by Henry Zou
The flight deck was empty except for a small huddle of officials waiting to greet him. Duponti was in no mood for ceremony. His limbs were stiff from poor circulation and the stimulants were intoxicating his system. He felt giddy and light-headed. As he approached the group, Duponti’s heart sank. It was an Ecclesiarchal gathering, no doubt ready to save his soul when what he really needed was for them to have saved him a shot of dramasq and some eggs and ham.
Cardinal Avanti stood in the centre, flanked by two altar bearers, regarding him with cold, flat, watery eyes. A cope of gold thread bound him together and kept the wires and machines that sustained him hidden from view. A mantle of sea-bird feathers was draped across one shoulder and embossed rings of blocky gold lined his well-manicured hands. The altar bearers wore only tabards of parchment despite the storm winds, their chem-nourished arms oiled and scraped. As much for intimidation as they were for clerical service, one bore the cardinal’s sceptre of authority and another a gilded trident.
‘Let me be the first to commend you on exemplary conduct in the course of your duties,’ Avanti said, spreading his bell-sleeved arms.
It sounded like rehearsed babble to Duponti. The aviator eyed the cardinal warily. He had defied the admiral’s orders and he doubted the cardinal was unaware of this. It was common knowledge amongst the Persepian soldiery that the cardinal’s attention was best averted.
‘The Emperor and His saints have smiled upon you. Surely were it not for them, you would not have succeeded in this arduous task,’ Avanti continued, clearly enjoying his own impromptu sermon.
No, Duponti thought, it was a dangerously high amount of stimms and my own brass balls that got the job done. Yet he bit his tongue and nodded, forcing up a thin smile.
‘The 88th’s sacrifice in allowing my campaign to proceed will surely earn them the Emperor’s forgiveness. In fact, I myself may give personal admiration for their deeds,’ Avanti continued, seemingly addressing an audience of thousands rather than a lone weary aviator.
‘Of course. Your respect is invaluable to front-line Guardsmen,’ Duponti said.
Avanti dropped his glacial stare level with Duponti. ‘How tainted were the 88th by the end of the mission? I expect them to be turned stark raving mad by the Ruinous Powers after having been in such close proximity.’
Something was not right. A sudden menace crept into the cardinal’s cold, detached manner. Duponti decided to pick his words carefully. ‘No, sir. They were coherent and unaffected. I can attest to that as we maintained vox contact up until twelve hours ago.’
‘No. The Ruinous Powers would have changed them, just as they have changed the people of Bastón.’ The cardinal spoke with a knowing tone that foreclosed any further argument.
Duponti gritted his jaw. Who was this Ecclesiarchal bureaucrat telling him what he knew? He had been out there in the field flying through flak while the cardinal had been pampering and manicuring himself in a stateroom.
The cardinal laid a palm on Duponti’s heart. ‘My poor child. It seems your judgement has been clouded by your close proximity with the Ruinous Powers as well.’
There was something in his voice. Something that suggested Avanti was playing a game with him. That the outcome of their conversation was predetermined and the cardinal was only going through the motions.
‘I’m fine,’ Duponti said, suddenly trying to walk around the trio. He was too tired for this.
‘You are not. Do you hear voices and daemons?’ Avanti asked, his voice raising several octaves and his eyes widening.
Duponti stepped backwards, knocking the cardinal’s hand from his chest. He was being played with, he was sure of it. Something was conspiring against the 88th, and his insubordination had drawn him into it. Duponti darted his eyes about, hoping to see a fellow Persepian, but the wind howled across an empty flight deck.
‘What do you hear?’ Avanti repeated, eyes wide as he glided forwards.
Before Duponti could speak, the altar servant with the sceptre swung at his neck. Four kilograms of solid bronze landed with a jarring crunch on the top of Duponti’s spine, whiplashing his head and sending him down.
‘He is possessed, the poor child,’ Avanti said with genuine concern. The altar servant with the sceptre continued to pound down with the holy relic as the aviator tried to shield the blows with his arms. The sceptre continued to rise and fall, breaking his forearm and forcing a scream from Duponti that was muffled by the buffeting northerly. Droplets of blood danced in the air, the wind carrying them into Avanti’s face. The altar servant laid about, heaving and spitting with exertion until Avanti commanded him to stop. By then, Lieutenant Duponti was no longer moving.
‘Give his daemonic soul to the sea. Let him drown for eternity,’ Avanti said. He watched his servants tip Duponti’s unconscious body into the waves. Satisfied, Avanti gave praise to the Emperor and wiped the blood from his face and his vestments.
It had been less than one week since the Guard had landed on the inland and already the Dos Pares cause was on the verge of collapse. Somewhere in the forest, Mautista heard the rustling snap of a felled tree, and the steady grumble of engines.
Mautista peered through a thicket, keeping amongst the leaves. He could see nothing in the distance. His eyesight had deteriorated in the past days, blood spots blanketing his vision. He knew his veins were haemorrhaging. His body had continued to warp, tearing and re-knitting his muscles. Most painfully, his bones had grown barbs, the tiny growths puncturing his skin like translucent quills. The internal bleeding was hazing his eyesight and swelling his flesh. It was agony to simply walk upright, let alone navigate the jungle.
His warband squatted miserably at his feet, wrapped in blankets of beaded fabric and dirty sheets of plastek. They had spent the last several days wandering from village to village in search of food. What they found were abandoned settlements as the Bastón fled before the march of the Imperial army, spurred on by tales of massacre along the coast and river regions.
The insurgency had relied on the support of the native population. It drew its strength, its resources and its powerbase from those native provinces. Indeed, its survival depended on the anonymity afforded by a network of Dos Pares agents seeded within the civilian population. But the Guard were razing and burning them, uprooting the insurgency from the ground. Just two days ago, Mautista tried to negotiate for ammunition from a local Disciple based in Manecal province. But word had arrived that their Disciple had perished and already been buried. The mutations had finally killed him. He had only been in service of the Dos Pares for forty-six days.
Worse still, when Mautista led his warband to seek medical supplies from the village of De Pano, they found an empty ghost town. Bodies of Bastón-born littered the streets, stiffened with their arms up to ward off their murderers. Province by province, the insurgency lost their network of influence. Where once there had been well-established lines of supply there were now scorched blisters of wasteland.
Communication lines had broken down throughout the network. Rumours were abounding that Carnibalès fighters were withdrawing from the coastal provinces to consolidate inland. Conflicting rumours suggested that other Dos Pares warriors were going to face the enemy head on.
Thus far the only tactical advantage possessed by the Carnibalès was their mobility and knowledge of terrain. The Four directed the warbands to avoid the Imperial combat elements and harass their supply lines. The inevitable tail of fuel trucks and logistics trains that followed the wake of the motorised divisions was firebombed and ambushed. Yet the war could not be won that way and, in six days, the Imperial Guard had reclaimed provinces almost two hundred kilometres inland.
‘Mautista, do we flee or do we fight?’ asked Canao, tilting his sloping cranium and clicking his mandibles nervously.
His question was punctuated by a sudden burst of cannon-fire. It sounded close, the rolling blast sending a burs
t of birds into flight. It was followed by flutters of small-arms. If Mautista strained, he could almost hear the agonised shouts of men.
‘There,’ Mautista said, pointed into the tangle of jungle where the river met the trees. ‘There is fighting there.’
The rebels threw off their blankets and rose to their feet wearily. They cocked their weapons. Mautista did the same. ‘We should join the fighting,’ he said, but there was no need. The rebels were already slinking into the undergrowth.
The river stretched out like a soupy brown thread towards the coast. Behind them, the dog-toothed silhouette of the Kalinga Hills faded into the distance. Monsoon season was fading too, yet the morning showers lingered reluctantly, desperate to exert the last of its sodden influence over the canopy.
The 88th travelled west, branching away from the Serrado river. By all accounts a Persepian naval picket had deployed Guard forces into the western seaboard. It was only a three day pass from their original route and an Argo-Nautical would pick them up. The thought of extraction was the only thing that kept Baeder’s ailing body going forwards.
He dreamed of a scalding shower to dislodge the dirty crust from his body on board the Nautical’s hygiene facility. Perhaps a full breakfast with extra servings of ham and eggs in the officers’ mess. He reasoned that he could fall asleep in the infirmary while medics attended to his accumulated cuts, bruises and tropical agues. He would sleep for a long time.
Until then, Baeder instructed the 88th to remain alert. The Carnibalès were desperate now, cornered and wild. Although the region was dominated by the presence of an Argo-Nautical just off its shores, the threat of ambush was ever persistent.
By afternoon, when the heat extracted steam from the rain-slick surfaces, a forward scouting swift boat reported sighting a Persepian Nautical picket at a fork in the river where the ocean currents branched out into twigs of minor rivers.
‘We’ve broken the stalemate, men. The 88th ended this,’ Baeder proclaimed on the battalion vox. There would be a time for speeches later, for now it was a simple congratulatory remark that lifted a burden of tension from their shoulders. Riverine appeared on deck, embers of tabac hanging from mouths. They sagged against the gunwales, craning to catch a glimpse of the Persepians like lost sailors sighting land.
The last boats of the 88th linked up with the waiting scouts and rolled in to announce their arrival together. Baeder watched the men of the 88th gather on their bows. They looked less than human, like badly-drawn outlines of men. Wild dreadlocked manes and beards that appeared ridiculously leonine upon their slouching bodies. He could see Mortlock too, his head wrapped in gauze from where a bolt-round had bent his ship’s rear railing in half and sent tiny particles of it into his scalp.
There was no cause for celebration. Instead, as they neared the extraction point, the 88th mourned. They remembered those who had set sail but not returned. Pulver, Steencamp, Vayber and hundreds of men they had known for years. It was doubtful that the 88th were even a functioning battalion any more. They were done. The war, at least for a while, would not include the 88th.
Closing the distance, a Persepian Orca-class patrol boat broke away from the picket. Long and lean with a towering cluster of vox-masts and auspex sweepers, it was larger than five swift boats in length. A trio of twin-linked autocannon turrets was tiered on the vessel’s short streamlined superstructure.
It hailed them on a direct vox broadcast. ‘Halt your position. On orders of the Imperial Guard.’
‘This is eight eight battalion. We’re coming in for extraction,’ Baeder replied into his handset.
The Orca continued its path towards them, not appearing to slow. In the distance, another Orca peeled away from the picket and sailed towards their flotilla.
Baeder tried again. ‘This is eight eight. Do you receive? Over.’
The first Orca was less than one hundred metres away and still closing fast. It split a frothing bow wave, breaking the smooth pane of brown water with its momentum. The men grew uneasy. Hesitantly, with no small amount of confusion, some of the Riverine settled behind their bow guns, unsure of why they were doing so.
Finally, the vox clicked and the Orca transmitted. ‘Colonel Baeder, this is Lieutenant Commander Nemours of the Persepia 17th Patrol Group. I’m sorry. Soldier to soldier I’m sorry. But the cardinal’s orders…’
The Orca smashed into the front rank of the flotilla, the sharp prow tilting airborne as it sliced into a swift boat, spilling Riverine into the churning water. The larger vessel’s bulk landed like an ursine amongst pack dogs. Once it had entered the formation the Orca’s turrets thudded, slashing 25mm rounds in a wide fan. Plumes of water misted the air, Riverine vessels broke apart, blood and debris fluttered down like an autumnal gale. Baeder stood still, for how long he did not know. After his ordeal, his mind did not comprehend the reality of what he saw.
The Riverine responded aggressively to the carnivore in their midst. Several missile tubes clapped, and warheads blossomed against the Orca’s blue hide. A gun-barge drew parallel with the larger vessel and began to wash the length of it with a heavy flamer, fanning its weapon up and down. An Orca turret swivelled and unleashed a loud burst at the gun-barge, igniting its fuel tanks. The resultant explosion crumpled the Orca’s starboard and it listed, the jagged wound taking water rapidly.
Regaining his senses in the white-hot fury of the explosion, Baeder pressed the handset to his mouth. ‘Turn and move! Disengage upriver!’
Speed and manoeuvrability were the only things that would keep them alive as the second Orca surged in, with a third and fourth chasing its tail. The flotilla reversed direction rapidly, stern guns chattering defiantly. Three tubby gun-barges, all flamer vessels, intercepted the lead Orca to buy the other vessels time to escape. Smaller and faster, the barges circled the Persepian craft like piranhas worrying a sword-snout. They spat spurts of flame as the turrets swung in to track them. It was a brave but sacrificial gesture as more Persepian vessels flanked them and locked on with their targeting systems.
As the 88th fled from the Persepian picket, the flashes of the burning gun-barges shone orange on their backs. Their triumph burning away to tragedy, Colonel Baeder led his survivors inland. There was nowhere else for them to go.
Brigadier Kaplain was lying awake in his tent when he heard the first shots. Wary, yet curious, he tugged on his boots and slung his chest holster over one arm. The single shot crackled into a sustained splinter of gunfire that echoed in the still night. Shouts, sirens and then an explosion. Sweeping up two loaded pistol clips from his writing desk, Kaplain lifted the flap of his command tent.
Riverine Base Camp Echo was in a state of panic. Guardsmen sprinted in their undershirts to man battle stations. A storage hangar was up in flames. The klaxons were whooping on double-time, signifying red alert. The base camp was under attack.
The enemy were already among them. He could see shapes, backlit by vaporous curls of flame and smoke. In the distance, he saw the outline of a Rhino-pattern APC shooting bolter-rounds like star clusters into the barrack lines. Kaplain strode into the path of a sergeant running towards the flames with a canister of compressed extinguisher. ‘Report, sergeant,’ Kaplain commanded in a soft even tone.
‘They’re in the perimeter, in amongst us,’ gasped the sergeant, coughing between words on smoke-clogged lungs.
Kaplain remained calm. ‘Who? Who is amongst us?’
‘Adepta Sororitas entered the camp. Sentries had no reason to deny them entry,’ the sergeant replied. As he spoke, his eyes flickered about in fear. A crackle of las-fire lit up the western perimeter of the base camp, just beyond the boat sheds.
‘The Adepta Sororitas?’ Kaplain echoed in confusion, his composure fracturing for a second.
Before the sergeant could reply his head disintegrated in a puff of blood, following the distinct report of a bolter. Kaplain blinked the red back from
his eyelids. Tiny, clustered dots of blood fanned out in a circle ten metres wide.
‘Brigadier,’ said Palatine Morgan Fure, rising like a phantom out of the dense smoke pall. Five, ten, twelve battle-sisters followed her from the smog, marching in unison like automatons. Kaplain felt hopelessness when he saw them, a sheer weakness that he had never felt before. The Ecclesiarch had ordered the death of him and all his men. He was sure of it.
‘Brigadier, we’ve come to take you. Do not resist us,’ said Palatine Fure. Her sisters clacked their bolters into place against their shoulders like a firing squad. Each was clad from helmet to sabaton in plates of iridescent pearl that caught and reflected the flames like burning oil. The armour of their torso had been shaped into rigid corsets, studded lamellar plates that gave them feminine form, yet there the humanity ended. Their full helmets had visors worked into the hook-nosed grimace of Ecclesiarchal gargoyles. Crease-heavy cloaks of lavender velvet trailed from bulky power-units on their backs, fluttering like banshees. Their bolters, lacquered in black panelling, were tangled with coils of piety beads.
‘You cold bitches. These men you’re killing would have given their life for your damned cardinal,’ Kaplain said evenly.
‘No they wouldn’t, brigadier,’ said Fure with a smile. ‘Your men and yourself are tainted by the dark influence of the interior. We can’t afford the risk.’
‘That’s grox dung and you know it,’ Kaplain said, reaching into his pocket for a tabac. The sudden movement caused the sisters to thrust their bolters meaningfully. Kaplain slid the tabac stick out without missing a step and lit it with a clink of his igniter. ‘I suppose I’m not surprised the cardinal would do something. I just didn’t think he’d be so brazen.’
‘He is the Emperor’s authority,’ Fure said in a tone that suggested rote learning.
‘What’s the real reason. The 31st were a liability? We landed on the mainland as a self-sustaining vanguard and as soon as the cardinal’s men arrive we become a liability. Shoot us all while we sleep and be done with it. Is that it?’ Kaplain said, blowing smoke in Fure’s face.
