Shadowbreaker - Steve Parker

by Warhammer 40K

  Arnaz was about to answer in the negative when the shadow hissed, ‘We are compromised!’

  His first reaction was immediate and automatic. He slammed the case shut. The shadow vanished in an instant.

  There was a deafening boom. Parts of the ceiling to his left and right exploded inwards. Had he been sitting just three metres in either direction, he would have been killed instantly. As it was, the explosions stunned and dizzied him, making him reel in his chair.

  That tiny moment, that instant of concussion was his undoing.

  Shaking it off, he reached desperately for the button underneath the table that would bring the whole building down around him. Too late. Something flashed down in an arc.

  He felt like he was watching in slow motion as the t’au combat blade sliced clean through his right arm. His finger had almost been on the button.

  His arm fell to the floor.

  He sat gaping at it, stunned.

  The blade belonged to a t’au fire caste soldier on his right. There were four of them, all in assault armour – a blue-skin special operations squad. They had dropped into the room from the floor above.

  As Arnaz looked in disbelief and horror at the blood fountaining from his cleaved elbow, one of the blue-skins on his left grabbed his throat with a gloved, four-fingered hand and threw him to the ground. He hit hard, his head smacking on the rockcrete floor. But he was well beyond that level of pain. His body was already fighting to stem the agony of his severed arm, releasing endorphins into his system so that he could endure.

  Through watering eyes, he looked up into four snarling alien faces.

  One of them – the unit leader, judging by his markings – lowered his weapon, pressed a button on his left vambrace and jabbered into a pickup embedded at the wrist. He spoke in the T’au dialect common to Tychonis, and Arnaz understood every word, even as his consciousness was slipping from him.

  ‘We took the gue’la spy alive,’ said the t’au soldier. ‘No casualties. He was not able to activate the demolition charges.’

  The t’au paused as it listened to a response through a device over its left ear.

  ‘No, commander. He was able to seal the device.’

  Again the assault team leader paused and listened.

  ‘Understood, Shas’el. It will be as you say.’ He clicked his comms unit off and turned to the other three members of the team. ‘You two, get him to the transport. You, take that black case. An earth caste search team is coming to examine the rest of the safe house, but our work here is done.’

  ‘Central Detention, Shas’vre?’ asked one of the soldiers.

  Arnaz was slipping fast, tumbling into the darkness of unconsciousness, but the last words he heard still managed to chill him.

  ‘Stem the flow from that wound. This one goes south to Na’a’Vashak. He will be interrogated there. And if he refuses to talk, he will watch his kin suffer right before his eyes.’

  Arnaz’s Ordo conditioning was deep. His kin did indeed suffer, and it tore his soul apart to see it and to hear the screams, but he did not give the t’au a single word of answer. He had always known it might come to this. Still, it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, to stay silent as those that loved him screamed his name, pleading for him to speak and end the nightmare. When their screams ended, and their dead bodies offered no more leverage to the t’au, his frustrated blue-skin interrogators turned to inflicting pain more directly on him. This was a relief by comparison. He knew they could not break him. His own suffering was infinitely easier to take than that of his family.

  The t’au had no choice but to escalate the pain.

  Eventually, it became too much.

  As Arnaz began to slip away, blood bubbling from his lips, he grinned at them and finally broke his silence.

  ‘Enjoy your last days of dominion here, you xenos filth. Judgement is coming.’

  His eyes rolled back as he took a last gurgling breath.

  ‘Judgement,’ he muttered, and then was gone.

  Seventeen

  Day dawned bright over the vast irrigated fields of the mid-northern latitudes. These were some of the most fertile agri zones on the planet. Drones were already at work, drifting between the towering rows of stalks, spraying for pests and clipping away dead growth. Soon, flesh-and-blood workers – t’au and human both – would come to harvest the crops. Drones could have been coded and fitted to do it all, but people need a purpose in life. The Greater Good protected people from themselves, from indolence, from idleness, as much as it did from any external threat. Busy hands and minds were less prone to be turned from the T’au’va. So human and t’au alike still laboured in fields as men had done for many millennia, and both went home at the end of the day knowing the satisfaction of a job well done, ready for rest and comforts well earned.

  The Tychonite sun was a warm golden orb, gently bringing its heat as it crested the flatlands far to the east. By midday, however, once it was high overhead, it would beat down with little mercy. Workers would break for the hottest midday hours. Tychonis had cast off the mantle of desert planet, but that mantle only stayed cast off by virtue of a constant struggle. The t’au’s advanced environmental control systems waged a slow war against the original nature of the world and its proximity to its star.

  It was a daily battle the t’au were long used to winning. Tychonis was not the first world rendered more liveable by the machines of the earth caste. Terraforming on this scale was a process they had refined over centuries.

  To the far north, the fields ended and the marshes and swamps began. On the fringes were the rice fields, worked much in the same way as the rest of the agri zones. But beyond them, the terrain was unworkable, unliveable, the southern borders of the Drowned Lands. The sky that hung there was markedly different, thick with black clouds, their loads heavy, liable to break over the treetops and unleash their torrents at any time. The abundant waters were channelled south along a precise system of t’au-crafted canals and aqueducts, bringing life to the rest of the hemisphere. A similar system existed in the south. The gargantuan t’au installations at the polar caps were constantly freeing up moisture and releasing it into the atmosphere. Other monolithic machines in rings all around the upper latitudes would then generate appropriate wind currents that would carry the moisture where it was needed. To the t’au, weather was a system just like any other. What could be measured could be controlled. And what could be controlled could be utilised. So it was with all things in the eyes of the t’au.

  The drones worked on, mindlessly running subroutines that assessed the growth and ripeness of the crops. The first hovering labour transports from the nearby towns and cities would be arriving within the hour.

  From the west, the peaceful morning was broken by a roar.

  Momentarily, the drones turned optical lenses and audio pickups in that direction. What they registered was a ship entering the atmosphere, its super-heated hull cutting a bright and fiery trail across the sky. This was no t’au ship. It had none of the sleek, graceful, almost shark-like lines. Instead, this was a brutish thing, blocky, angular, the work of human hands.

  When the ship hit an altitude of ten thousand metres, it deployed air brakes and reverse thrusters to help it bleed off excess speed. It dropped to five thousand metres. Then it dropped to two thousand.

  As the drones in the fields below returned to their work, they sent data packets through the airwaves registering what they had witnessed. It all went back to the central nodes of the vast planetary data processing networks, one of which existed in each capital, the Western and the Eastern. Air caste members working in Aerospace Control would pick up the data, process it and make sure it matched approved flight plans and identification codes. Cargo manifests would appear on a screen somewhere. As the craft neared its designated spaceport, it would be tracked by fire caste defence installations.

 
On the manifest for this particular craft, there would be nothing unusual. Twelve thousand metric tons of seed for crops edible to humans but not to t’au. Eight thousand metric tons of cheap, synthetic, food-safe proteins to be used as nutritional additives. Five thousand tons of rare metals for use in adapted t’au technologies that would be issued to human security personnel. Another five thousand tons of miscellaneous materials for use in construction. There were even human cultural items on board, things the t’au themselves could not replicate or supply, such as works of literature, art, luxury items, all brought here from the Imperium.

  The people must be kept content, after all. True integration was delicate – it did not mean total conversion. Human culture was respected here. Even the Imperial creed – those parts of it that were not zealously anti-alien – was tolerated for the Greater Good. No Ministorum church had been desecrated or destroyed. Of course, that decision also served as part of a control strategy. Those who gave worship in the house of the God-Emperor could easily be marked and watched. Convenient for t’au intelligence services, though the smartest and most dangerous of the faithful never fell into that trap.

  This particular lander, however, was carrying none of these things, despite what the official manifest said. Its cargo holds held no grain, no artefacts, no raw materials.

  Instead, it held three Stormraven assault craft fitted with stealth plating and jamming pods, and as many hardened fighters and as much equipment as those craft could carry.

  The sharp black blade of the Holy Inquisition had come to Tychonis.

  Fear has a smell. Most men can’t smell it – their olfactory nerves are too few, too numb – but Space Marines can. With gene-boosted senses, they could hardly miss it. Karras smelled it now, slight but definitely present. A little acrid. A little sour, but not offensive. Archangel looked as steady as a rock. Just another drop. But she couldn’t mask it completely. It was there, just the barest hint of it. It emanated from her people, too, though they, likewise, looked utterly untroubled. They knew what they were going into. A small force inserting straight into enemy-held territory like this – they had done it many times.

  But they had lost people, brothers and sisters they had known well, tough soldiers all. And there would be deaths again. Losses. It was inevitable. Trite as it was, the old adage held – no plan survives contact with the enemy.

  Special operations doctrine was built on the ability to adapt, to reformulate tactics on the fly. Much would depend on how well Archangel did that.

  So a little fear was understandable… in humans. The closest the Space Marines could come was apprehension. More often, they felt only eagerness and impatience. They hungered for conflict. Too long without it, and many of them became dangerous to be around.

  Karras didn’t judge the men and women of Arcturus for a little fear. He knew it gave most operators an edge. Not an edge that he and his post-human battle-brothers needed, but an edge nonetheless. Better for mundanes to experience fear and master it than to experience none at all.

  It was Archangel who held his attention the most. In front of her people, she was a rock, her poise perfect, as if she had all the answers. A born leader.

  Her scars, her honour markings, her physique, he thought. Inquisition or not, she probably understands us better than Sigma does.

  Everything about her aura supported the image of strength she presented. She was a trained and tested killer – tenacious, self-controlled, highly motivated. Honour and a deeper respect from the other kill-team members were things she would have to work hard to earn, but he believed she would. He had already decided he liked her. She was direct. A straight-talker. Unclouded.

  And there was nothing to be gained by clashing heads with her. She was operational commander. If she was as good as her records attested, he wouldn’t need to step in.

  The ship jerked hard, dropping speed.

  Air brakes, thought Karras. Not long now. We need to be ready.

  The drop would be dangerous. All drops were dangerous, but this one had challenges all of its own. Shadowbreaker might end right here if the deployment were to be interrupted or otherwise botched. It had to be fast and it had to be smooth. So far, it wasn’t either – there had been long periods when the approach codes they were using to enter t’au space were being double-checked, periods when orbital defence guns might have blown them to space debris. But they had got through. Now, another key moment was upon them.

  Metal groaned and clanged as the ship shouldered its way bullishly through the protesting air. The hull was still hot. On the outer surface, it was a dull, angry red.

  ‘Clearing ionosphere in three, two, one…’ announced the captain over the ship’s comms. The straining and shuddering of the outer hull eased. The tortured whines turned to the low growl of buffeting winds. ‘Firing forward nozzles. All personnel, brace for further deceleration.’

  Karras felt his stomach lurch as the ship dropped another chunk of speed.

  ‘Welcome to Tychonis,’ said Captain Burgess. ‘Banking north-east. Switching to an unauthorised course now. We won’t have long before they send out interceptors. Let’s get this done quick and clean. This is where the games really start.’

  ‘Keep the channel open,’ Archangel voxed back to him. ‘I want to hear any comms chatter when they challenge you over the new flight path.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  It wouldn’t be long. The t’au had been monitoring them throughout their approach. With The Pride of Kalvicca veering suddenly away from the approved vector, alarms would already be going off. Razorshark fighter aircraft would be taxiing down runways or breaking off from their original patrol routes on their way to intercept. Perhaps some were already in the airspace nearby. If so, the time available for deployment would be cut uncomfortably short.

  And so it was.

  The captain soon reported three fast-moving contacts on his auspex screens. A blue-skin fighter wing was barely eight minutes out.

  ‘We have to ditch now,’ Karras told Archangel. ‘Tell him to drop us. It doesn’t matter about the exact coordinates. We drop now or we’re dead. We have to get the camo-sheets and jamming pods up before those ships make a pass.’

  ‘Did you hear that, captain?’ Archangel asked over the vox. ‘We need to do this now.’

  ‘That’s rough country down there, ma’am. Dense. I’m scanning for good ground, but we’re out over the swamp and rainforest now. I can’t guarantee a safe drop.’

  ‘A safe drop was never on the cards. We know the risks. But we can’t be onboard when those interceptors catch up with you. They need to escort you to the spaceport, not run passes out here looking for us. Start the procedure, captain. That’s an order.’

  ‘I hear you, ma’am. Initiating drop. We’ll need to bleed off a little more speed before I can open the rear cargo door. Hold tight.’

  The ship lurched again, violently. Titanium I-beams whined in protest. There was a loud bang, and something buckled, most likely an outer plate. Karras checked his impact restraint, pulling hard. The locks were solid. He looked across the hold at his kill-team brothers. All stood silent, faces masked by their expressionless helms. With witchsight, he could see their moods coruscate around them. They were ready. They just wanted to get on the damned ground, to get moving again. They hated transit, hated the waiting. Zeed’s aura, more than that of Voss or Solarion, danced and flickered in his eagerness to engage enemies. Karras knew he’d have to watch the Raven Guard. He’d barely followed orders during Night Harvest. The chances that he’d follow the commands of Archangel throughout this op were even slimmer. This operation was about a patient, timely strike and a fast exit. He couldn’t have Zeed jumping into any and every fight that presented itself.

  Do as you’re told this time, Ghost, he urged silently. We mess this up, we’re not getting off this rock.

  Talon and Archangel’s people were loa
ded into the Stormravens and ready in under three minutes. From outside the hull of the Reaper One there came further noise as Burgess’ freighter continued to slow. As soon as The Pride of Kalvicca hit a suitable airspeed, her massive rear cargo door began its painfully slow descent. Muted daylight, turned dull by thick cloud, seeped into the cargo hold. The wind was less subtle, screaming in, racing round the hold like a mad animal.

  Karras didn’t see any of this with his physical eyes. The hatch of the Stormraven in which he sat was sealed tight. But he projected his astral awareness out into the hold to watch the other assault craft exit. With his mind’s eye, he watched the freighter’s massive ramp finally lock into place in the open position.

  The ship began to shake harder, never designed to fly with its main cargo door open like this.

  Burgess couldn’t fly the ship any slower without actually descending to land. This was it, as slow as she could go. It would have to be enough.

  ‘Reaper flight, prepare to drop,’ voxed Ventius, pilot of Reaper One and mission flight leader as appointed by Sigma. Like all three Stormraven pilots, the captain was as much man as machine, permanently built into the cockpit of the Stormraven by the enginseers of the Inquisition. He had become the living brain of the machine, and the Stormraven had become his body. It was not a standard arrangement. Typically, Stormravens were piloted by Space Marines, but this was the Ordo Xenos. They had their own rules. Fusing pilot and aircraft created a synergistic increase in performance that even Space Marine veteran pilots would be hard-pressed to equal. That Ventius and the others had willingly given up their humanity said as much about their love of flight as it did about their loyalty and drive to serve the Imperium. Perhaps more.

  ‘Reaper Three,’ continued Ventius, ‘deploy on my mark! Three… Two… One… Go!’