Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  The pilot chuckled. ‘If you insist. Prepare for opening.’

  ‘On your feet, my war hawks,’ Ariq rumbled. He rose from his restraint throne. ‘We have a crew to butcher and a ship to take. Up, brothers, up!’ He went to the rear of the specially modified compartment and hit a release valve on the armoured cell that occupied it. The cell opened with a hiss of cold, recycled air, revealing the massive shape of a Dreadnought. Ariq hesitated, staring up at the tribal totems and savage decorations which marked the scarred, white chassis of the ancient war machine. Then, steeling his nerve, he pounded a fist against the embossed sarcophagus. ‘Wake up, Malamir. It’s time.’

  ‘At last,’ Malamir rumbled. The Dreadnought’s voice was accompanied by a growl of static. He flexed his power claw eagerly as he stepped out of his cell. The deck shivered beneath his grinding tread. ‘Keep your tulwars sheathed, little brothers. I will clear a path.’

  ‘Take your time, old man,’ Ariq said, as he quickly stepped aside, allowing the Dreadnought to stomp past. ‘Don’t burst a gasket.’

  One of the Dreadnought’s optic sensors rotated in its housing. ‘Is that you, Ariq? It must be. Only you are so foolish as to speak to me so.’

  ‘And here I thought we were friends, old man.’ Ariq grinned up at the blinking sensor. He knew Malamir could see him, in some fashion. ‘Leave some for us, please?’

  Malamir was silent for a moment. Then, ‘No promises.’ The Dreadnought turned his attentions to the rest of the squad. ‘Get out of my way, little brothers.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Out of my way, I said.’ The Dreadnought shoved his way towards the disembarkation point, forcing the rest of Ariq’s squad to scramble out of his path.

  A moment later, the ramp of the gunship opened like a flower of metal and heat, dropping to the deck with a thunderous clang. Malamir stumped down the ramp, ignoring the weapons fire that danced across his chassis. ‘Is that all the greeting you can muster, insects?’ he growled, as he reached the deck. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  Ariq laughed, despite the shots that glanced off of his battleplate. At the top of the ramp, the White Scars returned fire, giving ululating yells as their shots struck home. ‘I don’t think they do,’ Ariq shouted. ‘Tell them, grandfather!’

  ‘I am Malamir of Yhuzan,’ the Dreadnought roared, his vox-casters set to maximum. ‘I am the White Wolf of the Lakes. Hear my howl.’ His assault cannon cycled to life. He pivoted, letting the weapon play across the hold with a high-pitched whirr. Hundreds of rounds were loosed in a matter of seconds, and the rate of fire was such that those assault fighters still berthed in the hold shook on their struts, or collapsed utterly.

  Fuel canisters exploded, filling the hold with burning rivers of promethium. Malamir advanced through the inferno, his assault cannon singing. Wherever he turned, mortals died, or new fires sprang up, adding to the blaze.

  ‘Go.’ Ariq’s voice echoed across the squad-vox. He was moving even as he spoke. Strange alarm klaxons wailed and the walls of the bay quivered like a fearful animal as he ran. His bolt pistol bucked in his hand as targeting runes danced across his helmet’s display. He fired without regard for the smoke, advancing through the heat and flames of Malamir’s rampage towards the greatest number of targets. His squad fanned out in his wake, bolters thundering. They would take the bay, and then move on to whatever passed for a command deck on heretic vessels. It was the quickest way to take a ship like this – kill its command staff. From the bridge, whole decks could be isolated, the life support cut off, power rerouted. If the spirits of rain and war were with them, they might even be able to salvage the vessel once the system had been purged of foes. But failing that, they’d scuttle it and send it into the heart of the nearest star.

  He felt the deck twitch beneath him and knew more gunships were arriving, swarming into the open bays. ‘They made a mistake, not running,’ one of the others – Kersh – grunted. ‘Should have tucked tail the moment they caught our colours.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have come here at all,’ Ariq replied. ‘Shouldn’t have followed the whispers of the wrong spirits, shouldn’t have sold their souls to devils. Lots of things they shouldn’t have done. Too late to make up for it now.’ A targeting run settled onto a flailing mortal’s back. He snapped off a shot, and watched with satisfaction as the round punched through the man, ripping him open and painting the air red.

  ‘They owe a blood-price, and we will collect.’

  ‘The first gunships have secured the landing bays,’ Kanim said, watching the hololithic projections that hovered in the air. Most were pict-feeds, transmitted from the helms of the White Scars assault squads relaying the boarding efforts.

  Suboden Khan nodded and sat back in his command throne. ‘Good.’ He signalled one of the bridge serfs. ‘Pass the order to press the assault to the escorts and attack craft, but tell them to concentrate fire on weapons arrays and thrusters. Let my warriors do their work.’

  He turned his attentions back to the viewscreen, satisfied that his orders would be relayed correctly. There was no point in having serfs if you didn’t trust them to see to their assigned tasks properly.

  The hunt was going well. The enemy fleet was scattered, for the most part, raiding the outlying worlds. That made them easy prey. At least for the moment. Attack craft from Orlanda’s Wrath had scouted ahead, relaying the enemy’s numbers and position. There were only a few vessels this time – a cruiser of an unknown make, and a trio of escorts that looked to have been cobbled together by someone with a macabre sense of humour.

  Suboden had divided the fleet into two, and then again. Raven’s Valour, with the Drusus, was making for the other side of the debris belt, moving into position to intercept potential reinforcements. Orlanda’s Wrath and the Crassus had engaged the enemy alongside the Silent Horseman.

  ‘Are you sure it was wise, sending the gunships?’ Kanim asked.

  Suboden shrugged. ‘No. But our brothers needed something to do, and they practically invited us aboard. If Ariq and the others can take that vessel out of the fight without us having to engage, so much the better.’ He stroked his beard, smiling thinly. ‘We must conserve all available resources, shaman. Including what ships we have left.’

  They’d lost at least three escorts since engaging the enemy at Pergamon, and hundreds of attack craft. Thousands of crew were dead, their bodies jettisoned into space, or stored below decks. Every skirmish wore them down a little more, and used up a bit more of the weapons stores. The cruisers would need to rearm and refit themselves soon. But that would mean falling back to Almace. And they couldn’t do that, not yet.

  On the viewscreen, the attack craft launched by Orlanda’s Wrath duelled in the black with the enemy’s gunships. Sensor-feeds showed the ruptured remnants of boarding torpedoes drifting near the Silent Horseman. Idly, Suboden magnified the images. Crimson-armoured figures floated in the void. Some were still alive – it was hard to kill a Space Marine, even a traitor. They struggled free of the wreckage, and pushed themselves off, attempting a controlled drift towards the battle-barge. A desperate tactic.

  ‘Look at them, shaman. If they were anyone else, I might admire them.’

  Kanim grunted, but said nothing.

  Suboden pressed the point. ‘Were we in their position, would we not attempt the same? Whatever else, they have courage, at least.’

  ‘We would not allow ourselves to be caught so easily,’ Kanim said. ‘If you listen to spirits rather than your own soul, they will inevitably lead you astray. You should alert nearby attack craft before one of them manages to reach us. I’d rather not have to hunt one of those abominations through the bowels of the ship.’

  Suboden gestured sharply, and a serf relayed the order. Anti-personnel batteries opened up from concealed ports along the lower starboard hull of the battle-barge. Swiftly, the floating crimson shapes were reduced to shredded masses of meat and metal, to join the rest of
the debris.

  ‘Keel is unhappy,’ Kanim said.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘We’re using his people as bait.’

  ‘We’re protecting them.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Suboden grunted. ‘He has said nothing of this to me.’

  ‘It is easy to see. His face hides nothing during the command briefings.’

  ‘And the others?’

  Kanim frowned. ‘Ogilvy accepts it. She’s a hard one. Too old not to understand. Belmont is too frightened of making a mistake to notice.’

  Suboden relaxed slightly. ‘Will he cause trouble?’

  ‘No. He knows what’s at stake.’

  ‘Then why bother telling me, shaman? Information without use is nothing more than gossip. If Keel is angry, let him be angry. So long as he fights, his emotional state is of little concern.’ Annoyed by the conversation, Suboden called up a telemetry display, studying the enemy’s disposition. ‘They came looking for us,’ he muttered.

  Kanim looked down at the display. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Here’s their positioning when we first sighted them. Look at the way they’re spread out. They’re maximising the range of their augurs.’ He tugged on his beard. ‘They’ve probably already sent a distress signal, unless Raquen managed to intercept it.’

  ‘They’re bait?’

  ‘No. Scouts. We’re being hunted.’ Suboden looked at the viewscreen. New stars blossomed in the black. An escort – one of theirs – twisted in place as barnacles of plasma spread across its hull.

  He stiffened. Something was amiss. He saw what it was a moment later. ‘Ogilvy is out of position. I’ve warned her about that before.’

  ‘She is not the only warrior to forget her place in the line amid the heat of battle,’ Kanim said meaningfully.

  ‘She’s old enough to know better.’

  ‘So were you.’

  Suboden laughed. ‘Luckily, I had you by my side to chastise me, shaman.’ He sat back and shook his head. ‘We will finish them off and fall back into the asteroid field. And then do it all again tomorrow.’

  ‘That is the way of it, my khan.’

  ‘So it is,’ Suboden murmured. He watched the viewscreen, knowing that all decisions had been made. There was nothing to do now but wait for things to resolve themselves as they must. He was impatient. He knew this, and strove to correct the flaw. But it was hard, especially in moments like this.

  Void-war was so slow. It lacked immediacy – the rush of blood and the smell of death. It was a war of numbers, waged across light years. Too, it was a game of nerve, of cost and benefit. Ships might drift closer and closer, only to pass by without ever firing a shot. Battle was only joined when it was a sure thing – or there was no other choice. It was a game for hunters – or murderers. Not for warriors. And Suboden was a warrior first, and a hunter second.

  He envied those who’d boarded the enemy vessel. He wished he were leading them personally. But such was not his duty. A khan could not limit himself to a single battle – he had to attend to the greater war.

  Still, at least he was here, rather than on Almace. He could only imagine the boredom that must be gripping Karros and Calder, with nothing and no one to fight. Even as he thought this, however, his hand felt the hilt of his tulwar and he longed to draw it, to put it to use against the enemy. He glanced up, and saw Kanim staring at him. The expression on the Stormseer’s face was unsettling.

  ‘What is it, shaman? Do the spirits whisper to you?’

  ‘Always, my khan.’

  ‘And what do they whisper?’

  Kanim looked away. ‘That you will get your wish.’ He sounded old, and tired. ‘There is death on the wind, my khan. Theirs and ours.’

  Suboden thought about this for a moment, and then grinned fiercely.

  ‘Good.’

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Ord lifted the last slab of ferrocrete into place, blocking the northern processional past the Pilgrim’s Gate. ‘Arc-clamp,’ he said. Mortal engineers hurried forward, tools in hand. He readied the clamp as they began to drill holes in the slab. As with the rest, it would be bolted to the street, so that bulwark would be all but unmoveable. Sparks flew as the mortals worked, and Ord watched them impatiently. There were another ten bulwarks to build at staggered intervals before the gate could be considered secure.

  The Pilgrim’s Gate was small, as such edifices went. A simple archway of carved stone, marking the causeway connecting Mid Town to High Town. Heavy, flat steps rose from the street, through the archway, carrying pedestrians – pilgrims – to the heights of the cathedral-city. Soon, the plaza before it would be completely blocked off by ferrocrete bulwarks and intertwined strands of razor wire stretched across the street.

  Ord thought it a thing of sublime beauty. The citizens of Almacia did not seem to agree. Proximity klaxons sounded and angry shouts filled the air. Traffic, both pedestrian and otherwise, was being diverted down the few remaining side streets that hadn’t been collapsed or blocked off, resulting in a traffic jam almost sixty miles in length.

  The local enforcers, with aid from the cardinal-governor’s bodyguards, were overseeing civilian operations, keeping them a safe distance from the defence preparations. And from the Imperial Fists.

  Ord was one of three stationed at this gate. The rest of the demi-company were scattered throughout the city, seeing to the preparations elsewhere. When the enemy arrived, they were to command these bastions, as only they could. He clicked the vox-link that tied him to his brothers. Geert stood atop the gate itself, aiding the cardinal-governor’s guard in positioning several heavy weapons. Caln was working at the opposite end of the plaza, seeing to the preparations there. Both responded with clicks of their own. They needed no words. The sound was enough to let him know their position.

  Ord closed his eyes as a breeze kissed his face. His helm was clamped to his thigh. He’d often found that working bareheaded helped engender confidence in mortal workers. His helm was too impassive. Without it, he could almost pass for human.

  ‘Hot work, my lord.’

  Ord looked down. The engineer in charge looked up, mopping at his face with a grimy handkerchief. The man’s name was… Tahj, Ord thought. A native of Low Town, normally responsible for the maintenance and repair of the access roads that led through the foundations of the city.

  ‘My body temperature is chemically regulated,’ Ord said.

  Tahj nodded, as if he’d heard similar statements before. He continued to wipe at his face. ‘The air settles in these streets something awful. Gets stifling in the lower parts of the city. You wouldn’t know about that, I expect.’

  ‘No. I am only just arrived.’

  Tahj sniffed, leaned over and spat. ‘Still… hot work.’

  Ord looked at him. ‘Did you require something?’ Humans were usually in awe of his kind. Tahj didn’t seem the sort to be impressed with anything, however. It was somewhat annoying.

  ‘Nope. Just passing time.’ Tahj wiped at his neck and retrieved a flask from his coveralls. He took a quick slug and offered it to Ord. ‘Care for a nip?’

  ‘I do not… nip.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Tahj nodded again. ‘Don’t think I could do without a bit of a drink.’ He took another pull on the flask, as if for emphasis.

  ‘No?’ Ord asked, without quite understanding why.

  ‘Nope.’

  They stood in silence, for a time. Tahj seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. Ord stared at the engineer, trying to fathom a method of breaking this particular siege. He decided a change of strategy might prove effective. ‘Is work progressing satisfactorily?’

  Tahj took a leisurely glance at the bulwarks. He took another sip from the flask. ‘I expect so,’ he said eventually. ‘Yours?’

 
Ord found himself nodding. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Ord nodded again. He was finding the rhythm of it now. It was not a transfer of information, but simply noise for the sake of noise. He could not see the purpose of it, but he would not be found wanting.

  Despite this resolution, he was relieved when the wailing of enforcer sirens broke the silence. He heard the growl of engines and felt a tremor run through the street. Suddenly, the engineers and labourers at the bulwarks shouted and scattered. A heavy vehicle – some form of ore-hauler – slammed into the unanchored slabs and ploughed over them with a grinding rumble. It was almost as big as a battle tank, but not so imposing. There was an enclosed cab, and a massive cargo-bed in the rear. The wheels were meant for rough terrain, and easily carried it over the fallen bulwarks.

  A warning klaxon sounded as the vehicle thundered straight for them. Tahj spat out a mouthful of alcohol and flung himself to safety. Ord, with preternatural calmness, considered his options before deciding that disabling the vehicle was the best. There was no telling who was behind the wheel – killing a frightened civilian would cause more trouble than it was worth. He pulled on his helmet as the vehicle barrelled towards him, klaxon still wailing.

  At the last moment, he dived aside and caught hold of one of the rungs on the side of the cab. As he pulled himself up, he heard a shout from the cargo-bed, and saw a man clad in stained labourer’s clothes, wearing a bandolier of ammunition, lean over the edge. He gripped an autogun in both hands and fired. Ord ignored the drizzle of shots that caromed off his battleplate and continued to climb, drawing his combat blade as he went.

  Targeting runes flashed as he detected three more mortals in the back of the vehicle – all armed. The others were firing at a trio of pursuing enforcer rumblers – heavily armoured personal vehicles, built to withstand gunfire and small explosions. The rumblers resembled Space Marine assault bikes, save that they were fully enclosed, and topped by flashing lights and vox-casters. The rumblers, unlike the ore-hauler, couldn’t make it past the tumbled bulwarks and screeched ignominiously to a stop.