by Phil Kelly
O’Shoh could not answer. His old friend Ob’lotai had been denied his funeral rites, his body and spirit treated as little more than fodder for an earth caste experiment. It was abhorrent.
El’Vesa took O’Shoh’s silence as awe. ‘Yes, our honoured friend Ob’lotai is alive and well, after a fashion. I have replaced the missing sections of his personality transfer with targeting programs, and stored his data in a state-of-the-art mnemonic drone. Come here, Helper Ob’lotai!’
A flat black disc hovered into the holographic field, red lights glimmering along its edge.
‘Bow to your old commander, Helper Ob’lotai,’ said El’Vesa fondly. The drone duly lowered its front edge in a gesture of obeisance.
O’Shoh felt fire kindle in his veins – a sick, unhealthy flame. To turn the old veteran into one of the drones he despised was beyond dishonourable; it was a grotesque abuse of the veteran’s warrior spirit.
Hands shaking, the commander drew his bloodstained bonding knife from its scabbard and pointed it, tip first, at the scientist’s face.
‘Ob’lotai hated drones,’ said O’Shoh softly. ‘You must undo this.’
‘Ah, yes, well, the program’s housing is of course–’
‘Ob’lotai hated drones, you soulless fool!’ shouted O’Shoh.
El’Vesa’s eyes widened, like those of a prey animal. ‘A sudden dust storm is affecting our communion,’ he blurted. ‘I must leave immediately.’
The hologram dwindled to a mote of light, leaving O’Shoh alone on the bridge. He sank to his knees, the bonding knife falling from his hand.
‘You will suffer for this, Fio’el Vesa,’ he snarled.
His blood, hot with rage, slowly cooled as the wider situation settled in his mind. In truth, there was little he could do. There was no way to bring what he had learned to the ethereals without exposing his own conduct. In a storm-haunted desert, with the castes already divided, he could see no way to defeat a foe as mighty as the ork invaders.
The Broken Sword cut both ways.
Many tau’cyr earlier
Mount Kan’ji, Dal’yth
Ghosts. Kauyon-Shas was obsessed with them. When surrounded by the empty darkness of Kan’ji’s peaks, it was easy to give the mind to such thoughts.
Mont’ka-Shoh gazed up through the crack in the cave roof, giving names to the stars. His limbs ached, but the furs were agreeable, and the company even more so.
‘I used to dream of them, you know,’ said Kauyon-Shas, her voice a whisper in the dark. She too was looking up at the stars, her focus giving the impression she was confiding to the heavens as much as to him. ‘Drinkers of blood, I used to call them – evil ghosts so angry at the injustice of their own deaths they sought only to inflict pain. They came after me, and I could not shake them.’
‘Do you still dream of them?’
She did not answer.
That day, the master had tasked his three young students with hunting each other. Monat-Kais was still out there somewhere, too distant to invite pursuit. Whilst the sun was high, Mont’ka-Shoh had instead watched Kauyon-Shas making her way to one of Kan’ji’s sheerest slopes before disappearing from sight.
After taking the measure of the skies, Shoh had followed her. He spent half the day setting piles of rock above each nook and cranny, taking care to place bowl-like stones at the top of each cairn. He then made the trek down to the river and scaled the opposite peak, settling hidden behind the lip of a small ridge. There he had waited, as still as stone. By early evening, his limbs had grown numb and cold. Nonetheless, the master had taught them how important it was to set the environment against the enemy. If you could play on your foe’s fears in the process, so much the better.
Finally, the rain came. A few scattered droplets at first, but swiftly growing into a downpour. Across the crevasse, Shoh had seen movement. The bowl-shaped rocks were slowly gathering enough rain to tip over, collapsing the loose piles beneath. Each rockfall caused a small avalanche that often sent startled animals dashing away in alarm.
The third pile of rocks to fall startled a distant smudge from a cluster of boulders. Kauyon-Shas bolted from cover, her camouflage almost impeccable as she hurled a handful of rocks at some unseen assailant. Mont’ka-Shoh had clapped his hands sharply and pointed an imaginary rifle across the crevasse.
He smiled at the memory of the obscene gesture she had made in return. His teasing after their rendezvous was met with sullen silence, but after they had shared a roasted cliff fowl together, she began to talk more freely.
‘The mountain has its own spirits,’ said Kauyon-Shas into the night. ‘It is a place where destinies are born.’
‘That much is true, at least,’ said Shoh. ‘Master Puretide fashions us new fates as easily as he gives us new names.’
‘But he is not here tonight,’ she said. She turned to him, treating him to a rare half-smile. ‘And I have my own destiny in mind.’
‘Monat-Kais will never let us forget it if he catches us. We should sleep.’
‘Then let us do so in comfort.’
Mont’ka-Shoh sighed, closed his eyes, and rolled into her warmth.
9-0
The Rust Wastes, Southern Hemisphere, Arkunasha
Destined Blade came low out of the clouds, the squat-bodied Orca settling onto the flat carrier decks upon the Constellation of Hopes’s upper disc. The ident code of Commander Sha’vastos flashed up on O’Shoh’s communication suite, requesting permission to board. O’Shoh bid him come straight to the bridge, where he and Brightsword were in council.
‘Greetings, Shas’o Vash’ya Astos,’ said O’Shoh, as the tall Arkunashan officer walked in, his bodyguards flanking him.
‘And greetings to you, Shas’o Vior’la Shoh Kais Mont’yr,’ replied Sha’vastos. Every syllable held disappointment, and the set of his shoulders was even stiffer than normal. ‘Commander Brightsword, greetings.’
The cold formality did not bode well. Commander Sha’vastos had proven to be conservative and traditional, and since landing upon Arkunasha, O’Shoh had confirmed himself to be anything but. He composed himself as best as he could, burying his fury at El’Vesa’s presumption under the weight of duty. It was important that Sha’vastos left the command disc as an ally; to lose another at this stage would be disastrous.
‘Please release your saz’nami,’ said O’Shoh.
Sha’vastos held his gaze before making the gesture of dismissal. His bodyguards saluted sharply and left as one.
‘You wanted to speak to me, I believe,’ said Sha’vastos. ‘So here I am.’
‘I thank you for attending me in person,’ said O’Shoh. ‘Apparently many of our number take a dim view of the current situation.’
‘That is certainly the case with many senior caste members,’ replied Sha’vastos. ‘Tutor Sha’kan’thas in particular is outraged that you mounted an unauthorised foray without due notice, in Monat pattern and in irregular colours. He has also called for censure against Commander Brightsword for pursuing you.’
‘Sha’kan’thas is a short-sighted fool,’ hissed O’Shoh. ‘I was outwitting his training simulations when I was less than eight cycles old. And what colours I wear upon my battlesuit are my concern.’
Sha’vastos’s mouth gaped, his shock almost palpable.
‘Be aware the seeds of our actions have borne useful fruit, Commander Sha’vastos,’ Brightsword interjected smoothly. ‘I believe Commander Shoh has uncovered many of this world’s secrets.’
‘I see,’ said Sha’vastos, his expression still caught between shock and curiosity.
‘The rust desert is littered with archaeological detritus,’ said O’Shoh. ‘It seems this world was once host to an advanced civilisation. Given the depth of the rust strata, that planetary population must have numbered in the tens of billions.’
‘This makes a great deal of
sense, of course,’ said Brightsword, ‘but what does it matter? Whoever they were, those people are long gone. This world belongs to the tau alone.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said O’Shoh.
‘Commander?’ said Sha’vastos. ‘You doubt our right to rule this world?’
‘No, I do not,’ said O’Shoh. ‘I purely hypothesise that the orks have invaded this planet before. The event that erased them from history was apocalyptic, and I believe it was artificially induced by the former people of Arkunasha. Its echoes can be felt even now, in the storms. Whilst we are fighting the planet as well as the invaders, we cannot win.’
‘But how is this useful to us?’
‘He theorises that the rust devils are sentient,’ said Brightsword, cutting to the heart of it, ‘and attracted by bloodshed.’
‘That is a massive oversimplification,’ said O’Shoh hurriedly. ‘I believe the rust storms are attracted to certain electromagnetic patterns. It is hardly the same thing. We must set the environment against the foe, and set the fear the storms inspire against them and not us. There is something unnatural about these storms. It may sound ridiculous, but there is extensive evidence that those lost to them are drained entirely of blood.’
‘That much I know,’ said Sha’vastos. ‘My recon cadres have found similar evidence across the planet.’
‘What? You’re telling me you knew about this? That these findings were cached?’
‘Of course. They make for disturbing reading. The locations of these cadavers and those of recent rust storm activity correlate precisely. So far, there have been eighteen cases where a rust storm has risen in the vicinity of an existing conflict. The corpses left behind are always exsanguinated.’
‘I was not told about this phenomenon,’ said O’Shoh. ‘There was nothing of the sort mentioned in my brief.’
‘Perhaps the ethereals considered it a distracting anomaly.’
‘Perhaps.’
An awkward moment of silence passed.
‘It has occurred to me…’ began Sha’vastos, glancing nervously around the room.
‘Go on,’ said O’Shoh.
‘It is possible the ethereals are deliberately suppressing the truth, and I think I can see why. If there are civilisations in this galaxy capable of reducing entire worlds to dust, that fact alone would be a shocking blow to tau morale. The notion that such an event was in response to an ork infestation would only compound the issue.’
‘The war would be as good as lost.’
‘I believe so. Even so, by keeping such truths even from senior caste members, the ethereals are hindering our chances of victory.’
O’Shoh’s head began to throb. It was hard indeed to hear the judgement of the ethereals questioned, especially by his own caste.
‘They have judged this the most appropriate course for the Tau’va,’ he said. ‘Let that be the end of it. I will not speak of this knowledge to any save yourselves, yet we must act on these findings to our advantage. We must understand this world if we are to save it.’
‘To reach the heavens,’ quoted Sha’vastos, ‘a warrior must look to the earth.’
‘Just so,’ said O’Shoh. ‘We must harness these storms and use them against the orks wherever we strike. Given the durability of the bio-domes, we can scatter or slay the foe whilst theoretically leaving those stranded inside completely intact.’
‘It is a highly unconventional plan,’ said Sha’vastos, ‘and one that requires bait.’
‘I intend to supply it,’ replied O’Shoh. ‘When the time comes, will you both join me?’
‘If you can prove these storms can be predicted, and even used as a weapon,’ said Sha’vastos, ‘then I will follow your lead in a microdec.’
‘It certainly sounds feasible,’ said Brightsword, ‘and extremely dangerous. I’ll be there.’
‘We cannot allow the populace to know of this strategy,’ said O’Shoh.
‘Agreed,’ said Brightsword and Sha’vastos in unison.
The three made the sign of the Tau’va, as binding an oath as any tau needed.
‘There is another matter I wish to discuss,’ said O’Shoh, ‘that of ork leadership.’
‘Their command structure is based on physical ability alone,’ said Sha’vastos.
‘A common perception,’ replied O’Shoh, ‘though I believe there is more to it. When Brightsword and I engaged an ork convoy, the destruction of their vehicles led to a great many being left behind in the desert.’
‘We know they are a selfish race,’ said Sha’vastos.
‘They can afford such losses. They thrive on war. To fight them on equal terms is to lose as soon as the first shot is fired. However, without their vehicles, and without their equivalent of an earth caste to rebuild them, the orks are left to roam the dunes at the mercy of the rust storms. They will become divided to the point of vulnerability.’
Sha’vastos nodded slowly. ‘Do you propose a cull of their mechanic caste?’
‘More than that,’ said O’Shoh. ‘I propose we cut down the mechanic and medic castes alike – steal their mobility, and rob them of their capacity to bring their leaders back into the fight. We will also refine our long-range assassination of their largest members.’
‘Widen the kill parameters?’ asked Brightsword.
‘Essentially, yes. We disseminate new targeting programs and take out everything substantially larger than the mean average at range. Without obvious contenders to command them, the orks will be easily goaded into leadership challenges. Their warrior castes will then fight amongst themselves, and the violence will escalate to such a degree it summons the rust storms.’
Brightsword nodded, his eyes alight.
‘We disappear before the tempest hits, and let Arkunasha do the rest.’
Smiling, O’Shoh made the sign of the-avalanche-that-kills.
‘A cogent plan,’ said Sha’vastos, nodding approvingly. ‘Though how will you recognise their specialist castes? They do not differ in size from common orks.’
‘They wear sigils to denote their status,’ said O’Shoh.
He flicked a prepared display onto the curving data wall at the back of the bridge. It showed stills of a dozen different ork glyphs, each a crude rendition of an abstract concept.
‘I registered these on my research mission. This symbol denotes rank,’ said O’Shoh, highlighting a stylised lower jaw with jutting tusks. ‘And this, presumably intended to depict a tool, denotes the earth caste equivalent. The symbol to the right of it is a stylised syringe. It is indicative of their medical staff.’
‘I had not credited the ork race with a written language,’ said Sha’vastos.
‘They have one,’ said O’Shoh, nodding. ‘It is similar to the pict-tongue the kroot carve into the trees of Pech. The numerals the orks use are based on a tally system, albeit one that appears to have no number higher than five.’
Brightsword gave a barking laugh of contempt.
‘Our cadres will snipe those enemy vehicles that bear such insignia, then,’ said Sha’vastos, ‘and their comrades, in their haste to find their persecutors, will leave their masters in the dust. Only then do our second elements deliver the Mont’ka, leaving the hordes leaderless and without medical aid.’
O’Shoh nodded, his expression cold. ‘Wrestle not the giant,’ he quoted, ‘but strike at his head and heart.’
‘This plan has elements of the genius I hoped you would display upon arrival,’ said Sha’vastos. His face was alight with hope, all traces of recrimination long gone. ‘Still, one question remains – why do the rust storms drain blood and nothing else?’
O’Shoh looked out the viewscreen at the infinite desert, his forehead furrowed. He turned and met Sha’vastos’s eyes, making the open-handed gesture of the unknown void.
10-0
The Rust Wastes, Northe
rn Hemisphere, Arkunasha
‘Drokk it!’ shouted Garguk as a stikkbomb rebounded from the back of his head. He spun around and kicked it hard. The cudgel-like grenade exploded in Frukk’s face, a shower of bone and blood covering the gathered orkoid throng.
‘I’m da boss here,’ growled Garguk. ‘Rozgob got our ride shot up, so we gotta do this my way. Any more lip an’ you’ll end up like Frukk there – wivout a face to call yer own.’
‘Sez who?’ growled Urgat, twirling the stikkbomb pin still dangling on his finger. ‘I reckon I could take yer wiv one leg tied behind me back.’
Urgat leered nastily. Then his head exploded in a puff of red mist. The whip-crack sound of a distant shot echoed across the red wastes as the ork’s decapitated corpse toppled into the rust.
‘Ha!’ said Garguk. ‘Havin’ second thoughts, Urgat?’
‘Boss,’ said a runt hiding behind Garguk’s leg, ‘I reckon the shootin’ came from over there.’ The snot-nosed creature pointed a spindly limb at the horizon. Garguk couldn’t see anything more than a vague shimmer in the gloom.
‘Garguk ain’t boss,’ shouted Bad Hurk. He shook his snazzgun menacingly. ‘Spitta here sez I’m da boss, and that’s that.’
‘That fing’s a piece a junk,’ said Oggo the Mek.
‘Wot did you say?’ roared Hurk, spittle flying from his mouth. He swung the snazzgun round, levelling all five muzzles at Oggo’s metal jaw.
The mek didn’t so much as flinch. ‘I could fix it up. Give ya more dakka wiv a simple tweak of the gubbinz inside. Ten teef, to a flash git like you.’ The mek yanked out a large spanner and held it up, eyebrows raised in silent question.
A moment later his neck flew apart in an explosion of blood. His steel-plated skull spun away, rebounding from Garguk’s boot.
‘Oi!’ Garguk shouted at the horizon. ‘Leave it out, ya grot-fondlin’ lumpa squig dung!’
