01.1 - Knee Deep

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  “These anchor-roots must have absorbed all the nutrients and organic material from their surroundings, leaving the remaining inorganic detritus to fall away—hence, revealing the pipe underneath.”

  Doing his best to look interested, Bulaven tried to follow Scholar’s explanation. As ever, he found it hard going. In contrast to Scholar, whose learning covered hundreds of topics, Bulaven had been given only enough education to help him work in the foundries on his homeworld of Vardan—no more.

  “It’s amazing really,” Scholar stroked his fingers over the fungus almost lovingly. “This may well be the beginning of a new ecosystem. The warmth from the heating pipes has created the conditions in which this fungi can flourish, allowing it to colonise the environment. At the same time, the presence of the fungus has effected the environment itself in turn—clearing the sewer residue from around the pipes and allowing them to heat the tunnels more effectively. I wonder where the fungi came from? It could be a new species, entirely native to the sewers of Broucheroc. If only there was some way for me to establish its identity…”

  “I may be able to help you there,” Davir said. “Although, I suspect you won’t be thrilled with the answer.”

  At some point, Davir had wandered away while the others were studying the fungus. Now, having scouted further down the tunnel, he returned. He walked toward them with an unhappy expression.

  “While you two half-wits were gawking at the local life-forms, I decided to check what was ahead of us,” Davir said, his face grim. “You’d better come and have a look. And fetch Sergeant Chelkar, as well—he’ll want to see this. I have bad news, Scholar. Your fungus isn’t a new species, after all.”

  “You know something, Davir?” Bulaven whispered beside him. “I thought you were only joking before, when you said this place was hell. Now, I am not so sure.”

  They were lying on the ledge of an overflow outlet with Scholar and Sergeant Chelkar, peering cautiously over the edge to survey a scene that might have issued directly from the worst nightmares of every man, woman and child alive in Broucheroc.

  The tunnel they were following had opened out into a broad atrium-like space where dozens of other sewer tunnels met. Davir had no idea who had built the city’s sewerage system, but he was forced to concede the extraordinary scale of their design.

  Considering they were underground, the size of the atrium where the tunnels came together was vast. It put him in mind of the Grand Basilica of the Imperial Light on the planet Solnar. Where the Basilica had been dedicated to the glories of the Emperor, however, the sewer atrium was like a gargantuan cathedral devoted to the disposal of human waste. For all that it took the breath away, though; Davir found his amazement at the atrium was overridden by more immediate concerns.

  “You understand why I thought you should see it?” he said, for once ignoring the chance to snipe at Bulaven. “Obviously, this is where the feral orks came from.”

  The entire area of the atrium was covered in fungal growth, creating a weird alien landscape that was almost mesmerising in its strangeness. The predominant colour was green, but in places, Davir could see startling outgrowths and carpet-like patches in blue, red and purple. It was as though they stood on the edge of an altogether inhuman world, monstrously transformed in accordance with the needs of the xenos.

  “It is the warmth from the heating pipes,” Scholar whispered. “It created the perfect conditions for ork colonisation.”

  Like the rest of them, he seemed caught between fear and awe. The Guardsmen spoke quietly, careful to keep their bodies low and stay out of sight. Dozens of orks could be seen moving in the fungal panorama below them. It was likely there were many more within earshot.

  “This could well have started with just a single spore,” Scholar said. “One spore, drifting down from the city above. In any other part of the sewers, it would have lain dormant. But, here, it found a warm setting in which it could thrive. The spore gave birth to an ork, whose body in turn released thousands more spores. They took root here as well, slowly changing the environment to make it more suitable for their needs. Now, it is like the whole area is an enormous nursery.”

  All across the atrium, there were thousands of round globes of fungus—adhering to walls, suspended from overhanging pipes, or lying thick on the ground in clusters. They were like the examples they had seen earlier in the tunnel, but bigger. They ranged all the way up to several metres in width. Unlike the ones in the tunnel, the true purpose of the globes in the atrium was clear. On some of the larger specimens, the round outer skin of the fungus was pulled thin enough that shadowed forms could be seen within them.

  Observing the scene, Davir realised he would have to revise his opinions. Long ago, Scholar had told him that orks grew from spores like mould or fungi. He had never believed it, instinctively rejecting the idea as a foolish fancy.

  Yet, here was the proof. He could not argue against the evidence of his own eyes. Even as he watched, a muscular clawed arm emerged from one of the larger globes. Within seconds, the new ork had pulled itself free of its fungal chrysalis. Its skin still slick with amniotic fluid, it emerged eagerly into the world and threw its head back in an exhortation of triumph, before stumbling from the atrium in search of conquest—another ork born to plague a suffering, dying galaxy.

  Davir could not be sure which was worse: the sight of so many orks waiting to be born, or the sound of their breathing. He could hear them, even from the ledge. The air of the atrium was alive with a constant susurrus. The skins of the larger globes rose and fell in time with the breathing of the horrors hidden inside them. The thought of it made Davir uneasy. He was standing no more than a stone’s throw from an army of sleeping monsters, which might awaken at any moment.

  “We will have to withdraw,” Chelkar said. “Get back to the surface. There are too many of them for us to fight. We have to warn the city. Then, we can lead a larger force back down here to destroy the orks. Otherwise, if this colony survives, it could tip the balance of the war. We’d be fighting on two different fronts at once—above ground and below. Broucheroc could fall.”

  Nodding in unspoken agreement, the four of them turned to retreat back down the tunnel to where the rest of the platoon was waiting. Instinctively, they knew Chelkar was right. After the ork ambush earlier in the day, there were barely twenty-five men left in the platoon—some of them wounded. The situation in the sewers was too big for them to deal with. For there to be any hope of success, they had to get back to the surface to warn the city.

  Before they could move, though, the sound of shots came from further along the tunnel in the direction they were headed. Casting a wary eye at the atrium behind them, Davir saw the sudden disturbance had not gone unnoticed. He could see orks moving among the fungal landscape, alerted to the presence of intruders.

  Suddenly, any prospect of an easy withdrawal appeared out of the question.

  Afterwards, it would never be entirely clear who had fired the shots that had given the Vardans away. As far as anyone could work out, the men of Fire-team Six were the most likely culprits.

  They had been assigned to stand overwatch on a subsidiary tunnel that ran off the main tunnel the Vardans were using. At some point, while Davir and the others were observing the atrium, the men of Six were attacked by a large group of orks.

  It was unclear whether the orks had blundered into them by simple bad luck, or if the members of Six had given themselves away somehow. Whatever the case, it hardly mattered. By the time the dust settled, the five men of Fire-team Six were dead—as were over seven times their number of orks. More importantly, however, the fact there were humans in the tunnels was now known to every ork in earshot.

  For Davir, the loss of the men of Fire-team Six was doubly troubling. He had known the fire-team’s leader, Elias Yevgen, for years. They played cards together regularly, an activity of which Davir had been particularly fond, as Yevgen was perhaps the worst card player he had ever encountered. Money meant little i
n Broucheroc, not that the Guardsmen had it anyway, but it was a source of pride to Davir that he had beaten Yevgen so many times the man had been forced to offer the services of the next three generations of his family as indentured servants in order to pay off his debts. Yevgen had no children, so their contract was more theoretical than actual, but it was the winning that was important.

  Sadly, the agreement had been rendered null and void by the bite of an orkish axe. Davir would never know what it was to own three generations of a man’s family as slaves. Similarly, he would no longer be able to rub the fact in Yevgen’s face every time they played cards.

  More immediately, though, when Davir heard the sound of distant shots and saw that the orks in the atrium were now aware of their presence, his heart sank. He had a terrible feeling he knew what was coming next.

  “Someone will have to hold the orks back and cover our retreat,” he heard Chelkar say.

  “We understand,” Davir sighed, feeling resignation at something he knew was inevitable. As their commander, Chelkar was required to the lead the platoon to safety—meaning it fell to Bulaven, Scholar and himself to play the sacrificial lambs.

  “We’ll hold them as long as we can, sergeant.”

  “Ten minutes,” Chelkar pulled the grenades from his belt and handed them to Davir. “These should help. You have plenty of power packs? And, Bulaven? You have a laspistol for when the flamer gives out?” Seeing the three men nod, he continued. “Give me ten minutes. It should give me time enough to get the rest of the men clear.”

  “Ten minutes, sergeant,” Davir agreed. “Although, I warn you, if you hear what sounds like a stampede in ten minutes’ time, I wouldn’t be surprised. It’ll be the sound of me, Bulaven and Scholar running to catch up with you.”

  “Ten minutes,” Davir shook his head once Chelkar was gone. “Ten minutes, he says. Why not just ask for an hour and be done with it? For that matter, why doesn’t he ask us to take on every ork on the planet, break the siege and save Broucheroc in the bargain?”

  “It was you who told him we’d do it,” Bulaven said. “In fact, you all but volunteered us…”

  They were crouched in the tunnel, ready to make their stand. Bulaven had taken the fuel tanks of the flamer from his back and placed them on the ground. There had been no sight of the pursuing orks yet, but the thunderous rush of their stomping feet could be heard echoing down the tunnels.

  “Can I help it if I am sentimental?” Davir shrugged. “It was clear the sergeant was struggling with the unhappy duty of having to order someone to stay behind to face almost certain death. So, I took pity on him. I volunteered us. Don’t tell me you would’ve done it any different, pig brain.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have done anything differently,” Bulaven said. “Nor would Scholar. Sometimes, I think we are all as mad as each other.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Davir checked the charge level on the power pack in his lasgun. “I have a finely tuned mind and I intend to use it to survive this mess.”

  “Perhaps you are thinking of painting yourself green and disguising yourself as a gretchin?” Scholar asked. “You’re certainly the right height.”

  “Ho ho. If you were any more amusing, Scholar, I’d be afraid I might die laughing before the orks can get me. No, remember the plan I told you and everything will be all right.”

  “This would be the plan to kill as many orks as we can, then run away?” Bulaven asked.

  “Precisely.” Davir clicked off his safety. “Now, shut up, both of you. The bastards are coming.”

  It happened so quickly. Davir had been in combat on more occasions than he cared to count, but each time it was the same. It passed in a blur: minutes seemed like seconds, while seconds seemed like instants.

  One moment, the orks were charging. Davir heard his own voice give the order to fire. He felt a wave of heat to the side of him as Bulaven triggered the flamer. In the tight confines of the tunnel, it was devastating. He saw orks burning, screaming. He and Scholar shot to the side of the flamer’s expanding cone of fire, aiming for the orks at the edge of the inferno. He had spent ten years fighting orks in Broucheroc, but these creatures were hideous, terrifying. There was something about the war paint and the necklaces of bones. The orks seemed like savagery personified. If Davir had been created of less stern stuff, he might well have made water at the very sight of them.

  All too soon, the flamer died. Where once there had been a fearsome torrent of fire, suddenly there were a few dying and fitful sparks.

  “The canister’s empty!” Dropping the flamer, Bulaven pulled at something on the fuel tank and then grabbed for the laspistol on his belt.

  “Pull back!” Davir yelled. “Run for it!”

  As plans went, it was simple. Using the flamer, they had held off the orks for as long as they could. Once the flamer was empty, they had known they would need a diversion. It had been Davir’s idea to strap every grenade they had—including the ones Chelkar had given them—to the flamer’s fuel tank. The tank was empty, but even without fuel it made a useful source of extra shrapnel.

  The grenades exploded with an impressive roar. The tunnel worked in their favour, channelling the blast and multiplying its power. Too much so, Davir realised as, unexpectedly, he felt the tunnel floor abruptly give way beneath his feet. For the briefest instant of time, he felt weightless. Then, he fell into darkness.

  “Davir! Davir!”

  He awakened to a voice calling out his name as rough hands shook his body.

  “Davir! Davir!”

  For a moment, Davir wondered whether he was dead. Then, he opened his eyes, saw Bulaven’s face looking down at him, and he knew he was not in the afterlife. At least, not any afterlife he wanted to be in.

  “Davir…”

  “All right! If I answer you, will you stop rattling me like a rag doll? Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not a good idea to shake an unconscious man, Bulaven? For all you know, I could have a concussion.”

  Taking his bearings, Davir looked around to find he was lying in another sewer tunnel. He couldn’t see any orks.

  “Where are we?”

  “The floor gave way,” Bulaven told him. “I think there must’ve been some kind of hatchway beneath us. When the grenades exploded, it blew open the hatchway and dropped us into a big overflow pipe underneath it.”

  “So, basically, you’re saying we fell down the drain? What about the orks? Didn’t they follow us?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. When we went down the overflow, a lot of water came down with us. Maybe they thought we’d been washed away. Either way, I haven’t seen any orks since we landed.”

  “Any idea how far we fell?” Standing up, Davir gazed at the tunnel ceiling. “I wonder how far we are from Chelkar and the others?”

  “I don’t know. But I woke you because I was worried about Scholar.”

  Bulaven moved aside and pointed to where Scholar lay unconscious against the tunnel wall. Going over to him, Davir saw a wound on Scholar’s scalp. He checked his pulse.

  “Well, he’s alive,” Davir said. “If you want a more informed opinion you’d have to find a medic. The head wound doesn’t look too bad. We should probably just leave him to wake up in his own time.”

  Davir turned and looked down the tunnel.

  “Not to seem too exacting, Bulaven. But you did notice there’s a light coming from the end of this tunnel, didn’t you?”

  “I did. Why? Do you think it’s important?”

  “Given that, for all we know, it’s a torch-wielding mob of orks coming to finish us off? Yes, I’d say it could be important. You stay here with Scholar, while I go check it out. Oh, and you’d better keep your gun handy. Considering our luck so far today, whatever is causing the light, it’s bound to be trouble.”

  Following the light, Davir emerged into another cavernous underground space and was pleased to see there was no sign of a mob of orks—torch-wielding or otherwise—waiting to kill him. Instead, he saw a be
wildering network of metal pipes that criss-crossed and came together at a squat, ugly metal building. Approaching it, he heard the sound of machines. He detected a distant rhythmic vibration through the soles of his boots.

  “Finally, a delivery of personnel,” he heard a voice behind him. “I was beginning to think our work here had been forgotten.”

  Whirling in the direction of the sound, Davir found himself facing an old man in the faded robes of a tech-adept of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The ancient figure seemed as much machine as man, his body surrounded by fidgeting mechadendrites and his withered face barely visible from beneath the cowl of his robe. A half a dozen servitors trailed in his wake, as dutiful as dogs.

  “I am Serberus, senior adept in charge of this pumping station,” the old man said. “What is your designation?”

  “Desig… Ah… My name is Davir.”

  “Well, Layperson Davir, you can start by manually recalibrating the gas pressure in the methane feeds. The levels are still dropping, even with the temperature alterations in the sewer habitat. You have brought foodstuffs?”

  “Food? Uh, no. Excuse me, did you say something about temperature alterations?”

  “Indeed,” Serberus nodded slowly. “It is a pity about the foodstuffs. I have developed a method of processing the local lichens for their food value, but they are deficient in a number of vitamins.” One of his dendrites scratched absently at an ugly sore on the side of his head.

  “Remember, we were talking about the temperature?” Davir prompted.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Methane production levels fell, so I redistributed some of the remaining supply toward heating the tunnels in order to encourage bacterial growth.”

  “Bacteria?” This time, it was Davir’s turn to scratch his own head. “And why would you do that, exactly?”

  The old man stared at him in incredulity for long seconds, before gesturing at the wide expanse of pipes and tunnels around them.