. At first glance it seemed no more than Vlin had said: another dry analysis of facts and figures from the number crunchers in the OSA. At least until the Grand Marshal happened to look at the report’s conclusions.
“Damnation!” he roared.
Incensed, before he even knew what he was doing the Grand Marshal had thrown the data-slate away in a rage, flinging it across the room to smash against the wall in a crash of breaking plexiglass as its display screen shattered. Stunned by his outburst, mouths gaping open in idiot expressions of surprise, the men around the table sat frozen in shock. Even Magos Garan was not immune, his mechadendrites becoming suddenly motionless, he paused in his report and stood gazing at Kerchan as though unsure how best to react. All of them silently staring at the Grand Marshal with wary expressions whose combined meanings were almost palpably clear.
They think I have turned into a madman, Kerchan thought, the storm of his anger having subsided immediately he had vented his rage against the helpless data-slate. The old man is losing it. That is what they are all telling themselves.
“Leave me,” he said quietly, his face a mask, his mind feeling suddenly tired and no longer willing to see the looks in their eyes. “Leave me,” he directed. “All of you. Get out of here now.”
Cowed, heads bent so as not to meet his gaze, the members of the General Staff stood, bowed at him, and filed from the room in uneasy silence. All except Vlin. Treading cautiously over to the fallen data-slate while the others went to the door, the adjutant picked it up and made to take it with him.
“Leave it, Vlin,” the Grand Marshal said. “Put it on the table, and then get out with the rest of them.”
Soon, he was alone. The mammoth expanse of the briefing room seemed desolate and empty about him now it was deserted, Grand Marshal Kerchan began to wonder if he perhaps should have held himself better in check. Generals were by their nature inveterate gossips. Within the hour news of his outburst would be known throughout General Headquarters; by tomorrow it would likely be known across the city. In these trying times even a Grand Marshal must be careful. Whatever the rules and regulations of the Imperial Guard might say to the contrary, as the commanding officer of a besieged city his position was precarious. Idle gossip about the data-slate incident could easily lead to discussions about the state of his mental health; discussions that in turn might undermine his authority, creating fertile soil in which the twin ugly flowers of dissent and mutiny could grow. He was not afraid. Experience had taught him there was always one sure way for a Grand Marshal to maintain order.
It is time for another purge, he thought. Tonight, I will tell Vlin to contact the Commissariat and have them send over a list of anyone above the rank of major they suspect of disloyalty. A few show trials and shootings should nip any problems in the bud in that regard. And while we’re at it, I will tell Vlin to add Dushan to the list. Yes, another purge. That is exactly what is needing here.
Calm and satisfied now, he turned his attention back to the object that had originally provoked his displeasure. Lifting the data-slate from its position on the table where Vlin had left it, the Grand Marshal looked again at the words and graphs of the report still visible on the shattered surface of its display screen. The findings of the report were bleak. Based on current estimates of ork birth
-rates and the rate of attrition of men and materiel inside the city, it concluded Broucheroc could only survive another six months at most.
Six months, the Grand Marshal thought grimly. I shall have to remember to tell Vlin to add the name of whatever traitor compiled this report to the list as well. Imagine claiming this city has only six months left to live, when any fool knows the siege is on the verge of crumbling and victory is within our grasp.
Mentally making another note to himself to have the report suppressed, Kerchan tossed the data-slate away and sat in silence for several minutes. Feeling weighed down by the heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders, his brooding mood of earlier returned. I am assailed on all sides by troubles, he thought. Bad enough after a long and glorious career for a man to find himself shunted to a sideshow war on a planet of no importance. Worse, to then he condemned to a long siege with no prospect of relief from other sources. But it does not matter. The genius that won me my battles in the past has not deserted me. I am still a great leader, and my plan is sound. Soon, I will break this siege and reclaim this planet for the Emperor. And, when I do, the fools among the Lord Generals Militant responsible for sidelining me to this awful place will find themselves embarrassed to see me celebrated and revered for all my victories. I am the Grand Marshal Tirnas Kerchan. I am still in control of my own destiny. I will win this war. And, soon enough, I will be able to add the name “Hero of Broucheroc” to all my different titles. I will not allow matters here to go any other way.
Then, noticing a single page sitting alone among the flotsam spread of maps and documents lying across the table, the Grand Marshal saw something there that excited his interest. It was the latest edition of The Veritas, the city’s twice-daily newsletter and, as so often in the past when he felt weighed down by all his troubles, the Grand Marshal turned to the newsletter in the hope of comfort.
Orks Defeated in Sector 1-13, the headline read. Jumael 14th Victorious!
Yes, he thought, reading the story written below it. It doesn’t matter what the others say, here is the proof that I was right all along. The proof of impending victory and the proof my battle plans are sound. We are winning victories. We are defeating the orks. We are winning this war.
It says so right here in the news.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
17:54 Central Broucheroc Time
Boy and the Taking of Broucheroc’s Children — Trench Repairs Parts 1, 2 & 3 — Questions as to the Whys and Wherefores of Survival — A Reappraisal of the Tale of his Fathers
His name was Boy. Granted, his Ma had given him another name but she had been dead for more than three something years now and he had been so young he could no longer remember what it was she had called him. Instead, he had taken the name the auxies used for him when they tried to catch him to take him to the machine-men and their big making-places. “Come here, boy,” they would say. “We don’t want to hurt you, boy,” their voices breathless from running, their stupid faces red and panting, trying to chase him as he danced away from them across the rubble. Some of them, the clever ones he guessed, would even try to trick him. “We have food, boy,” they’d say. “Come down here and we will share some with you.” But they could never fool him. He was Boy, and he lived wild and swift and free in the ruins of this city. Try as they might, the auxies and the machine-men would never get him.
Now, the cloak he had made from rat skins and scavenged sacking-cloth wrapped tight about him to keep out the cold, Boy crouched hidden in a hollow in the rubble waiting to see if one of the children of Cap’n Rat would take his bait. The pickings had been good this week, with Cap’n Rat sending at least one of his children along each day for Boy to kill and eat. In return Boy had done right by the Cap’n just liked he’d promised him: forsaking all other gods and praying to Cap’n Rat over each of his kills. As far as agreements went Boy reckoned it had been a pretty good one. Only problem was, despite the fact he had been waiting in the same place for hours now, so far today the Cap’n didn’t seem in any great hurry to live up to his end of the bargain.
Then, at last, Boy saw signs of progress. Tempted from his burrow by the promise of easy pickings, a rat emerged from a nearby hole in the rubble and moved quickly across the rocks towards the bait. Until, coming to the small piece of greasy flesh Boy had set out as a lure, the rat paused with whiskers twitching warily as though some inner instinct had alerted it to danger.
Too late to be twitching with your whiskers now, Brother Rat, Boy thought, a feral smile playing across his cracked lips as he aimed his slingshot and loosed the taut string to let fly with a two-inch metal nail. Shouldn’t oughta have been so greedy, coming out in the open in the suntime like that.
Flying fast and true the nail took the rat square in the back of the neck, stabbing through its spine and into the skull. On his feet and moving before the nail had even hit its target, Boy jumped from cover to race scampering across the rabble to retrieve his prize. Grabbing the dead rat by the tail, he turned and ran back to find refuge again in his hiding place. Then, pulling the nail free and daubing two smears of the rat’s blood across his cheeks, he knelt to send a silent prayer of thanksgiving to his unseen benefactor.
Praise’m, Cap’n Rat, he thought as he looked down at the body of his catch and considered its worth. Praise’m for making so many of your children. Praise’m for making them big and fat. And praise’m for sending them to me so I don’t starve.
It was a good rat, fine and sleek, with the kind of big meaty haunches he knew would make for tasty eatings. Nor did the value of the rat to Boy end there. He could make clothing from its pelt, sewing thread from its sinews, needles and traphooks from its bones, teeth, and claws. No part of the rat’s body would go wasted. By virtue of the survival skills he had learned first by watching his mother and then on his own after her death, Boy could find a use for anything.
Abruptly, he found himself thinking of how things used to be when his Ma was still alive. He remembered the cellar where they used to live, her kind and careworn face, the soft lullabies she would sing to drift him off to sleep. He remembered sitting on her knee as she told him the reasons they must stay in hiding. “They say we must give up our children,” she had told them. “The generals. They say children are a distraction in wartime, that the people of Broucheroc must all serve in the auxiliaries while their children are cared for in the orphanariums. But I don’t believe them. I think they want to give the children over to the Adeptus Mechanicus — the machine-men — so they can train them to be workers in the manufactoriums, the big dangerous making-places. But I won’t let them do it, my baby boy. I won’t let them take you. No matter what happens, you can always know your Ma will keep you safe.”
His heart growing heavy, Boy remembered other things as well. He remembered the sound of thunder rolling across the ground above their heads one night while they crouched huddled in the cellar. He remembered the cave-in and his mother’s body lying crushed among the rubble. He remembered her eyes staring at him, cold and dead from a face covered in a thick layer of dust. He remembered crying for hours, scared and lonely, not understanding how it was she could have left him. Then, his own eyes stinging wetly at the corners, Boy found he didn’t want to have anything more to do with remembering for a while.
Sucking a breath of air and rubbing the back of his hand across his face to clear his eyes, Boy decided it was time to head back to his warren and get to eating Brother Rat. Too smart to just head there directly in case anyone was looking, he took the long way, cutting a twisting path through the maze of shattered buildings and mounds of rubble all around him. Then, as he crossed near the summit of one of the mounds, he noticed something that gave him pause. A smell, almost. Something gathering on the wind…
For a moment, feeling a sudden chill at the base of his spine, Boy stood looking out toward the east. Before him the city seemed quiet, its deserted streets appearing every bit as dead and lifeless as the mined burnt-out buildings that surrounded them on every t
urn. Boy was not fooled. After three something years living alone among the rubble now he had developed a sixth sense when it came to the city and its ways. A sense that, right here and now, told him he had best be wary.
Oughta be getting myself back underground and staying there a while, he thought as he finally turned to make for home. There’s trouble brewing: the wind says it clear and loud. A bad day is coming, and like as not a lots of peoples is gonna die…
“What was life like where you were born?” Larn asked Bulaven, lifting another shovelful of earth onto the blade of his entrenching tool as the big man stood beside him. “On your homeworld, I mean?”
“On Vardan?” Bulaven said, pausing in his work long enough to wipe the sweat from his chapped brow before it could freeze. “It was good enough I suppose, new fish. Certainly, there are a lot of worse planets a man could be from.”
[Imperial Guard 01] - Fifteen Hours Page 15
