by Dan Abnett
The tank roared and bounced over the trampled grass hillocks, heading north at full throttle, its turret reversed to spit shells into the firefields behind it, into the invisible enemy at its heels.
The night sky was ablaze. Scorching trails of rockets and shrieking shells tore overhead, heading for the hive.
Commissar Kowle crouched in the turret of the running tank, shouting orders to fire to the gun-crew in the lit space below him. The vox-link was down. He couldn't reach House Command. He had forty-two tanks left out of the armoured column of more than four hundred and fifty that had left the Sondar Gate that afternoon. No ranking Vervun Primary armour officer was left alive. Cadet Fosker was also dead.
Kowle had command now. Using the VPHC Commissar Langana as his second officer, he had managed to regroup the shattered remnants of the tank force and swing it back towards the city. It felt like retreat, but Kowle knew it was a sound tactical decision. They were facing an ochre wave out there on the grass-flats, a stupendous Zoica armoured front, pushing in through three salients. Only in his days with the Imperial Guard, during major offensives like Balhaut and Cociaminus, had he seen anything like this scale of assault. And there were infantry regiments behind, thick like locusts, following the armour.
Kowle didn't even want to think about the size of the opposition just now. It was unbelievable. It was impossible. An ochre wave that's all he could see, the tide of ochre-painted machines rolling over his forces, crushing them.
He tried the vox again, but the enemy was jamming all bands. Shells rained down amongst the retreating Vervun tanks. At least two blew out as munitions ignited, sending tank hulls end-over-end in fireballs, spraying track segments out like shattered teeth.
The driver was calling him over the intercom. Ahead, sir!
Kowle swivelled round. Vervunhive was in sight now, the great luminous blister of green energy flickering on the skyline like a giant mushroom cloud, glowing in the night. Kowle grabbed his scope and saw the blackened, burning mass of the outer habs fast approaching. A persistent rain of explosives was still dropping into them.
Kowle to column! he spat into his inter-tank vox. Form up and follow me in down the Southern Highway. We will re-enter the city through the Sondar Gate. Let none shirk, for I will find them wanting and find them!
He smiled at his last words. Even now, under a storm of fire, he could still turn a good, disciplinarian phrase.
The high-ceilinged, gilt-ornamented Hall of the Legislature, high and secure in the upper sections of the Main Spine, was full of arguing voices.
Lord Heymlik Chass, noble patriarch of House Chass, sat back in his velvet-upholstered bench and glanced aside to his aides and chamberlains.
The Legislature was full tonight. All nine noble houses were in attendance, as well as the representatives of the other twenty-one houses ordinary, along with the drones of over three hundred guild associations and families in their flamboyant finery. And down in the commons pit, hundreds of habitat and work-clave representatives bayed for action.
As a scion of a noble house, Chass' bench was in the inner circle, just above the Legislator's dais. Vox/pict drones mumbled and hovered along the benches like bumblebees. The Legislature Choir, told to shut up some minutes before by Noble Croe, sat sullenly in their balcony, balling up pages of sheet music and throwing them down on the assembly beneath. Master Jehnik, of House Ordinary Jehnik, was on his feet in the middle circle, reading from a prepared slate and trying to get someone to listen to his fifty-five-point plan.
Chass pressed the geno-reader on the side of his hardwood stall and the plate slid open before him.
He keyed in his authority rating, touched the statement nines and wrote: Master Legislator, are we going to debate or simply argue all night?
The words flashed up on the central plate and six other noble houses, fifteen houses ordinary and the majority of the guild associations assented.
Silence fell.
The Master Legislator, Anophy, an ancient hunchback with a tricorn, ribboned hat, crawled to his feet from his dais throne and began the Litany of Enfranchisement. The assembly was quiet as it was intoned. Anophy stroked his long, silver moustache, smoothed the front of his opalescent robe and asked the assembly for points of order.
Around seventy holographic runes lit the plate display and glowed overhead via hovering repeater screens.
Noble Anko has the floor. There were moans from the commons pit.
Anko got up, or rather was helped up by his entourage. His raspy, vox-amplified voice rang around the hall.
I deplore the attack on our city-hive by our erstwhile friends of Zoica. I press to vote we deny them and send them home, tails between their legs.
No argument there, thought Chass. Typical Anko, going for the easy vote.
Anko went on. I wish the Legislature to back me on another matter. My plant is being overrun by indigents from the suburbs. House officers tell me that the plant is already overwhelmed and immediate production will be impossible. This hurts Vervunhive. I move that House Anko be allowed to eject the indigents from its premises.
More squabbling and yelling from below.
Noble Yetch?
Are we to disabuse our work population so, cousin Anko? You like them well enough when they raise your quotas. Do you hate them now they choke your factories?
Commotion, louder than before. Several nobles and many guilders thumped their assent sirens vigorously. Anko sat down, his expression vile.
Noble Chass?
Chass rose. I fear my cousin Anko fails to read the larger story here. Ninety years have passed since we faced such a crisis. We face a Second Trade War. Reports are that the wave of enemy force is quite humbling to our own defences. We have all seen how the tumult today has wounded our hive. Why, my own dear daughter barely reached home alive.
Sympathetic holograms flashed sycophantically from the tiers of some of the houses ordinary.
Chass continued. If this attack inconveniences our houses, I say: Let us be inconvenienced! We have a duty to the hive population and cousin Anko should put that bald fact before his production quota. I wish to frame more important questions to this Legislature. One: Why did this attack come as a surprise? Two: Should we signal the Imperium for assistance? Three: Where is the High Master, what did he know of this and why was the Shield ignited so late?
Now the roaring grew. Assent sigils lit up all around. The Legislator screamed for order.
Noble Chass, a voice said, lilting through the huge hall. How would you wish me answer that?
The place fell silent. Escorted by ten impassive, uniformed officers of the VPHC, High Master Salvador Sondar entered the Hall.
He was blind in one eye and limping badly. His flesh was blistered and charred, and his clothes were tattered. But he was still plant supervisor.
Using an axe-rake as a crutch, Agun Soric bellowed as best his crisped lungs could manage, as he brought over three hundred smeltery workers out through the northern processing ramps of Vervun Smeltery One. Most were as soot-black as he was, the only things showing against the grime being the glistening red of wounds or the white of fresh dressings.
That and the workers' white, fear-filled eyes.
They carried their injured with them, some on makeshift stretchers, some in carriers made of tied sacking, some pushed in ore-barrows.
Soric stomped around and looked back with his one good eye. Vervun Smeltery One and parts of the surrounding ore plants were burning furiously. Chimney stacks collapsed in the heat, sending up white cinders against the yellow flames. The Veyveyr Rail Terminal, to the west, was also torching out.
He heard shouting and disputes from the concourse below him and he hobbled down, pushing his way through the rows of men and women from his plant.
A dozen Vervun Primary soldiers were stopping the survivors' advance down transit channel 456/k into the inner habs. A VPHC officer was leading them.
We need to get in there, Soric said, stomping up t
o the commissariat officer. Even with one eye, Soric could see the twitchy, frantic light in the young VPHCer's eyes.
Orders from Main Spine, old man, the Commissar told him. Low hab is choked with refugees. No more may be admitted. You camp here. Supplies will come in time.
What's your name? Soric asked.
Commissar Bownome.
Soric paused, leaned awkwardly on his crutch, and wiped the ash from his supervisor's badge with a hawk of spit.
He held it up so the uniformed man could see. Soric, plant supervisor, Smeltery One. We've just been bombed to gak and my workers need access to cover and treatment. Now, not in time.
There is no way through. Access is denied. Make your people comfortable here. The troopers behind Bownome raised their weapons as punctuation.
Here? In a stinking street with the works burning behind us? I don't think so. Boy, Smeltery One is the property of Noble House Gavunda. We are all Lord Gavunda's souls. If he hears of this
I answer only to House Sondar. As should you. Don't threaten me.
Where's the gakking threat, you idiot? Soric asked, looking round at his massing workers and getting a spirited laugh in answer. A one-eyed cripple like me? Let us through.
Aye, let us through! bellowed a worker beside Soric. Ozmac, probably, but it was impossible to tell under the soot. Other workers jeered and agreed.
Do you understand what a State of Emergency is, old man? Bownome asked.
Understand? I'm gakking living it! Soric blurted. Stand aside! He tried to push past the VPHC officer, but Bownome pushed back and Soric fell off his crutch onto the debris-littered paving.
There were shouts of disbelief and anger. Workers surged forward. Bownome backed away, pulled out his autopistol and fired into the approaching mass.
Ozmac fell dead and another collapsed wounded.
That's it! Enough! Be warned! yelled the commissar. You will all stay where
Soric's axe-rake crutch shattered Bownome's skull and felled him to the ground. Before any of the troopers could react, the workers were on them like a tidal wave. All of the troopers were killed in a few seconds.
The smeltery workers gathered up their weapons. Worker Gannif handed the commissar's pistol to Soric.
I'll see you right! Soric barked. He waved for them to follow him down the transit channel. They cheered him and moved on, at his heels, into the city.
Marshal Gnide is dead, High Master Sondar told the Legislature. The hall had remained silent as the High Master's floating throne ascended to the main dais with its stone-faced VPHC vanguard. Sondar's throne had locked into place above the High Legislator's dais and the master of Vervunhive had spent a long moment looking out at the assembly before speaking. He was dressed in regal robes, his face masked with a turquoise ceramic janus.
Dead, Sondar repeated. Our hive faces a time of war and you, noble houses, low houses, guilders, you decide it is time to usurp my position?
Silence remained.
Sondar's masked visage turned to look around at the vast swoop of the tiered hall.
We are one, or we are nothing.
Still the nervous silence.
I believe you think me weak. I am not weak. I believe you think me stupid. I am not that either. I believe that certain high houses see this as an opportunity to further their own destinies.
The High Master allowed Noble Anko to rise with a wave of his hand.
We never doubted you, High Lord. The Trade War fell upon us so suddenly.
You witless weakling, Chass thought. Sondar has led us to this blind and you reconcile sweetly. Where is the fervour that had us vote to take executive action this afternoon?
Zoica will be denied, Sondar said. Chass watched the High Lord's movements and saw how jerky they were. It's not him, he thought. The wretch has sent another servitor puppet to represent him.
We have sent word to the Northern Foundry Collectives and to Vannick Magna. They will bolster us with garrison troops. Our counterattack will begin in two days.
There was delighted commotion from the commons pit and the guild tiers.
Chass rose and spoke. I believe it is in the interests of Verghast as a whole to send to the Imperium for assistance.
No, responded Sondar quickly. We have beaten Zoica before; we will do it again. This is an internal matter.
No longer, a voice said from below. The assembly looked down at the benches where the officials of the Administratum sat. Hooded and gowned, Intendant Banefail of the Imperial Administratum got to his feet. Astropathic messages have already been sent out, imploring Imperial assistance from Warmaster Macaroth. Vervunhive's production of ordnance and military vehicles is vital for the constant supply of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade. The warmaster will take our plight seriously. This is a greater matter than local planetary politics, High Lord Sondar.
Sondar, or rather the being that represented him, seemed to quiver in his throne. Rage, Chass presumed. The balance between hive and Imperial authority had always been delicate in Vervunhive, indeed in all the nobilities of Verghast. It was rare for it to clash so profoundly and so visibly. Chass well knew the fundamental strategic import of Vervunhive and the other Verghast manufactory dues to the crusade, but still the magnitude of the intendant's actions amazed him. The Administratum was the bureaucratic right hand of the Emperor himself, but it usually bowed to the will of the local planetary governor.
Our plight must truly be serious, he realised, a sick feeling seeping into his heart.
Holding the infant and pulling the small boy by the hand, Tona Criid ran through the burning northern section of the Commercia. The boy was crying now. She couldn't help that. If they could make the docks, she could get them clear across the river and to safely. But the routes were packed. As fast as refugees came into the hive from the south, inhabitants were fleeing to the north.
Where we going? asked the boy, Dalin.
Somewhere safe, Tona told him.
Who are you?
I'm your Aunt Tona.
I don't have an aunt.
You do now. And so does Yancy here.
She's Yoncy.
Yeah, whatever. Come on. Tona tried to thread them through the massing crowds that filled the transit channels down to the docks, but they were jammed tight.
Where are we going? asked the kid again as they sheltered in a barter-house awning to avoid the press.
Away. To the river That was the plan. But with the crowds this thick, she didn't know if it was going to be possible. Maybe they'd be safer in the city, under the Shield.
The baby began to cry.
He couldn't breathe. The weight and blackness upon him were colossal. Something oily was dripping into his eyes. He tried to move, but no movement was possible. No, that wasn't true. He could grind his toes in his army boots. His mouth was full of rockcrete dust. He started to cough and found his lungs had no room to move. He was squashed.
There was a rattling, chinking sound above him. He could hear voices, distant and muffled. He tried to cry out, but the dust choked him and he had no room to choke.
Light. A chink of light, just above as rubble was moved away. Rubble moved and some pieces slumped heavier on him, vicing his legs and pelvis.
There was a face in the gap above him.
Who's down there? it called. Are you alive?
Hoarse and dry, he answered. My name is Ban Daur and yes, I am alive.
His family house was deserted. Guilder Worlin strode inside, leaving a sticky tread of blood in his footprints. His clan was at the Legislature, he was sure. Let them go and bow and scrape to the High Lord.
He crossed the draped room to the teak trolley by the ornamental window and poured himself a triple shot of joiliq. Menx and Troor waited in the anteroom, whispering nervously.
Bodyguard! To me! Worlin called as the fire of the drink warmed his body. He waved an actuator wand at the wall plate and saw nothing but cycling scrolls of Imperium propaganda. He snapped the plate off and dropped the wa
nd.
His bodyguard approached. They had both shrouded their weapons again, as was the custom inside guild households.
Worlin sat back on the suspensor couch and sipped his drink, smiling. Outside the window, the sprawl of Vervunhive spread out, many parts of it ablaze. The green, Shield-tinted sky contorted with the constant shelling.
You have served me well tonight, Worlin told them.
The bodyguards paused, uncertain.
Menx! Troor! My friends! Fetch yourselves a drink from the cart and relax! Your master is proud of you!
They hesitated and then turned. Troor raised a decanter as Menx found glasses. As soon as they had their backs to him, Worlin pulled the needle pistol from his robes and fired.
The first shot blew Menx's spine out and he was flung face first into the cart, which broke under him and shattered. Troor turned and the decanter in his hand was shattered by the second shot. The third exploded his face and he dropped backwards onto the cart wreckage.
Worlin got up and, drink in hand, fired thirty more needles into the twisted corpses, just to be sure. Then he sat back, sipping his drink, watching Vervunhive burn.
The road is blocked, sir! the tank driver yelled through the intercom to Kowle. Chasing up the Southern Highway, through the wrecked outer habs, with shells still falling, Kowle's column had reached the rear of the queue of refugees tailing back from Sondar Gate.
Kowle sat up in the turret, looking ahead, taking in the sea of milling bodies before them.
Shells fell to the west and lit up the night.
Kowle dropped into the turret and said, Drive through.
The driver looked back at him in amazement.
But commissar
Are you denying a direct order? Kowle snapped.
No, sir, commissar, sir, but
Kowle shot him through the throat and dragged his twitching body out of the driver's seat.
He settled into the blood-slick metal chair and keyed the intercom. Armour column. Follow me.
Just outhab wretches worthless, he decided, as he drove the tank down through the masses, crushing a path to the distant gates of Vervunhive.