by Gav Thorpe
‘What is it? What is it?’ She thrust a hand at Menber and then Kettai. ‘Let me see! Help me up.’
The two glanced at each other and then sighed, turning towards one another and crouching so that their knees formed steps. It was common practice in the work crews, to help reach a fouled gear or belt, and more illicit destinations among the factory levels such as the crawlspaces used for a quick mozo smoke break or to share a flask of tei.
Zenobi’s lack of height meant she was used to such improvised ladders and she quickly scaled the two men, coming to rest on their shoulders. From her elevated position she could see across the mass of troopers to the far end of the station, several hundred metres away. In the sunlight beyond the shadow of the vast roof something dark was approaching along the tracks, though it was hard to tell what it was amongst the dust kicked up from the old seabed.
At first she thought it was eight trains approaching in unison, for the dark patch within the dust cloud straddled all of the lines that came into the station. Another half-minute revealed the error of her assumption. It was not multiple trains but one vast engine, running along the parallel tracks, which meant that it had to be more than a hundred metres wide. She glanced up at the roof, understanding now why the station required such titanic proportions, to accommodate a vehicle that was easily thirty metres high.
Her upbringing in the confines of Addaba had not given her much of a sense of distance, and the train’s massive size made a mockery of normal perspective, so it was only after watching for several minutes that Zenobi realised it was still some way off, at least half a kilometre. It was approaching slowly, probably no faster than walking pace, its slate-grey armoured prow forcing its way through the bank of grit and sand kicked up by its passage.
The rails between the platforms were humming now, their vibrations coursing into the rockcrete with increasing volume. A hushed sense of awe settled on the Addaba troopers as they watched the marvel of engineering bearing down upon them like the great elfants of Old Earth myth that could lay waste to armies with their curving tusks and fearsome bellows.
The hum became a rattle, while from the distant train came a grumbling of metal wheels accompanied by a higher-pitched whine. Zenobi could make out more of its prow as it neared the far end of the station. There was an offset cab at the upper left side – probably large enough to house a crew of dozens but seemingly small against the flat angle of the train’s impossibly broad nose. On the other side was a multi-gunned turret, one of several that blistered around the engine car, each holding two large-bore cannons and a variety of small anti-personnel armaments, much like those of the gun nests beneath the station roof.
A fog billowed from exhaust vents along the sides, tinged by pale blue light from within the immense locomotive.
‘Plasma reactor…’ whispered Kettai.
Though it was still slowing, moving at barely a crawl as it passed into the gloom, massive air displacement sent a sandstorm roiling along the rails and platforms. Warning shouts greeted the cloud of swirling dust as troopers covered their faces and turned their backs in a ripple that passed back through the crowd.
‘Watch yourself!’ Menber cried out, pulling Zenobi down from her perch, one bulky arm crooked around her shoulder to pull her into the protection of his chest.
She scrunched her eyes shut, the rattle of grit and sand and the curses of the Addaba hivers heralding the arrival of the dust cloud. It scoured across the back of her neck and prickled at her exposed shoulders, swirling between her and Menber, who had his chin buried in his chest, a calloused hand like a visor on his brow.
The light disappeared as the dust wave passed over them, but the gloom was nothing compared to the darkness beneath the train as it snarled over their heads, the clatter of wheels like the deafening pound of a hundred forge hammers. The wheeze of venting coolant vapour, long shriek of braking plates and tremor of throbbing power lines churned in Zenobi’s gut. She gripped the front of Menber’s coverall with her free hand, fingers making a tight fist in the material as the monstrous engine continued to rumble over them, the absence of light combining with the noise to overwhelm her senses.
Only another minute or two passed, but it felt like an age until quiet suddenly descended. It was broken by the coughs and muttering of her companions and the slow tick-tick-tick of cooling metal.
Bright orange lumens flared into life along the length of the train, bathing the platforms with harsh light. Zenobi blinked tears away, teeth gritted against this fresh assault. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the underside of the train was barely two metres above her head. Slender metal ladders rattled down from hatches to either side of the platforms, the interior of the train lit by a more ambient yellow gleam.
‘Boarding begins now!’ The command rolled along the station from the front, passed from officer to sub-officer to squad leaders. ‘Ascend to the third level. Stow your kit beneath the cots. Sit on your cot and await further instruction.’
Again and again these orders rang through the companies, as the troopers recovered and started to move towards the ladders.
‘This way, this way,’ called Lieutenant Okoye, pushing his way towards a ladder on Zenobi’s left, the sealed underside of the train blazoned with a numeral beside it – ‘143’. ‘First squad, climb the ladder and take the stairwell to the top. Move it!’
The platoon shuffled forward as one, directed by their common destination. Zenobi waited until she had space to manoeuvre the banner into the opening, pushing it up the ladder towards Sergeant Alekzanda, who waited at the top. Her lasgun swung down between her legs as she climbed, threatening to trip her, until she wrestled it back onto her shoulder.
Shouts from below urged her to hurry and she almost lost her footing, swinging by one hand, just a toe on a rung.
‘Here, here, your hand!’ Someone reached down and she grabbed the proffered wrist, feeling iron-strong fingers curling around her own. She was almost bodily lifted into the opening and deposited on the decking. Zenobi looked up to see who had helped her and saw that it was Xirsi, the sergeant from third squad. He was short like most hivers, but so broad she wondered how he had fitted through the hatch.
‘Come on, yeye, up you go,’ he said, pointing to a metal spiral stair a few metres along the narrow passageway.
Zenobi took a couple of steps and then returned to claim the banner from Alekzanda. Her sergeant raised an eyebrow.
‘Keep it safe, Zenobi.’
Face flushing with humiliation, not just regarding the banner but her whole undignified entry into the train, she hurried to the stairwell and ascended, not daring to look at anyone else until she had reached the top level.
The stair brought her out into a chamber that ran half the width of the train, filled with cots. There were no windows, but every few metres a ladder pierced the ceiling.
‘Not that way,’ called Kettai as she took a step away from the stairwell. He waved her closer and pointed to the bunks that lined the metal wall. ‘First squad over there.’
She nodded her thanks and hurried over, joining the increasing throng of troopers spreading out into their strange accommodation. The cots were plain metal frames with thin mattresses, built atop a low locker box. She realised that each bunk had a serial etched into a small brass plate on the headboard and swiftly decoded it as company, platoon and squad followed by two initials. She found hers quickly enough, just as Menber and the others arrived, Alekzanda bringing up the rear.
‘Welcome to your new home, brave troopers of Addaba,’ the sergeant announced, tossing his bag onto the bunk next to Zenobi’s. ‘Next stop, Himalazia.’
‘Oh, Throne-heart, we coming to you,’ said Seleen, her grin flashing uneven teeth yellowed from too much mozo. She winked at Zenobi. ‘Hope you packed clean baggies, yeye, we’re off to see the Emperor.’
The first wave
Allies in blood
> Integrity officers
Lion Primus Strategium, Sky City, six hours before assault
‘Dross.’ Fafnir Rann handed the data-tablet back to Haeger.
‘A lot of dross, commander.’ Haeger passed the report to one of the logistaria attendants, who withdrew to his post. The strategium was designated Lion Primus, and Rann had set it up in the two hundred and ninety-eighth level of Sky City, replacing the civilian command hub that had once run the core-wards’ transport network. Vox-murmur and the clicking of augur relays provided a constant backdrop to the conversation. ‘Three hundred thousand strong and growing by the hour.’
‘It doesn’t matter if there are a million of them, lieutenant-commander. Logistics and physics are on our side. A force that size can’t bring all of its strength to bear against a narrow front.’
‘We cannot allow them to reach the defence lines,’ argued Haeger.
‘We can and we will, but I’m not throwing valuable soldiers away to hold a line in the dirt. All forces will withdraw to the Lion’s Gate space port.’
An adjutant in the uniform of the Terran Conscriptia hurried across the strategium, her brow furrowed.
‘Withdraw, lord commander?’
‘Drop the “lord”, I’m not a primarch,’ Rann told the young woman. He saw confusion in her eyes, shared by Haeger. ‘Perturabo is like a vox-broadcast on repeat. This tactic of sending in the worthless masses has been tried over and over since the traitors landed.’
‘And Lord Dorn has seen fit to match them with our…’ Haeger glanced at the adjutant, unsure of how to phrase his words.
‘Basic mass formation troops,’ the adjutant replied quietly. ‘That is the correct term in the Imperial Army.’
‘…indeed,’ Haeger continued. ‘The enemy would have us expend our strength slaying mutants and beasts. Our orders from Lord Dorn are simple – to hold for as long as possible.’
‘I’ll not have brave women and men slaughtered just to save some bolter rounds,’ Rann growled. Haeger looked as though he might object further but Rann silenced him with a raised hand. ‘It’s not sentimentality. We have to take the initiative now and then, otherwise Perturabo and his generals will think they can do as they please. I want them to feel uncomfortable.’
‘Am I to send the withdrawal now, Lor– Commander Rann?’
‘How long until all the outer defence regiments can be inside the port?’
‘Two hours,’ the adjutant replied promptly. ‘Three if you want us to set demolitions beforehand.’
‘Do that,’ Rann said with a smile. ‘The first enemy wave will be here in six hours. Do not begin the withdrawal for another two, I want our enemies to commit to a plan before we change things.’
‘The grand batteries of the Iron Warriors will be within range,’ said Haeger. ‘If you wait that long the withdrawal will be made under fire.’
‘We’ll boost the base layer fields, extend them a kilometre for the final hour of withdrawal. Redirect power from the mesophex to compensate for the drain on the reactors. Leave enough for the upper defence cannons to dissuade any orbital approach, but drop the shielding. If Perturabo wants to capture the space port he’s not going to start by bombarding the landing docks.’
The adjutant waited for a few seconds to see if any more commands were forthcoming, and then snapped off a sharp salute before moving to the closest communications station. Haeger remained.
‘You’re not happy, lieutenant-commander.’
‘I would not dispute your orders,’ replied Haeger stiffly. ‘However, Lord Dorn has been exact in his preparations, both in the raising of the defences and their manning. Is it really wise to discard that on a whim?’
‘A whim?’ Rann kept his temper in check, though his fingers tapped on the haft of the axe at his left hip. ‘Is that how this seems to you?’
Haeger was intelligent and chose not to answer. Rann gestured for Haeger to come closer. The lieutenant-commander took a step and, being a few centimetres taller, dipped his head slightly. Rann’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘I have commanded the First Assault Cadre for many years. I bear the title Lord Seneschal, though I don’t insist others use it often.’ Rann leaned closer still, teeth gritted. ‘Most importantly, Lord Dorn put me in charge.’
He stepped back, voice rising a little, but not enough to carry further than Haeger.
‘I know you will follow my orders, lieutenant-commander, and I am not going to make a habit of explaining myself. But this time, just this once, because I need you to trust me, I will make something clear.’ Rann strode across the strategium towards the main display, a square table five metres across that was currently showing an orbital view of the space port and the surrounding twenty square kilometres. It was a simulacrum generated from records and augur data; there were no loyalist orbital assets left in the vicinity. A servitor burbled into life at their approach: a torso, head and arms wired into the side of the table, a nest of cables springing from its spine to other cogitating engines arranged around the chamber. The logistaria hurried over from his alcove and took his place at a control panel next to the servitor.
‘Top view, Highway Four,’ said Rann, leaning forward with fists on the plasteel edge of the screen-table.
‘Analysing. Compressing.’ The servitor’s head tilted left and right as it processed the information from the strategium’s databanks. The logistaria’s fingers tapped a few commands into his panel. ‘Display adjustment in progress.’
The table went slate grey for several seconds and then flickered into life, showing a rendition of the broad road that led almost straight from the Iron Warriors’ landing site to the space port, entering by means of a three-hundred-metre-wide barbican and gate.
‘Highlight emplaced defences.’
‘Highlighting static weapon positions.’ The servitor’s eyes rolled towards Rann and then back to the display. Red smudges blurred the walls and towers that flanked the road.
‘It’s a killing ground,’ Rann said to Haeger.
‘Yes, lord seneschal. I oversaw the construction.’
‘Of course,’ said Rann, allowing the gentle rebuke. ‘High-powered laser batteries, macro cannons and assorted plasma platforms.’
‘A combination of anti-vehicle and anti-legionary guns. The mass waves employed by the enemy will have no chance.’
‘But the whole point of their assault is to sap our resources. If we sit in the trenches and behind the walls, we’ll be doing exactly what Perturabo wants us to do. There’s a better way to hold off the attack and ensure we have the weaponry available to meet the full-scale legionary and armoured assault which is bound to follow.’
Rann moved around to the logistaria’s position and took up a light wand, with which he started to make marks upon the display. As he did so, he explained his plan.
‘I will lead the First Assault Cadre to meet the enemy attack, supported on the wings here by two columns of heavy tanks and a mobile attack reserve – bikes and speeders.’ Rann drew in the lines, forming a V-shape against the line of the enemy advance, with a few swipes to indicate the counter-attack movements from a pair of lesser gateways that flanked the main barbican.
‘What will that achieve that the gun emplacements cannot?’ asked Haeger. ‘Or the Imperial Army remaining in their bunkers and trenches?’
‘It’s about planning for defeat,’ said Rann. ‘Rearranging the layers so that they work for us, not the enemy. We save ammunition on the big guns until the armoured assault, and keep the volcano cannons and other high-energy weapons dormant so that maximum power flows to the shields. It’s all about time and how much of it we make Perturabo use up. We can’t stop the enemy getting in, not forever. Cannons on walls are no good then, but thirty thousand massed infantry holding the interior will be.’
‘And the assault cadre is as good as any wall,’ said Haeger, nod
ding to himself.
‘A wall we can put where we like,’ added Rann. ‘I can assure you that whatever else our enemies have in mind, they have not considered the possibility that our first act in defence will be an attack…’
‘I shall issue orders to gather the flanking forces and reserve. I assume you will lead the muster of the First Assault Cadre personally.’
‘You assume correctly, lieutenant-commander.’ Rann caught the warrior’s eye just before he turned to leave. ‘I hope I have made myself clear.’
‘The doubts were mine to own, not yours, lord seneschal,’ said Haeger, banging a fist to his plastron. ‘I have prepared for this moment for seven years, but in the event have fallen victim to predictable orthodoxy.’
‘I can’t take all the credit,’ said Rann. ‘Lord Sigismund put the thought in my mind. I recall what the Khan and his White Scars accomplished when set free. To be honest I think the Imperial Fists can do even better.’
‘We will, lord seneschal. Death to the traitors!’
‘Death to the traitors,’ growled Rann. ‘Every last one of them.’
He returned his attention to the display as Haeger strode away. The lines and shapes he had drawn looked so simple on the schematic, but he saw them with the eye of a battlefield commander, as ranks of warriors and squadrons of engines, lit by the fury of fire and resounding with the crash of war. It was a bold move, and he was certain of success. Even so, Dorn had not taught him to be rash. He started to think about the many ways the tide of conflict might turn against him and what could be done to ensure they did not come to pass.
XII Legion vanguard, proximity of Daylight Wall,
four hours before assault
The tracks of a solitary Rhino transport carved furrows through mud made slick with blood, scattering shards of half-buried bones. Beneath the gore-spatter it was a solid gunmetal, its hatches and cupolas painted in yellow-and-black stripes. A banner pole bent beneath a broad standard, depicting the metallic skull face of the IV Legion, blazoned against crossed lightning bolts on a field of black. Battle honours were stitched into dozens of scrolls around the main device and the top edge showed signs of wear, charred by some historic conflagration that the Iron Warriors had seen fit to commemorate by leaving this scar unrepaired.