“And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself either, you long streak of grox piss. If you’d read the auspex better, I wouldn’t have had to go for a swim in a river of shit.”
“I don’t know why you’re complaining, Davir,” Scholar said mildly. “Swimming is excellent exercise. Certainly, it seems to have done wonders for your disposition.”
“Very funny, Scholar. You know, I think I like it better when you are giving lectures. It is true they are as dull as watching paint dry. But at least they are less of a pain in the spheres than your idea of humour.”
“We’re six men down,” Chelkar said, a short while later. “That’s what you’re telling me.”
Three-quarters of an hour had passed since they had driven off the orks and the sergeant had just received situation reports from the assembled fire-team leaders and the Vardan medic, Medical Officer Svenk. They stood a small distance away from the main body of the platoon so they could talk more freely. Despite the confines of the tunnels, and the dead bodies littered around them, the meeting had soon taken on the character of an impromptu briefing.
“Four men are dead,” Svenk replied. “Another twelve are wounded.”
“But only two of them are injured too badly to continue,” Chelkar pressed the point. “The others are walking wounded. That’s what you said.”
“They should still be evacuated,” Svenk argued. “In these unsanitary conditions it is almost a certainty that their wounds will become infected. And antibiotics are in short supply. Without them, a serious infection can easily turn out to be a death sentence.”
“All right,” Chelkar nodded. “Pick four men from among the walking wounded to escort the non-ambulatory cases back to the surface. They’ll have to improvise stretchers to carry them, if need be.”
Seeing Svenk about to protest again, he raised his hand to quiet him.
“That’s the best I can do, Svenk. If I send all the wounded back, it depletes our numbers and endangers the rest of the platoon. You’d better make the arrangements. I want us underway again in ten minutes’ time.”
Realising any further argument was useless, Svenk bowed his head and hurried away to organise the stretcher party.
Once the medic was gone, Chelkar turned to gaze at a trio of dead orks that had been propped against the sewer wall nearby for inspection. In keeping with standard procedure in Broucheroc, the Vardans had already beheaded the bodies to prevent any unexpected “resurrections”. It was not unknown for a comatose ork, with a seemingly mortal wound, to suddenly spring to life several hours after the fight had ended. Accordingly, the city’s defenders took the precaution of decapitating their defeated opponents after every battle.
“Well, I think we can agree we know what probably happened to the last two patrols,” Chelkar said, staring intently at the corpses. “Obviously, the orks killed them. But that still leaves several questions to be answered.”
He looked up at the faces of Davir and the other fire-team leaders around him, before gazing down at the orks again. Together, the headless orks made a gruesome sight. They put Chelkar in mind of one of the traditions of his homeworld. On Vardan, it had been the custom for the authorities to display the lined-up bodies of executed criminals in public places on Imperial holidays, in order to serve as a warning to anyone contemplating breaking the law.
“They are poorly equipped, even by ork standards,” Chelkar said, thinking aloud as he nudged one of the corpses with his boot. “We haven’t found a single one of them with anything even approaching a firearm. They didn’t have stick bombs, either. They were armed only with the most simple of weapons—spears, axes, clubs and the like.”
There was something puzzling, even unsettling here, Chelkar decided. In the breathless, dizzying, adrenaline surge of combat, he had hardly noticed that there was anything unusual about the enemy. Now, in the calm after the battle, it was clear they were different from the orks he had fought before.
The sewer orks seemed even more primitive than their normal brethren. They lacked any but the most basic technology. They did not even possess clothes or boots. They had gone to war naked, their bodies painted in vibrant colours and orkish symbols, wearing necklaces of human scalps, severed fingers and rat skulls as trophies. Even by greenskin standards, they seemed extraordinarily savage, as though some lost remnant from the very beginnings of ork history had somehow landed in the sewers of Broucheroc.
“Perhaps they are part of an outcast tribe?” a voice ventured, quietly.
Turning, Chelkar saw that Scholar had approached the meeting. Strictly speaking, as an ordinary trooper, he was not privy to command briefings—even at the platoon level. He hung back, staying to the edge of the half-circle of fire-team leaders who stood facing Chelkar.
A thin man, Scholar was taller than the other Vardans. Of the entire company, only the brutish Bulaven could match him for height. Alone of the men around him, Scholar was the only one who did not look down at the headless orks with either indifference or distaste. If anything, he appeared to find the dead xenos fascinating.
Chelkar had never known quite how to read Scholar. He was a strange bird, much given to random outpourings of facts and theories on almost any subject under the sun. Still, over time, Chelkar had learned to listen when Scholar offered his opinions. He found they were often of value.
“What is it, Scholar?” he asked, beckoning him forward. “You have some insights?”
“I understand it is not unknown for ork war parties to be riven by religious schisms,” Scholar said, making no mention of where he might have gleaned such information. “The orks who ambushed us might have been members of a tribe that has broken away from the main army. They might even be a form of ork heretic, come to hide in the sewers to elude their enemies. Perhaps they have adopted a primitive lifestyle as an attempt to return to the traditions of their orkish ancestors.”
“Perhaps,” Chelkar shrugged. “But, who knows? There could be any number of reasons why they are so poorly equipped. The important issue is whether there are more of them down here somewhere.”
“With all due respect, isn’t that a question for others, sergeant?” Davir asked. “I mean, we have done our duty. We were sent to find out what happened to the other patrols. Our mission is accomplished. We have identified the culprits, searched them out and destroyed them. Frankly, I think it is time we returned to the surface for some hot recaf and medals all round. Not to mention some warm blankets and dry clothes. We are foot soldiers. Our place in the grand scheme of things is to follow orders. We should leave the bigger questions to the geniuses who command us.”
“Spoken like a true Guardsman, Davir,” Chelkar said. A smile ghosted across his face.
“However, I have never liked leaving a job half-done. Especially when it could be vital to see that job finished. If there are more of these feral orks about, they need to be located and destroyed. Otherwise, they represent a danger. If they manage to establish themselves permanently down here, they might destabilise our efforts to defend the city. It is bad enough Broucheroc is surrounded by orks on four sides. Imagine how much worse it would be if they gained control of the sewers. They could use the tunnels to penetrate our defences at will. The city would be under siege from below. We can’t allow that to happen.”
“I suspect you are going to order us to do something noble, sergeant,” Davir’s face wore a glum expression.
“Noble? Not really. We will continue through the sewers a while longer and see if we can find where the orks came from. Of course, given the problems with our comms, we won’t be able to contact Sector Command to tell them where we’re going. We also won’t be able to call in reinforcements or heavy support if things get hot. The best I can do is send a message back with the wounded, apprising Command of our plans.”
“And if we run into trouble?” asked Davir. “Not to seem a pessimist, sergeant, but what happens if we find more orks down here than we can handle?”
“Then, we shall just
have to fight our way through them,” Chelkar said. “If that happens, and if we survive, you will probably get the medal you were talking about, Davir. Although, I can’t promise to do anything about finding a hot cup of recaf. Not in Broucheroc.”
“I never thought I would agree with the arseholes who run this war,” Davir said, as they trudged through the tunnels several hours later. “But, apparently, the generals are right when they tell us to shut up and follow orders. After all, look what happens when sergeants decide to start thinking for themselves and show some initiative. It’s the poor, bloody Guardsman who suffers. That’s what happens.”
He was back walking point at the head of the patrol with Scholar and Bulaven. According to the chronometer function on Scholar’s auspex, they had been in the sewers for a grand total of nearly eight hours. As far as Davir was concerned, they were among the most miserable hours he had endured in his life.
He was cold and wet. He stank of sewage. His boots and trousers were sodden with water and, he was sure, other substances that were far more unpleasant. To make matters worse, the sewer waters had deepened as they pushed on into the tunnels. With his short, stocky build, Davir was now wading waist deep in water.
“And you needn’t think I’ve forgotten your part in this, Scholar,” he said, viperishly.
“My part?” the other man blinked. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”
“No? ‘Perhaps they are part of an outcast tribe’,” Davir said, mimicking Scholar’s voice. He turned to Bulaven. “You should have heard him, fat man. If he’d put his tongue any further up Chelkar’s arse, we’d have had to surgically remove it. You couldn’t just stay quiet, could you, Scholar? You had to open your slop-hole and send us all on this fool’s errand, heading deeper and deeper into the sewers on the trail of an imaginary tribe of orks.”
“I was simply offering an opinion.”
“Well, don’t,” he spat. “In future, if you have any opinions, keep them to yourself. We’ll all live longer that way. As it is, Chelkar will probably keep us wandering these damn tunnels until we get lost and die.”
“You know, you really should try to look on the bright side, Davir,” Bulaven said. “After all, things could be worse.”
“The bright side? Do you see one hereabouts?” Davir gestured in annoyance at the sewer walls about them. “I’ll tell you what, you lumbering moron. If you can find a bright side to our situation, why don’t you share it with us? We are in a sewer. We have been drenched to the bone with untreated sewage. In the next few days, we are undoubtedly destined to contract every deadly disease known to humanity. Assuming, of course, the orks don’t kill us first. So, what is this ‘bright side’ you were talking about? I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Welllll…” For a moment, Bulaven seemed stymied. Either Davir’s hectoring had put him off and he had lost his train of thought or, as Davir himself suspected, it was the first time the fat man had considered their situation in detail.
“Go on, imbecile. I’m listening. In fact, I’m on tenterhooks. What is the bright side?”
“Well,” said Bulaven, finally, “it could be colder.”
“That’s it?” Davir was aghast. “After all this—the sewers, the orks, the shit-stink, the damp—that is the best you could come up with? ‘It could be colder.’ Truly, your idiocy holds no bounds.”
“Actually, Bulaven is right.” Abruptly, Scholar became animated, a familiar gleam of discovery shining in his eyes. “It doesn’t seem as cold now as it did an hour ago. I’d almost swear the sewers are getting warmer.”
Pausing to peer intently at their surroundings, Scholar suddenly handed the auspex to Davir and hurried over to examine a filth-encrusted section of the sewer wall. Pulling out his bayonet, he began to dig at the wall, removing an accumulation of mud and sewer residue to reveal a rusted metal pipe, bolted at about head height.
“We couldn’t see it before under the layers of dried-out sewage,” Scholar said, pulling at the dirt with his hands to expose more of the pipe. “It seems to run the length of the tunnel, bracketed to the wall. I would estimate it as about fifteen centimetres in diameter. It’s definitely warm to the touch. I’d say it’s some kind of heating system.”
“A heating system?” Davir squinted as Scholar excavated more of the area, revealing several similar pipes running in parallel. “The smell in these tunnels must be getting to you, Scholar. Who would build a heating system to keep a sewer warm?”
“The function of the pipes is unmistakeable.” Scholar’s voice was firm. He knocked on the surface of one of them with his bayonet, creating a hollow noise. “The sound would be different if there were liquid inside. The system is obviously designed to funnel hot air or gases, warming the sewer tunnels. They couldn’t possibly be serving any other purpose.”
“All right, Scholar,” Davir said, humouring him. “So, these pipes are warming the sewers. If you insist on it, I believe you.”
Glancing behind him, he saw Chelkar approaching them, presumably eager to know what had caused this latest hold-up.
“But I leave it to you to tell the sergeant.”
“You were right, Scholar,” Sergeant Chelkar said. He waved a gloved hand in front of his face. “Look. My breath is no longer frosting in the air. It is definitely getting warmer.”
Twenty minutes had passed since Scholar had shown him the heating pipes and explained their function. Initially, Chelkar had expressed the same disbelief as Davir. Deciding to test the matter, he had ordered the main force of the platoon to remain where they were, while he scouted further down the tunnel in the company of Fire-team Three. It had quickly become clear, however, that Scholar’s theory had merit. Chelkar could not be sure whether the pipes were really a heating system, but it was beyond question that the temperature in the tunnel was rising.
“But what does it mean?” Bulaven asked, while Chelkar pulled out his map of the tunnels in an attempt to check their location. “Why would anyone want to build a heating system for a sewer?”
“I don’t know,” Scholar replied. “But, looking at these tunnels and the pipes, the entire system could be centuries old. Perhaps even older. It could date back to when the city was originally founded. Who knows what secrets Broucheroc might hold beneath the surface?”
“Hnn. Listen to you,” Davir snorted in disgust. “From the way you talk, Scholar, you’d think we’d found the secret of eternal youth or a treasure chest filled with gemstones. Ultimately, all we’ve discovered is that some idiots once built a central heating system for the express purpose of keeping their bodily motions warm. Frankly, I don’t see it as any great cause for rejoicing. You ask me, it just demonstrates the extraordinary stupidity of the whole human race. I’d much prefer it if someone could find us some dry clothes and a good cup of recaf in this cesspit. Now, that would be a discovery worth celebrating.”
“You’re missing the bigger picture,” Chelkar told him, refolding the map and placing it back in the pocket of his tunic. “We’ve encountered two strange things since we entered the sewers. First, a group of feral orks armed only with primitive weapons. Second, a heating system for the sewers. I’m no savant, but I’d say they are likely to be connected. Either way, we need to check it out.”
He turned to Scholar.
“It only started getting warmer once we had pushed pretty deeply into the tunnels. Does it mean the heating system doesn’t extend to the upper levels?”
“It could do,” Scholar nodded. “Heat rises, so there would be a transfer of warmth up through the system even without the pipes. From what I’ve seen, however, the sewers appear to be designed to channel the waste downward. I can’t be sure, but I suspect there’s some form of treatment plant deeper underground. It was probably designed as a central collection point for all the city’s sewage.”
“All right.” With a nod of his head, Chelkar turned to gaze into the darkness of the tunnel before them. “We’d better go get the rest of the platoon and start moving. According to
what I can decipher from the map, if we follow this tunnel it should lead us down to the lower levels. If the orks and these heating pipes are somehow connected, we’ll find the answer deeper in the system.”
An hour passed. Soon, Scholar’s theory that the pipes served as a heating system was proven beyond debate. As the platoon pushed onward, descending into a deeper section of tunnels, the sewers continued to grow warmer. Before long, it seemed remarkable this was the same environment which had once been cold enough to make them shiver. The surroundings began to feel almost balmy. If anything, having equipped themselves with the freezing temperatures of Broucheroc in mind, the Vardans found they were overdressed—even without their greatcoats.
The other hardships of the sewers remained. There was still the dampness to deal with; the thigh-high waters; the stench of raw sewage. After ten years spent freezing in Broucheroc, however, the warmth of the lower sewer levels made the rest of it feel almost bearable.
As the Vardans journeyed onward, the members of Fire-team Three had taken up their usual position walking point for the rest of the platoon. They were tired, but with the change in temperature, even Davir had found relatively little to complain about.
“Have you seen this?” Scholar said. “Now, this is interesting.”
He drew the attention of the other members of the fire-team to a series of fist-sized fungal growths clinging to the tunnel wall over one of the heating pipes. Scholar prodded at the growths with his long fingers, showing all the enthusiasm of a child with a new toy.
“It’s certainly some kind of fungi,” Scholar said. “But I don’t recognise the species.”
“Shouldn’t you be careful with that?” Bulaven raised an eyebrow. “Fungus can be poisonous, can’t it?”
“Hmm?” Scholar did not appear to have heard him. “Do you see how the heating pipes are already exposed here? In the other tunnels, they were buried under dried sewage. I think the fungus may be responsible for uncovering the pipe.”
[Imperial Guard 01.1] - Knee Deep Page 2
