Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

by Warhammer 40K

  There wasn’t a second to waste. With every moment that passed, men were dying on the roof. Thumping up the rear Valkyrie’s wing with heavy strides, Preed bounded for the cockpit exterior with Rosenkrantz struggling to keep up behind. By the time she breathlessly clambered alongside the priest he’d already got a grip on the canopy’s hydraulic slide. Fired by the climb and their close brush with death just heartbeats before, the ecclesiarch’s righteous rage broke its banks. With an appalling roar he tore at the canopy release.

  Inside, Rosenkrantz could see an ordo pilot reaching, wide-eyed, for his Navy pistol. Preed grunted. The canopy gave and squealed along on its hydraulic runners. The muzzle of the Navy pistol shot out of the cockpit and at the priest’s leering face. Rosenkrantz slipped her arm inside the open cockpit and yanked the firing mechanism control handle for the pilot’s emergency ejection seat. She shielded her eyes and ears as the rocket-propelled seat shot for the skies. When the ecclesiarch came out from under his ample sleeve he was wearing a monstrous smile.

  Rosenkrantz dropped down into the empty cockpit space and slid down one section further to the co-pilot’s bucket-seat.

  ‘Preed!’ she called. The priest nodded and slid the cockpit canopy back along its runners and into place. With that the priest set off to create more havoc in the troop section with the Aphonac-Stack Probists manning the heavy bolters.

  Rosenkrantz had two initial priorities. First, prevent her newly-acquired Valkyrie firing on the storm-troopers. Second, prevent Vertigo and the forward Valkyrie firing on her.

  It felt good to be back in the confines of a Navy cockpit and her fingers slid automatically across the glyphs and runes of the instrumentation. She’d been born to fly Spectres, but had trained in a Valkyrie and the operations and orientations instantly came back to her.

  Almost immediately the rancid chatter of the port gun was silenced as she remotely closed the accessway and locked it off. Of course, she didn’t have control of the side doors on Vertigo or the sister ship. Her finger hovered over the button. She couldn’t believe that she was going to destroy her own bird. The Jopallian pilot sighed. A moment later it was over. She sent a hellstrike straight up the open troop compartment of the battered Spectre.

  The Spectre just vanished. One moment the aircraft was sitting on the landing pad and then nothing. Light. Sound. The clang of distant debris, spinning across the compound roof. But as Rosenkrantz well knew, what went up, must come down. The firestorm wreckage of the Spectre flew back to earth, the raging fuselage landing upside down on top of the Adepta Sororitas Valkyrie.

  Firing the thrusters Rosenkrantz took the carrier off the deck and turned the aircraft slowly at an effortless hover. The Valkyrie, whose callsign was Purity Control, according to the side of the co-pilot’s helmet, was unsurprisingly sprightlier than a Spectre and gave her an instant view of the burning, debris-strewn roof. Armoured bodies littered the landing pad and those few battle-sisters using Purity Control for cover had been swiftly denied by the Jopallian’s impromptu take off.

  The situation on the compound roof rapidly reversed. Spurred on by Rosenkrantz’s and Preed’s decisive taking of the aircraft, the Redemption Corpsmen had swept in on the remaining zealots, scooping up abandoned bolters and pinning the armoured figures of battle-sisters down behind a blazing section of wing that had settled not far from the roof edge. Rosenkrantz’s fingers strayed across the multilaser stud but decided to leave the bruised and battered storm-troopers to their own victory.

  The pilot suddenly became aware of weapons fire from the troop compartment: the dull crack of a Navy pistol. She flicked the internal vox-switch and listened in on the gruesome sound of bodies being flung into the hull wall of the assault carrier.

  When the sound of skull cracking and neck breaking had ended Rosenkrantz called: ‘Still with us, Father?’

  ‘Alive and kicking, my child,’ came the ecclesiarch’s reply. ‘Although regrettably several of our brothers in the back here had to take their leave.’ Rosenkrantz heard the manhandling of bodies in the bay. ‘Ramp closing,’ Preed informed her as soon as the militiamen had been disposed of.

  ‘Preed, I’ve been thinking.’ It had never really occurred to Rosenkrantz until now because she hadn’t really thought they’d get this far: ‘What about Krieg and the major?’

  The priest broke into a throaty chuckle. ‘I can’t speak for our cadet-commissar, but if I know Mortensen, he’ll be having his own particular brand of fun.’

  Chapter Six

  Skin Deep

  I

  Crake’s World, Lesser Nox, UB-26, Autega, Endymion Prime, Byssta… Deathworlds every one, each a ball of unprecedented lethality and doom. And either as a Galtinore Legionnaire or as Pontifical, Koulick Krieg had visited and survived them all. It was, however, this unknown hintermoon, this perennially ignored, backwater planetoid that had finally done for him.

  Rappelling in from Purity Control a few kilometres from the coordinates Santhonax had given him, Krieg’s plan was to locate the storm-troopers and observe the mission. He would then wait for Mortensen to damn himself with anything that might be considered cultish practice – as the Canoness Regular would have it – and administer Imperial justice.

  That was before Ishtar’s glass forest had sliced him up good and proper. This might have been tolerable if it weren’t for the colossal detours he had had to make to avoid the warren of steamy, frothing channels and flood basins that spread out across the crystal rainforest like a cryogenic delta. Throwing himself down flat on a sandy patch of earth, the cadet-commissar covered his head with his hands. Every few minutes the forest lit up in an electric power storm, with arc flashes jumping this way and that, striking and forking between the crystalline trunks and searing the surrounding air. Like synapse sparks between the cells in a brain, the chain reactions carried for kilometres across the deathworld forest and the thought was always the same: kill Koulick Krieg.

  Suddenly everything went quiet and the furious display faded. Bringing his head out from his arms the commissar peered around the forest. There was no time for catching breath or congratulating himself on surviving electrocution yet again. It was only a matter of minutes before the charges building in the silicon shrubbery reached critical mass and unleashed their firestorm fury again. Pushing himself up and out of the fine sand, Krieg made a bolt for it.

  Swinging his Ryza-pattern plasma gun about him like a machete, Krieg battered aside the flinty branches of the strange alien foliage that choked the space between the trees. The glass leaves shattered about him as he pushed himself from one translucent trunk to another to retain momentum. The sea of razor blade edges through which he was wading was taking its toll. Upon being informed that he was being dropped on a deathworld, Krieg had decided to abandon his heavy greatcoat in favour of a Pontifical flak jacket, goggles and commissar’s cap. He’d had the coat shipped back to Deliverance with his hellpistol. The jacket was offering next to no protection from his hostile environment, however. With foliage routinely nicking and slicing open his flesh at every opportunity, his vest and undergarments felt sodden with sweat and blood.

  Pain suddenly flashed up one leg as his boot unexpectedly plunged through a sinkhole. He screamed out instinctively and then threw himself down into a clumsy roll: this meant falling through more of the punishing silicon vegetation as stalks and leaves slashed clean through the flak on his back and cut open his flesh with the smoothness of a scalpel. All he could think about was his foot, however, that at first had flared with stabbing cold pain, but now felt like it was submerged in boiling oil. Slapping his belt for his Galtinore bayonet, Krieg slipped the blade down past the frosted buckles and laces of his boot and slashed them open. With his other foot he kicked off the steaming boot. It flew through the air and hit the trunk of a nearby tree, the reinforced leather of the toe and the sole shattering on impact.

  Clutching his frostbitten foot, Krieg le
t out another unintentional roar of pain and frustration. Professional soldiery swiftly took over and, realising that his cries of pain might have been heard, attracting some as yet unseen deathworld predator, Krieg made the uncomfortable glass-crunch scramble required to lay his hands back on the plasma gun.

  Nothing came, however, and all Krieg could hear was the hum of his weapon’s cell-flask. Sitting there with his seething flesh, the cadet-commissar suddenly became aware of a change in his surroundings: colours and shapes that seemed unnatural, if such a thing were possible on this wholly alien world.

  He was sitting underneath a makeshift walkway, set on stilts to provide significant ground clearance. It was constructed from rough planks of irregular crystal, seemingly smashed from the thick trunks of the surrounding trees. This made a surprisingly robust structure, considering the fragility of the materials.

  Limping carefully underneath the crude trail and following its crookedly winding path, Krieg became aware of great, rough-hewn obelisks sunk into the ground at increasingly regular intervals. The concentration of trees and the swarm of cut-glass foliage became less dense the more of the monoliths he came across. As he encountered one situated close to the trail he took the opportunity to inspect it. The totems were covered in large simple runes and symbols – many jagged in appearance – and were made entirely of pure copper. The network of copper totems must ground the electrical dangers of the silicon jungle, Krieg reasoned, and prevent the crystal foliage spreading. A huge arc suddenly leapt before him, leading the cadet-commissar to the further conclusion that he was not yet close enough to the village to enjoy that privilege.

  Krieg could now see the telltale rush of flecks surging up and down the surrounding trunks, heralding the advent of another deadly electrical blitz. He had to work fast. Ground-level was bad: the pattern of former arcs and bursts had already taught him that beyond the chemical floodplain, it was probably one of the reasons the trail was elevated on stilts. The commissar thumbed the heavy, archaic primer on the plasma gun and adjusted the emission setting. Aiming the sun gun at the base of the nearest set of stilts he released a blinding ball of superheated plasma at the structure.

  As sizzling puddles of dissipating plasma scooted about on the surface of the foaming pool Krieg had just blown in the planet’s surface, the walkway section beside him promptly collapsed. A hobble, skip and a jump later Krieg was belly down on the planked section that had tumbled to the ground. Throwing the shimmering barrel of the plasma gun over his shoulder on its strap he proceeded to heave himself up the incline and up to the next section of elevated walkway.

  Kicking with his good foot he managed to haul himself halfway above the ground by the time the electrical storm hit. Every muscle in his body cramped and spasmed, causing him to lose his position on the walkway and slide back down the smooth crystal slats. Bolts of piezoelectric power coursed over the surface of his skin, paralysing both mind and body and lancing the nerve clusters with spears of excruciating agony. He was hit.

  It was impossible to tell how long the torture lasted: seconds, moments, minutes… but it felt to Krieg like an infinity of light and affliction.

  When the darkness returned, the commissar was a crumpled mess at the foot of the toppled walkway. His flesh felt on fire and, indeed, in one or two spots his uniform was aflame. His breathing had been reduced to strangled gasps as his chest muscles refused to contract and allow sorely needed oxygen into his lungs. His constricted fists trembled but he dared not move for fear that his heart, raw in his chest, might burst like a ripe fruit inside his wracked body.

  As his roving pupils caught a further glint of light Krieg tried to push through the paralysis, but his body would not answer. He couldn’t take another round of the torturous treatment and began to panic, his rasping breaths becoming further constricted. The light grew as it drew closer and his numb brain finally processed what he was seeing. He’d never been so glad to see the twisting, golden tongues of a simple flame in his life. It was a torch held by one of a group of dark shapes milling around him in the twilight. Large, powerful digits clasped one of his arms and turned him gently over onto his back. Bodies were still just a shadowy amalgam but the torchlight now illuminated several heavy-weight faces. Brute features and black wiry manes, plaited through with gems and crystals, decorated their scarred, colossal skulls.

  Ogryns.

  Krieg’s heart lifted for a moment. Ogryns were typically obedient Imperial servants. With Ishtar’s proximity to Spetzghast it wasn’t unreasonable to expect that he wasn’t the first of the Emperor’s servants to visit this miserable little corner of the galaxy. The barbarians jabbered some kind of spitsnaggle vernacular at one another, apparently fascinated by the aquila emblazoned on his cap.

  A sudden fracas erupted amongst the group: growling, mawling and snapping. Something squatter and more repugnant barged its way to the front of the congregation and thrust its rancorous features in Krieg’s face. The foetid rank of that daggered maw washed over the commissar, giving him further reason to gag. Cracked, spinach-green flesh and two bloody beads for eyes sealed it for Krieg. Orks, here on Ishtar also. It too seemed interested in his cap.

  A wet hackle of what Krieg could only interpret as laughter began deep inside the creature’s barrel chest. The ogryns followed suit, as was their habit – imitation being the sincerest form of flattery – and filled the forest with their savage, booming laughter.

  With each fading gasp, Koulick Krieg was forced to accept that this soulless mirth was likely to be the last sound he would ever hear.

  II

  There were times when even Zane Mortensen thought he’d pushed his luck too far. This was one of them.

  A tense silence filled the darkened interior of the Centaur, which was unusual for the Volscians, whose battle preparations usually involved hive banter and raw humour.

  The major glowered in the half-light of the instrumentation panels as Kataphract’s enclosed, armoured hull creaked ominously about him.

  ‘This is madness,’ Hauser muttered as Garbarsky did battle with the Centaur’s controls. Hauser was one of Meeks’s believers, as his shaved dome and hooded trench coat testified, but he had a rebellious streak that often found expression in his furtive features and loose mouth. Meeks thumped a meaty palm against the corpsman’s chest that reverberated around the tiny confines of the vehicle. ‘In a good way,’ Hauser added sheepishly, dutifully chastised.

  Mortensen smiled through his own anxiety and clasped the back of the Guardsman’s bald head good naturedly. ‘That’s the genius of it,’ the major assured him. ‘Those greenskin whoresons won’t see this coming.’

  It was true. Nobody would have seen this coming. Nobody would have thought it possible to completely submerge an armour-enclosed Centaur fire support vehicle in corrosive, chemicular slush and infiltrate enemy territory via the tributaries of a deathworld river basin. And in the eyes of the major this was what made the plan typically Redemption Corps; other storm-trooper regiments had their specialisms, but only the Redemption Corps were known for pulling off stunts like these. Only Mortensen and his men made the impossible happen. Balls and brains, the major mused. It would have been their motto if the Redemption Corps had use for anything as useless as a motto.

  Mortensen snatched up the vox receiver. ‘Gundozer, still with us?’

  Crunching through the silicon shale that made up the sterile riverbed, Kataphract’s sister Centaur carried Conklin, Vedette and the rest of his troop. Mortensen had opted to go with Rask, Eszcobar and the Volscians, reasoning that the Shadow Brigade soldiers were much more likely to lose their nerve.

  ‘How the hell did you talk us into this?’ came back the master sergeant’s dulcet tones. ‘I don’t know how much fight this crate’s got left.’

  ‘She’ll hold,’ the major told him. ‘The seals are good. Remember Hesperidus?’

  ‘Trying to forget it. Seawater doesn�
�t exactly eat through the damn hull though, does it?’

  ‘Conklin, you’re scaring the women and children.’

  ‘Check my pulse, for sumpsake.’

  ‘You need to take a right up ahead here,’ Eszcobar informed Garbarsky as he sat next to the Shadow Brigade driver, reading from one of the topographical slates. The driver furrowed his one furious eyebrow.

  ‘How much?’ Garbarsky put to him moodily.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ the deathworlder carped back, shrugging. ‘Hard right.’

  The corpsman heaved sets of levers simultaneously forward and back, throwing the fire support vehicle into a turn. The Centaur gave a whining rattle of protest as frost-shattered gears struggled with the effort. Mortensen gave the Autegan the vox.

  ‘Okay sarge, we have another turn up here. Right, this time.’ Eszcobar listened intently to Conklin’s reply before an involuntary shrug rippled once again across his shoulders. ‘Er, hard right?’ Once again Garbarsky’s single eyebrow set in a cantankerous wrinkle.

  The deathworlder turned to Mortensen with the slate.

  ‘Major, once we’ve navigated this bend we’ll be right on top of your coordinates.’

  ‘Thank the Emperor,’ Hauser muttered to himself.

  Mortensen nodded to the rest of Meeks’s Volscians, cramped in Kataphract’s cramped hull – more so since it also housed the Centaur’s stripped down exterior weaponry – setting in motion a burst of activity.

  ‘Give Conklin the good news. Have his men prepare for heavy resistance.’

  Eszcobar was about to comply when a splintered crack shot through the compartment. This was almost instantaneously accompanied by a stifled half-scream, mercilessly cut short. A shaft of streaming slush had fractured the driver’s armaplas viewport and blasted its way in, splashing Garbarsky full in the face. His hands had instinctively reached for his ruined features and, caught in the stream, had frozen fast to his skull.