by Gav Thorpe
‘What happened?’ asked Nestor, kneeling down beside the wounded Space Marine.
‘Some kind of power blade,’ Saboath replied, his voice quiet. ‘I think my secondary heart was punctured.’
‘Any damage elsewhere? How is your arm?’
‘Painful. Possible dislocation.’ The Devastator reported his injuries as dispassionately as he would explain a fault with his armour or a weapon malfunction.
Nestor removed Saboath’s helmet and examined the dilation of the blood vessels in the Space Marine’s eyes. It was less than expected, the pulse sluggish. It was likely that Saboath had been right and he was operating with only one heart. The Apothecary withdrew the bone saw and selected an adrenal booster from the narthecium.
‘This will cause some tightness in your chest. Tell me if you have difficulty breathing,’ said Nestor as he pushed the long needle into Saboath’s carotid. The Space Marine spasmed for a second as the injection mixed with his body’s boosted hormonal system.
‘That burns like the fires of Gehenna,’ Saboath spat between gritted teeth.
‘Good,’ replied Nestor. ‘That means your biscopea is still functioning.’
The Apothecary pulled open the crack in Saboath’s armour to better examine the wound. The ork power blade had cut clean through the Space Marine’s fused ribcage leaving an incision across the bone and cartilage. Investigating further, Nestor found that the tip of the weapon had grazed one of the veins leading into the secondary heart, filling the chest cavity with blood.
‘I am going to close off your secondary heart function,’ Nestor explained. ‘That will stop the internal bleeding. Damage is not critical, so I should be able to operate once I have some more time. Your blood pressure will drop. You’ll feel some loss of strength and perhaps a little light-headedness. You may find it difficult to swallow and your breathing may be affected, though I’m going to give your third lung a boost to make sure blood perfusion is maintained.’
‘Just repair me so that I can get back to the fight, brother,’ said Saboath.
Nestor nodded and set to work, injecting the secondary heart with a localised sedative and applying micro-clamps to the blood vessels to redirect the bloodstream through the Space Marine’s regular heart. He pumped out the blood already in the chest cavity and sprayed fixative foam into the wound. The foam hardened into a spongy mass within seconds, sealing the gash and hardening around the severed ribs. It was not as good as a proper reconstruction but it was quick and provided a temporary seal for the armour. Saboath would soon be back on his feet.
With the chest injury dealt with, Nestor looked at Saboath’s shoulder. After a short inspection he concurred with the Space Marine’s assessment. Dislocation was easy to fix. Rolling Saboath further onto his side, Nestor opened up a panel in the side of the Space Marine’s backpack. He entered his diagnostic cipher to access the traction and compression controls of the suit’s fibre bundles.
‘Lift your arm and straighten it as much as possible,’ Nestor instructed his patient. With a grunt, Saboath complied as best he could.
‘Get ready,’ Nestor warned. He punched in the automated sequence required and activated the suit’s internal muscle system. With a crack and a further grunt from Saboath, the armour extended the Space Marine’s arm and pushed the ball joint back into place with a twist. Pleased, Nestor deactivated the system and locked down the panel.
‘Watch out!’ bellowed Saboath.
Nestor looked round to see the ork Dreadnought looming above the barricade, flames billowing from one of its arms, its claws closing in on Sergeant Scalprum. Heavy bolter rounds pinged off its armoured hull.
Nestor leapt across Saboath and heaved up the plasma cannon. Rolling to his back, the Apothecary fired high, aiming for the ork machine’s hull. The plasma bolt smashed into the Dreadnought with a blinding explosion, knocking the machine backwards, metal droplets streaming from the molten casing. Sergeant Scalprum leapt over the barricade, swinging his power fist. Fingers splayed, the sergeant smashed his hand through the buckled metal and wrenched out a spume of wires, cables and half-crushed gears, sparks showering from the machine.
Saboath clambered to his feet, stepping over the power conduit attaching the plasma cannon to his backpack.
‘I think it best if I let you have this,’ said Nestor, holding out the plasma cannon. ‘Try not to get involved in any hand-to-hand fighting – I don’t want you losing your other heart!’
Saboath grinned and put his helmet on, giving it a twist to make the seal. He took the plasma cannon from Nestor, hefting the weapon in one hand to check its readouts.
‘Thank you, Brother-Apothecary,’ said Saboath. ‘I will find you after the battle is won and you can finish the treatment.’
Nestor nodded and turned back to the fighting. The ork rush had been turned back with the loss of their Dreadnought. The greenskins were retreating to cover further down the slope. To the south, where more Piscina troopers were waiting, the flank of the ork army surged again. Nestor checked his chronometer.
It was less than two hours until the reinforcements’ ETA.
For an hour the orks held off, bombarding the Imperial line with the catapult and cannons. Though many of the barricades had been thrown down by the ork attacks and foxholes had caved in, this bombardment had little effect on the Free Militia and none at all on the Dark Angels. In the relative calm of air-bursting shells, Nestor had checked again on Brother Saboath’s condition, refilling his suit’s stimulant system from the narthecium. Normally the Apothecary wouldn’t have used so much of his supply in this way, but he was beginning to agree with the predictions of Sarpedon and Scalprum: the orks simply did not have the kind of weapons that would be a threat to Space Marines, at least not in any numbers. Saboath’s injury had been the worst, though several other Dark Angels had suffered minor inconveniences – a couple of broken bones and a few cuts and bullet wounds through the weaker joints of their armour.
Even the Free Militia were coping, their own medics better equipped than Nestor to treat the burns and cuts suffered by the troopers. Nestor was almost bored as desultory fire echoed back and forth between the two armies, an exchange that was not in the orks’ favour.
‘Are they massing for another attack?’ asked Nestor.
‘Possibly, brother,’ replied Scalprum. ‘Perhaps they await the arrival of heavier weaponry and vehicles to test us. It is an oddity that we have seen only the one Dreadnought, and nothing of their battlewagons and larger guns.’
‘Such was also the case in Kadillus Harbour,’ observed Nestor. ‘Masses of infantry and little else. It seems our foes are poorly equipped.’
‘I doubt they expected to face the wrath of the Dark Angels,’ said the sergeant. There was a hint in his tone that he shared Nestor’s disappointment at the lack of challenge presented by the enemy. ‘If they were expecting anything at all, that is. I cannot imagine this simple scum put much planning into their campaigns. Once we regain control of the defence laser, the Unrelenting Fury will rain down death from the heavens and the orks will have nowhere else to hide.’
‘We will still have to chase them down and eradicate them on the ground, brothers. Complacency is a foe as deadly as any other.’ This was from Sarpedon, who entered the Devastators’ emplacement, his robe tattered, stiff with the gore of the orks.
‘As you say, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Scalprum.
‘I feel the reinforcements may find their journey from the city has been wasted, brother,’ said Nestor.
‘Do not be so sure,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘Lexicanium Acutus senses something is stirring within the ork army. They are gathering their numbers and he detects some new force focussing their will. Be ready for another attack.’
‘Always, brother,’ said Scalprum.
‘Conserve ammunition and maximise your fire. I feel this battle may yet have more twists, brothers. Let us not celebrate victory before it is won.’
Nestor and Scalprum bowed their heads in deference as Sarpedo
n left, heading towards the Deathwing squad.
‘A new force arriving?’ said Nestor, looking at the sergeant. ‘The orks seem spent to me.’
‘The ways of the psyker are strange, brother,’ said Scalprum. ‘It is best not to delve too deeply into their mysteries.’
‘A truth I share, brother,’ replied Nestor. ‘I am more comfortable with artery and nerve than the twisting powers of the warp. Let us hope that Acutus’s suspicions are nothing more than a hunch.’
The two of them turned back to face the slope. The orks were certainly gathering from where they had been scattered by their unsuccessful attacks. A few hundred remained, a kilometre or so down the ridge. Plumes of smoke betrayed the arrival of several more vehicles. Nestor increased the magnification of his autosenses and saw three battlewagons crawling through the mobs of orks. One of the transports carried heavily armoured orks with colourful banners and a swarm of small gretchin attendees.
‘Curious,’ said Nestor. He opened the comm-channel. ‘Brother Sarpedon, direct your attention to these reinforcements. It appears that the enemy have been joined by another warlord.’
There was a pause while Sarpedon investigated Nestor’s report.
‘I concur with your observation, brother,’ the Chaplain eventually replied. ‘Vigilus est fortis maximus. Remain alert. Doubtless a fresh enemy attack is imminent. Let our weapons be the instruments of the Emperor’s ire.’
A few more minutes passed before the orks poured up the slopes again. Behind the defenders, the sun was almost at the horizon, an orange orb burning through the low cloud. The long shadows of the orks streamed behind them as they advanced with purpose through blood-slicked grass and across blackened dirt. The smoke from the battlewagons hung low to the ground as they followed behind the infantry, keeping pace. The few remaining bikes and buggies darted to the north, arcing around the right flank of the ork army. It seemed that the enemy had realised the weakness of its earlier tactic and would now attack with its infantry and vehicles together.
The Piscina troopers opened fire at extreme range with their mortars, lascannons and autocannons, eager to stave off this fresh offensive. Most of their shots fell short or were wide of their targets. Around Nestor, the Devastators needed no command to hold their fire.
Oblivious to the bombs of the mortars, the orks closed together, forming three large groups each shadowed by a battlewagon. One group angled north to accompany the light vehicles, the other two came straight on, heading directly for the Dark Angels’ position. The warlord seemed determined to overcome the Space Marines head-on, perhaps – correctly – perceiving them to be the biggest threat despite their small number. Amongst the green-skinned warriors, Nestor saw another of the clanking Dreadnoughts, waddling forwards on mechanical legs, oily smoke pouring from its engine.
The grumble of the vehicles’ engines rumbled up the slope. Nestor listened for a moment and realised that similar noises were coming from behind him. He turned and strode the hundred metres or so to the western slope of Koth Ridge. A couple of kilometres away, he spied a column of vehicles, in the colours of the Dark Angels and Piscina Free Militia. Dark green Rhino transports advanced along the road behind the guns of a Predator tank, while further down the column came the Chimeras of the defence troopers. Two heavy Leman Russ tanks followed behind, while Assault Space Marines bounded alongside the convoy with great leaps powered by their jump packs.
The firing had intensified at the front line and Nestor hurried back, certain that Sarpedon was already in contact with the reinforcements. He arrived back in the emplacement just as the Devastators opened fire again, raining heavy bolt and plasma blasts down upon the orks.
The battlewagons returned fire, tracer bullets whipping past the Devastators’ position. A blossom of fire and smoke from a turret presaged the impact of a shell, giving the Space Marines enough warning to duck back as the impromptu barricade exploded in a cloud of splinters and dirt. Falling stones rattled against Nestor as he glanced around, checking for any injuries.
Another shell exploded close to the other Devastator emplacement. As more rounds fell screaming onto the ridge it became apparent that the first strike had been a lucky hit. Explosions erupted all around the Space Marines but none were close enough to be anything more than a distraction.
While the heavy weapons of the squad continued to fire, Nestor helped Scalprum and the other brothers rebuild the barricade as best they could out of the broken remnants of the ammunition boxes and storage crates. It provided little protection against the bullets converging on them with increasing fury, but it would hamper the orks if they tried to storm the position.
More shells from the battlewagons engulfed the line, hurling shards of rock into the air. Out of instinct Nestor glanced across to the other combat squad and was taken aback by the sight. Two of the Space Marines lay draped over the barricade, one of them missing an arm, the other with his backpack ripped away, armour rent open.
Nestor sprinted across the divide as more detonations rocked the ridge. The shockwave from a nearby impact sent him off balance. He stumbled and crashed shoulder first into a jutting boulder. Righting himself in an instant, the Apothecary continued his run as the hoarse ork shouts and zing of bullets sounded ever closer.
‘Who has fallen, brothers?’ Nestor demanded as he leapt over the spilled dirt and broken wood from the ruptured barricade.
‘It is Hasrien and Anduriel, brother,’ came the reply.
Nestor attended to Hasrien first, the Space Marine who had lost his right arm and seemed most likely to survive. The shell detonation had ripped away the whole limb, leaving a ragged hole in Hasrien’s shoulder. Blood leaked slowly from shredded blood vessels despite the Space Marine’s quickly clotting blood. The Apothecary blotted out the sound of bolters adding to the din and concentrated on the task at hand. It was important to preserve as much of the existing skeletal, nerve and blood vessel structure as possible if a prosthetic replacement was to be viable.
Hasrien’s system was pumping Larraman cells through his bloodstream, which would harden into a protective layer on contact with the air. The downside of this rapid healing with major wounds was the possibility of air bubbles being trapped in the blood vessels, leading to necrosis and cell death if the Space Marine did not receive proper treatment swiftly. Nestor applied a thinning agent to slow the process and then used the cauteriser to seal the broken vessel more completely. After injecting a cocktail of anti-inflammatory and cell-growth drugs, the Apothecary doused the open wound with a compound that would boost the scabbing effect of the Larraman cells coursing through the Space Marine’s system. Within seconds the whole area was encrusted by a quickly hardening scar.
Nestor realised Hasrien was talking, an incomprehensible stream of words spilling quietly from his lips.
‘The green wave of fire brings the black reproach… The retribution flame cleanses the impure… A sky swirls with delight, bringing the stench of justice…’
Carefully turning the Space Marine’s head, Nestor found a wide gash carved into his helmet by a piece of shrapnel. The wound did not appear to be deep, and already the scab was thick and infection-proof. The Apothecary activated his interpersonal comm.
‘Brother Hasrien? This is Brother Nestor. What do you feel?’
‘The whiteness of fraternity bonds with the black wall,’ came the hushed reply. Hasrien’s good arm twitched, his fingers forming a fist.
Conventional brain damage seemed unlikely: the wound had barely scratched the Space Marine’s hardened skull. Nestor searched through his memory, recalling all of the rites of diagnosis, but there was nothing that matched this symptom.
The only thing that was remotely familiar was a malfunction in the catalepsean node – a small organ implanted in the cortex to allow a Space Marine to rest different parts of his brain without sleeping. The dream-like whispering would be explained by damage to that organ. Perhaps the blow had involuntarily activated it or somehow displaced it. As it was,
Hasrien was in no fit state to fight: the catalepsean node was only employed on extended duty as it obscured the focus required for effective combat.
At a loss concerning what else to do, Nestor helped Hasrien sit up. There was no function of the narthecium that would help. With nothing else springing to mind, the Apothecary brought his fist down sharply against the uninjured side of the Space Marine’s helmet, jolting his head to the side. Hasrien slowly turned his head to the left and right and then looked up at the Apothecary, the lenses of his autosenses focussing on Nestor’s face.
‘Brother Nestor?’ said Hasrien. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘What is your name? Where are you?’
‘I am Brother Hasrien of Squad Scalprum, Third Company of the Dark Angels. Present location is Koth Ridge, Piscina IV, Piscina System.’ Hasrien looked to his right and then back at the Apothecary. ‘I appear to have lost an arm, brother, or did I just dream that?’
Nestor grabbed the Space Marine’s remaining wrist and helped him to his feet.
‘You have lost your arm, brother, but there is still fighting to be done,’ said the Apothecary, slapping his bolt pistol in Hasrien’s remaining hand. ‘The Emperor expects you to fight until you can fight no more.’
‘Thank you, Brother-Apothecary,’ replied Hasrien, a finger curling around the trigger of the pistol. ‘I shall speak your name to the Lion when I am next in chapel.’
Nestor watched the battle-brother rejoining the three other members of his combat squad, pistol at the ready. A moment later Hasrien was firing into the approaching orks, showing no after-effects from his strange episode.
Nestor turned his attention to Anduriel.
The Apothecary assessed the damage clinically, but was forced to conclude that Anduriel’s condition was best described as ‘a bloody mess’. Skin, fat, muscle, bone and organs had been mashed together by the blast; the damage to the Space Marine and his armour was such that Nestor assumed he had taken a direct hit from the battlewagon shell. Nestor activated the interpersonal link again.
