by Henry Zou
He was not the only one. Riverine survivors were getting rounded up. The Carnibalès had learned to ghost on the trail of fleeing, desperate Guardsmen.
Along the banks of Serrado Minor, the remains of Sierra and Bravo Company 31st Riverine were overrun by forward elements of the Caliguan Sixth Motored Regiment. The Riverine fought a desperate last-ditch engagement from between the trunks of a rubber plantation. Despite forcing the Caliguans to dismount, the Riverine were vastly outnumbered by some two thousand Calig Heavy Infantry. It was only the timely flanking interference of a Carnibalès warhost that drove the Caliguans out of the plantation. Missiles wove between bowers, mortar fragments whistled through leaves, breaking the Caliguan formation and forcing them into the river.
In the aftermath, the Riverine Sierra and Bravo were extended a temporary alliance by Disciple Thaleis. Captain Thorn, the stiff-backed commanding officer, refused, declaring stoically that he would rather die at the hands of fellow Guardsmen than dance with the devils of Chaos. Following his wishes, the Riverine shot him and offered Thaleis their allegiance. Pragmatically, if the Ecclesiarchy had accused them of taint, the Riverine would not die trying to prove them wrong. Tainted they would be.
Three hundred kilometres away, a swift boat squadron led by Sergeant Gamden was trapped by a blockade of Persepian littoral vessels in the channel and ambushed by Caliguans from the bank. They lost three boats to the Chimera-mounted autocannons before the enemy fire slackened and seemed thrown into disarray. To Gamden’s astonishment, Carnibalès fighters exploded from the tree line. Firebombs splashed in fiery liquid rivers across the Chimera hulls and Caliguan infantry were cut down from behind by sustained las. Trapped in a crossfire, some Caliguans threw themselves into the water and attempted to swim upstream. Gamden ordered the flamers onto the water, bringing the temperature to a rapid boil.
The Carnibalès insurgents signalled for ceasefire from the land. The Persepian blockade closed in, turrets traversing for range. By then, Gamden had little choice. He had no food, no water and sparse ammunition. To keep his men alive, he went inland with the Carnibalès.
Up and down the coast, the hunted remnants of massacred Riverine base camps were offered a second chance by the Disciples of the Two Pairs. Some resisted, others regressed to outright hostility, answering the offers with bullet and bolt. Many entered an alliance with the Archenemy, a heretic pact made by desperate, hopeless men.
In the morning, Baeder returned to the cave and brought with him kettles of food. Clay pots of rice, stirred with lard and salt. Whole birds stewed in a clear broth. Then came trays of raw, diced onions and leafy, bitter herbs floating in dipping vinegar. The Guardsmen stared at the food as it was arranged on the rush mats as if their extended period of famine had made them forget how to eat. Baeder had to command them to eat before they began to dig at the food with their bare hands.
Hot and greasy, the food plugged the cold, painful void of their stomachs. The Riverine ate in silence, intensely focusing on the bowls of food in front of them, careful not to drop a single grain.
Schilt could smell the food, the savoury aroma cutting through even the constant smog of incense. Yet he refused to eat. He did not trust the fruits of the Archenemy, or Baeder for that matter. He had, however, risen to retrieve something from the food kettles. A serving fork.
Now in his corner of the cave, Schilt nursed the eating fork to his belly. It was a fork of long and narrow design to spear food from scalding cauldrons. The two tines were five centimetres in length, protruding like clawed fingers from a wooden handle the length of his forearm. He hid the utensil from the others. It was to be his pardon.
Schilt had always been a survivalist. As a young ganger in the wayside drinking dens of the bayou he had purposely sought trouble to hone his gutter-fighting skills. Those watering holes, filled with fen labourers, juve gangers and the surly, wasteful outcasts of the swamp had been tinderboxes of aggression. Fights erupted over bumped shoulders and men were stabbed over spilt briner. As a lanky pubescent youth amongst burly men, Schilt had not only survived but became feared in many establishments for his murderous intent. They quickly learnt not to pick a fight with Sendo Schilt. He was the sort who could receive a thorough gang beating, but unless his attackers managed to kill him, Sendo would eventually be waiting around the corner with a hammer for the knees or a shiv for the neck. No one ever got the better of an engagement with Sendo Schilt.
Slumping against the cave wall, Schilt fell into a fevered, delirious dream. The memories of his youth on Ouisivia filled him with determination. He would kill Baeder and escape from the Carnibalès. They would not find him for he was Sendo Schilt. The cardinal would personally commend him for his actions, perhaps even award him with the Cross of Saint Tarius. Perhaps he could even buy his freedom from the Guard and return to Ouisivia.
‘Listen up, ramrods,’ bellowed Baeder.
He crouched amongst the feeding Guardsmen and scrutinised each and every one of them. The survivors now looked at him expectantly. Despite their grease-slick beards and dishevelled uniforms, they had the air of soldiers waiting on the parade ground. The resentment and distrust that Baeder had feared was gone. At some point during their ordeals, they had put their lives into his charge.
Just months ago, Baeder would have been hesitant to issue the slightest commands. He had not even dared to press for uniform infractions for fear of aggravating the notoriously roguish Riverine Guardsmen. But now, he wielded absolute command. The Guardsmen obeyed simply because they respected his orders. Baeder treated his battalion as an extension of his body, as one would preserve one’s own fingers or limbs, not as anonymous units to hurl into the meat-grinder.
Colonel Baeder nodded to himself. ‘Men. Gather your arms. The cardinal has written us off, so let’s remind him what we can do.’
Mortlock grinned his skull-faced grin. Most of the Riverine nodded. Others simply gazed at him with blank expressions. They were prepared to follow.
‘The Carnibalès insurgency are consolidating for a counter-attack against the Persepian flagship Emperor’s Anvil. We will fight, not for them, but alongside them. I will maintain full command of Riverine elements. Any objections?’
There was a moment of silence. Some smiled amongst each other, suddenly motivated by the purpose it gave them. Many others seemed too spent to care. ‘The Ecclesiarchy have excommunicated us as damned souls. What more have we to lose? It’s better than dying from starvation,’ said Mortlock, breaking the silence.
‘Heresy!’ came a weak lonely voice from the rear of the cave. Shaking his head and muttering, Schilt stood up. He had never been a brave man but he acted now, without thought. ‘Heretic! I am a soldier of the God-Emperor. You will not sin!’ he shouted. Froth gathered at the corners of his mouth. The whites of his eyes surrounded his contracted pupils.
As a boy, Baeder had often accompanied his father in the medicae clinic. He remembered that once a mad man had been brought in to see his father. He was bound at the hands and had to be held down by three strong fishermen. The patient had been stabbed by a gretchin spear when their fishing boat had wandered too far out into the uncharted fens. The wound had become infected and the man had fallen into a howling, delirious madness. There was nothing his father could do for the man and the fishermen took him away. When Baeder was much older, he learnt that the fishermen had taken their friend out to the bayous and drowned him to end his misery.
‘The cardinal will pardon those who prove their worth. We can survive this,’ Schilt ranted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He approached Baeder, murmuring under his breath in rapid yet incoherent syllables.
‘Corporal Schilt. The Imperium, the Ecclesiarchy, they treat us as meat puppets. We survive as a battalion or not at all,’ said Baeder.
Schilt came closer. He pushed the other Riverine aside with his hands but his eyes were transfixed on Baeder. ‘The Archenemy killed my friends. They t
ried to kill me.’
‘No,’ Baeder shook his head. ‘The Carnibalès fought for the same reasons we did, to protect their comrades and their homes. We are not so different. It was the Imperium who condemned us all.’
Schilt moved to within an arm’s length of Baeder. His skin smelled of rot. Raw, bleeding blisters covered the corporal’s face. He was a very sick man, Baeder realised.
‘The cardinal can forgive us,’ Schilt rasped. ‘But not you. Never you,’ he spat at Baeder.
Suddenly, Schilt uncoiled his right arm. A flash of metal glinted. He stabbed hard at Baeder’s heart. Acting on instinct, Baeder burst forwards, jamming the stab with his left forearm. Pain exploded all the way up into his left shoulder. Although unarmed, several nearby Riverine made ready to lunge at Schilt.
‘Stand back!’ Baeder ordered as Schilt stabbed at him again. The Guardsmen paused, hovering in a circle around them but staying at bay.
Schilt was practised in knifework. The corporal adopted a low gutter stance and darted forwards with a double stab. Baeder circled away, maintaining distance by footwork alone. The long fork in Schilt’s hand was already glistening with red. Baeder’s left forearm was feathered in rivulets of blood. Despite Schilt’s decrepit state, he fought like a cornered rodent.
‘You condemned us, Baeder. I just wanted to live but you won’t let me!’ Schilt accused, almost plaintively. He lunged forwards like a fencer.
‘Trying to keep you alive was all I did,’ growled Baeder as he stepped into Schilt’s thrust. He jammed the fork into his arm again. This time the tines sank deep. Gritting his teeth against the electrical pain, Baeder wrenched the blood-slick fork away from Schilt’s grasp. The tide of the fight changed abruptly. Terror replaced Schilt’s maddened grimace.
The corporal back-pedalled, almost stumbling. In the shadows of the cave, it seemed Baeder’s presence grew. He was not tall, nor broad, but there was a change in the way he moved, a slight stiffening of his shoulders and a rolling menace in his gait. Advancing, he cut off Schilt’s retreat and flattened him with a left hook.
Schilt scrambled away, clutching his jaw. Baeder stalked forward, slowly. His shoulders were rounded and his fists raised like a pugilist, circling his downed opponent. Schilt reached out and seized a wooden lantern, hurling it at Baeder’s head. Side-stepping contemptuously, Baeder followed up with a knee to the side of Schilt’s head. The corporal folded over. Baeder did not relent. He followed Schilt down to the mats and dropped hammerfists to the side of his head. Schilt tried to turtle up, curling his arms over his head. Baeder began to stamp on his ribs. Schilt squealed. To the watching Riverine, Baeder was possessed. His methodical assault on the corporal was animalistic.
As Schilt struggled to rise, Baeder caught him in a reverse headlock. He arched his back up high, cranking Schilt’s neck, guillotining his throat with his arm. There was a snap that echoed in the cave. Schilt’s neck broke. Baeder had killed one of his own, in order to protect the rest. In keeping his battalion alive, everything was negotiable.
As Schilt died, the Riverine were up and shouting. They were shouting for him. The men chanted his name. There was respect, but now Baeder saw something else. The same thing that the Carnibalès showed in the presence of the Chaos Marines. There existed an unmistakable widening of the eyes and tense shoulders of uncertainty. Fear. His men feared him.
Chapter Nineteen
The Union City governor’s palace was like many colonial estates on Bastón, or any other remote Imperial outpost. It stood in stark contrast to the environment, floating pale and sharp against the sea of green.
Rising above the warren of shanties and concrete hab-blocks that spilled down the harbour side, the palace was a sixteen-storey artifice of Latter-Orient Gothic architecture. Wide, open-aired mezzanines and over a hundred interlocking balconies afforded a panoramic view of Union Quay harbour. In order to dispel the tropical heat, cold cream tiles covered every surface, each piece individually painted with flower and beast by off-world artisans. Gated awnings were unhinged over windows and fanned by native servants to induce airflow.
The central reception hall was small but neatly ordered for the purposes of business. Pink gauze curtains filtered the sun through open windows, muffling the sound of Guardsmen assembling on the parade grounds below. A small gilt table laden with imported teas and chilled cream was carefully arranged, surrounded by caquetoire chairs at neat angles. The sacred armour of a Kalisador casually adorned the wall alongside a chalkboard of teatime menus. In the soft, rosy haze, Cardinal Avanti lounged with a collection of rogue traders, subsector trade barons and starch-collared representatives from investment holdings.
Despite the hushed civil tones, the meeting was a subtle war of words. Solo-Bastón was being carved up, each fertile piece of land being wrangled, negotiated and traded, with Avanti at the head of the feast. Opposite him sat Octavus Sgabello, most esteemed of all the rogue traders present. Sgabello held trade charters from the Bastion Stars to Medina and back to the Lacuna Stars, earning him the title of Tri-Prince. He sat cross-legged in velvet hose with one pointed slipper bobbing jauntily.
Next to him were the trade barons. Stiff, humourless men ruffled in finery – slashed and puffed sleeves, periwigs and hundreds of yards of ribbon. For these men, the domain of anything exportable – fabric, spice and even wood pulp – was theirs and theirs alone. Such was their influence on the subsector that the wealth of planets relied on the accuracy of their calculation servitors and the shrewdness of their minds. Accompanying these oligarchs were the mercenary-explorers of the Weston-East Phalia Holding Company. Jack-booted and moustachioed, the explorers were represented by Commandant Amadeus Savaat. Resplendent in their frock coats of reds, blues and yellows, bastion loops lacing their chests and pewter buttons on their cuffs, the mercenary-explorers each bore a lance with their company heraldry.
Amadeus Savaat, loud and militant, had been by far the most vocal of the group and it was he who protested the most. If anything, Avanti would have preferred to have had the man shot for his insolence, but such an undiplomatic act would not go down well in negotiations.
‘We have heard rumours that the inland is tainted by Chaos,’ Savaat rasped. He touched the laspistol at his hip to ward against bad luck before continuing. ‘If this is true, then not even with all the Chapters of the Astartes will I send my expeditions into the jungle.’
‘Simply not true. Local superstition,’ Avanti dismissed flippantly. ‘If your company maps and charts the inland, then the Ecclesiarchy is prepared to offer you a sum of sixty-four million, half to be paid in advance.’
‘There could be an appreciable risk,’ Savaat countered. ‘Sixty-four million including a right to levy slaves from the indigenous population. A quota of forty thousand males and twenty thousand children, cardinal. That is my final offer, my company knows where we stand.’
‘It’s only fair,’ chimed Rogue Trader Sgabello. ‘There is after all, an appreciable risk,’ he said, smiling with his laminated teeth.
Avanti transfixed Sgabello with a stare he reserved for the most unrepentant of sinners. He knew the only reason Sgabello supported Weston-East Phalia was due to the fact that any slaves gained would require transport on Sgabello’s fleet. Such transport would likely net the rogue trader a ten to twenty per cent cut of slaves on top of transit fees. In response to Avanti’s withering attention, Sgabello looked away, still smiling although with much less mirth than before.
‘That’s out of the question,’ murmured Baron Cuspinan in between sips of his tea. ‘I have already invested a sizeable amount into agrarian land once the jungles are cleared. We will need slaves to till the soil and I can’t have you shipping them all off-world, Master Savaat. The pinseed is not going to pick itself.’
‘And your trade blocks will need our logistic expertise in order to establish and build your farms and mills,’ Savaat snarled aggressively. ‘Unless you are
willing to compromise.’
Cuspinan sighed and put down his teacup with a rattle. ‘You can enslave all the children you want. Their little hands are terribly labour inefficient. I am also prepared to sign a ten-year treaty guaranteeing you five per cent of all agricultural stock on the southern mainland payable in bond.’
Savaat grunted, apparently satisfied.
Avanti clapped his hands. Although a five per cent cut to Weston-East Phalia meant a five per cent reduction to the Ecclesiarchy, the Imperial church would still hold forty-five per cent of all rural profits on Bastón. Indeed, it would be a new age of enlightenment and civilisation on the world. Avanti was still bathing in the glow of his triumph and the afternoon sun when a Persepian aide appeared at the accordion door and bowed.
‘Your grace. We have intercepted a vox transmission from the renegade Riverine forces.’
Before Avanti could respond, Savaat swore aloud. ‘Renegade? You promised us no threat of Chaos taint.’
Suddenly, the trade barons and investors all looked to him expectantly. Avanti cursed the stupid aide for being so candid. Undermining investor confidence now would be disastrous. He would have to choose his words very carefully.
‘Explain the situation,’ Avanti ordered the aide calmly.
‘At 14.00 today, Persepian vox-officers intercepted a broadcast from one Colonel Fyodor Baeder of the 88th Battalion, 31st Riverine. He claimed to be the highest ranked surviving officer of the Riverine and issued an order for them to rally to an unknown location. They used Ouisivian slang or local dialect and we were unable to discern the location.’
‘You never mentioned that the Guardsmen turned renegade,’ Savaat cut in. Sgabello mewed in agreement.
Avanti sighed. ‘It was not worth mentioning. The Riverine only comprised a smaller section of the overall campaign force, roughly eight thousand in number. They were disobedient and a raucous lot, complete savages. Their superiors had disagreed with the conduct of the campaign and we dealt with them accordingly.’
