Astra Militarum

by David Annandale, Justin D Hill, Toby Frost, Braden Campbell (epub)

  ‘Right,’ Montara replied. She held a battered cup, a third full of low-grade recaff. It was the best that Krall had been able to provide. ‘Right.’

  Straken approached as Krall turned back to the barricade. Montara stepped back and walked over to him. ‘How’s the commissar?’

  Straken grimaced. ‘Well, he’s either crazy or just a mean bastard,’ he replied. ‘Either way, this is his last stand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He means to die here. With these men.’

  The captain glanced around. ‘Are you serious? And they’re going to let him do that?’

  ‘Maybe. I told him otherwise. They didn’t look happy. These guys are used to following orders.’

  ‘So? I follow orders. I just don’t follow crazy orders from a lunatic.’ She glanced round. ‘To hell with this place. I say we just leave and write off the whole damn thing. If they want to waste their lives playing soldier–’

  Straken raised his flesh-and-blood hand. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘what do you know about this hive?’

  Montara shrugged. ‘Not much more than you, sir. The lieutenant said that it goes down much deeper than this, into the ground. She said the lower levels are full of mutants, and most of the upper floors are overrun by orks. I never liked these places–’

  ‘Colonel!’

  It was Krall. She pointed behind them, to the way that Straken had arrived.

  A man scrambled over the barricade, helped in by the defenders. He wore a combat vest and a Catachan sniper’s cloak. Trouble, Straken thought. As if I need more of that.

  The man was Strom, one of the scouting team. ‘Sir, we’ve got a problem. The orks are coming back, closing on our position.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A few thousand, perhaps more. Heavy armour, flamers, rocket launchers, all kinds of stuff.’

  Straken thought of his team, outside, facing a horde. He glanced at the barricades and then at Montara, seeing that she understood the decision he was taking.

  ‘Get your team inside the perimeter.’

  ‘Sir, once they’re inside–’ Montara protested.

  ‘Do it.’

  A voice bellowed, ‘Orks!’ Men gripped their weapons, soldiers resting at the base of the barricade scrambled up to man the parapet.

  ‘Orks to the east!’

  Straken ran to the barricade, shotgun in hand. He leaped up, caught a protruding chair leg and hauled himself up. He took up position beside his men, waiting as the sound rose from beyond the defences: roaring ork voices and the pounding of hundreds of pairs of heavy boots.

  The aliens ran into sight but the Guardsmen cut them down. The ground beyond the barricade was like a tunnel down to hell: packed with hulking bodies and faces that were little more than glittering eyes and fangs. Mobs of ork infantry surged towards the humans, grunting and roaring, and within moments the hall was half-choked with alien dead.

  They kept coming. They trampled their wounded, tripping on them, and were shot full of las-fire before they could rise. Straken used his shotgun on those that threatened to get close, but the great majority were killed within a few moments of coming into view. Some of the orks carried crude shields, but grenades and plasma fire took care of them.

  The Mordians weren’t bad fighters, Straken thought. They lacked the natural fury of the Catachans, the hunger for combat, but their cold discipline nearly made up for it. Lieutenant Krall never seemed to stop barking commands, as if to rival those yelled by Straken and his men.

  Suddenly, the orks stopped coming. Nobody fired: the corridor seemed incredibly quiet. Somewhere far off, an alien groaned. Straken glimpsed a few shapes in the distance, hidden by smoke and dust, pulling back. The attack was over, for now.

  The defenders checked their wounds. Six Mordians and four Catachans had been killed, all victims of lucky ork gunfire. Another man had slipped down the barricade and broken his arm. Overall, it wasn’t bad.

  But as he climbed down from his firing-point, Straken saw the real problem. One of Krall’s men handed his comrade a new magazine. Another put his grenade launcher down and drew a laspistol instead. Power packs that should have been charged from a generator were placed on a metal rack over a fire, like barbecued meat. First, they would run out of grenades and support weapons, and then their lasguns would run dry.

  Straken gestured to Lieutenant Krall. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Quietly.’

  ‘The orks come maybe once, twice a day – sometimes more,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Maybe they have orders from above, maybe they’re like small gangs. Perhaps they just smell a fight.’ They stood at once side of the building, in the shadows near empty hab-quarters that had been used by the soldiers to doss down. A Mordian sat on a stool, cleaning his lasgun. He leaped up and saluted; Krall motioned him back at ease. ‘I don’t know what makes them keep coming.’

  ‘They’re orks,’ Straken said. ‘It’s what they do.’ He stepped into one of the hab-quarters, satisfied that they would not be overheard.

  ‘You wanted to talk privately, sir,’ Krall said.

  ‘Yes. Your commissar expects you all to die here. He thinks the ship’s sinking, and he wants everyone to go down with it. Mark of respect for the general or something.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You going to do something about that?’

  ‘Like what?’ Krall asked. ‘I’ve got orders to follow, sir.’

  ‘Too bad those orders are going to get you, and the people you command, killed.’

  For all her discipline, Krall couldn’t prevent the anger that flashed in her eyes. Then it was gone.

  Straken sighed. ‘That’s the trouble with the Guard. Too many people making last stands, getting medals, settling scores, rubbish like that. Not enough winning wars. You’re a good soldier: you must be, to keep this mess together.’ He glanced around the room. It seemed tiny compared to his high-gravity physique, as if he’d strayed into a doll’s house. ‘What would happen if Verryn wasn’t in charge?’

  ‘I’d take command, sir. Or rather, command would transfer to you, as ranking officer. But – but the commissar would never go. And people are loyal to him. Well, not to him personally, but to the uniform. It’s how we are, sir. Every soldier is part of the unit, and the unit obeys the officer. On your own, you die.’

  That’s the difference, Straken thought. On Catachan, you were always on your own. You grew up tough and self-sufficient. The people who died were the ones who couldn’t manage on their own.

  ‘So if the commissar happened to get himself killed, you’d be in charge. And the others would obey you.’

  A strand of sandy hair slipped out of Krall’s cap and hung across her eyes. ‘I am uncomfortable with this line of conversation, sir.’

  ‘Captain Montara said that you mentioned something strange,’ Straken said. ‘Something about mutants on the lower levels. Thing is, I’ve seen a lot of orks... but no mutants.’

  ‘The under-levels,’ Krall replied. ‘Look, there’s levels under here, loads of them. I don’t know much about them, but I saw some on the way in here, and they weren’t nice. They have workshops down there, where they keep these mutants – slaves, I suppose. But with the war all the people, the normal people, took off. And the mutants took over.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe some of them were loose before, feral, but they’re all free now. I don’t know whether the orks go down there. Probably not much to take if they did.’

  ‘So these mutants control the levels below us?’

  ‘I think so. I didn’t stay too long. It makes this dump look like a noble’s palace: no power, no light, half the place flooded...’

  Straken nodded and smiled. ‘Sounds great.’ Had Krall known him better, she would have realised that trouble was coming. ‘How do I get there?’

  The manufactorum had a cellar, where the workers had stashed things
that they did not need. Rolls of cable hung from pegs on the walls. A deactivated servitor stood in a corner, head drooping. Along the far wall was a row of alcoves.

  Krall led Straken to the alcoves. One had a square grating in the floor. Straken heaved the cover up, without difficulty, and set it aside.

  ‘Close it after me,’ he said.

  Straken loaded his weapons and descended. He dropped down and heard Krall push the lid back into place as quietly as she could.

  It was dark, pitch black. There was no sound, not even that of boots overhead. The air smelled of dust. Straken pulled his bandanna up over his nose and mouth and activated the image enhancement in his bionic eye. Then he started walking.

  His vision made the world look bleached: a dead, washed-out world. He passed the inevitable gang signs, insults and threats scrawled on the walls and advanced. At points, the graffiti was so dense, and the walls so high, he felt like an insect on a printed page. The place seemed deserted, but he did not lower his guard.

  The floor had collapsed up ahead: the sloping rockcrete made a ramp down to the next level. He descended into what had once been a scholam. A faded mural showed children greeting saints and heroes. He began to sense that he was being followed. Good.

  Straken found metal stairs that could still bear weight and went down. The air was damp now. Condensation clung to the walls and patches of fungi gave off a soft, blue glow. There were shallow puddles under his boots.

  The corridor opened out onto what might have been a loading bay, sunk into the ground. It was full of water now. Jury-rigged machines stood around the reservoir: pipes channelled the water away to be filtered and piped into cans. The walls were covered in lichen.

  In the centre of the pool, bobbing on a wooden raft, stood an effigy of some kind of god, perhaps the Emperor. Arms open, face in a broad and empty smile, it greeted him.

  Straken took a step forward. Half a dozen guns clattered as they were raised.

  They came from the shadows, like animals at feeding time – the monsters, the discarded people, the genetic heretics. Hunched, wide-eyed, as pale as the bellies of fish, the mutants advanced on him. Some held crossbows, others clutched looted guns. One skinny creature raised a spear like a tribal fisherman.

  A slight, long-necked person walked from the far end of the room. Smooth-skinned, huge-eyed, it wore a robe made from old sacks. Straken wondered if the thing was male or female. It looked very old.

  ‘You are lost,’ the elder said.

  Straken shook his head. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘No,’ said the elder. ‘You are lost. Your kind, the soldiers with their guns, the overseers with their whips, as soon as they come here, they are lost. The orks as well. They drown as easily as men.’

  Straken looked around. They were, in their own way, adapted to this place. ‘I kill orks too.’

  The smooth face frowned. ‘Lucky you. And then, when all the orks are dead, your lords will send you after us. This place is ours.’

  ‘Yes. That’s why we want to leave.’

  ‘Leave? To go?’

  ‘I want to get some people out of here, through your territory. Once we’re gone, we’ll never come back.’

  To Straken’s right, one of the mutants gave a low, gurgling laugh. Straken heard the contempt in it.

  ‘The orks want to kill us all,’ he said. ‘They don’t care that you’re mutants. They don’t give a damn about what you think of the Imperium. You’re just another kind of human to them. More people to kill – that’s how they see you.’

  The elder smiled, without pleasure. ‘And how do you see us?’

  ‘As someone who can help. Once we’re gone, you can do whatever you like. Stay here, if you think you’ll live – I won’t tell anyone, that’s for sure. Run away, if you like. Just let us out, and we’ll leave you alone. That’s a promise.’

  The elder folded its arms. ‘And why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because I keep my word.’

  Myers and Eiden were on lookout when Straken returned. He pushed the hatch up, and Eiden’s lined face glared back at him. The sergeant stuck out a hand, but Straken didn’t take it. He could manage fine on his own – and his metal fingers could crush a man’s bones.

  Straken crouched down and put the hatch back in place. ‘Anyone miss me?’

  Sergeant Eiden shook his head. His white hair was dusted with grime. ‘We told ’em you were busy. And that you wouldn’t like being interrupted.’ He smiled, revealing chipped and uneven teeth. ‘They didn’t bother us after that.’

  Myers nodded keenly. ‘I didn’t see nobody,’ he said. ‘Honest.’

  Straken believed him. The gunner might be simple, but he obeyed every order to the letter. ‘We’re good to go,’ he told Eiden. ‘Let the others know.’

  They climbed the stairs. Straken opened the door, checked that nobody was there, and slipped out. In a side room, Hollister and a Mordian orderly were checking several wounded troopers. The medic looked up as Straken passed. Straken gave him a quick nod, watching as Hollister responded with a grin before getting back to work.

  Getting the injured ready to go, Straken realised.

  The centre of the building was empty: most soldiers were manning the barricades at either end. Someone had pinned a devotional poster to the wall. The saint gazed out, stern but not angry, sword held out in both hands for the viewer to take.

  Montara came to find him, striding across the stone floor. Her combat jacket and trousers, both originally green, were now grey. Even her red bandanna was dusty. ‘Any luck, sir?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a way through. Any news on the orks?’

  She shook her head. ‘We’ve been watching. I sent a few scouts forward. There’s no mines, but we’ve wired up a few tripwires and grenades. Should give us some warning.’

  ‘Good. They’ll come.’ Straken sighed. ‘Seventy years fighting for the Guard. Even after all that time, I’m still sticking the same knife into a bunch of orks.’

  ‘You’re complaining, right?’

  Straken snorted, amused. ‘When the time comes, we’ll move out by squad. You take the lead. Head straight down and follow the marks on the walls. In case I’m not with you, you’re looking for sub-level Sixty-Eight Gamma. If you see anyone down there – gangs, even mutants – do not open fire. Anyone except orks, of course. Understand?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Take the Catachans first. The Mordians should realise that it’s time to head off once we’re gone. I’ll hang back and make sure they all get out.’

  The captain leaned closer. ‘Listen, colonel. What are we going to do with the commissar?’

  ‘I’ll take care of him.’

  Montara’s face hardened. ‘I’ll do it if you want. The way Captain Tanner would have done.’ She ran a finger across her throat. ‘Commissars.’

  He taught you well, Straken thought, and he felt a stab of sadness. Tanner had been a good officer – a great one, even – and a friend. For a second Straken wished that Tanner was still with him, fighting at his side – but then again he didn’t, because Tanner was somewhere much better now.

  ‘Get back to the men,’ he said. ‘Watch for orks. I’ll talk to Commissar Verryn once I’ve checked my weapons. Last thing I need is my plasma pistol cooking off in the middle of battle.’

  The commissar stood on the western barricade, a boltgun held ready across his chest. He looked hard and ancient, a man from whom the flesh had withered away. The commissar’s profile reminded Straken of a face he’d seen moulded into the cutting edge of an axe. A Chaos cultist had wielded it on a world whose name Straken had long since forgotten.

  ‘Commissar!’

  Verryn climbed down to meet Straken.

  ‘Ah, colonel. I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  ‘I was manning the other barricade.’


  ‘Of course. I hear that you did good work repelling the last attack. Your men are a welcome addition.’

  Straken hadn’t expected that. ‘Thanks.’

  Verryn smiled. ‘It’s a pleasure to be fighting beside an expert. Two veterans against the tide, eh?’

  Suddenly, Straken understood him. We are the same, in a way, Straken thought. No shrines or statues to remember us, not even children and wives. Once we’re dead, all that will remain will be other people’s memories.

  Verryn didn’t want to die fighting because he was a great commissar, but because his stubbornness had overcome him. To the commissar, retreat, surrender and failure had become the same thing. Anything less than a heroic death would be a defeat.

  Straken almost pitied the man. Then he remembered that Verryn’s great deed would take hundreds of people down with him.

  He said, ‘There’s still a way out of here, commissar. I found a way down, through the hive–’

  ‘Through the mutants?’ Verryn scowled. ‘No. A man risks not only his life, but his very soul down there. The place is tainted, colonel. Tainted.’ The commissar looked curiously pleased with himself. ‘The creatures down there are insane. The touch of Chaos has driven them mad.’

  ‘Chaos? I don’t think so. I reckon they just stuck around here too long, commissar.’ Straken flexed the fingers of his metal hand. ‘Listen. One way or another, we’re getting out of here. You can have your last stand, you can go down in all the history books you like, but you’re doing it alone.’

  ‘Not alone,’ Verryn said. He glanced over Straken’s shoulder. Figures moved, not quickly, but coming closer. Big men in dark blue uniforms.

  Straken knew that he could take them. But it would be mad to set Catachan against Mordian. The Mordians already regarded Straken’s men as wild and ill-disciplined, and that would be proof of their worst suspicions. The Catachans would look like nothing more than bandits to them – and whatever happened then, it would help the orks.

  ‘You see, colonel–’ Verryn said, a cruel smile creeping across his lean face, but a voice drowned him out.