The nearest of the battle suits raised its twinned fusion blasters towards Sarik as he charged in towards it. The pilot hesitated, the suit actually taking a step backwards. The tau might be inexperienced in the realities of a galaxy at war, but they were fast learners, that much was clear. They were quickly learning to keep the Space Marines at arm’s length, though doing so was easier said than done.
The berserk fury descended on Sarik again as he closed the last few metres. The fusion blasters powered up, nucleonic energies pulsating through their vents as they prepared to fire. The blasters zeroed in on Sarik, and he dived forwards as they fired. As he struck the ground, the twinned blasts turned the air above him into a roaring inferno. The heat caused the skin on the back of his head to blister and cook, and the hair of his topknot to melt and sizzle. So immense were the tightly contained energies that he could feel their effects even through his power armour, the war spirit within flooding his system with combat drugs to negate any pain that might otherwise have slowed him down.
As the blast dissipated, Sarik came up with his chainsword in both hands. He was right in front of the battle suit, too close for it to bring its fusion blasters to bear. He bellowed and brought his screaming blade directly upwards, seeking to damage the vulnerable ball joint between leg and pelvis. But as the chainsword swept in, the energy shield activated again, sheathing the battle suit in pulsating blue energies for but a moment, and repulsing Sarik’s blade.
Sarik was pushed back by the forces unleashed by the energy shield. He ducked to the left as the battle suit brought its fusion blaster to bear, and as he did so he saw the first of the Devastators closing on another of the suits. Sarik shouted a warning as the other suit raised its twin blasters, but his words were drowned out by the furnace roar of the weapons discharging at close range.
The two blasts converged on the nearest Space Marine, turning his entire body into a seething lava-orange mass. In an instant, his armour was reduced to slag, great gobbets of liquefied ceramite blowing backwards and splattering across the battle-brothers following close behind. In less than a second, the Devastator was gone, nothing but a long smear of rapidly cooling, bubbling liquid marking his passing.
Bolt pistol shots rang out at close range, successive blasts driving the battle suits back one step at a time. Through his rage, Sarik saw that his opponent’s jets were powering up, ready to leap into the air and re-deploy nearby, so that he could fire from outside of Sarik’s reach. Sarik needed to disable the battle suit so that he would have the time to drive his chainsword through its armour, but the energy shield was making it impossible to find a weak point.
Frustration and anger raging inside him, Sarik made a crude upwards thrust. The energy shield sprang into being again, rebounding the attack, but this time, Sarik saw that the energy was being projected from a small, disc-shaped device mounted at his opponent’s shoulder.
Throwing caution to the wind, Sarik sprang forwards, grabbing hold of the battle suit’s sensor unit head with one hand while he gunned his chainsword with the other. Bracing himself, he set his armoured boots on the battle suit’s thigh panels, and hauled himself forwards to grapple his foe, or otherwise embrace it in a furious death grip. There was no way the pilot could have anticipated such a reckless move, and the energy shield generator activated half a second too late.
Sarik was inside the shield.
Hauling himself onto the battle suit’s upper torso, Sarik fought for balance as his weight caused the pilot to all but lose control. The jets fired, but encumbered by the combined weight of the Space Marine and his power armour, the tau could only rise three metres. Sarik roared in utterly incoherent savagery, and forced the sensor block backwards as if it were the head of a living enemy and he was baring its throat to sever its jugular. He brought the chainsword down, its teeth grinding into the armoured joint between head and torso, sending a fountain of sparks arcing upwards into his face as if from an angle grinder. The battle suit crashed back to the ground, the pilot barely able to keep it upright under Sarik’s weight. It bent almost double, whether through a deliberate attempt to throw Sarik off or simply as a desperate random reaction the Space Marine could not tell.
The chainsword shrieked, then its monomolecular teeth were through the neck joint’s armour and Sarik sheathed his weapon. Using both hands, he tore the head from the torso, and threw it savagely to the ground.
Blinded, the pilot attempted to raise the suit’s fusion blaster arms towards his tormentor. Sarik dodged back, his one hand grasping the wound in the torso for purchase while the other alighted on the shield generator. He grabbed the disc-shaped device and yanked it back with all his might at the exact moment that the pilot tried desperately to fire his blaster at the Space Marine, at perilously close range.
The heat blast turned the air to nuclear fire, half a metre from Sarik’s face. He turned away, putting his left shoulder plate between his head and the impossible heat. The livery of the entire left side of his armour blistered and was scoured away in a second, leaving only the bare, dull metallic surface beneath, charred and blackened by the fusion blast.
The fire died, but the weapon was cycling up for another burst. Pulling himself up on top of the bucking battle suit, Sarik rolled over the upper surface of the torso and reached downwards to grab the weapon’s barrels, one in each hand.
The weapon’s systems had shed much of the heat, but it was still impossibly hot. Even through his armoured gauntlets, Sarik felt the flesh of his hands cooking. His power armour pumping ever more palliative elixirs into his system, Sarik strained, hauling the weapons around as the feed chambers peaked at full capacity.
The pilot could not possibly have known Sarik’s intentions, and in truth, neither did he, for he was acting on pure instinct, his body flooded with adrenaline and potent combat drugs. The fusion blasters discharged, the furnace-beams enveloping a second battle suit, towards which Sarik had tracked the weapons’ barrels.
The other battle suit’s energy shield cast a shimmering blue bubble. Sarik bellowed as he held the weapons on target, forcing the fusion beams to burn through the shield. Overwhelmed by the titanic energies, the shield pulsated, before collapsing in upon its projector.
The battle suit’s armour withheld the raging sun storm for all of three seconds before the panels peeled back, one laminate at a time, each layer disintegrating into billowing black gas. The instant the armour was gone, the rest of the suit was turned to liquid fire which scattered on the hot winds stirred up in the wake of the devastation.
Finding that his gauntlets were fused to the barrels of the weapons, Sarik hauled with all his strength to tear them free. The battle suit bucked and kicked beneath him, but could not dislodge his bulk. Then one hand tore free, pain flaring until his armour systems administered yet another dose of elixir. Though he could barely feel his free hand, he made a fist and powered it down into the open wound atop the battle suit’s torso. It crunched through a layer of internal systems, before striking something soft. The battle suit went immediately limp and as it crashed to the ground, Sarik finally tore his other hand free and rolled clear.
As Sarik braced himself to bound upright and engage the last of the three battle suits, he heard a voice bellow, “Sarik! Keep down!” Bolt-rounds tore overhead, followed by a missile streaking in from a position further behind. He was barely able to hold his berserker fury in check, the urge to spring to his feet and charge the last enemy almost overcoming the danger of the gun and missile fire.
He rolled sideways, and saw the last battle suit enveloped in a roiling mass of flames and smoke as the missile struck its energy shield and detonated. The shield defeated the missile, but the battle suit’s pilot was retreating and was outside of the effective range of its fusion blasters. As the smoke cleared, the suit’s back-mounted jets flared to life and it sprang up and backwards in a great bounding leap.
Sarik was overcome with the desire to tear the battle suit’s pilot from the infernal machine, a
nd surged to his feet with a snarl on his lips.
“Sarik!” he heard from behind.
He started forwards, his chainsword raised, before his name was called again, this time from closer behind. “Sarik!”
Something in the voice caused him to pause. It was Brother Qaja, his old friend, who he had known since both had served as scouts in the 10th Company. For a brief moment, he was back on Luther McIntyre with his fellow neophytes. Qaja was wounded and Kholka cornered by the mica dragon…
…Sarik drew his bolt pistol and threw himself forwards, determined to save his fallen brother from the beast’s rage. Qaja called his name and tackled him to the ground, pushing him away from the creature’s snapping maw. The beast distracted, Kholka darted clear, helping Sarik as he dragged the wounded Qaja from the cave. Only Qaja’s shouted intervention had saved him from a fool’s death…
Reality crashed back in on Sarik, and he realised he was standing in the open twenty metres beyond the laager. Brother Qaja had hold of his blackened, fused shoulder plate and was dragging him around to face him. Shots whinnied all around and savage explosions rent the air.
Sarik turned and looked his fellow White Scar in the face. For a moment, it was not Brother Qaja that stood there before him, his face a latticework of honour scars. It was Scout Qaja, his face untouched and unlined.
“Never do that again!” Scout Qaja had said as the three neophytes had cleared the mica dragon’s cave.
“You said you would never do that again!” Brother Qaja said angrily. “There is honour, and then there is foolhardiness… I thought you understood the difference!”
Sarik’s rage lifted as his battle-brother’s words sank in, and he allowed himself to be pushed towards the laager. The Devastators were falling back in pairs with disciplined precision, one covering the other with his bolt pistol as they fought their way back to the vehicles. A lull seemed to have settled on the scene of the battle, the tau pulling back to regroup after their failed attempt to breach the Space Marines’ defences. In less than a minute, Sarik and Qaja were back within the circle of armoured vehicles.
“This time, brother,” Sarik said as he caught his breath. “This time, I mean it.”
Qaja’s face was grim as his dark eyes bored into Sarik’s. Then he nodded, and said, “This time, I believe you. You are master here, you must rein in your battle-lust, but you know that already, I am sure.”
“Aye, brother,” Sarik said, looking around the laager and noting the casualties suffered in the first wave of assaults. “Too many rely upon me for me to indulge in such things.”
“Not unless you truly have no alternative,” Qaja said. “I shall say no more on the matter.”
But Sarik was not content with that. “No, brother,” he said. “If you need to do so, you must. I shall seek the counsel of the Chaplains later, but in the meantime, you must be my confessor.”
“And if you do not heed my words?” Qaja said, a wry grin creasing his scarred face.
“Then you can strike me down,” Sarik smiled, “just like you did on Luther McIntyre.”
“I promise it, brother,” Qaja replied. “I—”
The air shuddered as the Whirlwinds opened fire again, three-dozen missiles streaking overhead to detonate amongst another wave of the savage alien carnivores surging towards the laager. Sarik clapped his battle-brother’s shoulder, then bellowed orders as he strode to the nearest squad, ready to man the defences. Qaja hoisted his plasma cannon and checked its power cycle, then followed after his friend and commander.
“Repeat last, Korvane!” Lucian shouted into the vox-horn, one hand clamping the phones around his head. “You’re breaking up!”
Lucian was hitching a ride in a Chimera belonging to the 2nd Armoured’s regimental intelligence cell, and the transport bucked and jolted as it hurtled at top speed along the road to the Gel’bryn star port. The passenger bay was cramped, filled with staff officers working field-cogitation stations and yelling into vox-sets. Lucian could barely hear himself think, let alone what Korvane was saying.
“I said,” Korvane’s voice cut through the burbling static, “I’m going to try to rally the council against the inquisitor. I’ve got to do something. I can’t just stand by and watch him go through with this!”
“I understand, Korvane,” Lucian said. “But there’s nothing the council can do. It’s been dissolved, as well you know—”
“Only because he says it has, father,” Korvane interjected. “And only because the councillors accept his authority.”
“He’s an inquisitor, Korvane,” Lucian hissed, trying not to be overheard by the other passengers of the command Chimera. It was practically impossible, but it seemed the staff officers had their own concerns and none were at all bothered with his. “He can do what he wants.”
“Father,” Korvane said, his tone almost chiding. “You know as well as I that his authority beyond the Imperium relies on others acknowledging it. His rosette holds no more inherent authority than your warrant, or the council’s charter. The council only accepts its dissolution because its members are scared of him.”
“And with good reason, son,” Lucian said. “You’re right; we’re all peers out here, but what happens when we get back to Imperial space? If we make an enemy of him, a real enemy, we make an enemy of the entire Inquisition.
“And besides,” Lucian continued, “he has a damned virus bomb.”
There was a pause, punctuated by popping static and low, churning feedback. Then Korvane answered, “Father, I’m going to try to stop him. I don’t know—”
“You cannot!” Lucian growled. “Son, you’re the sole inheritor of the warrant. There is no second in line!” Not since Brielle had disappeared, presumed dead. There was a third in line, but he was a pampered imbecile, and aside from a few distant cousins Lucian had no desire to see the Clan Arcadius go to anyone but his son on his own death.
“Leave this to me, father,” Korvane replied, his tone resolved. “I have to do something, and I will. You are needed at the front; I am needed here.”
“Well enough, Korvane,” Lucian said, his words belying what he felt inside. He looked across the command Chimera’s transport bay, towards the glowing map displayed on a nearby tacticae-station. The 2nd Armoured was coming up on ten kilometres from the star port, and would soon be linking up with Sarik’s Space Marine force. Five other regiments were close behind, and the Deathbringers moving in support. If the combined force could push through the tau and take the star port, Inquisitor Grand might call off his insane plan to virus bomb Dal’yth Prime. If not, Lucian might be able to return to orbit and stop his son getting himself killed.
“Good luck, son,” Lucian signed off. “Damn fool offspring…”
Brielle held perfectly still as the drone approached, its slowly pulsing, red-lit lens-eye closing on her as she waited in the shadows of the recess off the communications bay. She pressed backwards into the shadows, feeling her way behind her with her left hand while with the other she prepared to unleash the last, precious load of her digital flamer. As she ghosted back, the drone came on—surely, it had not discovered her presence, for it would have raised an alarm had it done so. Perhaps it had just glimpsed movement and was following some pre-programmed imperative to investigate. Or perhaps it had raised a silent alarm, and a squad of armed warriors was rushing to detain her even now.
A small, levered arm unfolded from beneath the drone’s disc-shaped body, an unidentified tool clicking at its end. It was less than three meters away, level with the end of the shadowed recess, and still it had not seen her. From her hiding place, Brielle studied the drone, deciding that it must be some low-level maintenance machine, with a correspondingly low level of intelligence or will.
The tool levered out in front of the drone, and touched a piece of wall-mounted machinery. Brielle’s eyes followed the movement, and she saw that the drone was more interested in the communications sub-systems lining the recess than in her. In fact, she saw with
a small smile, it was straightening up a piece of looped cabling she had disturbed as she had pressed backwards.
A thought struck her. Keeping her eye on the drone’s pulsing eye-lens, she stepped backwards still further, the recess becoming all the more narrow and cramped as she penetrated deeper into the communication bay’s innards. Her hand behind her tracing the wall, she located another cable run, and took it in her grip. Then she looked around slowly, careful not to make too sudden a movement in case she drew the drone’s attention, and found another. She knew enough of the tau script to understand the meaning of the characters stencilled across a junction box the second set of cabling led to: danger.
Last chance, she thought as she flexed the finger on which she wore the concealed flamer. Use the last charge, or take a risk on the cabling. She had never shied away from risk, and would not be starting now.
The hand that gripped the first loop of cabling tightened, and Brielle committed herself. She pulled hard, and yanked the cable from its terminal, darting backwards beyond the second cable’s junction box as she did so. A sharp, bright discharge filled the dark recess, and Brielle was blinded for a brief moment. She felt her way along the walls, and crouched down. As her vision returned, she saw that the drone had closed on the damaged cable, its tool-arm re-seating the ripped-free cable even as she watched.
Knowing it was now or never, Brielle reached up and gripped the second cable. This time, she closed her eyes as a bright arc of power leaped from the end. Raising the spitting cable high, she stabbed upwards, and plunged its end into the drone’s exposed underbelly.
With a high-pitched, electronic screech that sounded disturbingly organic, the drone’s systems erupted in sizzling lightning. Small arcs of power seethed around its body, up and down its levered tool-arm and along the cable it was holding. The drone hovered there, shaking violently as smoke begun to belch from vents around the upper facing of its disc.
[Rogue Trader 03] - Savage Scars Page 25