The First Wall

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The First Wall Page 32

by Gav Thorpe


  How all ten of them had succumbed was another mystery, for each lay in close proximity and though their weapons were close at hand, not one of them had fingers on a gun or pistol grip.

  Whatever had overcome them had done so with instant and brutal swiftness.

  The floor was muddy, tracked by boot marks in and out, but among the blood spatter were other footprints. They appeared barefoot with long nails, some with three toes, others four or five. It was impossible to tell how many assailants, but at least four and quite likely more.

  The stench was far worse than simple dead flesh and evacuated ­bowels. Amon knew the smell of death and this was edged with an acidic tang. In total contradiction he thought he also detected a ­floral scent, and on closer inspection of the corpses could not find any soap or other perfume that would explain its lingering presence.

  He voxed the closest Legio Custodes outpost, on the outer barbican of the main Sanctum Imperialis almost ninety kilometres away.

  ‘Argent Tower, this is Custodian Amon. I am pursuing a possible incursion force into the Palatine Arc, heading north-east through the quarantine zone. Urgent despatch of support required.’

  His vox buzzed for several seconds. Before a reply was forthcoming a shadow on the wall warned him of movement behind. He was fully armoured, his guardian spear in hand – a lesson he had learned at the hospital. Amon was turning, the blade blurring with its energy field, even before he registered the nature of his attackers.

  The tip scored a line across the chest of the first, bubbling ichor spilling forth in its wake. The creature that flopped back reminded him of the Neverborn he had seen in the webway, supposedly incarnations of the Plague power. The others, nine more, closed fast with clawed hands, their limbs famine-thin, bellies swollen like old corpses.

  But there the similarity ended. These fiends looked more human in feature, with a pair of eyes rather than one, lank hair hanging from scalps and, on three of them, cheeks and chin. Their flesh was a mottle of pinkish-white and dark brown, and their eyes were startlingly human.

  As he slashed his spear tip through the throat of another, his thoughts sprang back to the mutilated bodies of the patrol and the origins of these half-daemon hybrids became obvious. The thought sickened him, even though he had seen sights that would have driven lesser warriors to madness – that somehow these creatures had emerged or incubated themselves within the bodies of the troopers.

  He did not pause in his assault, not allowing his enemies any advantage from their ambush. His spear’s bolter roared, hard and bright in the confines of the chamber, the salvo cutting down two more of the daemonkin.

  One thing was for certain, these were no ghostly manifestations, drawn of warp power and nothing more. They died as easily as mortals, perhaps shorn of true daemonic resilience by their hybrid birth and the shield of the Emperor.

  Some tried to flee, which was also a first for Amon. In his experience the Neverborn were near mindless in their assaults, uncaring of personal danger or tactical disadvantage. They survived only by the whim of the power that created them. But these half-born knew fear. He saw dread in their eyes as he cut them down, his armour bathed in sickly gore.

  Four eluded his immediate ire, disappearing into the adjoining hallway. He gave chase, guardian spear roaring more bolts after them. Another fell, legs blown away by the detonations.

  ‘This is Argent Tower control, we have received your message,’ the vox buzzed. Amon realised it had been only a few seconds since he had made his transmission. His altered physiology had made it seem far longer.

  ‘Standby for update, copy broadcast to personal channel of the captain-general,’ he told the operative on the other end of the vox-link.

  Three swift strides took him to the junction at the end of the ­corridor. Blood and mud trailed left and right, two tracks leading in the first direction, one in the other. The half-born were faster than humans, already out of sight as he turned the corner. They were heading into the quarantine zone, which had become a shifting maze of shanty and open plague pit.

  He pursued as fast as he could, coming upon the two abominations about a hundred metres further along the domestic palace. The third survivor would be half a kilometre away by now.

  ‘Rapid pursuit teams required at my position,’ he voxed. ‘I need airborne support and search inbound immediately.’

  Hissing, hearing the thud of the Custodian’s boots coming upon them, the creatures turned on him. One held up its hands as though to plead for its life; the other had ripped a support bar from the rubble and swung it like a ferrocrete-headed club. The blow bounced from Amon’s auramite war-plate without leaving a scratch, the creature that wielded it almost spinning from its feet as it was unbalanced by its own blow.

  Amon’s weapon punched forward, slicing off a warding hand before entering the chest directly through the heart. The half-born gave a screech of pain – a chillingly human sound from such an otherworldly apparition – and slipped backwards from the vapour-wreathed blade.

  The second tried again to strike the Custodian, heaving up its improv­ised club. He smashed the butt of the guardian spear into its forehead, crushing the skull and snapping its neck with one blow. Grey fluid splashed from the wound as it fell.

  Sparing a second to ensure both were truly dead, Amon turned on his heel and set off after the other, though he knew it was likely too late to find it by himself. Lost among the walking dead of Poxville, there was no knowing what further damage it might do, nor what others of its kind might yet appear.

  Himalazia, undisclosed location, day of the assault

  It should have been a month of tedium and misery, but for Zenobi the time spent at the mustering was one of the best experiences of her life. Compared to the harrowing train journey and nightmarish march that followed, spending four weeks cooped up with rations, shelter and the company of her fellow troopers was almost bliss. It was better than life in Addaba.

  And then there was Nasha.

  The illicit nature of their relationship only heightened the excitement. Illicit insofar as the integrity officers warned against spending excessive time with the other regiments being held at the hidden base. A month was a long time to avoid any contact whatsoever, though, and the needs of simple decorum and logistics had required that the Addaba Free Corps acquaint themselves with their new neighbours. The local commanders had agreed to attach the Free Corps as infantry support to the reserve force, pending confirmation from high command that seemed to have been lost somewhere in the reports.

  Zenobi almost stopped thinking about the battle that was being waged just a hundred kilometres away. The noise of bombardment, the flights of aircraft overhead were constant reminders, but just as the reflex shields kept the reserve base undetected, so its inhabitants were isolated from the ongoing bloodshed.

  ‘What if we never get called up to the fight?’ she asked Nasha after one of their midnight couplings. It was still cold, their hot breath fogging the air, sweaty bodies layered in coveralls and coats that had doubled as bedding a few minutes earlier.

  They lay in the dark underneath an empty supply transport, not far from the lot of Breath of Wrath. Everything was in blackout to help maintain the cover of the reflex shield – the less energy it had to absorb the greater its effectiveness, she had learned. What was good for remaining undiscovered on the larger scale applied equally well to the small scale, affording her ample cover to make her clandestine rendezvous.

  ‘Would that be so bad?’ he replied, lying with his hand behind his head, his chest making a pillow for her.

  ‘You don’t want to be part of the fighting?’

  ‘I don’t want to die, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, I mean do you want to fight for what you believe in, or let others do it for you?’

  ‘That sounds like an accusation.’

  ‘It’s not.’ She stroked h
is face. ‘I just… Our futures are being decided and we’re just sitting here, not involved at all. I joined… I don’t want to be on the losing side just because someone forgot we were here.’

  ‘There’s a plan. Dorn commissioned this secret muster personally. He’ll deploy us when we’re needed. If we’re needed.’

  ‘When will that be though?’ It wasn’t the first time she had asked the question and she knew she was sounding increasingly petulant each time. ‘I’m not in a hurry to leave. Not leave you. But I want to do my part.’

  ‘Do you think you can make a difference?’

  ‘Why do people keep asking that?’

  ‘There’s less than six thousand of you left in the Free Corps. There must be as many tanks, transports and armoured walkers in here as you have people. And we’re the tiniest fraction of the Imperial Army’s might in the Himalazia.’

  ‘I work on the line. Everything has a place. Everything is balanced and timed and has a rhythm. A small disruption, the least amount of change can cause catastrophe. It’s not just about how many of us are still alive, it’s about where we are, when we fight. We’ll die trying, anyway. Better that, if you ask me.’

  ‘You think you’ll die?’

  She shifted as he sat up.

  ‘It’s a certainty. Like you said, there’s not many of us. Enough to swing a battle, but only if every last one of us is ready to lay down our life.’ She sighed and swivelled to sit next to him, her hand on his thigh. ‘I never expected to have this long.’

  ‘Don’t you… Don’t you have something you’d like to live for? Maybe someone?’

  She grinned and punched him lightly on the arm.

  ‘If it was different, then of course I’d want to live. But I wouldn’t trade the future of Addaba for this happiness. Not even for you, my beautiful man.’

  He looked at her for some time, perhaps memorising her ­features, perhaps just trying to think of something to say. She let the silence stay, relishing the quiet she knew could not last much longer.

  A couple of hours later she parted from Nasha with a last kiss and made her way back towards the camp of the Free Corps. Though it was almost as dark as an underspur sewer she made her way unerringly through the maze of tanks, tents and roads. She crossed a berm separating the Addaba companies from several platoons of the Nor Alba Steelwatch and turned left to avoid the checkpoint at the junction a hundred metres ahead.

  She froze as a voice issued from the darkness.

  ‘Nice stroll?’

  Zenobi said nothing, weighing up her options. She could bolt and hope that she hadn’t been recognised. She could see nothing of the other person and it was likely only her footsteps had betrayed her presence.

  ‘Have you been to see Nasha, Zenobi?’

  She swore as she recognised the voice of Kettai. Zenobi swung towards the sound, a snarl building in her throat.

  ‘Breaking curfew is serious. Socialising with outsiders, even more serious.’

  ‘What do you care? It’s not like you haven’t broken a few rules in your time. Turn me in to the integrity officers and maybe I’ll let them in on a few of your secrets.’

  His laugh was low, almost a hint of menace in his humour.

  ‘What’s so funny, Kettai?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’ His next laugh was more fulsome. She heard footsteps. A shuttered lantern flickered into life to her right, revealing his flat face but little else. Flecks of snow and ash fell through the ­yellow glow. ‘You must be the only one left in the ­platoon that hasn’t figured it out.’

  ‘Figured out what?’

  ‘I’m with the integrity officers!’ He grinned. ‘Hidden in plain sight, I hear is the expression. A spy. There’s an old phrase for it, an agent provocateur. Testing from within, offering the temptation before it becomes vital.’

  ‘So, everything you’ve been saying was a trick? Trying to lure me into giving myself away?’

  ‘Not you particularly, yeye. Everyone. You’re a remarkable soldier, nothing swerved you from the cause.’

  ‘Nothing until now, you mean?’

  He stepped closer, just a few paces away.

  ‘Nasha is rather handsome. Obviously, he’s not inclined in my direction, so I’ll never know anything more than that, but I can see why you would want to have a little fun before the killing and dying starts.’

  ‘Are you going to report me? For… socialising. I’ve told him nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know anything to tell him.’

  ‘That’s a good point. But, please, it’s not done any harm, has it?’

  ‘Some might say the disobedience itself was the harm.’

  Zenobi didn’t say anything. As when she’d seen Jawaahir the first time, she knew that any further conversation just opened the way for more possible recriminations. He had already decided; any resistance would just make matters worse.

  ‘You seem calm,’ he said.

  ‘What else should I be? It’s up to you what happens next. What am I going to do? Kill you, like Tewedros tried? Run away to…?’ She waved a hand vaguely behind her. ‘To where? To do what?’

  Kettai smiled and shook his head, a sort of impressed disbelief.

  ‘Egwu chose you well. You’ve got a spine of titanium in that little body of yours, and a heart that burns like forgefire. You know that you could have your throat slit for this, and you just face up to it, no worries at all?’

  ‘I’m worried,’ she admitted. ‘I’m worried I’ll die before I get a chance to make a difference for Addaba. But the death itself, that’s not anything to be scared of.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not have to worry any longer.’ He took a step back and half turned, raising the lantern to light her way between two privy blocks. She hesitated. ‘On your way, yeye. I trust you to fight for the cause more than I trust myself.’

  ‘But I’ll have to stop seeing Nasha?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Why? You’ve got a good thing, why spoil it? Just remember that in an hour, a day or a week we could get the command, and from that moment on, it’s Addaba first and nothing else. Nothing.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Of course you do. Get going.’

  She gave him a long look as she walked past, searching for deceit in his face, but saw none. When she was concealed by darkness again, relief crested through her feelings and erupted as a broad grin.

  Desperate times

  The power of faith

  No stragglers

  Palatine Arc quarantine zone, eighteen days since assault

  Katsuhiro wept as he fired. He had thought himself sapped of all emotion by his experiences but the sight before him plumbed a depth of self-loathing he had not known before. The orders given to him and the ­hundreds of other troopers that lined the quarantine walls were ­brutally simple: destroy all targets.

  That had been his life for the past two and a half days. Sixty hours of near-continuous duty as the living and the dead tried to break out of Poxville, time spared only to catch naps and meal breaks on the wall. It wasn’t as though everything had happened all at once. The malaise had spread slowly: first they had come in ones and twos, then larger groups. Two hours ago there had been a surge, hundreds of vacant-eyed corpses juddering towards the walls, a few living amongst them, screaming for help, trying to dash free of the nightmare gripping the quarantine ghetto.

  Nothing was to reach the wall, whether warp-tainted or human. It was impossible to tell, the officers had said, who was carrying the seed of corruption within them. So they came on in their hundreds, the plague victims and the refugees, the medicae that had volunteered to help them and the self-appointed carers and families who had chosen isolation with their loved ones, fleeing the abominations in their midst.

  He pulled the trigger and the las-blast hit a young woman in the chest, knocking
her back into a pile of corpses. Katsuhiro fancied there might be a smudge of a rash on her face, ­seeking the ­smallest justification not to hate himself every time his ­finger twitched.

  He had become quite a marksman, he realised, almost throwing up at the thought.

  His next target was definitely warp-infected. A limping gait and the spattering of mucus from the lolling mouth had to be evidence of taint. He swallowed hard and fired again, shooting the old man in the forehead.

  The fusillade had ebbed and flowed, sometimes near constant for half a minute at a time then dying down to sporadic shots for an hour. Now there was just a steady rhythm to it, flashes of red and blue a few times every minute.

  His lasgun whined mechanically about its empty powercell and he pulled the pack free, discarding it with the other three at his feet. Each was good for a hundred shots… He slapped one of his two remaining packs into the weapon, charged it and lifted the stock to his shoulder again.

  His aim trembled and he took a deep breath, steadying his hands.

  ‘Just stop,’ he whispered, choking on the words. ‘Please stop.’

  A commotion behind him caused him to turn, others of the squad doing the same. A striking woman in a flowing blue dress had mounted the rampart, a man in light-coloured robes behind her, followed by two women bearing large books. With them came a host of people in civilian clothing, and among them a few in uniforms from different defence regiments. They each carried a lamp, even though it was ­midday – as far as such a time existed in the siege-gloom.

  The defence officers crowded close but seemed to be greeting the new arrivals rather than challenging their presence. They pointed to the ferrocrete battlement and the newcomers continued on, spreading out along the stretch of wall. The woman that led them came close to Katsuhiro. She looked at him and smiled, and the sight soothed away the anguish. She held a lantern made out of an artillery shell casing, but the light seemed to emanate from her pale skin as much as the lamp.

 

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