by Gav Thorpe
Pick a target
Vox-silence
The Lightbearers
Lion’s Gate space port, stratophex core, two days since assault
Slowly accreting more warriors on the advance, Forrix’s hidden force had pushed far from the hordes pouring into the base of the space port, cutting through several Imperial Army cordons to reach the heart of the stratophex. It transpired that the rendezvous point Forrix had selected was located in a nest of hab-dorms clustered about one of the main drop-shafts. Civilians with autoguns and kitchen knives had proved less of an obstacle than the distance to cover, their bodies left cooling in the passageways and rooms they had called home.
The advance had not gone unnoticed – indeed was not meant to be wholly clandestine. With the defenders unsure of the threat posed by the Iron Warriors, several scouting forces had been sent after them, each greeted by a sudden and overwhelming counter-attack. To Forrix it seemed that the Imperial Army colonel or whoever was in charge of the sector had finally decided enough was enough and despatched a company-level force to deal with the interlopers.
As soon as the augur pickets had detected the incoming soldiers Forrix had responded, setting ambushes and a mobile reserve. Twenty minutes had passed since the first shot had been fired and more army personnel were being thrown into the fight. A few mortars and support guns had been brought to bear, frag bombs and armour-piercing shells forcing the Iron Warriors into a more defensive mode around the central hab-cluster. The warsmith was keenly aware that his mission to draw the enemy away from the coming offensive above and below was starting to have an effect.
It was hard to pick out what Gharal was saying over the sound of bolters and thud of shells landing not far above Forrix’s position, though his second-in-command was only a few metres away.
‘It’s safe to break vox-silence now,’ Forrix transmitted to the captain. A red las-blast slashed across his left pauldron, leaving a grey mark through his insignia. ‘I think they know where we are.’
‘Counter-offensive is still sporadic, triarch,’ the captain told him. ‘I can confirm eight hundred and eleven warriors have reached the rendezvous.’
‘We’ve been inside more than twenty-four hours, I don’t expect anyone else to make it to us.’
‘No, triarch. What are your orders?’
‘No contact from either the aerial attack wave or the surface reinforcements?’ As soon as he asked the question Forrix realised it was redundant. ‘Forget that, you’d have told me if there was.’
‘All squads are currently on perimeter guard or mobile reserve assignments, triarch. This is a defensible position. Ingress and exit is only via four corridors. Should we dig in?’
‘Easy to defend, but if we get stuck here, very hard to break out. The longer we stay, the more chance we’ll get bogged down by an insignificant defence force. To draw their attention we need to pose more of a threat. I’m not going to wait for any more stragglers – it’s time to identify a target and push this shiv a bit deeper.’
Another enemy thrust along the passage to the east drew Forrix’s eye. Scores of troopers in plated carapace armour led the fresh offensive, daring the bolter fusillade as they dashed from one doorway to the next. They’d lost half their number in the first fifteen metres. He could not decide if they were brave or stupid to try a forced attack against his Space Marines.
‘I have some schematics, triarch.’ Gharal pushed through the squad protecting Forrix and proffered a slate-projector, its surface criss-crossed with a wireframe rendition of their surroundings. ‘There are a number of potential targets within three kilometres of our position.’
‘The point of our attack is to open up a front inside the space port to allow the upper and lower forces to push forward in strength. These lacklustre assaults will bog us down, but they aren’t a significant commitment. Every bolt we have could kill a trooper and we’ll achieve nothing. It is Dorn’s sons that are the spine of this defence. I need to make sure the Imperial Fists deploy in numbers against us.’
‘So, what does that mean? What objective do we aim for?’
‘Once we have cleared away this chaff, send out eight scouting forces. Ten legionaries each. I want even dispersal, vertically and horizontally, as far as they can go. Have each report levels of resistance every two hundred metres. In particular, keep an eye out for our cousins in yellow. Any contact with Imperial Fists must be signalled immediately.’
‘Yes, triarch…’ Gharal’s uncertainty was betrayed by his wavering affirmative. ‘What are they seeking?’
‘Whichever force encounters the greatest increase in resistance is the one we shall follow.’
The armoured Imperial troopers pushed on again, using their surge to cover the arrival of a pair of tripod-mounted multi-lasers. Soon rapid-fire beams of blue burst along the eastern corridor, sparking from the armour of Forrix’s warriors and leaving scorch marks along the pale yellow walls. Missiles and heavy bolters roared in reply, turning the heavy weapons and their crews to broken metal and flesh.
‘I… Excuse my ignorance, triarch. Why would we knowingly advance into the hardest defence?’
‘If you were defending the space port and you had enemy roaming at will, how would you organise your troops?’
‘I would assign defenders based on a scale of significance and vulnerability. The greater the value of a potential objective, the better defence…’ Gharal laughed as he reached his conclusion. ‘The best defences will be arrayed around the targets that are worth the most to our enemy.’
‘Exactly. It doesn’t matter what we attack, only that the Imperial Fists prize it highly. The more they fight to defend it, the greater its value to them.’
‘And when we have identified the target, triarch?’
‘We move in full force, rapid spear point assault. We’ll break the defence, seize whatever it is the sons of Dorn are trying to protect, and then prepare ourselves for the counter-attack. The greater their response, the better we’re doing…’
Nagapor Territories, fifty-nine days before assault
The scale of the damage was hard to take in. As Zenobi looked along half a kilometre of twisted, burning metal it reminded her of the time when, as a child, she had seen a furnace implosion. Even that didn’t really compare: a brief, violent episode that had slain hundreds but caused little permanent damage to the production line of the cradlespur.
At least seventeen carriages and gun cars had been derailed completely, including the one Zenobi had been in. Half a dozen more had skipped the tracks and were listing one way or the other, zigzagged together by the sudden slowing of the train. The frontmost four cars showed signs of hits but were otherwise intact, as were the last dozen or so.
It was not the sight that reminded her of the flashfire back in Addaba, it was the smell. Charring bodies and burning oil. It brought the memory back, stark and hot, her parents screaming for lost relatives.
It was calmer here. The immediate mayhem had subsided while she’d been trapped in the turret. Search teams picked through the wrecks that were not alight, pulling free the living and the dead. A steady stream of wounded, walking and stretchered, passed by to the rough medicae stations that had been set up away from the train.
With a shock that brought her aimless pacing to a halt, Zenobi remembered the aircraft. She looked up, scanning the smoke-smudged heavens. Dusk tinged the sky with purples and reds.
‘They left.’
Zenobi turned at the sound of Seleen’s voice. Menber was just behind her, a spare uniform in his arms.
‘Put this on, it’ll be getting colder,’ he said, passing her the coverall.
She struggled into the bulky uniform, which was made for someone at least five centimetres taller. She folded up the cuffs and it bunched around her ankles out the top of her boots.
‘I feel like a child,’ she said, flopping her arms up and
down.
‘You’re not, cousin,’ said Menber.
‘You a smart woman,’ Seleen told her. ‘Good thinking, using your uniform to put out that fire. That’s a bright brain inside your skull.’
‘Do we know who’s dead yet?’ Zenobi asked quietly, surveying the wreckage.
‘Sergeant Alekzanda,’ said Seleen, swallowing hard.
Zenobi choked back a sob and Menber held her arm as she swayed.
‘Come on, sit down,’ he said, leading her away from the burning train. She took several steps and then shook her head, pulling herself away.
‘I can help,’ she told him, wiping soot and tears from her face with the sleeve of her new clothes. ‘I’m not hurt.’
‘You took in a lot of smoke, Obi,’ said Seleen. ‘That’s not good.’
‘I’m not hurt,’ insisted Zenobi, starting back towards the carriage behind the gunnery car. ‘And the company banner is in there somewhere.’
She saw the two of them exchange a glance.
‘It’s important,’ Zenobi insisted.
There were two piles of bodies, one at each end of the car a few metres from the doors. The whole carriage had tipped along with the gunnery carriage, but there was space between them to get to the entrances. Zenobi squeezed through easily enough, once again thankful for her small size.
It was strange to see everything at a right angle to its former position. She walked along the wall between the ends of the benches and the windows, trying to find where she had stowed the banner.
There were puddles and smears of blood on the painted metal, and a few hands and feet stuck out from under the mangled remains of benches that had come loose from their fastenings, too entangled to be removed. The roof was on her left, the hammocks still bundled where they had been before the attack.
Luckily there had been no fire here. Or perhaps it was something more than luck, she thought. She remembered what the Beta Platoon trooper had tried to tell her, about powers greater than her. Maybe there was a force that was protecting the standard, the physical proof of her loyalty and dedication to the cause.
She found the banner pole but it was stuck behind the webbing of the hammock. Looking around she found a bayonet that had slipped from a kitbag. She used it to saw through the straps, until she, the hammock and the banner pole fell backwards, tumbling over a bench.
‘You okay?’ Menber called from the door, his shock of curled hair silhouetted against the ruddy twilight.
‘Fine, cousin.’ Zenobi struggled to her feet, untangling the hammock from her boot. She picked her way back to the door, slipping twice on drying blood. Coming out into the open air made her realise how dark it had been inside the carriage, though day was rapidly giving way to night-time.
Flames added to the crimson illumination, and by its light she saw integrity officers moving through the gangs of labouring troopers. One of them approached the gathering members of Epsilon Platoon and other scattered company soldiers.
‘Any vox-sets here?’ she asked. One hand was on her holstered pistol, a slender disciplinary cane in the other.
‘Yeah, I got the platoon set,’ said Beley, pointing to a bulky transmitter box that was set on the dirt nearby. There were lasguns, power packs and a few rations boxes heaped next to it.
The integrity officer walker over to the vox-set, raised a booted foot and stamped hard on the communications equipment. The box was sturdy and hardly bent under the blow.
‘What are you doing?’ Beley took a few steps towards her amidst cries from the others, but a glare from the integrity officer stopped him mid-stride and silenced the rest.
She kicked the set over, exposing the speaker to her descending heel. Again and again she drove her boot into the controls, until grille, dials and internal circuits were scattered about, sparks and crackles emitting from the dying voxcaster.
‘What was that for?’ asked Zenobi. She regretted the outburst, but was still unsettled from her recent trauma and couldn’t stop the words coming out. ‘We might need that.’
‘There will be no unauthorised transmissions. Several vox-sets will be retained for corps command.’ The integrity officer stepped closer, looking at each of them. ‘Someone tried to contact the incoming aircraft prior to the attack.’
Zenobi drew in a breath, exchanging glances with the others nearby.
‘What happened to them?’ asked Kettai.
‘Dead, in the attack,’ replied the integrity officer, scowling. ‘Unfortunate that she died before we could learn if there were any others that thought as she did.’
The integrity officer drew away from them, cane swishing in her hand.
‘The closer we come to the battle, the greater the risk of treachery. There can be no complacency.’
‘Yes, bana-madam,’ said Kettai, snapping off a salute.
‘Get down to the intact carriages. Work parties are separating the locomotive and functional cars. You’ll be detailed your labours. There’s no way we can move this mess,’ a sweeping cane indicated the buckled remains of the train’s middle cars, ‘so we’ll be walking the rest of the way to the Palace.’
Basilica Ventura, five days since assault
To Keeler the encampment of the Lightbearers was to the shanty shrines as the Sanctum Imperialis was to the shack of a toll keeper. In the ever-twilight of the besieged Imperial Palace, gloom had become the norm, but the Lightbearers had decided to be literal with their name. By some means they had reactivated the energy grid around the Basilica Ventura, which was a gate keep that guarded the Via Oxidentus. The forbidding walls of the barbican were hung with brightly coloured lights and the rooftop avenue that led to it was lined with lamp posts gleaming with red and blue lumens.
Most of the Palace was in collapse nearby, having been struck by several orbital lance bursts during a failure of the aegis. Into the desolation a small sect of the Lectitio Divinitatus had ventured, Keeler had learned, led by a man called Olivier Muižnieks. There was little known about him from before his arrival a few weeks earlier, but already the Lightbearers numbered several hundred devotees. They were sending out messengers to other groups of the Lectitio Divinitatus, actively inviting members to come and join them.
This certainly was not a furtive prayer-meet in an abandoned tithe house. Keeler was surprised by the number of people that were gathering. It was late evening, though nothing could be seen of stars and moon through the storm above the Palace. Ranging from individuals to extended families, the faithful of the Lightbearers climbed up through the broken ruin of a scriptorum and onto the Via Oxidentus, which ran towards the western districts. The imposing towers and domes of the Capitol Imperator loomed above them, shadowed against the faint glimmer of void shields.
Keeler had come alone, wanting to see for herself the nature of the Lightbearers’ rituals without the distraction of Amon’s presence. The Custodian’s desire to investigate had been placated by a promise that she would meet with him the next morning and report everything she witnessed. In addition, she wore a brooch shaped like a rose, into which had been secured a miniature pict recorder so that Amon could review the encounter himself.
The immense double doors of the basilica were open, more light spilling from inside, bathing the brickwork road in a yellow glow. Everything seemed clean compared to the shanties that held sway everywhere else, with barely a piece of grit to mar the swept pathway.
Half a dozen children stood at the doors handing out small lanterns made from the pierced casings of large bore cannons, with twisted wire for handles. She wasn’t sure what had been used for the oil within, but assumed it had been salvaged from one of the hundreds of downed planes that had fallen around the Palace during the height of the aerial battle. Nobody gave Keeler a second glance as she took up one of the lamps and stepped within.
The basilica itself had been almost hollowed out by a blast that had pie
rced the roof. Floors and walkways of metal sheets and wooden planks covered the hole that burrowed half a kilometre down into the body of the Sanctum Imperialis’ foundations, and parts of the upper levels remained like mezzanines, lined with more of the faithful. The glow of so many lanterns suffused everything with visual warmth, and Keeler could feel a spirit of welcome embracing her as she ascended a ramp to the nearest level.
She found a place between several families – there were all ages here, including a few attendees in their Imperial Army uniforms. Smiles greeted her but thankfully no questions.
About half an hour passed until the doors swung closed, leaving only the light of the lanterns that spiralled up the inside of the basilica. About halfway up, some forty metres above the doors, a curtain was pulled back from an archway and a youthful man stepped out, flanked by a pair of older women. They were dressed in identical robes of white and yellow, a glittering of metallic thread around collar, hem and cuff. All three had shaved heads, a sheen of perspiration on their hairless scalps. The two women each carried a large volume, bound in black leather or mock-leather, embossed with silver writing. Many scraps of paper jutted from between the pages, marking particular passages of what Keeler knew to be the Book of Divinity. Her hand moved to her far humbler copy beneath her dress, and saw others around her doing likewise, the book itself as much a totem as a reference work.
Olivier Muižnieks, for such it had to be, advanced a few paces further than his companions, his hands clasped to his belly. There was a softness about him, a little flesh on the jowls, a bit of a paunch at the waist. Unusual in such dire times, when so many ate only rarely. On further study, Keeler saw a looseness in the skin that suggested Olivier had been carrying a lot more weight until recently. He wasn’t putting himself above the food shortages suffered by his congregation.