by Andy Hoare
And then the impact came. Even with its descent arrested by the drop-pod’s potent thrusters, the shock was stupendous. Every bone in Sarik’s body was jolted, despite the huge bars that restrained him and kept him from being turned to pulp. The thrusters died and a klaxon wailed. With a pneumatic hiss the restraint bars lifted upwards. The bulkhead in front of each Space Marine dropped away to form an assault ramp, which slammed to the earth with a resounding crash. Harsh light filled the pod, followed a moment later by the unfamiliar air of the new planet.
‘Out!’ Sarik bellowed, surging forwards and grabbing his boltgun from the nearby quick release cradle. In an instant each Space Marine was bounding down his ramp and setting foot on the ground of the alien world of Dal’yth.
The ground was dry and sandy, coloured the dull ochre of a semi-arid land. The sky above was a serene shade of jade, and Sarik could see thin, column-like mesas rising into the skies all around the drop zone. The temperature was warm and the air appeared clean, though Sarik’s armour systems would need a few more minutes to declare the atmosphere entirely free of toxic elements. Sarik’s preparation told him that while other regions of the surface were host to cultivated farmland, this particular area had been left in its natural state, untouched by the aliens’ hands or their heretical technologies, and not a single plant was visible.
Sarik rejoiced in the feel of solid ground beneath his feet and the knowledge that his enemies were nearby. Soon, the deaths of so many of the Nomad’s crew would be avenged.
‘The ring of horns!’ Sarik called out, using the unique battle-cant of the White Scars Chapter to order his warriors into a defensive perimeter around the drop-pod. The act of issuing orders to his fellow White Scars was a simple, long-missed pleasure; one denied Sarik at the bridge of his frigate. Hyper-velocity projectiles spat across the jade sky, fired from a distant defence turret towards more Space Marine drop-pods streaking through the air upon churning black contrails. The passage of the rounds through the sky was marked by silvery lines of disturbed air rather than the smoking black contrails of the Imperium’s ordnance.
Sarik grinned savagely, knowing that even the aliens’ heretically advanced anti-drop defences could not hit so small and fast-moving a target as a drop-pod, for the vehicles plummeted at impossibly fast speeds, slowing only at the last possible instant. Nonetheless, Sarik noted several shots coming perilously close to the drop-pods, evidence, if any were needed, of just how fearsomely effective the aliens’ weapons truly were.
Sarik activated the tactical display within his helmet, reams of battlefield and command script suddenly appearing across his field of vision. Status runes indicated that the six White Scars drop-pods were all safely down, and the thirty warriors were all deployed as per their mission orders. A line of text scrolling across the lower portion of his vision told him that the other Space Marine contingents were also under way, each with the objective of destroying one of the sensor pylons that formed an extensive network across the entire surface of Dal’yth.
The White Scars were one of the smaller contingents amongst the two hundred or so Space Marines accompanying the crusade, the Iron Hands, Ultramarines and the Scythes of the Emperor far more numerous. The Ultramarines and the Scythes of the Emperor were each spearheading one of the other two main assault groups, with the smaller squads of the other Chapters each attacking a secondary objective. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Sarik was determined that his Chapter would claim its share of the glory, and he would lead his brethren to victory. General Gauge’s main force would only be able to land once a bloody wound had been torn in the heart of the aliens’ defence network.
Satisfied that the assault groups were all on target, Sarik scanned the surrounding area for his own objective. A kilometre distant, in the midst of a cluster of tall rock columns, Sarik located the massive tau sensor pylon.
‘White Scars!’ Sarik shouted above the high-pitched whip-crack of tau projectiles splitting the air overhead. ‘Move out.’ With savage joy welling within him, he added, ‘Let’s complete our mission before the Ultramarines complete theirs!’
‘White Scars deployed,’ the chief of staff reported. ‘Ultramarines groups in nine minutes, Scythes of the Emperor group in twelve minutes. All other sub-groups within twenty minutes.’
‘Good,’ replied General Gauge, turning from the huge pict screen that dominated the main wall of his command chamber aboard the Blade of Woe. The entire space was crowded with command terminals, glowing readouts and blaring phono-casters describing every detail of the landing operations. Tacticae advisors and Imperial Guard staff officers manned dozens of stations, and vox-servitors and Munitorum logisters shuffled from one to the next, collating and dispensing raw data in ream after ream of parchment. Located in the heart of the Blade of Woe, the command chamber was Gauge’s personal domain and it could have been a high command bunker at the front line of any of the Imperium’s sector-spanning wars.
Gauge faced Lucian and the others of the crusade council who had assembled to witness the assault on Dal’yth Prime. ‘Gentlemen,’ the scarred, craggy-faced veteran soldier addressed his fellow councillors. ‘Phase one of Operation Pluto is under way.’
The general nodded to the chief of staff, and then turned back towards the huge pict screen. The image resolved into a real time capture of the surface of Dal’yth Prime, transmitted by an orbital spy-drone controlled by one of Gauge’s command staff. The dry atmosphere of the world below contained few clouds, so Lucian and the councillors were afforded a clear view of the main continent’s eastern seaboard.
‘As you can see,’ General Gauge indicated the centre of the image, ‘this region is ideal for our purposes. The land is relatively flat, and the sea to the east and the mountains to the north will mask our landing operations from those two directions.’
The staff officer worked the controls of his command terminal. The image on the pict screen blurred, and then came back into focus having magnified the central region.
‘Sector zero shall be the site of the main landings,’ Gauge said. Lucian caught a glint in the old veteran’s eye, something that told him the general would be quite happy leading the planetfall operation from the very front. He smiled wryly as the general continued. ‘The main landings can only commence once the tau’s sensor network has been disabled,’ Gauge gestured towards a number of blinking, red runes that represented the primary objectives being assaulted by the White Scars, Ultramarines and the Scythes of the Emperor, ‘here, here and here.’ Lucian saw that around a dozen secondary objectives were also marked, but the general was only interested in the primary ones, for now at least.
Each of the three primary runes represented a vital node in the planetwide sensor network. Taking out those nodes would blind the tau to the exact details of the main landings. The landings themselves could never be hidden, but at least the tau could be put at a major disadvantage if they could not clearly see what was happening at the landing zone. The defenders would be forced to commit their forces piecemeal, probing for the Imperium’s armies.
‘What of their air assets, general?’ Lucian asked, his mind calculating every possible risk to the successful landing of the main crusade ground forces.
‘That is the great unknown, Lucian,’ Gauge answered, with unusual honesty for one of his station. ‘All ground forces will be equipped with as many anti-air weapons as they can carry, and what sub-orbital fighter capacity we do have will be fully committed. But frankly, we really have no idea what the tau might throw against us.’
‘Then why not wait, general,’ said Cardinal Gurney, standing resplendent in the finery of his office. ‘Or bombard the entire world into submission.’
‘Cardinal,’ Gauge bowed his head ever so slightly as he spoke. ‘I am merely enacting the will of the council in this matter. I was given the task of conquering Dal’yth Prime, and that is what I intend to do.’ Then he looked the cardinal straigh
t in the eye. ‘I have done this before.’
‘General,’ Lucian cut in, forestalling any further interruptions or objections from Gurney and his faction. ‘When will the main landings begin?’
‘That, friend Lucian, is in the hands of the Adeptus Astartes.’
The dry ground at Sarik’s feet erupted into plumes of dust as the turret atop the sensor pylon brought its weapons to bear on him and opened fire. He continued running for another ten paces, before throwing himself to the right into the cover of a large boulder.
The other warriors of his squad, who had reformed into a single ten-man unit having disembarked from the two drop-pods, had caught up with him. Brother Qaja, the Space Marine who commanded the Nomad’s fire control station when the squad was serving as the frigate’s command cadre, was the first to join him. He seemed unencumbered by the huge plasma cannon he carried in both hands, and by the massive, humming power source on his back.
Sarik reached up and released the catches around his neck, then lifted his helmet clear and shook his long, black topknot loose. He took a deep breath, allowing his genetically enhanced senses to taste the air, testing it for contaminants and other indications of the nature of the immediate environment.
Qaja too had removed his helmet, and appeared to be laughing.
‘Something amuses you, brother?’ Sarik said, grinning with the joy of battle despite himself.
Brother Qaja shook his head, his long, plaited moustaches waving freely. ‘My apologies, brother-sergeant,’ Qaja said. ‘I am merely grateful to be on solid ground once more, with my enemy before me and my battle-kin at my side.’
‘Aye,’ Sarik grinned. ‘I feel it too, brother.’ Sarik risked a glance around the boulder, hoping to get a fix on the turret that pinned him and his squad down. No sooner had he leaned around the outcrop than he was forced to pull his head back sharply. A torrent of rounds erupted against the rock, sending up plumes of vaporised stone and shards of razor-sharp shrapnel.
Nonetheless, Sarik had learned all he needed. The pylon was a mere fifty metres distant, its white tower rearing high above the arid landscape. Its form reminded Sarik of the funnel of a great sea-going vessel, and it was covered in domes and blisters that bristled with sensor veins. Sarik had seen a ring of smaller structures around the base of the pylon, and halfway up its flanks the turret from which the hail of blue energy bolts was being unleashed.
Furthermore, in the brief instant he had been exposed, Sarik had caught sight of at least one squad of enemy warriors about the base of the pylon, weapons trained on the boulder the Space Marines sheltered behind.
‘Brother Qaja,’ said Sarik. ‘I want that turret silenced. Squad,’ he called out, ‘Cover him!’
With that, Brother Qaja hoisted the heavy bulk of his plasma cannon, his face split with a feral grin at the prospect of the coming destruction. Sarik nodded once, and the Space Marine stepped out from the cover of the rock and brought his heavy weapon to bear on the turret.
Even as Qaja raised his plasma cannon, Sarik and the remainder of the squad emerged from either side of the boulder, each taking aim at one of the enemy warriors. At the very same moment, they opened fire.
The boltguns spat explosive death towards the aliens, who should have been cut down in a bloody swathe. But instead of striking the tau warriors and exploding inside their bodies, the rounds detonated in mid air without striking a single one.
‘Energy shield!’ Sarik bellowed, frustrated once more by the perfidiousness of the aliens’ technology. The tau warriors brought their own long-barrelled rifles to bear on Brother Qaja. Before the Space Marine could fire, a dozen blue energy bolts lanced towards him as the alien soldiers opened fire through what was clearly a one-way energy shield that allowed the tau to fire from behind its protection.
Brother Qaja was caught in the storm, the blue bolts slamming into his power armour and vaporising large chunks of ceramite and the flesh beneath.
Sarik bellowed a wordless curse at the sight of his closest battle-brother gunned down before him. The two warriors had shared such glories and such tragedies that a wound to one was a wound to the other. Rage and pain welled up inside Sarik and reason threatened to flee his mind entirely, so strong was the urge to avenge his fallen brother.
But Sarik’s curse turned into a howl of joy as he saw that his battle-brother was far from dead. Dragging himself up onto one knee, his face a mask of grim determination, Qaja levelled his cannon at the turret.
As the turret’s multi-barrelled weapons tracked him, Qaja opened fire. His target was high up on the side of the massive sensor pylon, and was not protected by the energy shield that had saved the alien warriors on the ground. The plasma cannon spat a roiling ball of raw energy, which lanced upwards and slammed into the turret. The side of the pylon erupted in an explosion of blinding violet light as the turret disintegrated, showering the tau below with liquid gobbets of the fabric of the pylon, turned molten by the plasma blast.
Sarik saw his opening. ‘White Scars!’ he bellowed, filled with battle-rage. ‘On them!’
Limbering his boltgun and drawing his chainsword, Sarik surged out from cover, his battle-brothers close behind. As he passed Brother Qaja, he saw that the warrior was grievously wounded, but willing and able to fight on. The plasma cannon whined as it drew power for a second shot.
The world became a blurred rush of sights and sounds as Sarik powered across the open ground in front of the pylon. His armoured boots pounded the dry ground and his blood thundered in his ears. His heart sang with the sensations of battle and he roared a savage cry to lead his warriors onwards. As the range closed and the White Scars approached the nearest of the smaller structures circling the pylon, the enemy warriors opened fire again. The weight of fire had lessened, for a handful at least had been incapacitated or killed by the molten debris showered on them from above by the destruction of the turret. Small yet deadly bolts of blue energy split the air scant centimetres from Sarik’s body or stitched the ground at his feet. Miraculously, Sarik crossed the open ground without being struck and slammed into the nearest structure, a projector for the invisible energy shield.
Sarik took cover behind the structure as a second bolt of plasma blasted through the air and struck the flank of the main pylon. Sarik could not see its effect, but he heard it a moment later. One of the tau was screaming in what could only have been pain, and another was coolly issuing orders in their alien tongue, the voice made oddly artificial by the helmet the leader wore. Trusting Qaja to do his duty, Sarik went about a hurried examination of the structure he had reached.
The projector was around three metres tall, and made of the same hard, white material as the main sensor pylon. Sarik pressed his hand against it, seeking to judge something of its properties. Even through the armour of his gloves, he felt the hum of machinery within, and judged that he had been correct in his guess as to its function.
Sarik’s squad was closing on his position. He had but seconds.
‘Keep going!’ Sarik bellowed, activating the blade of his chainsword so that the diamond-hard, monomolecular-edged teeth came screaming to deadly life. Gripping the chainsword’s hilt in both hands, he plunged it tip first into the side of the projector.
The structure had been built to survive small-arms fire, the white surface withstanding the strike until Sarik redoubled his efforts and the screaming blade began to pierce the armour. Another second and the chainsword was plunged halfway into the structure, and then Sarik felt its tip come into contact with the systems hidden inside.
A muffled explosion sounded from inside the projector, but Sarik gritted his teeth and forced the chainsword even deeper. His battle-brothers reached his side, and he pushed harder, bringing his full strength, augmented still further by the dense fibre bundles of his power armour, to bear.
A second explosion sounded from with the projector, and a crack appeared across its
face. The air became suddenly charged, as it does the instant before a lightning bolt strikes the ground. Sensing danger, Sarik pulled his chainsword from the ragged wound it had inflicted, and pushed himself backwards.
The air pulsed with searing white light, and the projector exploded, showering the White Scars with fragments of shrapnel, their power armour deflecting the worst of it. The detonation of the first projector was followed a moment later by the next two along, and then by the next, until within seconds every projector around the main sensor pylon had exploded in sequence.
Sarik let out a joyous war cry as his battle-brothers charged across the ground that had previously been denied them by the invisible energy shield. Mad laughter came unbidden to his throat as he pulled himself upright, the sound of chainswords rending alien flesh and bone filling the air.
The main pict screen dominating General Gauge’s command centre lit up with flashing runes as the tacticae logic engines plotted the progress of each of the Space Marine attack forces. ‘All assaults now under way,’ Gauge’s chief of staff reported. ‘First assault report their target was surrounded by some form of one-way energy shield; all commands advised.’
‘Main viewer,’ General Gauge said. As the assaults on the sensor nodes had developed, the command centre had become increasingly busy as Gauge’s staff officers made final preparations for the main landings, which would follow as soon as the tau’s sensor grid was disabled. As the image on the screen shifted, almost every head in the crowded centre turned towards it, the tension building as the stakes got higher with every passing minute.
Near silence descended, the only sound coming from the ever-chattering vox-net channels. The image on the screen now showed the scene of the White Scars’ assault on their objective, and Lucian knew that his friend Sarik would be down there, at the very speartip of the Damocles Gulf Crusade.
As the spy-drone relaying the picts passed almost directly over the scene of the White Scars’ assault, the shape of the main pylon came into view. A ring of burning structures was visible around it, and to the west a group of white-armoured figures moved relentlessly forwards towards their objective. A string of bloody corpses marked their defeat of the alien warriors that had defended the objective.