by John French
Sunderer’s attackers fired again, just once. The volcano cannon beam punched through its lupine skull in a shriek of vaporised metal.
The Warhound fell with a roar of shearing metal and unwinding gears.
The last transmission sent by its princeps was a warning to its kin.
‘Shadowswords!’ the signal screamed, but by then another god of metal was already falling.
Tahirah felt her eyelids start to drift shut. Nothing moved in the plaza. Edged by the mounds of rubble, the paving stones had been cracked and blackened by shell fire, but it still felt like a circle of calm in the chaos that boiled around them. Here, they were the line, the defence that stood against the enemy advance, but if it had not been for the din of the vox and the explosions lighting the fog in the distance she would have thought that they were alone. Adrenaline had faded soon after they had reached their assigned position, leaving fatigue to hang heavily upon her.
Terra, I just want to sleep, she thought. Beside her, Vail tried to stretch in the unfamiliar main gunner’s seat. A few minutes earlier, a mortar shell had fallen into the plaza. The dull crack had startled them all, but nothing had followed the shell.
Somewhere to the north, the Iron Warriors were pushing hard. The south was holding, and the centre seemed almost forgotten. At least that was what she could tell from the vox. The war was definitely out there, though – the fog fizzed with its light, and its fury trembled through her flesh, but it was all far from here. Looking out at the still plaza, she felt as if she were an insect caught beneath an upturned glass.
‘Anything?’ Akil’s voice clicked over the vox.
‘Nope,’ she replied. She was looking at the plaza through a sight block on top of the turret. The view was unaugmented, but that did not matter; there was nothing to see. Lantern and Talon were hull-down behind the rubble of a building at the plaza’s western edge, just the two of them to cover the plaza and hold the half kilometre to either side. There had been other tanks covering the area at first, but they had pulled north.
The worst part was that she did not care. She was fairly sure that the others on this section of the line had moved off without orders. They were fresh, newly dropped, and they wanted to see the battle, to get their hands dirty, to claim some kills. It almost made her laugh to think about it. She had to stay, and she only had half a functional squadron. She knew that she should have been annoyed by it, but she found that she really, really did not care. If it stayed quiet, then that was fine by–
The Land Speeder roared across the plaza. A pressure wave split the fog as it banked hard, the air beneath it shimmering with anti-grav disruption. Tahirah caught an impression of hard lines and deep blue armour before the skimmer cut back into the ruins and vanished. The echo of its passing faded slowly.
‘What the hell was that?’ shouted Vail. Tahirah thumbed the squadron vox.
‘Full alert, fire at any target.’
‘What the–’ Vail began.
‘A scout, a Land Speeder. Looks like it’s our turn at last.’
Vail went silent.
‘You sure it was an enemy, Tah?’
‘No.’ She paused. No, she really was not sure about much at the moment. The skimmer had been blue – she was certain of that, but what did that mean? ‘Right now I am working on a rule that anything coming from in front of us means us harm.’
Vail turned his head towards her, and she could tell that he was about to say something.
A burst of noise ripped from her headset, filling her head with screeching static. She pressed her hands to her head, scrabbling at the suit hood. The static screamed higher and higher, and then dissolved into a clicking rush like the burbling of a broken machine. She heard someone yell, and wondered if it had been her. The sound vanished, leaving a faint ringing in her ears.
‘Now what–’
‘I see something.’ It was Vantine from the right sponson.
Sharp eyes, that girl, thought Tahirah.
‘Confirm,’ she called.
‘I have them,’ called Vail, his face pressed against the gunsight. ‘Incoming.’
Tahirah was already looking into her own sight. Something moved on the opposite side of the plaza. She flicked to infra-vision, and there they were: low, hard-edged shapes, hulls hot and exhaust fumes trailing cooling plumes behind them. She recognised the angles, and the shape of the weapons jutting from their turrets.
Executioners and Vanquishers?
Why wasn’t Vail firing? The question flashed across her mind. She opened her mouth to order the shot.
Her eyes flicked to the auspex. The targets were there, but each one was pulsing between red and blue, between friendly and hostile. She remembered the first mission into the world above; the moment she had thought that they had hit one of their own machines. She bit her lip behind her breath mask.
‘How the hell did they end up in front of the line?’ said Vail. Tahirah did not reply, but cursed and thumbed the vox.
‘Hold fire,’ she shouted. ‘They could be friendlies. All units, only fire on my command.’
The machines kept coming through the ruins.
They must be able to see us, she thought. Just like we can see them, but they are not firing either. She thumbed the vox to wide broadcast.
‘Unknown units, code phrase confirm – “Vengeance”,’ she said, and waited for the one word that would confirm that the machines coming at them were not enemies.
Raider.
A simple word that would mean that this was not the start of another battle. A fresh surge of vox-static and the rising beat of her heart filled the waiting silence.
Akil heard Tahirah’s challenge across the vox, and his gaze remained fixed on Lantern. He felt as if he could see each of the rivets and marks on the armour plates. Power trembled through its bulk – held back, poised. Its main gun was primed to fire, heat fuming from the barrel. The lascannon in the unmanned left sponson hung loose, like the arm of a dead man. Blood was hammering through his skull.
‘Identify yourselves,’ came Tahirah’s voice again. ‘Code phrase confirm – “Vengeance”.’
‘What’s going on?’ said Udo. Akil didn’t answer. ‘Why aren’t we firing? Let me hear the squadron vox.’
Akil licked his lips. The vehicles approaching from the other side of the plaza had still not answered. He felt the moment stretch. He could feel every seam of his enviro-suit against his skin; the air sucking from the breath mask; the shape of the knife in the pouch on his thigh.
The vox crackled again, then produced an unfamiliar voice.
‘Unknown unit, this is Captain Sildar of Olarian 56th. Please reciprocate identification.’
Akil let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. They were friendly, a unit lost out beyond the holding line. This was not the moment – he did not have to choose yet. The approaching machines would just pass by, or perhaps they would join them on the line. Everything would be all right. He did not have to choose. Perhaps he never would.
But the silence lengthened. He could almost see Tahirah staring at the blue icons on her auspex screen, weighing up possibilities. Choosing.
‘Negative,’ said Tahirah. ‘Please confirm code phrase.’
‘Salvation,’ the other voice replied.
‘Fire!’ shouted Tahirah, and closed her eyes as las-blasts bleached the sight view. The twin cracks of the lascannons firing echoed through the hull. Her teeth began to ache as the capacitors dragged power for the next shot, then her eye was back at the sight. The lead enemy vehicle had slewed to the side, ploughing into a half-collapsed wall. Heat dribbled from its wounded hull. Behind it the other machines were trying to move out of the firing line.
What if I was wrong? she thought, hearing the plasma destroyer begin to whine as it focused. What if the code phrases had got mixed up...? But there was no room for dou
bt. This was not a war of human fallibility.
It was a war of machines.
The Executioner fired, and Lantern’s compartment filled with furnace heat. The plasma hit the leading enemy on its barrel – the shell in its weapon breech exploded and tore the turret from the hull. Tahirah was already looking past the wreck at the other enemy machines. There were four at least. They would need to kill or cripple two more before they returned fire.
Why had they not returned fire? The thought rose and snagged in her mind even as she watched an Executioner that was the mirror of Lantern grind backwards on its tracks at the opposite side of the plaza. If they are the enemy, why did they not have their guns loaded and ready?
Lantern’s plasma destroyer was building power again, sucking plasma from the storage flasks with a high-pitched whine. The lascannons fired again, one bolt of energy punching through a broken wall in a shower of super-heated dust. The second drew a molten line across the armour of a Vanquisher.
Two shots. Just two shots in a squadron with three working lascannons...
She thumbed the vox. ‘Akil, get Udo to fire! Curse you. Fire!’
Akil pulled the knife out. For a second he looked at it, its curve shining like a waning moon. He had possessed it all his life. He had used it, of course – he had been taught how to use it – but it had never taken a life until now. The blood slid down the blade’s edge, already seeming to clot. Around him the air sang with the muffled sounds of battle. He looked at Udo. The boy was slumped forward over his gun mount. The puncture in his suit was a red-edged smile under his ribs.
Salvation.
The word rang around him, blurring with memories: Jalen’s face, his daughters staring back from the screen of a data-slate, the fire falling from Tallarn’s sky.
‘I am...’ The words formed, and then caught on his lips. ‘I am so sorry.’
He pulled Udo’s body back from the gun mount. Blood sloshed inside the suit, and ran from the gash. He dropped the knife, not looking where it fell.
The lascannon felt unfamiliar to his touch. The light of the gunsight filled his eyepiece. He traversed the lascannon. Lantern’s rear armour filled the sight with red blooms of heat. The trigger was stiff against his finger.
‘Akil,’ came Tahirah’s voice, angry and concerned. ‘Akil, speak. If you can hear me, get that gun firing now.’
But what if Jalen lied? The question came again, as it had with every breath for the last few hours. Akil closed his eyes. The world was hissing and roaring with weapons fire. But what if he had not?
Tahirah’s voice was in his ear, telling him to fire, asking what was wrong.
His hands felt numb.
‘Akil–’
The Sapphire City fell.
In the north the two sides ground against each other in a ragged border of dead iron and flames. Hundreds of defenders poured against the Iron Warriors’ advance, paying the price in lives to hold them back. Machines choked gullies that had once been streets. Clouds of smoke reached up through the fog to touch the sky, like black banners over the ruins below.
To the south, where the ruins met the coast, the Shadowswords and Stormlord tridents held until the enemy came from the ocean. Great block-bodied assault vehicles, which had driven across the seabed for kilometres, broke the surface like huge shell-backed beasts returning to land. Fire pattered against their wet hulls as they ground up the shore, but it was not enough. Terminators emerged from the assault craft, wading through the half-sunken streets to kill the super-heavy tanks with lightning-wrapped hammers and fists.
In the centre, the defences cracked as multiple enemy formations appeared behind the loyalists’ front line. The enemy rolled down the length of the cordon before they could even turn their machines. None amongst the fractured defence’s command knew how it could have happened.
Epilogue
The Hydra’s Dream
Did it work?+ asked the first voice. It was not a true voice, but in this place nothing was really true. As both the speaker and the listeners knew, the truth was what you made it.
The result was adequate.+
An unnecessary risk – to put the matter in the hands of untested assets.+
True, but they are tested now.+
How many followed the order?+
Nine.+
And the rest?+
Fell in battle.+
The remaining assets know nothing of each other?+
Nothing. Just as before.+
You still believe they have value?+
Our masters do. What other factor should I consider?+
What of the other matter?+
It proceeds.+
It is certain that Horus will send an emissary?+
He already has.+
Siren
61 days after
the death of Tallarn
‘For the dream of a voice I have crossed the night, and walked the road to the horizon.’
– Songs of The Lost (Canto XII)
by Alderra Sul-cado, Unification-era Terra
The Battle of Tallarn was a battle that might never have been. In the wake of the Iron Warriors bombardment, Tallarn was a hell made real. Viral agents had reduced all biological matter to slime. Death blew in the wind and rolled in the water. Nothing lived or could live on the surface. Some – the fortunate or the cursed – did survive. Sealed beneath the ground in shelters, the last humans on Tallarn breathed air that had never touched the land above, woke to yellow machine light, and heard silence crowd around them like the promise of oblivion.
On the surface, the Iron Warriors descended into the hell they had made. War machines crisscrossed the desolation, sensors reaching into the wind and finding no answer. Beneath the earth, the survivors readied to venture out of their shelters. Skinned in envirosuits and sealed inside tanks, they went to the surface and discovered the destroyers of their world had remained. A war of revenge began. Squadrons of tanks raided the surface, killed Iron Warriors and sank back beneath the ground. Fresh corpses dissolved into the blighted soil, and the husks of vehicles became home to the wind. Yet still this was not a true battle.
Perturabo had sent only a fraction of his Legion’s strength to the surface. The defiant raiders took their toll but the Iron Warriors always had more to take the place of the dead. Without aid the survivors would dwindle, and their struggle would pass into the unknown void between history and memory. To make it the battle whose name would echo down the millennia would take more. It would take armies greater than those that had survived the first attack. It would take those loyal to the Emperor knowing that there was a war here to fight. It would take an event around which history could pivot.
‘Can anyone hear me?’ Gatt released the transmit key and waited. Static washed out of the speaker grille. Kulok watched as the young man closed his eyes for a second and took a tired breath. ‘Please acknowledge if you can hear.’
The static returned. Gatt looked up at Kulok. Red veins crazed the whites of the boy’s eyes. It seemed as if he were about to say something, but he turned and rested his forehead on the knuckles of his hands.
Pieces of machinery covered the pressed metal table in front of Gatt. Brass-cased devices clicked with the sound of turning cogs. Tangles of wires linked the equipment to a generator unit on the floor. Kulok could smell the metallic tang of electrics shorting out, and the purr of the generator unit set his teeth on edge. The promethium lamp hanging from the low roof spluttered and the light dimmed. Kulok glanced at it, holding the small tongue of light in his gaze for a second until it settled. The lighting system in the shelter had died two days ago. The orange glow of promethium lamps was the only light they had now. Thankfully, the air reprocessors were still working.
Kulok took a breath and rubbed his eyes. The air stank even after weeks of breathing it. What h
e would give for a cup of water that did not taste of chemicals. A brief memory of the snow water sellers filled his mind: their bandoliers of glasses glinting in the sunlight, the frosted canisters balanced on their shoulders as they walked the Crescent City’s streets.
He looked up at the sound of the hatch opening. Sabir stepped into the room, glanced at Kulok, and closed the hatch behind him. He looked more like a vagrant than a prefectus in Tallarn’s administration. An expanding patina of stains covered the older man’s robes. Folds of skin sagged from his chin. His grey eyes held sticky moisture at the corners and grease sheened his grey hair. To be fair, no one else in the small shelter looked any better. Kulok was sure, though, that the sour twist to Sabir’s lips had been there long before they had ended up buried down here.
‘How’s the seer?’ asked Kulok.
‘Dreaming.’ Sabir shrugged. ‘Dying.’
Kulok nodded. He had expected no different. The astropath had been delirious since the bombardment. Sabir had said that the seer rarely used his gifts any more, and had kept to his chambers in the city’s censorium. It had only been the screaming that had reminded the scribes that the astropath was there when the bombardment had started. Now the old seer just slept soundlessly in a coma. He would not last much longer, Kulok was certain of that. Already wisp thin and creased with age, the astropath’s pulse was weakening with every passing day. It was just another reason to find out whether they were the only people still alive on Tallarn.
Kulok glanced back at Gatt. The boy was staring at the vox dials, mouth still, finger unmoving on the transmission key.
‘Keep trying,’ said Kulok.
Gatt did not respond.
‘Do another sweep through the major channels then start back on the minor ones.’ He turned to the doorway and placed his hand on the locking wheel.
