1_For_The_Emperor

by Sandy Mitchel

  numbered about a dozen squads themselves, so we had them pretty well outnumbered even so, and given the delicacy of the diplomatic situation, I didn't want to go in with any more troopers than we needed. Besides, I was counting on the artillery barrage to take most of them out, so the firepower we had seemed more than enough for mopping up with.

  And before you ask, yes, I suppose dropping shells on a part of the city we'd been sent to protect did seem a little paradoxical to us at the time, but it was all a question of expediency. To my way of thinking, anyone still in the target area was there by choice, and any civilians who hadn't fled were either traitors themselves or so stupid we were doing future generations a favour by removing them from the gene pool.

  I mounted the command Salamander Jurgen had procured and looked out over our expeditionary force, feeling a surge of pride in spite of my obvious trepidation. The infantry squads were mounted in Chimeras, the two platoon command ones standing out from the rest by virtue of the vox antennae that clustered their upper surfaces. Sulla's head and shoulders protruded from the top hatch of hers, a pair of earphones protecting her from the engine noise. Seeing me look in her direction, she raised the mic in her hand.

  Third Platoon ready,' she reported.

  'Fifth Platoon ready' Her opposite number, Lieutenant Faril, echoed her words. A dogged, somewhat

  unimaginative commander, he none-the-less had the respect and confidence of his troopers, largely due to a dry sense of humour and an earnest concern for their welfare, which meant he was unlikely to press too hard if they ran into stiff resistance. I'd selected him precisely because of this, knowing he'd wait for the Sentinels to back him up if things got sticky instead of throwing his troopers lives away taking stupid risks. Some casualties were inevitable, of course, but I wanted to keep them to a minimum. If the regiment's first clash of arms resulted in an easy victory, it would boost their confidence and consolidate morale, whereas a high body count could easily undo all the hard work we'd done getting them back into fighting trim.

  'All squadrons ready' That was Captain Shambas, head of the Sentinel troop; we had all three squadrons with us, which gave us a total of nine walkers. Considerable overkill, given the quality of the resistance we were expecting, but there's nothing like overwhelming fire superiority to give you a sense of self-confidence.

  'Confirm/ Broklaw's voice joined the others in my combead. He was in another Salamander, which, like mine, had been fitted out as a command unit. I was more used to the lighter, faster scout variant, which was always my vehicle of choice (I prefer to be able to outrun trouble if I have to), but under the circumstances, I wanted to be able to keep a close eye on things. Besides, the command version had a heavy flamer fitted, which might come in handy in

  the brutal close-quarter fighting I expected through the rubble of the Heights.

  Which reminded me…

  'Artillery units commence firing/ I said. A moment later, the ground beneath our treads started to tremble as Mostrue's Earthshakers began living up to their name. I swept my gaze around, tallying the assembled task force. A dozen Chimeras, nine Sentinels, and two Salamanders. I drew my chainsword and gestured towards the gate.

  'Move out!' I ordered. Jurgen gunned the engine, and we lurched into motion. Inured to his robust driving style by years of familiarity, I kept my balance with little difficulty. Broklaw's driver moved smoothly in behind us, and I could see his head and shoulders in the open rear compartment; he caught my eye and waved. Kasteen, I knew, would dearly have loved to take command herself, but had stepped down in favour of her subordinate. After all, he too deserved a chance to prove his mettle, and technically, the operation was too small to be overseen by someone of her rank anyway. I was pleased she'd given way without prompting, though, and I could tell Broklaw appreciated it. It was another example of the way the regiment was beginning to function as it was supposed to.

  Kasteen was there to see us off, though, along with everyone else who didn't have pressing duties to attend to, or who thought they might get away with skiving off for a few minutes. A cheer went up from our comrades which, for a moment, managed to

  make itself heard above the roar of engines, the din of the Sentinels, and the rolling thunderclaps of the Earthshakers.

  As we hit the streets, the city was in turmoil. We'd kept our plans secret, of course, so none of the natives had a clue what was going on; they scattered in front of us like frightened sump rats, and Jurgen gunned the engine as though it were capable of the speeds he usually drove at. Ahead of us, a plume of dust and smoke marked our destination.

  I flipped vox channels to the tactical net. The loyalist PDF units were being told to stand down and let us through, which came as a relief, although ill-disciplined rabble that they were, many were arguing or demanding to know what was going on.

  'Major.' I switched back. 'It's all yours for the moment. Try to save a couple for me, eh?'

  I'll do my best.' Broklaw waved as Jurgen peeled us away from the rest of the convoy, mowing down a couple of ornamental shrubs and a litter basket as we swung off the broad boulevard into a narrower cross street which would take us to the industrial area.

  The muffled crump of the shells detonating was audible now, the shriek and whine of their passage presaging each explosion, and the noise cleared the street for us far more effectively than any Arbites siren could have done. After a few moments, and several lurching turns any driver but Jurgen would probably have flipped us over attempting to execute, the buildings around us were unmistakably industrial in nature. Still that Emperor-forsaken

  xenoist-style architecture, admittedly, but sufficiently grubby for their purpose to be obvious.

  'Broklaw to command.' The major's voice was calm and competent. 'Cease barrage. We're in position.'

  I was glad to hear it. I hadn't even begun my make-work errand yet, and he was already on the verge of clearing the traitors out. Jurgen began to slow the Salamander, and, with a sense of deja mi, I could see a PDF officer stepping out in front of us, his hand raised. Manufactoria rose all around us, tall enough to shadow the streets, but apart from the man in uniform, there was no sign of life. That struck me as strange, as the work shifts should still have been in full swing.

  'Commissar/ Jurgen said, his voice uncertain. 'Can you hear firing?'

  As the engine idled down, I realised he was right. For a moment, I found myself wondering at the acoustics, assuming that what I was hearing must be echoes of the firefight up in the Heights, which a series of crisp exchanges in my combead told me had already broken out. Then I realised it was coming from somewhere ahead of us, inside the line of the PDF cordon marked on the mapslate in front of me.

  What's going on?' I asked, glaring down at the officer. He looked a little panicky.

  'I'm not sure, sir. We had orders to hold, but there's dozens of them. Have you brought reinforcements?'

  'I'm afraid we're it/ I said, playing for time. "Who are you holding against?'

  'I don't know. We were pulled out of barracks last night, and told to cordon off the area/ He didn't

  seem any older than the officer I'd shot, I noticed with a sudden flare of apprehension, and the rapid tumble of his words told me he was on the verge of panic. Whatever I'd blundered into was heading for the sump, that much was obvious, and I cursed my luck; but it was too late to back out now. 'We were just told to secure the area until the inquisitor's party got back…'

  Merciful Emperor, this was just getting better and better. Clearly, whatever stones Orelius had been turning over had revealed more than the shadowy conspirators he was chasing were happy with, and they were determined to make sure no one lived to pass on their secrets.

  'Did he say what he was after down here?' I asked, and the officer shook his head.

  'I didn't speak to any of them. Only the captain did, and he's dead now…' His voice began to rise, hysteria bubbling below the surface. I jumped down to stand beside him, feeling the rockcrete jar beneath my boot-
heels, and tried to project all the reassurance and authority I could.

  Then I take it you're the officer in charge, lieutenant/ That got through to him. He nodded, a short, myoclonic twitch. 'So report. Where did they go? When? How many? What can you tell me?' His jaw worked for a moment, as though he were trying to force it to function. Gunfire and screams continued to echo between the buildings.

  There's a warehouse. Back there.' He pointed to one of the structures. A las-bolt cracked from one of

  the upper windows, passing between our heads, and struck the side of the Salamander. I ducked, pulling him down to safety, while Jurgen rotated the sturdy little vehicle on its tracks to bring the hull-mounted heavy bolter in line. It roared in response, gouging away part of the wall, and reducing the sniper to an unpleasant stain.

  Thank you, Jurgen/ I returned my attention to the young officer. 'And the inquisitor went in there?'

  They all did. Just before dawn. We were told to let no one in or out until they came back/ That would have been about ten-and-a-half hours ago, by my reckoning, and something told me Orelius wouldn't be returning any time soon.

  'How many of them were there?' I asked. He thought for a moment.

  'I saw six/ he said at last. 'Four men and two women. One of them seemed a bit peculiar/ That would be Rakel the psyker, I assumed.

  'What about the hostiles?' I prompted him. He shook his head.

  They're everywhere, dozens of them…' His head twitched nervously from side to side as he tried to keep the entire street in view.

  'Where? Inside the warehouse?'

  'Mostly/ He stood up, about to flee, and another las-bolt caught him in the shoulder. He fell back, shrieking like a child.

  'You'll be fine/ I told him after a cursory glance at the injury. One thing you can say for being shot by a las-bolt is that they cauterise the wound they cause,

  so at least you won't bleed to death from a glancing hit; a fact that has saved my own miserable life on a couple of occasions. I looked back down the street, trying to spot where the fire had come from, and caught sight of some movement behind a pile of shipping crates. I pointed. 'Ours or theirs?'

  'I don't know! Emperor's blood, it hurts-'

  'It'll hurt a damn sight more in a moment if you don't stop frakking me around!' I shouted suddenly. 'Your men are dying out there! If you can't start behaving like an officer and help me save them, I'll finish you off myself!' That was the last thing I was going to do, of course, the way he was yelling he'd draw the enemy fire off me like a champion when we moved, but it did the trick. I could see the coin drop behind his eyes as he suddenly remembered what had happened to the last PDF unit to get in the way of a commissar.

  'They're all civilians/ he gasped out after a moment. 'Anyone in a uniform is one of ours.'

  Thank you.' I pulled him into the shadow of a dumpster. 'Keep your head down and you'll be fine.' I scrambled back aboard the Salamander, grateful for the armour plate surrounding me.

  'Broklaw to Cain.' The major's voice rang in my combead. 'Are you all right? We're getting some odd feedback off your frequency.'

  'So far.' I checked the flamer, finding it fully charged and ready to go. Emperor bless Jurgen and his streak of thoroughness, I thought. 'It seems our PDF boys weren't holding back after all.'

  'Resistance is light here…' His voice was drowned out for a moment by the crack of ionising air I associated with one of the Sentinel multi-lasers. 'But we'll be a while yet/

  'Don't hurry on my account/ I said. The renegades could only have small arms, judging by the sounds I heard, and the Salamander's armour was thick enough to afford complete protection. I switched frequencies, searching for the PDF squad's internal tactical net, but found only static; I should have known better, of course,1 but old habits are hard to break.

  A few more las-bolts from behind the crates confirmed the identities of the rebels lurking there, making a mess of our paintwork in the process, so I triggered the flamer, sending a gout of burning prome-thium down the alley. The results were impressive. The crates bursting into flame, and the rebels behind them got caught in the backwash. They burst into the open, their clothes and hair on fire, shrieking like the damned, and Jurgen cut them down with the bolter. Their bodies exploded under the impact, spraying the walls of the building with burning debris, and I was incongruously reminded of fireworks.

  1 Unlike the Imperial Guard units Cain was used to fighting with, most Planetary Defence Force troopers on Gravalax weren't equipped with personal combeads. This lack of contact between individuals outside line of sight of one another partially accounts for the relative lack of co-ordination within a squad, which most Guard veterans disparagingly attributed to poor levels of training and discipline. Of course, most PDF units were inferior to them in this regard, in any case.

  'Let's finish this/ I said, and my aide gunned the engine, rolling us forward over the pool of burning promethium which now carpeted the alleyway. As I glanced behind us, the PDF officer was gazing at the devastation we'd wrought, his eyes wide with shock.

  The alley opened out into a cross street, the wall of the warehouse forming one side of it, stretching away in front of us in both directions. The distinctive crack of lasgun fire continued to echo through the roads around it, and as our field of vision widened, I could see the sparks of muzzle flashes inside the building, and the puff of vaporising rockcrete where other bolts were impacting around the upper windows. Shadowy figures were visible inside, snapping off shots before ducking back, and I could make out little of them; just that, as the wounded lieutenant had said, they were all in civilian clothes. They were a mixed bunch, too. I caught a glimpse of velvet and the crest of one of the merchants' guilds, and someone who looked like a pastry cook, before I swept the flamer over the whole facade. The results were spectacular; the firing stopped at once, the wood of the window frames igniting with a roar, and a few shortlived screams cut the air.

  'That ought to keep their heads down/ Jurgen said with satisfaction, sending a burst of bolts after the promethium to make sure of the fact. Thick black smoke continued to pour from the building, and a ragged cheer mingled with the roar of the flames.

  I turned to see a wary group of PDF troopers emerging from the buildings opposite the warehouse, or

  whatever cover they'd been able to find among the parked trucks and other detritus of the street. A few ragged shots continued to echo between the buildings, indicating that not all the traitors had been incinerated, but their sporadic nature spoke of a panic-stricken retreat which was running into the troopers on the other side of the cordon. The plume of thick black smoke must have been visible from where they were by now, and they were evidently taking heart from the sight. I jumped down from the Salamander.

  'Sergeant Crassus, 49th Gravalaxian PDF/ A tall, grey-haired man snapped a salute, but kept his eyes on the street; the first PDF trooper I'd seen since I arrived on planet who actually seemed to know what he was doing. I returned it smartly.

  'Commissar Cain, attached to the 597th Valhallan/ Once again, I had the quiet satisfaction of noting that my name had been recognised, the low murmur of voices among the troopers flattering my ego with its awestruck tone.

  'We're grateful for your assistance/ Crassus said. 'Did the inquisitor send for you?' I shook my head.

  'Just poking my nose in/ I admitted. 'I noticed your little sideshow on the tactical display and wondered what was going on/ Crassus shrugged.

  'You'd have to ask one of the officers/

  'I did/ I pointed back up the alleyway, where the promethium pool had burned itself out, leaving a scorched patch of blackened rockcrete. 'Back there. He needs a medic, by the way/

  'Ah.' Crassus didn't seem surprised. 'I thought he'd done a runner, to be honest.' My lack of a reply seemed to confirm something for him, but after a moment, he detailed one of the troopers to take a medkit and see to the lieutenant.

  You seem to be standing up to combat better than most of the PDF/ I said.


  Crassus shrugged. 'I'm a fast learner. Besides, I'm used to looking after myself/ Taking in his physique and his air of watchfulness, I didn't doubt it. 'I was in the Arbites before I joined up/

  That seems like an odd career move/1 said. His jaw tightened for a moment.

  'Office politics/ he said curtly. I nodded sympathetically.

  'It's the same in the Commissariat/ I told him.1 But before we could exchange any more words, a loud crack from behind us presaged the collapse of one of the upper stories of the burning warehouse. 'Better pull your men back/ I told him. That's going to go any minute/

  'I think you're right/ He summoned the squad vox operator, relayed the instruction, and led his men up the alley at a rapid trot. I turned to look at the

  1 This is another prime example of Cain's manipulative streak, in which he invites confidence by pretending to have shared the experiences of others. Though there are, of course, divisions within the Commissariat over matters of doctrine and procedure, they can hardly be described as anything so trivial as 'office politics/ They are also, let us note, considerably less fratricidal than similar disagreements among fellow inquisitors.

  warehouse again. It was well ablaze by now, and pieces of debris were starting to drop from the roof and outer walls. I scrambled back aboard the Salamander while Jurgen gunned the engine, and began to reverse us to safety.

  Abruptly, I became aware of the sound of small arms fire, echoing from inside the building, audible even over the pop and crackle of the flames.

  'Crassus/ I voxed, chafing at the necessity of relaying messages through his squad vox operator. Are any of your men inside the building?' He had just begun to reply when the link went dead, overridden by a message on a higher priority command channel. I'd done the same thing enough times to recognise what was happening, but it had been a long time since I'd been the one cut out. Still, I supposed it showed Orelius was still alive, at any rate, and I'd heard enough of the reply to be reassured that I hadn't accidentally killed any more loyal subjects of the Emperor. That was a relief, as I was still slogging through the paperwork on the last lot of collateral damage I'd inflicted on the PDF.