None of them seemed inclined to speak.
Wulfe threw the sleeping corporal down hard on the metal deck, and then eyeballed each of the three crewmen in turn. “Your corporal got himself in a bit of trouble. He came off the worse for it. If any of you stupid sons-of-bitches think you’d like to find out what kind of trouble, make a move. Now.”
No one, not even the bully boy, Varnuss, so much as twitched.
“Is he… is he dead?” asked Hobbs finally.
Without looking down, Wulfe kicked Lenck in the ribs and was rewarded with a feeble groan. It was answer enough. Then he gestured to Siegler and together they walked off between the tanks and halftracks in the direction of Last Rites II.
The loading ramp was being raised, crowding out a shrinking slice of ruddy Golgothan sky. Klaxons blared, announcing imminent take-off. Orange warning lights began to spin. From scores of loudspeakers, the rhythmic, atonal chanting of the Mechanicus tech-crew began, reciting litanies for the safe, efficient operation of the lifter’s ancient engines.
Onboard gravitational fields kicked in. The hull shook with the power of the ship’s massive thrusters as they heaved its metal bulk up into the air. Within minutes, it had risen beyond the churning clouds of Golgotha and was making for high orbit.
There, The Scion of Tharsis waited.
Operation Thunderstorm was over.
EPILOGUE
The midday sky was a brilliant blue laced with the shimmering white trails of Lightning fighter squadrons and formations of Marauder bombers out of the Tethys-Alpha airbase in the north. Standing in his pulpit atop The Fortress of Arrogance, Yarrick looked out across the open plains. The Palidus Mountains sat like patient giants on the far side, waiting for the grand spectacle to begin. The ground was hard, good footing, excellent for tanks and infantry alike. In a few hours, it would be a stinking, blood-sodden marshland littered with the dead.
With the Emperor’s blessing, most of the bodies would be alien.
The far foothills were already dark with the shadows of the descending xenos horde: such incredible numbers. Good, it would be a worthy fight, a fitting end to a lifetime of vendetta. There was no fear in him. Decades of constant war had desensitised him to it. All that time spent in the forge of battle had made his soul as hard as ceramite. His mind was tougher than folded steel. Victory alone was what mattered, and today he would have it, whatever the cost. Damn his detractors. They were blind to the bigger picture. They squabbled like children over body counts and budgets when it was this, life or death on the battlefield, that truly mattered.
It was here the future would be decided, here that he would meet Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka for the very last time. The ork warlord would die today, or they both would. Either way was fine with Yarrick, so long as his life’s work, the mission that had made him a legend among men, was complete.
Looking left and right, Yarrick cast his eyes over the forces that Segmentum Command had amassed and placed at his disposal. Millions of men and women stood ready to do their duty. Their ranks stretched away to the north and south as far as the eye could see, and there were more to the rear.
Yarrick could sense their determination and resolve. They were here to win. He could smell it on the air. They had come from all across the Imperium, from worlds as different as night and day, but they were utterly unified in purpose. They would turn back the greenskin threat. They would protect Holy Terra. They would safeguard the destiny of mankind as the supreme race in the galaxy.
It was a rousing sight, a force greater than he had ever commanded before. Entire divisions of tanks and artillery pieces sat idling, coughing smoke out onto the breeze. Sentinel scouts prowled the forward lines like anxious predators, alert to any signs of change on the wind. There were trucks and halftracks by the thousand, all filled with devoted infantrymen, and almost as many Chimera APCs loaded with battle-hardened storm troopers.
Mightiest of all were the god-like Emperor-class Titans that towered over everything, arms raised parallel to the ground, vast guns ready to unleash death on a planet-shaking scale. They looked like gods of war cast in metal and ceramite. Surely no other creation embodied the strength of humanity so absolutely. Well, perhaps just one.
From the railing of his turret-mounted pulpit, Yarrick looked down at her glacis plate: The Fortress of Arrogance.
It still astounded him that she was the same tank, the very same damned tank that he had lost on Golgotha all those years ago. From her black armour plates to her massive main battle cannon, from her fine gold detailing to the Mechanicus shrine that graced her rear, she looked exactly as she had on the day he had first laid eyes on her. To him, she was the spirit of the Imperial Guard made manifest.
He had thought her lost forever until a Mechanicus transmission received over two years ago mentioned her location. Now he knew he had been right to push for a recovery mission. Yes, men had died to get her here. By all accounts, the blood-price had been horribly high, but the effect of her presence on Armageddon was far beyond such a price. Her spirit charged the air. Men reached out to touch her cold, hard flanks, muttering prayers for strength and glory. Even now, he felt their eyes on her. She was as much a legend as he was.
A tinny voice sounded in his ear. It was his comms-officer speaking over the intercom. “The lord generals wish to inform you that their armies are ready to march, sir. They await your order to advance.”
“Good,” said Yarrick. He looked again at the far foothills. More and more orks were swarming over them, far more than he had ever faced before. Their ugly machines filled the air above with thick black smoke. Numerous weapon misfires sent rockets screaming into the air.
Yarrick activated the vox-speakers that protruded from the Baneblade’s turret. Then he raised his oversized power claw high above his head.
“All troops…” he bellowed.
His amplified words rolled out over the battlefield like thunder.
He swung his power claw downwards with a chopping motion.
“Forward!”
Engines roared. Treads turned. Boot-heels struck the ground in perfect rhythm.
The Fortress of Arrogance rumbled into battle, and the land trembled.
For ever after, men would remember this day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, Steve Parker now lives and works in Tokyo, Japan. In 2005, his short fiction started appearing in American SF/fantasy/horror magazines. In 2006, his story “The Falls of Marakross” was published in the Black Library’s Tales from the Dark Millennium anthology. His first novel, Rebel Winter, was published in 2007.
Aside from writing, his interests include weight-training, non-traditional martial arts and wildlife conservation.
Visit his website at www.red-stevie.com
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[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 36