[Ciaphas Cain 05] - Duty Calls

by Sandy Mitchell - (ebook by Undead)

  That’s the trouble with reputations, once you’ve got one you need to maintain it. Kasteen and Broklaw were undoubtedly under the same delusion as the chirurgeon had been, that I’d left the sickbay because I was chafing to get back into action despite my wounds, and if I dispelled it I was going to undermine their confidence in me. Once that happened, my unquestioned leadership would start to crumble too. So I forced an easy smile to my face, as though I thought the idea a good one.

  “Well,” I said, feigning just the right amount of reluctance to make them think I was actually eager to get back out there, “holding the hands of a bunch of nervous civilians wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I got up this morning.” That was true enough. I wobbled on my feet a little, just enough to remind them that I was in a far worse state than I was pretending and was rewarded with another covert exchange of concerned looks. “But I could do with a breath of fresh air, and I suppose I’d only be getting in the way on the front lines.” For a moment I wondered if I’d overplayed my hand, and had just bought myself a ticket into the war zone, but Kasteen and Broklaw were both nodding in agreement.

  “With all due respect, Ciaphas,” Kasteen said, making it clear that she was talking as a friend rather than a comrade in arms, “you look like something an ork spat out. I really wouldn’t recommend you visit the combat zone today.”

  “Well,” I said, permitting a little of the reluctance I felt to show through, and allowing them to think it was because I’d just been argued out of going off to take another pop at the ’nids, “I suppose you’re right, and I might be able to do a little good with the civvies.”

  All in all, I thought, it could have been a great deal worse. I’d be getting a lot closer to the action than I’d have liked, but if the tactical display could be trusted there didn’t seem much prospect of running into any actual tyranids, and I didn’t suppose the refugees would be that much of a problem. Perhaps fortunately, I was blissfully unaware at the time of just how catastrophically wrong I would turn out to be on both counts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Getting to the starport terminal turned out to be simple enough, as Faril’s platoon was just leaving the staging area to relieve Sulla’s, who’d apparently been potting away at the chitinous horrors for the last day or so with a gratifying amount of success.[1] Jurgen and I managed to hitch a lift in the command Chimera, and although conditions there weren’t exactly calculated to make me feel better, the usual noise and jolting hardly improved by my aide’s close proximity in a confined space, I was glad enough of it. No doubt he could have found us another Salamander without too much trouble if I’d requested one, but after our experiences on Aceralbaterra I felt rather more comfortable entirely surrounded by armour plate, and I was able to make use of the vox and auspex gear surrounding me to get a far clearer picture of the way the battle was going than I would otherwise have had. [1. Anyone caring to wade through the details can find them in Sulla’s memoirs, in which she recounts the action at stupefying length.]

  To my relief, it seemed as though the situation had hardly changed since my last look at the hololith in the command centre. Our forces still held the perimeter of the aerodrome and were advancing steadily, slowly strangling the ’nid swarm in an ever-tightening noose, driving them gradually closer to the sheer drop over which I had so nearly plunged myself a few short weeks before. Not that I expected many to actually fall to their deaths, of course, they’d shown on all too many other occasions that they could clamber up the sheer sides of the plateaux with astonishing dexterity, and I had no reason to believe that they wouldn’t prove equally adept at descending if they had to. If anything the gap between the front line and the terminal building had increased, and I began to feel that this make-work errand might turn out to be the best course of action after all, keeping me well out of the way of any actual fighting while contriving to give the impression that I was still leading from the front.

  Thus it was, to my own vague surprise, with something approaching a light heart that I hopped down from the Chimera with Jurgen, who was still lugging his beloved melta around despite its weight, and made my way up the steps of the terminal building. Faril gave us a cheerful wave of farewell from the top hatch, where he’d planted himself the moment Jurgen had boarded the vehicle in my wake, and chugged away to look for something to kill.

  “Who goes there?” A couple of PDF troopers, dressed in clashing lilac and puce fatigues, which even a Slaaneshi cultist would consider in screaming bad taste, aimed shaky lasguns at me. I tilted my head a little, allowing them the best possible view of the profile most favoured by the printsheets I’d seen.

  “Commissar Ciaphas Cain,” I told them grandly. “I’d like a word with your commanding officer.” The troopers lowered their weapons, and began conferring with several of their fellows who had emerged from the wide bronze doors behind them, which were decorated with aquilae intertwined with what I took for native avians and a crude-looking flying machine or two, and through which a wide, marble-floored concourse was visible. At least that’s what I discovered once I’d ventured inside. From out here there was precious little sign of any floor space at all, practically every square centimetre of it appearing to be occupied by makeshift bedrolls and listlessly slouching civilians.

  “It’s him. It really is,” I heard one of the troopers muttering to his companion, before turning to the nearest of the newcomers. “Don’t just stand there, get the lieutenant!”

  “Much obliged,” I said, reaching the top of the flight at last, and trying not to pant audibly as the designated trooper scuttled away. The one who’d sent him, who turned out to be sporting a lance corporal’s single chevron, waved vaguely in what he no doubt fondly imagined was a passable salute. I returned it crisply, and smiled in a friendly fashion. “Can you fill me in on the situation here?”

  “Well, we’re just sitting tight, sir,” the man said, clearly at a loss as to how to respond, “in case the tyranids attack.” He tried to look a little more martial. “We’re not afraid to get stuck in, you know sir, but them in charge said to leave it to the Guard while we look after the refugees.”

  “Quite the best thing,” I assured him, nodding gravely, and pleasantly surprised to find that my head wasn’t throbbing quite as much as I’d expected afterwards. “These people are the future of Periremunda. They have to be protected at all costs.”

  “I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” the fellow said, straightening visibly as some unsuspected residue of soldierly pride reasserted itself. Unfortunately the effect was rather spoiled a moment later as he got his first clear sight of Jurgen, and his mouth fell open like a startled squig. By that time, though, we were past the sentries and into the terminal itself, so any second thoughts he might have been having would have been far too late.

  The interior of the building was, by any standard, a dismal sight, despite the garish fashion in which most of its occupants were dressed. Not as bad as some I’ve witnessed, of course, but pathetic enough: hollow eyed men and women bent under the weight of unbearable loss, apathetic children too bored and hungry to do much more than sit and whine instead of enjoying their carefree years as they should have been, and, permeating everything, the endless echoing roar of hundreds of voices no one was listening to. The smell was almost as bad as the noise, even my years of Jurgen’s near constant companionship having done little to prepare me for such a concentrated dose of pungent humanity.

  As I advanced into the tiny area of clear space around the door, through which the ever-present wind and a few flakes of snow were drifting, I was struck by a sudden blast of heat, the press of so many bodies more than capable of overcoming Hoarfell’s frigid climate. Most of the troopers I’d seen outside were sitting in front of a makeshift barrier separating this tiny cleared zone from the main concourse, apparently constructed from furnishings removed to make room for more of the ubiquitous bedrolls that carpeted the chill stone floor; desks, still bearing the sigils of one or other
of the aerial transport companies that used to run regular services to other plateaux, a bench, and a recaf machine long since drained of the beverage it had once contained. Two of the PDF men were flanking a kind of gate made from the back of a cargo pallet, their lasguns held idly in their hands. From the way they kept scanning the crowd, rather than looking outwards for any sign of the tyranids, I suspected that they were more fearful of trouble from that quarter than anything the xenos might do.

  And with good reason, I thought. The stench of desperation was almost as powerful as that of unwashed bodies, and I began to realise that Kasteen was right to be concerned. It would take very little to turn this sullen mass of humanity into a rampaging mob little better than a horde of orks, and if that happened a couple of lasguns would be no protection at all.

  I had little time for such dispiriting musings, however, as a slightly overweight young man in the same lurid uniform as the rest of the PDF rabble was making his way through the crowd as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very. He kept mumbling apologies as he dodged round the ragtag civilians packing the place out, instead of using his elbows and the authority of his position like a real officer would have done, and I began to see why he’d been saddled with this thankless task. No doubt his superiors thought he was the least likely junior officer to be missed in the front line.

  “Commissar, it’s an honour.” He raised his voice to greet me while still some distance away, and a few of the nearer civilians turned to look in my direction. As they did so, recognition sparked on their faces, along with something that made my blood run almost as cold as the snow outside: a renewal of hope. Before my horrified eyes the whisper rippled outwards, more and more faces turning in my direction, all clearly believing that my unexpected arrival heralded some kind of deliverance from the echoing limbo to which they’d all been confined for so long. As soon as they realised that I couldn’t provide it, things were liable to turn pretty ugly.

  “Lieutenant,” I returned, projecting as much easy confidence as I could. When all else fails, I’ve found, stalling for time never hurts. At the worst it gives you a chance to look for the nearest exit, and draw your weapon first if you have to, and if you’re really lucky something unexpected happens that you can take advantage of. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this, but I heard these people were stuck a little closer to the action than seems entirely safe, and thought there might be something we could do about it.”

  “I hope there is,” the chubby young officer said, looking almost as hopeful as the crowd beyond the barrier, which was drifting closer as we spoke. The troopers at the gate fastened it behind him, and tried ineffectually to wave them away. He said something else as well, but my attention was momentarily distracted by Sulla’s voice in my comm-bead.

  “Squad five, respond.” There was an uncharacteristic edge to her voice, and after a moment of hissing static, an uncertain voice replied.

  “Five two responding. We’ve lost contact with team one,[1] lieutenant. It may be a vox glitch, but…” [1. As I’ve previously mentioned, the 597th routinely split its squads into two fireteams of five troopers each. Team one would be under the command of the sergeant leading the squad, while team two would be led by the assistant squad leader, normally a corporal, when operating independently.]

  “Fourth squad to sector five.” Irritating as I invariably found her company, I have to admit that Sulla reacted with commendable speed. “Possible lurker, so move with caution. Marskil, hold position and stay alert.”

  “Confirm,” the corporal responded, sounding highly relieved, and a moment later Grifen’s familiar clipped tone acknowledged the order too.

  “On it, lieutenant.” The palms of my hands began to tingle again. If the ’nids had managed to slip behind our lines, or an undetected genestealer brood infiltrate the city, the densely packed crowd around me would attract them like orks to gunfire. Perhaps I’d be better off taking up the plight of the refugees with the local justicars, wherever they were quartered.

  “We’ll do everything we can, of course,” I assured the lieutenant, as though I’d heard what he’d said and gave a frak about it. I tried to recall the tactical maps I’d looked at aboard Faril’s Chimera. Where in the warp was sector five anyway? Would trying to slip away just land me in the middle of another ’nid swarm, or a pack of genestealers?

  “We’d really appreciate that,” the young officer told me, nodding earnestly. “You can see for yourself that conditions here are far from ideal.” That earned a ripple of ironic laughter and a couple of catcalls from the audience we’d attracted, but to my relief none of it seemed overtly hostile. I knew just how easily that could change, however. Time for a bit of the old Cain charm, I thought, and turned to address the civilians directly.

  “Citizens of Periremunda,” I said, raising my voice without apparent effort so that it cut through the babble of the crowd as easily as the noise of a battlefield. “I can assure you that you haven’t been forgotten, and neither has the tremendous sacrifice you’ve made in abandoning your homes for a short while to allow us to concentrate our forces more effectively against the tyranids. My presence here today should convince you of that. But I must ask you to remain patient for a little while longer. Even now the battle’s raging to cleanse your world of the xenos taint.”

  I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried. Outside the massive building someone screamed, a short, choked-off cry of pain and terror, echoed a moment later by a second voice, with only a single lasgun shot between them.

  I whirled around, galvanised by adrenaline, fear and old reflexes combining to override the momentary surge of nausea that accompanied the movement. I was staring at a walking nightmare, looming twice the height of a man, slashing and tearing with its claws and talons, the thin film of slush outside reddened with the shredded remains of the corporal who’d greeted me and the trooper who’d accompanied him.

  “Fire!” I shouted, drawing my weapons without thinking, and discharging a shot from my laspistol, while the PDF troopers stood around uselessly, paralysed by shock. The towering horror seemed to shimmer as it moved, and my lasbolt gouged a harmless chunk from a pillar supporting the portico. “Protect the civilians!” Not that I gave a flying frak about them, of course, but if anything was calculated to get the PDF off their collective arses and shooting at the bloody thing it was probably that. I was right, too. The chubby lieutenant drew his sidearm at last, and the troopers finally snapped out of their stupor and started blazing away at it, to no real effect that I could see.

  “Hold still, frot it!” Jurgen muttered at my side, trying to get a clear shot with the melta, but the lictor moved too fast, and the PDF kept getting in the way. Behind us the civilians scattered, howling in panic, and very sensible of them too in my opinion. A couple more of the luridly uniformed militia went down, spraying blood and entrails, and the chubby lieutenant’s head bounced on the marble close to my boot, leaving a long, discoloured streak across the opalescent stone.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” I told my aide, unable to keep a touch of asperity from my voice, but as ever he remained immune to sarcasm.

  “Almost got it,” he assured me, firing the heavy weapon at last, and vaporising a waste receptacle, a drinking fountain, and a hideously ornamented tub apparently intended to contain plants of some kind. Fortunately he managed to clip the lictor as well, charring the scything talon and rending claws on its left side into useless chunks of barbequed meat, despite its rapid evasion. That wasn’t enough to kill it, of course, but it was certainly irritated. Screaming with rage it charged straight at me, bursting into the building and forcing me back against the PDF’s makeshift barricade before I could get off another shot with my sidearm.

  Cursing, I evaded its first rush as best I could, angling towards the side with the now useless limbs, and slashing at the steaming chitin with my chainsword. Jurgen had baked it nicely, it seemed, ichor and noxious streams of liquefied tissue leaking around the cracked plate
s of its hide, and the screaming blade bit deep, opening up a long slash across its flank. I knew better than to expect that to finish it though, and ducked, just as it whirled around and slashed at my head with its surviving scything claw.

  “Back away, commissar!” Jurgen urged, unable to fire again for fear of hitting me, and I cannoned into one of the piled-up desks, the blood pounding in my ears. If the blasted barricade hadn’t been in the way I’d have stood half a chance, getting a decent hack at the thing’s back as it barrelled on past me to start gorging on the civilians, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Hemmed in by the pile of detritus, it could only be a matter of moments before I ended up as messily dead as the PDF troopers.

  Suddenly, to my relieved astonishment, the thing staggered back, the fringe of tendrils hanging from its face twitching in agitation. For a moment I assumed that Jurgen’s peculiar gift had somehow come to my aid again, but there seemed no reason why he should be affecting it; he certainly seemed no closer to either of us than before.[1] Then, trying to concentrate on my immediate surroundings through the haze of nausea that seemed to be closing itself around my synapses, I became aware of something going on behind me. [1. Whether or not a blank can affect the functioning of the tyranid hive mind is still a matter of some conjecture, Jurgen was certainly able to disrupt the brood telepathy of genestealer groups on more than one occasion, but, as in so many cases where anti-psyker phenomena are concerned, in a somewhat erratic fashion, and I can recall no instance where he unquestionably disrupted the overmind itself.]

  The civilians, as I’ve said, had scattered as the feral monstrosity first burst into the terminal building but now, if anything their cries of panic seemed to be intensifying. Risking a quick glance over my shoulder, which left my head pounding from the sudden movement but which somehow cleared it at the same time, I saw the crowd breaking and flocking to the sides of the concourse instead of getting as far away from the lictor as possible, which had been their first, and entirely understandable, impulse. Something else had them spooked, at least as much as the monstrosity I faced, and my first thought was that more ’nids had appeared to flank us. If true, that would hardly have been unexpected, lictors tending to attract other predators in their wake once they locate a sufficient number of victims to make a concentrated attack worthwhile. But instead of a tide of gaunts, or purestrain ’stealers, I was confronted with something even more terrifying.