Bastion Wars

by Henry Zou

  The Dos Pares were four men. Four identical men.

  That is, Mautista could not think of any other way to describe them. They looked like men in all aspects of physical semblance, that much he was sure of. But there was a solid presence to their power, an aura of overwhelming control that was beyond their physical appearance. They were men who seemed to make no mistake. There was a perfection to them that seemed to defy mortality of men. In that sense, they seemed inhuman.

  The Two Pairs were tall. Taller than even the lithe Disciples, so tall that Mautista’s head barely reached the middle of their torso. And how big those torsos were! An expansive ribcage and solid abdominal wall that rose like that of a fortress, matched in proportion by the rest of their body. Next to these giants, the Disciples looked like children suffering malnutrition. The Two Pairs wore simple loincloths of hemp, their bare muscles daubed with white from their shaven heads to the bulges of their calves. Like their Disciples, black kohl was smeared into their eye sockets and around their mouths so that they appeared as white, ghostly spectres. That’s what they looked like, Mautista decided – like ghosts from another world.

  ‘Come here and let me look at you,’ commanded one of the four. There was a certainty to his voice, as sure as the sun would rise.

  Mautista stepped before the quartet of white titans. The back of his neck knotted with anxiety. The simple act of the Two Pairs looking at him caused his nerves to seize up in awe. With men such as these leading the insurgency, there was no way they would fail. Mautista was sure the insurgency would succeed simply because these men said so.

  ‘Tell me, Mautista Taboon,’ began one of the Two Pairs, ‘what is the role of a Disciple?’

  ‘A Disciple leads warbands into battle against Imperial forces. He uses his men as a force multiplier against numerically superior forces by disrupting supply lines, raids, ambushes and harassing their area of operation,’ Mautista answered automatically, as if from rote.

  ‘A Disciple is a teacher. He takes that which he learns from us and he disseminates it amongst all people,’ said the first giant. ‘The Disciple is an embodiment of the primal state of Kaos, and he empowers others with this same conviction.’

  ‘A Disciple is our mouthpiece. He goes where we cannot, spreading the insurgent cause while imparting his militant methods upon everyone, from child to grandmother,’ rumbled the second.

  Mautista nodded once, timidly.

  ‘He is not just a soldier, but an operative. The operation being the expulsion of Imperial influence from his birth land. You must learn from us, and what you learn you teach to others,’ said another.

  By now Mautista could no longer discern where the voices were coming from. The Four seemed to speak as one.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Come closer.’

  One of the giants took a syringe from the steel worktable. Mautista had seen such things before. A local militia medic had often visited his village before the war, once every two months to inoculate the children against tropical infections. The needle looked much the same, but this one was much larger and filled with a dark red liquid. Mautista did not dare ask what it was for. Instead he simply proffered his arm towards the waiting giant.

  ‘This will change you,’ the giant said. ‘But it is the only way you can learn from us within such a short amount of time. Time is not on our side and every day the Imperial forces grow stronger. We must accelerate the process: expand your mind and your body.’

  Mautista did not understand, but the giant was so soothing in his tone that Mautista was no longer listening. He felt the needle slide into his bicep vein, intensely cold and intrusive. For a moment he was overcome by a surge of euphoria. And then the pain came.

  It travelled up his arm, into his shoulder and then speared into his heart. It was a deep pain. He felt it in his marrow. It felt as if his entire body was being crushed together from all directions. Once, as a child, Mautista had a molar extracted by the village ironsmith. The pain was comparable, except this time it penetrated every bone and organ in his body. Mautista opened his mouth but could not scream, the pressure on his lungs was too great. Locked up and seizing, the pain intensified. Dark spots feathered his vision.

  The Two Pairs made soothing sounds at him. ‘An inevitable side-effect,’ said one.

  ‘It will pass,’ said another.

  ‘But if you die, then the warp wills it. What will be, will be.’

  The Two Pairs continued to stand there, watching Mautista, doing nothing as he spasmed unceremoniously on the ground.

  One of the giants knelt down next to Mautista. ‘This will continue for several hours. Perhaps most of the night and tomorrow. You will live if you choose to live but it is easier to let go,’ he whispered.

  High above the tunnel complex, above the topsoil and undergrowth, it was raining again. Misting the air silvery grey, the monsoon washed down in sheets, shivering the canopy.

  The 88th Battalion flotilla travelled at its slow, constant pace unperturbed. Hoping to avoid the worst of the torrential flooding along the main channel, the convoy snaked north-east along an inlet parallel to the major delta. They had made good progress in the past few days and, according to their charts, the first of the super-heavy batteries was no more than four days’ travel to the east, five if the weather was poor.

  Baeder’s intention was to reach the large rural settlement of the Lauzon people by the end of the day. It would be a steady forty-kilometre stretch if the flood tides did not hamper their progress. By all accounts, Imperial intelligence had marked the Lauzon community as loyalists and there they could resupply their provisions and prepare themselves for the assault on battery one. From that point on, they would be less than one hundred and fifty kilometres from the super-heavy and enemy presence would undoubtedly become dense. The siege-batteries were the lifeline of the insurgency and the region would be fiercely defended.

  Sergeant Major Pulver rode at the rear of the column, his swift boat bringing up the rear guard. Pulver considered himself an infantryman at heart, always preferring short stints on an inflatable assault lander that could get him close to the enemy, quickly. He had been born and bred on the feral marshes of Ouisivia and the cramped, claustrophobic confines of the swift boat’s hab quarters did not suit his temperament. It made him irritable.

  ‘Frag this, sergeant, I can’t even get a decent meal in,’ Trooper Sceri shouted from under the cover of the pilothouse awning. The torrential downpour sleeted sideways and, although the trooper huddled beneath the pilothouse eating his rations, rainwater was filling his mess tin.

  ‘Suck it up, Sceri,’ Sergeant Pulver called from the rear deck. He made no effort to even look at the young trooper.

  ‘Did you hear?’ said Sceri, trying to change the topic. ‘The colonel apparently saved some boys the other day when they made that landing. Word is he walked face-first into a landmine so the others wouldn’t have to. That’s some heroic business. He’s a true ramrod.’

  That got Sergeant Pulver’s attention.

  ‘The colonel is a fragging meatball is what he is,’ Sergeant Pulver said, stamping sodden serpent skin boots through the puddles towards the pilothouse. ‘Who is he trying to impress with that idiotic gesture?’

  Trooper Sceri shrugged sheepishly. He looked down, trying unsuccessfully to tip rainwater from his mess tin without losing any of his dehyd gruel.

  ‘He could have gotten himself killed. That would have landed us in a cluster-frag, I guaran-fragging-tee it. I don’t have faith in this colonel more than I can throw him, but this early into the mission, losing our commanding officer would be death for morale,’ Pulver concluded.

  Sceri said nothing. He continued to pick gingerly at his steadily diluting food.

  ‘High-born overachievers always have something to prove.’

  ‘Suppose we frag him later.’

  The
door to the pilothouse slid open and Corporal Schilt sauntered out onto the deck.

  Pulver was not surprised. ‘Plotting again, Sendo. Your mother was a snake,’ he said dryly.

  Corporal Sendo Schilt was a wiry little man, with a face like a snub-nosed swamp bat. His irises were a slit-eyed blue and, when he smiled, he showed pointy canines. Schilt was a man the sergeant would not turn his back on. As a sergeant major, Pulver had seen Guardsmen come and go, but Schilt was one of those rare few who were survivors. It did not surprise Pulver at all that Schilt would kill any officer who put him in unnecessary danger. In a way, a man like Schilt was a liability.

  ‘Of course. I’d wager that our colonel volunteered us for this suicide mission to pad his career record,’ Schilt hissed.

  ‘It’s too early to be talking about fragging him, corporal,’ Pulver said. ‘But if he pulls any more chivalrous rubbish that endangers both the mission and our boys, I’m going to put him out.’

  ‘Yeh, well this mission is suicide. A lot of us have come to that conclusion. We’re not happy either. If it comes down to our skin, well then we’re acting. I know boys within the battalion who’d be willing to get the job done, sergeant, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Keep your sights on the objective, corporal. Until then, I’ll decide how best to keep this battalion intact, with or without the colonel,’ Pulver said darkly.

  Just seventeen kilometres out from Lauzon province, the scouting lance of three patrol craft stopped. Their motors idled as their guns panned the area around them. It was still raining and visibility was reduced to a grey curtain no more than ten metres in each direction. The downpour threw up a mist as it pounded the river surface, swirling like a landlocked cloud.

  The way ahead was blocked by a dam. Crudely constructed of logs piled one over another, it stretched the entire fifteen-metre width from riverbank to riverbank. Despite the rising water levels, it rose just high enough to prevent the shallow-draft vessels from crossing.

  Lieutenant Riddle, commander of the scout lance, voxed immediately to the main line of advance. ‘Sir, we have solid obstruction here. The locals have decided to dam up for the wet season and it’s a bloody no go.’

  ‘How big is this dam, lieutenant?’ Baeder voxed back.

  ‘Nothing my men and I can’t handle, sir. Do you want me to remove it? It might take a while.’

  ‘Only remove as much as we need to get past. I don’t want us to be held accountable for fragging up the livelihood of local farmers, understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  With an unspoken efficiency, two of the swift boats went to shore while one remained in the channel to provide overwatch. Riverine Guardsmen fanned out to secure the clusters of tendril beards overlooking the water as a work team waded out to clear the obstruction.

  In the flash tides, the footing was treacherous. Riddle and his volunteers clung on to clumps of needle rushes as the water pushed up against their thighs. Each man held an entrenching tool, a small fold-out shovel issued for digging gun pits and shell scrapes. They were the only tools at hand for dislodging the logs from their foundations. The Riverine worked quickly, unearthing clumps of soil holding the dam in place. The rain drummed off Lieutenant Riddle’s head and, clad in shorts, his joints were soon numb from the cold.

  ‘Sir! There’s no foundation to this dam!’ shouted Trooper Wiman.

  Curious, Riddle picked up a mossy branch that had shed from a nearby tendril beard and plunged it underwater, jabbing for the part of the dam that was obscured by water. The strong current tore the branch from his grasp. Riddle watched as the branch resurfaced on the other side of the dam and was carried away on the tide. Wiman was right, the dam had no middle nor bottom. It was simply a skirting of logs that obstructed the surface of the river and roughly half a metre below it. Dams were meant to stop water, not allow it to pass underneath.

  This was not a dam. This was a boat trap.

  Panic began to set in. ‘Clear it!’ Riddle shouted, kicking at the logs. ‘Clear this quickly!’

  As his men began to set to at a frantic pace, Riddle sprinted back towards his swift boat. He scrambled aboard, ploughed into the pilothouse and tuned his vox.

  ‘Calling all formations! Obstruction is not a dam, prepare for insurgent activity. Calling all–’

  Riddle let the vox speaker fall away from his mouth. In the distance he could hear the distinct popping and cracking of small-arms fire. As he peered out from the rain-streaked windows of his pilothouse, he caught glimpses of movement amongst the deep trees.

  They lost all sense of order. The vox-channel was suddenly alive with the shouts and screams. But Riddle did not pay attention to the vox. He had more pressing matters at hand. Outside, he could already see muzzle flashes and hear the reports of loud, point-blank gunfire. Streaks of pale las-light lit up the rain curtain. Grabbing a lasrifle from the gun rack, the lieutenant threw open the cabin door, firing as he went.

  Flashes of light, rotating, sparking, lancing, rippled along the left side of the riverbank. Insurgent skirmishers scurried in between the trees, their shapes barely visible in the sleeting rain.

  Standing on the bow, Baeder saw a skirmisher make a dash between two gum-saps. Tracking his movement with the scope of his lasrifle, Baeder put him down with a clean shot. The man dropped hard, disappearing from view.

  ‘Ambush on portside! Enemy infantry sighted!’

  The swift boats and gun-barges opened fire. Autocannons, heavy bolters and belt-fed heavy stubbers poured fire into the wilderness. Above the gunshots, Baeder heard the crackle of wood as trees were felled and shorn branches crashed.

  Enemy shots stitched the portside of Baeder’s vessel. Sergeant Volcom threw back a tarpaulin that had diverted rain off their bow-mounted heavy bolter, stood up and began to fire. But a Carnibalès sniper was already in waiting. The insurgent, unseen, fired two shots. The first spanked off the bolter’s mantlet but the second entered the sergeant’s sternum, throwing him back with an upward spray of blood. He fell, dead, onto the deck. Then someone ran a row of las-shots along the swift boat’s deck railing, forcing Baeder into cover.

  ‘Frag!’ Baeder bellowed. He sprinted into the swift boat’s pilothouse as another las-round hissed over his head. Inside, Corporal Bellinger had knocked out one of the windows with the butt of his lasrifle and was picking shots with his gun against the windowsill. Rainwater was spraying onto the vox array and delicate navigational banks inside the boat but now was not the time to be fussy. Baeder popped out the plexi-pane of another window panel and squeezed his trigger on full auto. White las-shots beamed out from the Imperial positions, criss-crossing with the pink of insurgent las. A trio of insurgents began to set up a mortar plate beneath a stand of tendril beards and Baeder juiced his entire clip in their direction. The rain made it hard to see what he was doing, but by the time his muzzle stopped flashing, all that could be seen was a toppled mortar and no more insurgents.

  An inflatable lander exploded nearby, struck by a missile. Baeder saw the smaller craft cartwheel in the air, its black rubber flaming and shredded. It landed, belly up, the entire squad of Riverine lost to the explosion. The insurgents were targeting the troop-laden landers now with support weapons; portable missile launchers and even mortars aimed point-blank at a horizontal axis. The landers ripped across the river on outboard thrusters, disgorging Riverine Guardsmen into the shallows, ready to assault up the steep embankment.

  Baeder knew the Guardsmen rushing up towards the tree line would be scythed down by hidden gunmen unless the battalion provided accurate covering fire. The gun-barges which had, up until that point, not fired their main weapons for fear of fratricide would have to be brought into play. Risk be damned, thought Baeder.

  ‘Bellinger!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Vox air-support then ground support. Tell him there are friendlies, danger-close, assaulting the
tree line. Pick his shots and be clean about it!’

  ‘Sir!’ said Corporal Bellinger, picking up the waterlogged vox receiver.

  Baeder turned his attention back to the men scaling the slope towards the gunmen amongst the trees. Their bayonets were fixed and they fired as they ran. Guns barked from the foliage, dropping Guardsmen back into the frothing delta. Baeder continued to shoot into the silver haze, picking out targets when he could see them, firing blind when he could not.

  The main thrust of the ambush came up behind the 88th Battalion, jamming them from retreat. From out of the rain, motored sampans, cutters and keel-hulled trawlers carved a direct path towards the rearguard. These were a motley collection of vessels, up-armoured with sheets of hammered metal, but there were lots of them. Collectively dubbed ‘spikers’, these boats had been prevalent since before the war as the chosen transport of estuarine bandits. Now they were the mainstay of insurgent raiders, crude yet simple to produce in great numbers.

  Sergeant Pulver found himself firing the stern-mounted heavy stubber as Trooper Sceri fed the belt ammunition. Both enemy and Imperial vessels manoeuvred tightly in the river confines. The constant swerving and jinking of the motored vessels caused las-fire and gunshots to lacerate the air wildly.

  ‘Keep this thing moving! They’re all over us!’ Pulver bellowed at his coxswain.

  A motored sampan laden with insurgents firing autoguns streaked past them, stitching the hull of the swift boat as they passed. Pulver tried to track them with the mounted stubber but the sampan was much lower, and the swift boat was moving at great speed. As they passed each other, the stream of tracer went wide, streaking over the insurgents.

  ‘Damnit,’ Pulver swore as he corrected his aim.