by Henry Zou
Before he could say anything else, Captain Brevet swivelled on his seat and shouted at the only other man in the tent, a lieutenant standing only an arm’s length away. ‘See to it that the colonel gets a ride to the command post! Immediately!’
The lieutenant led Baeder out the back of the admin tent and down a narrow lane of storage sheds, until he found a sergeant smoking tabac underneath the shade of a signpost. ‘Take the colonel to the motor pool, immediately,’ he ordered the sergeant.
After threading through the base for some time, Baeder found himself outside a docking hangar marked Motor pool – H Block. Here, the sergeant deposited the colonel with a corporal who was unfortunate enough to be caught lounging on the bonnet of an all-terrain four wheeler. ‘The colonel here needs to get to command post. I have important things to attend to so you’ll have to take him.’
The corporal looked around desperately but there was no one else in the hangar. Reluctantly tugging his flak vest on, he saluted Baeder. ‘All right, sir. Command post it is.’
As the pair strolled out towards a parked four-wheeler, a young trooper carrying two buckets hurried past. ‘Timmons!’ shouted the corporal. ‘Come here for a second. Where are those damn buckets going?’
The trooper wandered over. ‘The boys over at boat shed F have oil leaks on one of the swifties. They need buckets.’
‘Give me those. I’ll take them, it’s just a short walk. You drive Colonel Baeder over to the command post right now!’ snapped the corporal as he snatched the buckets from Trooper Timmons.
Trooper Timmons scrambled into the vehicle. He gunned the ignition then stared blankly at the fuel gauge. ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘there’s not enough fuel in the tank. If you don’t mind waiting I can send one of the other troopers to go requisition some from the fuel depot.’
Baeder could not help but laugh. The Guardsmen of Ouisivia were terrifying soldiers in a firefight, but the majority were swamp dwellers at heart. If they did not have their lasguns in hand, they preferred to be boozing, sleeping or smoking in any combination. ‘Emperor bless the Ouisivian way,’ Baeder chortled, ‘but I think I’ll walk instead.’
Inside the command post, it was dark and unlit. A single lume-globe hung, suspended from the canvas tent by a black cable.
Around the lonely pool of light stood three men of the 31st Riverine, all of whom Baeder knew well. Present was Brigadier Kaplain, as well as the two most senior men in Baeder’s battalion. Evidently, Kaplain had summoned the key commanders of the 88th to be present at the interrogation.
‘Baeder, sir,’ nodded the closest officer, a man with an ork skull tattoo scarring his face from forehead to chin tip. Like Baeder, the officer was clean-shaven. The finely-inked bones of a greenskin hid his entire face beneath a mask of black and ivory.
‘Major Mortlock,’ Baeder responded. As Baeder’s second, Cal Mortlock was one of the most feared men in the battalion. His brutal look commanded a hushed reverence among the rank and file and the men simply referred to him as a monster, but never to his face. Despite outward appearances, like Baeder, the officer was born and raised in the relatively sheltered provincial parishes of Ouisivia and was thus remarkably soft-spoken for a man with ork teeth etched into his lips.
Standing off to the side in silence, Baeder noticed Sergeant Major Giles Pulver staring at him while picking his teeth with a huntsman knife. The sergeant was the most senior non-officer in the battalion, a rough-shed of pure Ouisivian frontier stock and a swamp rat through and through. He wore non-issue snakeskin boots and a flak vest over his bare torso in total disregard for regulation. His beard was longer than any other soldier’s, his uniform more faded and his hands more calloused. In short, he was everything that Baeder was not. The contempt that Sergeant Pulver held for the slim, unassuming colonel was palpable.
‘Sergeant Pulver, how do you do?’ said Baeder.
The sergeant took his time to answer, working the blade between his front teeth with a surgeon’s precision. ‘Fine,’ he replied finally in his thick, Ouisivian drawl.
If Brigadier Kaplain noticed the terse exchange between officer and soldier, he chose to ignore it. ‘Fyodor Baeder, we’ve been waiting for you. How are the preparations?’
‘Excellent, sir. Prowler and Serpent Company are both prepping to schedule. Seeker Company is a little late as usual. They have engine problems with several boats but Captain Fuller will have them sharp in time, I’m sure. As for Ghost Company, well they’ve been ready since morning and are chomping at the bit to deploy.’
Kaplain mulled over the news like fine wine. ‘Good to hear. I have something to show you, colonel, it’s quite different from what we’ve encountered previously.’ The brigadier beckoned into the unlit depths of the command tent and two Riverine troopers stepped forwards and hurled the bound captive unceremoniously beneath the pool of light.
‘Lord of Terra…’ Baeder gasped.
Lying there, at his feet, was an insurgent. He was a native Bastón man and, like most of his people, slender and light of frame from poor nutrition. At first glance he looked just like any other insurgent, a rural villager in mud-stained sandals, his joints bulging with sinew from a lifetime of farming. But there was one startling difference – the man had no eyes, just a smooth sheath of skin where eyes should be.
‘Can he see?’ Baeder asked.
‘Oh yes, quite well by all accounts,’ Kaplain replied. ‘He was caught taking potshots at passing river patrols with an autogun just six hours ago. Apparently led our platoon on a merry chase through the wetlands too so yes, I would say he has no problem with eyesight.’
Baeder knelt down to inspect the captive, taking care to keep a hand over the autopistol at his hip. The captive turned his eyeless face towards him in a parody of a stare. Baeder backed away, thoroughly unnerved. ‘What do you know about him, sir?’
‘He first claimed to be a local fisherman. Don’t they all? After initial questioning he admits he is an insurgent, a Carnibalès by night and local river bargeman by day. He says his name is Orono of the Musan people. That’s all we’ve gathered from him so far,’ said Kaplain.
Baeder noticed the brigadier used the term Carnibalès, a native word for the insurgent fighters. As far as he was aware, Carni was indigenous for meat-eater, virile symbolism of the warrior, while Balès meant cabal. In essence the insurgency referred to themselves as the carnivorous cabal, a theatrical name if any.
‘Let me at this meatball. I’ll knock the corn out of him,’ growled Sergeant Pulver.
‘Not now, sergeant. Civility for our guest, please,’ Major Mortlock interjected. He grinned monstrously at the captive, the tattooed incisors on his lips pulling back to reveal his natural teeth. If the captive was frightened, he hid it well beneath a show of jaw-clenched defiance.
‘Are those mutations?’ Baeder asked Kaplain.
The brigadier shrugged. ‘He claims he was born with them. But I’m not convinced – you can see fresh scar tissue around his eyes and some scabbing on his upper brow. He’s the first captive to show signs of mutation but you should see the weapons we’ve been taking from his friends.’ The brigadier led them towards a folding table at the edge of the tent and flicked on the desk lamp. Upon the steel surface autoguns, a lasgun and several sidearms were arranged in neat rows.
‘Look at this,’ Kaplain said, picking up an autogun. ‘It’s not Imperial issue, it looks home-brewed, but the working mechanisms are too precise for them to be producing indigenously. Imperial intelligence suspects that advanced working mechanisms are smuggled onto the planet before being batch-assembled with native components.’
Baeder inspected it carefully, testing the weight in his hands and cocking the weapon. The brigadier was right, the autogun was roughly manufactured with a stock and body carved from soft gum-sap wood. While the wood was shaped roughly, showing uneven chisel marks in most places, the metal firing mechanisms we
re of advanced Imperial design. It was likely that the finer working mechanisms were sourced externally and then mass-produced on Bastón. The same could be seen of the lasgun, its body and stock constructed of cheaply-stamped metal.
Passing the autogun to Major Mortlock for inspection, Baeder blew a breath of disbelief. ‘External sources then? The Carnibalès are getting off-world aid?’
Kaplain nodded. ‘Every patrol into insurgent country turns up at least one crude weapons factory.’
‘The ramrods from Sergeant Traiver’s company turned in a seventy-
year-old grandmother last week. She had her grandchildren mass-producing gun stocks in the smoking shed,’ Pulver added with a dry laugh.
‘Underground workshops, house-factories, canoe-borne bomb makers. Fragging everywhere nowadays. We intercepted a poultry truck this month. Every bird carcass had a plastek wrapped lasgun firing-mech sewn into its arse. Four hundred and eighteen poultry birds. Four hundred and eighteen lasgun mechs which were undoubtedly off-world and smuggled,’ Mortlock reported. ‘Creative little bastards, aren’t they?’
A frown creased Kaplain’s face. ‘The guns have always had us scratching our heads for months, but now the mutation sends alarm bells ringing. Although this is the first sign of mutation we have encountered, I’m beginning to suspect that something is influencing the course of events here.’
‘What?’ Baeder asked.
‘The Dos Pares,’ Kaplain said. ‘It means “Two Pairs” in the native tongue.’
‘Dos Pares!’ echoed the captive from the centre of the tent. ‘Dos Pares!’ He was swiftly silenced by the kicking boots of the troopers standing over him.
‘What the frag does that mean?’ said Sergeant Pulver.
‘Intel is unsure at present. But we believe it’s the name of whatever cause, faction or leadership the insurgents are rallying under. Most captured insurgents mention the title in some way,’ Kaplain replied.
‘Or arms suppliers,’ Baeder mused. He had indeed heard of the ‘Two Pairs’ before. He had filed enough patrol reports from the past few weeks alone to notice that the Dos Pares were a recurrent theme in the insurgency.
‘Either way, they are keeping them well-armed and organised,’ Kaplain said. He selected another autorifle from the desk, this one even cruder than the last, with a chipped wooden stock and a blunt-nosed barrel of sheet metal all held together in places by rubber banding. Despite its poor craftsmanship, there was no mistaking the 6.65mm hollow point ammunition in its drum magazine.
‘Men, we have suspected for some time that this is no indigenous revolt. There are outside influences at work here. I wanted you all to see today that this insurgency has escalated beyond disenchanted natives causing mischief. Neutralise those siege-batteries quickly, so we can put an end to this mess.’
At 06.00, the five hundred and fifty men, four companies in all, slipped out onto the waters of the Serrado Delta before the moon had peeled away from the sky. Although the delta was not the longest river of Bastón it was certainly the largest, connecting a series of major river systems, some of which fragmented the landmass into a series of jig-sawed islands. In parts, the delta became so narrow that the trees above met in an arch, forming a net of dappled greenery above. Its variable width, combined with seasonal variations in flow and the presence of rapids and waterfalls, made navigation extremely difficult. Although pre-operational maps and navigational data sheets had been meticulously researched by Imperial intelligence, pre-planned routes would require a large measure of luck and guess work. The wilderness had always been the insurgency’s one greatest ally.
Once on the narrow delta channel, they were forced to navigate as a trailing convoy, the swift boats leading the tip of advance. Behind them came the tubby gun-barges, flanked on all sides by inflatable landers ready to engage any threats along the riverbank. Each man carried one month’s worth of provisions, a full combat load of ammunition and spare canisters of fuel.
Overhead, a single Imperial Lightning flew overwatch. Admiral de Ruger had, with great reluctance, spared the Riverine a single piloted aircraft to provide scout and reconnaissance. Baeder suspected de Ruger had not wanted the Riverine swamp rats to steal his glory and the admiral had made it clear, under no uncertain terms, that his pilot would only provide cover for eight hours of the day, and even then, no further than eight hundred kilometres from the green zone. Beyond that range the convoy would be left without support of any kind. Despite this, the combat aviator was an enormous boost to battalion morale. Although unseen in the deep-water wash of dawn, the Lightning’s tail-lights were clearly visible, winking like a guardian star that ghosted the battalion. It was a benevolent presence that reminded the Riverine Guardsmen below that they were not quite alone. His call sign, appropriately, was Angel One.
It was a common saying amongst the troops that, although the Imperium still ruled Solo-Bastón, the wilderness belonged to the insurgency. Unfortunately, the wilderness was also four-fifths of the Solo-Bastón landmass, with the Imperium holding the remaining rural provinces and seats of government. As a result, the 88th Battalion would venture deeper into the Bastón rainforest than any cleanse operation or patrol, well beyond the range of timely Vulture gunship support and certainly beyond the range of standard artillery.
As the battalion flotilla left the docking piers of Base Camp Echo that morning, the officers and men lined the shores, standing in stoic silence. The ‘Ferryman’s Post’ was played on a bugle, accompanied by the steady crump of artillery in salute. It was an honour usually reserved for fallen Riverine Guard as their funeral barges carried them away on the bayou.
Lieutenant Tomas Duponti was a real Persepian officer. When he did something he did it right and he did it with flair. He was a combat aviator of the 245th Nautical Squadron, and he fought the Imperium’s wars from a cockpit at supersonic speeds and prided himself on four dogfight victories.
For the past four months he had been flying his Lightning interceptor over Bastón. The enemy here could not summon any aerial threat to challenge him and Duponti had suffered the tedium of high altitude reconnaissance mapping with nary a skirmish in sight. When he heard that he had been the only pilot selected for a low-altitude escort mission in cooperation with advancing ground troops, Duponti had never been happier. Finally, with the wind at his back and the canopy at his wing tips, he felt like a combat pilot again.
Lieutenant Duponti was one of many Nautical aviators who scrambled Lightning interceptors from the flight decks of a Persepian fleet. The planes, painted a powdery blue, were a workhorse of the Persepian Nauticals. They were light and clean to handle, unlike larger, more cumbersome craft, and their fuel efficiency meant they could probe further inland than any other Imperial flier on Bastón. In that time, Duponti had become quite adept at high-altitude surveillance, boring though the task might be, and had been recommended for this combat mission by Admiral de Ruger himself.
Of course, reconnaissance flights were by no means risk-free. Only two weeks ago, Duponti had been forced to fly at a significantly lower altitude due to monsoonal storm clouds. The gale had buffeted his little craft with sledgehammer force and, during the entire flight, his Lightning had rattled with the force of wind and rain. Descending low for his homeward flight, an unseen insurgent gunman put a heavy bolter round through his engine. Bleeding smoke and fire, Duponti put his plane down on an emergency strip in the rainforest, forty kilometres out from the closest Riverine outpost. The lieutenant abandoned his burning craft on the strip, escaping into the underbrush with his hand vox and service laspistol. There he hid, neck deep in mud, watching insurgents converge on his position. He was paralysed with fear for almost an hour as heretics swarmed over his wreck, tearing off pieces of fuselage as trophies. It took that long before a platoon of Riverine Chimeras reached his position and scattered the insurgents back into the sodden jungle. Duponti had struggled out of his hiding place, his grey fligh
t suit slathered in mud while waving his white undershirt above his head. He had come so close to dying that day.
Still, it was nothing compared to a combat flight. By 06.00, when the 88th were scheduled to deploy, Duponti had already been in his cockpit for a good two hours, wired in anticipation. He soared north over the Calista Hinterlands, going as low as he dared to, slightly beyond the range of ground fire but close enough to watch the canopy streak beneath his wings. The exhilaration, combined with the G-force on his circulatory system, made his entire body throb with intoxicating energy.
De Ruger had outlined his task as overwatch – a simple support role. For an eight hour shift, Duponti would be on standby aboard the warship Iron Ishmael waiting for an emergency call from the 88th while occasionally flying out as reconnaissance for the battalion. Importantly, it was a low altitude mission and Duponti would be in range of enemy ground forces, and they within range of his autocannon. In a way, the lieutenant saw it as a duel.
‘Angel One, this is Colonel Baeder from Eight Eight. We are on the move, over,’ a voice crackled over Duponti’s headset. The message was like a jolt after hours of static wash and Duponti swallowed his stimms.
Clicking his vox piece, Duponti took a deep breath. ‘Eight Eight this is Angel One. Lieutenant Tomas Duponti reading you loud and clear. I’m fuelled and ready to scramble, over.’
‘Good to hear, lieutenant. How many squadrons do we have as support? Over.’
‘Just me, sir. Over,’ Duponti admitted.
There was a hesitant pause at the other end. ‘Lieutenant, say again. Just your squadron? Over.’
Duponti chewed his lip beneath his flight mask. ‘No sir, no squadron. Just me and my bird. Over.’
The aviator thought he heard some cursing in the background before the colonel spoke again. ‘One flier? Admiral de Ruger must have been feeling generous.’
Duponti understood the colonel’s concern but there was little he could do about it. Orders were orders. ‘Sir, I’m just one man,’ Duponti began. ‘But I fly damn hard and I’ll do what I can. We can both forget about the admiral’s eight hours per day. I’ll be on call twenty-four hours and fly recon as much as I can take. I’ll sleep in my flier if I have to, it’s the best I can do sir. Over.’
