by Gav Thorpe
She pushed the arming stud but nothing happened – no vibration of the energy cell activating, no indicator lights turning from red to amber to green.
‘Powercells are frozen,’ she whispered, turning her head to Sergeant Attah on her left.
In reply, the sergeant pulled out her own lasgun and repeatedly breathed on the main body of it. After a minute or so of this, a flickering light lit the sergeant’s face from below.
Zenobi nodded and copied Attah, holding the lasgun close to her mouth to maximise the body heat that reached it. She tested the activation stud each time, and after the fourth misty exhalation the lights glimmered into jade life. Whether it would be enough to hold a charge after a shot was another matter.
‘Not that they’ll be much good against tanks,’ muttered Kettai. Squad structure had been abandoned on the march; everyone moved at their own pace as best they could. Several dozen more troopers had been lost in the time since they’d come across the frozen battle – six days? Seven days? More?
She shifted, a root digging at her thigh. The sound of engines changed, growing louder but also more diffused as the source came closer. Rather than reverberating down the valley as a single noise, she thought she could pick up individual vehicles and the rumble of tracks on the road.
It sounded familiar.
Bulky shapes loomed through the flurries of snow, and the wind brought the distinctive tang of fuel exhaust. The steady clank-clank-clank grew louder still as they approached. The snarl of gears and squeal of a turret rotating on its ring punctuated the noise. There were dozens, perhaps scores of tanks driving slowly up the road, the back of the column lost in the distance and snow.
Accounting for the fact that they were in the open air rather than a cavernous testing chamber, the sound took her back to the times she’d crept into the arming hangar at the end of the line, where the fully assembled tanks were driven from the production facility. She wasn’t the only one that thought so. There were exclamations around her.
‘These are our tanks!’ said Menber.
Green pennants flew from whip aerials, bent forward by the prevailing wind. Every few tanks there was one that bore the flag of a squadron commander. These were large, square standards decorated with the laurels of the Imperial Army encircling two crossing curved blades.
‘I know that flag,’ said Kettai, rising to his knees. ‘That’s from Bakk-Makkah, one of the cities we sent our tanks.’
All along the line troopers and officers were breaking from the banks of snow, their shouts almost lost in the cacophony of engines. They waved their hands to attract the attention of the crews.
Someone in command must have seen them. One by one the tanks ground to a halt, turrets and sponson guns bearing on the approaching infantry.
Menber helped Zenobi up, as she cradled her lasgun under her arm and pulled the standard pole from a white drift. Flanked by her cousin and Kettai, she waded back towards the road, using the banner like a staff to negotiate the parts that came almost to her waist.
There was a tank almost directly opposite their position – a gap of ten metres between it and its neighbours. A heavy bolter in the closest sponson was trained on them, as was the massive battle cannon in the turret. Steam billowed from the engine vents and grey slicked the blizzard from the exhaust stacks at the rear. Melting ice left streaks on the dirty hull, revealing a grey camouflage scheme that made Zenobi laugh.
‘I might have painted that,’ she said, her main labour having been with the spray brush just before the end of the line. Her family were – had been, she reminded herself – fitters and finishers by trade.
The hatch atop the turret creaked open and a young man – no more than twenty or twenty-one, Zenobi thought – rose cautiously from within. He had a laspistol in hand, his face hidden behind broad goggles over a tanker’s cap. His mouth and nose were swathed in a scarf woven of bright red, emerald green and dark blue. What she could see of his skin was lighter than her own, though it might have also been caked in grime.
He pulled up the goggles, squinting against the wind.
‘Stay where you are, do not approach.’ The voxmitter of the tank didn’t mask his clipped accent. He raised the laspistol as if the threat of the battle cannon and heavy bolter were not enough.
‘We’re from Addaba,’ Kettai called out. ‘We made your tanks!’
‘Keep back,’ the commander warned. They did as he said, stopping about twenty metres from the low wall that ran along the roadside. ‘We will open fire if you come closer.’
The message was the same all along the column, so that the Addaba Free Corps formed a near-continuous line three and four deep. Platoon commanders wearily told their subordinates to remain in place and assured them that General-Captain Egwu was communicating with the leader of the armoured regiment.
‘You from Bakk-Makkah?’ Menber called out. ‘How long have you been driving?’
‘Fourteen days, including resupply stops,’ the commander called back over the voxmitter. ‘Where did you say you come from?’
‘Addaba,’ Menber told him.
The commander stiffened with surprised.
‘You’ve walked five thousand kilometres?’
There were laughs from the Free Corps troopers.
‘Feels like it, but no,’ Menber explained. ‘We had a train but it was attacked. Been walking the last five hundred kilometres or so. Do you know how far we’ve got left?’
The tank commander leaned forward, resting his arm on the turret roof, holding the laspistol more casually now.
‘About another three hundred kilometres until we reach the Katabatic Plains.’ He pointed eastwards, towards the roiling aurora of the continuing attack. ‘The road goes pretty much straight from here, but that’s at least another fifteen days on foot in these conditions.’
‘And more,’ said Menber. ‘Everyone’s exhausted.’
‘Any chance of a ride?’ Kettai called out.
‘That’s what I’m waiting to hear from General Mushezibti. I’d say yes, but it’s not up to me.’
They fell silent as they awaited the verdict of the consultation between their commanders. A figure approached along the line, one arm in a sling. It was Tesfaye, the integrity officer assigned to the platoon, the one that Zenobi had stopped Tewedros murdering. Okoye and a few of the sergeants gravitated towards him, seeking news.
The integrity officer continued along the line, looking at the troopers. He pitched his voice to be heard above the wind, but not so much that it would carry over the idling engines of the tanks. He repeated himself every dozen steps, speaking to the troopers in clusters.
‘Remember to keep your tongues still,’ said Tesfaye as he came upon Zenobi and the others nearby. ‘Any one of these Bakk-Makkahi might relate anything we say to those that would see us thwarted. They are temporary allies at best, do not become overly familiar.’
Tesfaye carried on, his words lost in the snowstorm, and soon so was he.
‘I guess that means we’ll be getting a ride,’ said Kettai.
His guess was proven correct a few minutes later. Shouts moved along the line from the front, but before they reached the survivors of Epsilon Platoon the tank commander was on the voxmitter.
‘Good news, my new friends. Climb aboard!’
One of the gunner hatches opened and a crewman exited, guiding them to where they could safely sit on the track skirts, avoiding the hot engine grille and exhausts.
Most of them were used to scrambling over the giant beasts of metal, and probably knew their way around better than those within, finding handholds and spaces amongst the baggage and spare track links already strapped along the flanks.
‘If we come under attack, you get off instantly,’ the commander continued as they pulled themselves and their gear up the tank’s sides. ‘You don’t want to be aboard when we get into
battle.’
Zenobi found herself helped up to the turret itself. She saw the commander looking at her with dark brown eyes, and wondered what he made of the dishevelled, coat-swathed shape in front of him. His appraising gaze made her smile, appreciation in his eyes as they lingered on her rimed face.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked.
He pulled down the scarf to reveal thin lips smiling, beneath a generous moustache. Zenobi found the shape of them appealing, as she did the broad cheek bones and the rest of his features. Very appealing.
‘I like what I see,’ said the commander. He held out a hand and she clumsily shook it. ‘I am Nasha and this,’ he thumped a hand on the armoured turret, ‘is Breath of Wrath.’
‘Nice,’ said Zenobi, stroking a hand along the welded plate. ‘I hope you’re taking care of her.’
‘Her?’
‘Everything we make in Addaba is a girl,’ said Zenobi. She grinned, having not really thought about it before. ‘We find they have a better temperament that way.’
‘And you are?’
‘Zenobi. Zenobi Adedeji.’
Their eyes met and she felt the frisson of attraction again. It seemed ridiculous, to be flirting with this man she had just met, in the middle of a blizzard, on the way to her first and last battle. She couldn’t help it; the chemistry was immediate, the feeling mutual.
‘You’re a small one, Zenobi Adedeji.’ He leaned back in the turret hatch. ‘I reckon I might be able to squeeze you in here. If you’re willing and allowed, of course.’
Zenobi moved closer and he pulled himself out fully, offering her his hands to help her, strong around her waist.
She half-heard Menber saying something behind her and Kettai laughing. It didn’t matter. To get away from the snow and the cold and the wind for a few minutes, Zenobi would have accepted even had Nasha been a toothless, ugly brute of a man.
It was just a bonus that he wasn’t.
Call for a champion
Complications
Plague of belief
Exultant Wall zone, twelve days since assault
Keeler watched the Custodians and Regent move away before she turned back to Dorn and Sigismund. She could feel the antipathy of the primarch like a physical force, as though waves of heat emanated from the immense warrior. He turned a belligerent stare down to her, a lip curled.
‘We have nothing further to discuss.’
Keeler struggled to find her voice in the face of the primarch’s disdain. Swallowing hard she remembered she was doing the Emperor’s work and forced herself to look up at the glowering demigod.
‘I would like to speak with Captain Sigismund.’
Dorn stepped closer, just half a pace, but in that small movement he changed from bulky to menacingly oppressive. Like a moon being eclipsed by its planet, Keeler’s world shrank to the couple of metres between them, as though nothing else existed. Her hand moved to the book concealed in her breast pocket.
‘Your lies have done enough damage. There will be no more.’
She trembled as she met his iron gaze, knowing that those eyes had looked upon the deaths of thousands, millions even, and shown not the slightest compassion. It was as if Dorn were made of the same unfeeling stone as the fortifications he built.
‘I have not lied. Is it not true that had he travelled to Phall, Sigismund would now be among the thousands of dead?’
‘He is no better than those that gave their lives. Now he thinks himself special. Weakened by your delusion, he took the coward’s choice.’
Keeler stepped back, giving herself space to breathe. She felt the reassuring presence of Sindermann at her shoulder, his hand lightly touching her arm. Past Dorn she saw the First Captain a few metres away, head turned towards them. She addressed her next words to him directly.
‘The Emperor has need of you, Sigismund.’
‘No more!’ Dorn clenched his fists. Keeler drew back with a gasp, though she did not think he would swing them with lethal intent. His shoulders flexed within his bulky armour, servos whining as he sought to control his temper. ‘Is it not enough that you robbed me of one of my finest sons? Do not turn him further from his duty!’
‘He is not your son, he is the Emperor’s!’ snarled Keeler. She recoiled, shocked by her own vehemence; her voice lowered and she looked at the warrior in yellow and black. ‘The great enemies we face choose their champions and pour all of their spite and power into them. Horus is at the pinnacle, a vessel for all the hurt and tragedy and wrath that the warp-twisted body can hold.’
Her eyes moved back to Dorn.
‘Your brothers, I hear they have become something else, have they not? The perverted gifts of their gods give them abilities beyond even those that the Emperor bestowed upon you. You have not the strength to face them without accepting the power of the Emperor into your soul.’
‘Soul? Keep your nonsense to yourself.’
‘Then what is it that stays their advance? A psychic shield? Or the soul of the Emperor, bright and hot to them, as the Astronomican is to the Navigators.’ She made one more entreaty to Sigismund. ‘Who will face those champions of the Dark Powers? The Emperor needs His own, and through me He has guided your step from disaster to stand here upon these walls to face them.’
‘No more.’ Dorn’s voice was a growl as he loomed over Keeler. He thrust a finger towards Sigismund without looking in his direction. ‘Go to the gate keep now, captain.’
Sigismund remained a moment, silently watching Keeler, before he turned and continued down the corridor.
‘It is only the mantle of Malcador that keeps you from your deserved cell, Keeler,’ Dorn told her, bending low so that they were almost eye to eye. ‘Report to him. Work with the Custodians. If I learn that you have spoken to any of my warriors again, Malcador’s protection will not keep you safe, and it will not be imprisonment that silences you.’
He straightened and composed himself for several seconds, eyes closed. When he opened them, he looked at Sindermann, silently appraising the old man. The primarch said nothing of his conclusions but pivoted on his heel and marched after Sigismund.
Keeler stood shaking, Sindermann’s hand on her arm. Taking a deep breath, she stood upright, drawing her hand away from the book within her dress. Sigismund’s ascension to the truth was but one of the tasks she had been set by the Emperor. The matter with the Lightbearers required her full focus.
Lion’s Gate space port, mesophex approach,
fourteen days since assault
How many times had Sigismund sat like this, in a drop pod or gunship or boarding torpedo, hurtling towards battle, sat in quiet repose? His Templars knew him well and did not interrupt his silence, save for the periodic countdown to their landing. Three minutes.
It was therefore strange for Sigismund when the pilot, Kassar, contacted him on the command vox-channel.
‘First Captain, apologies for the interruption, but there has been a development.’
‘What sort of development?’
‘Augur scans show a notable hole in the Iron Warriors’ deployment. A landing apron behind their advance appears unprotected.’
‘A trap?’
‘Unlikely, First Captain. Energy signature suggests that a force landed there in drop pods but rather than securing the site they have pressed onwards in totality, leaving no rearguard.’
‘Where?’
‘Fourth Eastward quay-spur, First Captain. Large enough for the whole force to land.’
‘Agreed. Send word to the rest of the expedition. Redirect attack to the Fourth Eastward quay-spur.’
‘Affirmative.’
Sigismund felt the craft bank as it adjusted course, so that it would come around the space port and approach from the opposite direction. The captain of the Templars tried to regain his focus, drawing into himself o
nce more. He brought his hands together, remembering the conversation with Lord Dorn and Euphrati Keeler. He had not thought to see her again and her presence was a source of some turbulence in his mind.
He could not afford to be distracted. The Iron Warriors and World Eaters would break through Rann’s defensive line within hours. It vexed Sigismund that he did not know whether Dorn had despatched him because of the urgency of the situation or because he had finally wanted to be rid of the First Captain.
Had he been sent to Lion’s Gate space port to die?
Ninety seconds.
The Stormbird slowed. Gunners opened fire as defensive batteries overrun by the traitors targeted the incoming assault force. Flak shells exploded around the descending gunships, shrapnel rattling against the armoured hull.
Sigismund drove the sound away. This was his chance to prove himself. If he delivered the space port from the enemy it was proof that he had been right to return to Terra rather than join the ill-fated expedition to Phall. This was the battle for which he had been directed.
Keeler herself had said as much. Had Lord Dorn been convinced by her words? He had departed in anger, but perhaps cooler, wiser counsel could yet prevail.
Ten seconds.
Sigismund stood up, checking the chains that kept his sword locked to his armour. Bound by metal, bound by oath, bound by fate to his blade.
The Stormbird dropped almost vertically, plasma jets roaring. Assault ramps slammed down and Sigismund was first to the ferrocrete, eyes scanning the abandoned landing quay.
Nothing but empty drop pods. Not a trap.
It did not matter. There would be plenty of enemies to face.
Himalazia, thirty days before assault
The warmth inside the bivouac was deceptive. Outside, a gale howled and snow piled up against the tank which formed one wall of the tent. Zenobi shifted, feeling the heat from Nasha, cocooned in their shared bedroll. The hab-unit she’d lived in with her family had been cramped; the bivouac had been intended for a crew of five and now housed an extra fifteen troopers. She and Nasha had found intimacy in the simple act of closeness, but space and an opportunity for anything more amorous had so far been denied them.