Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  They scrambled to obey his command. Several hundred mutants and beastkin now occupied the cache. Most were already busy erecting barri­cades or spot-welding the outer hatches shut. Others had taken up defensive positions at the internal transit nodes. Dozens of specially bred overseers prowled among them, supervising the work. The hiss of electric lashes echoed through the corridors, as did the yowling of the war-mutants.

  Twenty of the hulking beasts crouched in the central chamber, safely sepa­rated from the others. They were restive despite being sedated, likely due to the aggression-enhancers implanted in their skulls – every fifteen seconds, the enhancers delivered a stimulating pain-pulse to the neocortex, keeping them in a near-constant state of agitation. Each of the creatures was a steroidal slab of genetically augmented muscle and reinforced bone, complete with subcutaneous armour plating, stimm-nodes and simple targeting cogitators inserted into the occipital lobe.

  Simple creatures, they had but one function – to kill, until they were commanded to stop, or were destroyed themselves. They would fight until they collapsed, their systems fried from overexertion or stimm-burnout. The perfect vanguard, in other words.

  ‘Status, Marag?’ Fabius asked. Marag was overseeing the war-mutants, ensuring that they remained docile until needed. The speed with which their overclocked systems processed chemicals made keeping them sedated difficult. Too much, and they would be useless. Too little, and they would be too difficult to control, especially in a confined space.

  ‘They’re docile,’ Marag replied, over the vox. ‘Not for much longer, though. I am already through two-thirds of our sedative supply.’

  ‘We won’t have long to wait. The drukhari have little patience. Their forces are already approaching the webway gate.’

  Fabius called up the data-feed for the gate. As ever, the signal was distorted and full of static. But despite the interference he could see that the combat-servitors were already responding to some threat, just out of sight. While most of the servitors were armed only with repurposed cutting tools or melee implements, a third of their number were armed with heavy stubbers and assault cannons. A phalanx of them waited before the gate, the ammunition drums on their backs full and their weapons cycling in preparation. They would not be able to stop the drukhari, but they would whittle them down sufficiently for the war-mutants to finish the job. And if by some chance the war-mutants failed, Bellephus and the others would not.

  ‘Why didn’t you warn them about the other weapons?’ Gorel asked.

  Fabius looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Your pets. You didn’t warn them about the torpedoes the drukhari used on the other worlds. Why?’

  ‘If I had, they would have expected me to come up with some form of defensive measure. If I had obliged them, the drukhari would quickly become aware that something was amiss. If I hadn’t, my children might have complicated the situation.’

  ‘You mean they’d have turned on us.’

  Fabius looked away. ‘Perhaps. You recall our difficulties on Paramar, I trust.’

  ‘You mean that time your creations planned to sacrifice you to the Dark Gods?’ Gorel said. ‘Yes, I often think of it. It brings me no end of amusement to remember the befuddled look on your face.’

  Fabius frowned. ‘I am pleased to be of service. In any event, I wish to avoid a repeat of that unfortunate incident. Savona and the others will see to the torpedoes, if possible. If not, this planet will simply have to endure the effects as best it can, until the matter is settled in our favour.’

  ‘Lorgar’s whelp was right – you are a cold one.’ Gorel chuckled. ‘I am pleased to see this side of you, Fabius. Of late, you have seemed more the doting pater than the great scientist I sought out so many centuries ago.’

  ‘Things change.’

  ‘I am not the only one who noticed, you know. Despite Zorzi’s best efforts, I might add. He’s a loyal sort, your war-hound.’

  ‘Do you have a point, or are you experimenting with small talk again?’

  ‘When you left us, the Consortium tore itself apart. Those who remained – and I count myself among them – expected you to share what you’d learned in Commorragh. To take command of us again. That is why we stayed.’

  ‘And so I did. I have disseminated that information freely.’

  ‘But you did not take command – what have we accomplished since your return? Nothing. Where are the raids? The expeditions into aeldari ruins? You have been more distant than ever. It took this affair to stir you to action.’ Gorel shook his head. ‘More and more, it feels as if the Consortium’s days are coming to a close. And what then, eh?’

  ‘All things end,’ Fabius said. ‘I offer sanctuary and knowledge, nothing more. It is all I have ever offered. My days as lieutenant commander of the Third are behind me. We are not soldiers any more, Gorel. We have not been soldiers for a long time.’

  ‘Then what are we?’

  ‘That, you will have to decide for yourself.’ Fabius stiffened as an alarm-code flashed across the holo-display. ‘For now, be silent. It is beginning.’

  He tapped one of the holo-displays, expanding it.

  ‘There. Look. The bombers have entered the troposphere.’

  The aircraft arrowed down, swooping high over their chosen targets. Flak batteries opened up, filling the air with fire. One of the Voidravens vanished in a gout of flame, caught by a lucky shot. But the others passed through the storm unharmed, thanks to their speed and manoeuvrability. Despite the danger they posed, Fabius was impressed. That feeling only increased when he witnessed their pinpoint accuracy. The targeted areas were perfect for ensuring the maximum spread of whatever it was the torpedoes contained.

  ‘Someone did their calculations,’ Gorel muttered, as the first impact occurred near a central scaffold. Moments later, a wispy vapour flooded the surrounding transit paths. Fabius frowned and isolated the image. Gorel, noting his concern, said, ‘What do you see?’

  ‘It’s wraithbone,’ Fabius said. He felt a sudden twisting ache in his chest, and clutched at himself. The pain clawed savagely at him, only to immediately fade. The chirurgeon reacted immediately, injecting a cocktail of stimulants and stabilisers into his veins. ‘Something is…’ He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  ‘Fabius?’ Gorel said, moving to support him. ‘What’s wrong? Marag! Get in here!’

  ‘No,’ Fabius snapped. ‘I’m fine. Just… just a momentary twinge.’ He straightened. ‘I should have realised…’

  ‘What is it?’

  Fabius pointed to the images. ‘It’s not a chem-weapon. Or rather it is, but not as we know it. They’re using the psychic energy stored in wraithbone to drive the populace mad.’ He grimaced. ‘The wraithbone I cultivated for them, most likely.’

  Gorel laughed. ‘Skalagrim was right – this really is all your fault.’

  ‘Be silent,’ Fabius said, as he watched the effects of the torpedoes spread down through the levels of the city, aided by the circulation turbines that carried fresh air to the lower scaffolds. Deactivating them might preserve some of the city. He activated the vox. ‘Fetzer – Zella…’ Static greeted him. ‘Gorel?’

  ‘Planetary frequencies are being jammed, as you predicted.’ Gorel hunched over a cogitator panel. ‘I’m trying to isolate the signal and bypass it.’

  ‘Never mind that. What about our frequencies?’ As he spoke, he spied the first wave of drukhari raiders plummeting down through the lower atmosphere. A predatory smile spread across his face. They’d taken the bait.

  ‘Still functioning as normal.’

  ‘Good.’ Fabius called up a smaller display. ‘Savona?’

  ‘I’m listening. I hope you have something pleasant to say.’

  ‘It’s time.’

  Gunships rode over the rooftops, weaving through the scaffolds. The streets below were crowded with bodies. The drukhar
i weapons had done their work, and now frenzied crowds of people tore at themselves and their neighbours, driven beyond the limits of madness. The air throbbed with the song of insanity, with an unending scream.

  A solid flood of lunatic bodies heaved in the shadow of the gunships. Some danced mindlessly, whirling to the songs of the spirits. Others hurled themselves, clawing and biting, at the riot-shields of the embattled enforcers who sought to contain them.

  The gunships swooped low. Assault cannons chewed the densely packed street, clearing a bloody landing strip. Civilian and enforcer alike were reduced to a spattering of redness and a fine pink mist. Missile pods spat concealing chaff, obscuring the thoroughfare from any airborne observers. Moments later, boarding ramps slammed down, and the troop compartments disgorged almost a hundred warriors in the livery of the Emperor’s Children.

  Savona strode down Butcher-Bird’s boarding ramp, her maul resting on her shoulder. Her armour had been freshly oiled in scented unguents and her golden helm, torn from the dying body of an aeldari autarch and repurposed to interface with her battleplate, had been polished to a mirror sheen. The screams of the mad, the injured and the dying filled the air and she sighed in pleasure.

  ‘This is what it’s all about, eh, Ruatha?’

  The hulking renegade behind her grunted. His augmetic voice box made the sound into a mechanical growl.

  She glanced at him. Ruatha’s armour had been painted the colour of raw meat, and was covered in golden studs, including the helmet. Oaths of indulgence and battle-pacts hung from his pauldrons and chestplate. One of his arms had melted into a pinkish tendril, which coiled lovingly about his bolter. He bounced an inactive frag grenade in his other hand.

  ‘Could do with more screaming,’ he said.

  ‘Never satisfied, you lot.’

  He looked at her. ‘No. We’re not,’ he said flatly.

  ‘It was a joke.’

  Ruatha was silent for a moment. Then he gave a terse, artificial laugh.

  She studied him. Ruatha was one of Bellephus’ adherents, and her designated bodyguard. That meant he was loyal to her, in a round­about way. The loyalty of convenience was still loyalty, after all.

  She gestured. ‘Give the order.’

  Ruatha growled into the vox, and warriors moved swiftly, taking up predetermined positions. Pavise bulwarks were anchored to the street, creating reinforced emplacements. The emplacements weren’t meant to provide long-term defence so much as they were there to draw the drukhari’s attentions.

  Butcher-Bird shrilled, rocking slightly on its landing gear. Nearby Emperor’s Children sidled out of its arc of fire. The gunship had a notorious disregard for the lives of its passengers. Savona knew what that cry meant. Butcher-Bird’s bloodlust was getting the better of it and it wanted to get airborne again, and go hunting.

  She patted its hull affectionately. ‘Easy,’ she murmured. It was a cobbled-together thing, built from the corpses of several other vessels and their machine-spirits. Whatever it had once been, the gunship was now all sharp angles and armoured plating, studded with missile-pods and gun-muzzles. Normally, when not in use, it was kept chained in one of the launch bays, its ammunition hoppers empty and guards stationed nearby. The hardwired servitors who’d once served as its crew were little more than mummified husks. Something else piloted the gunship now.

  The gunship shrilled again, blaring its discontent to the world. Savona smiled indulgently.

  ‘I understand. Go, if you like. But make sure you come back when I call you.’ She stepped back as it retracted its ramp and fired its ascent thrusters.

  ‘Are you sure that was wise?’ Ruatha said.

  ‘No. But where’s the fun in wisdom?’ Savona peered down the ­thoroughfare. She could hear the unmistakable hum of anti-gravity engines. She’d made sure that the drukhari had spotted them. No point in being a distraction if no one saw you. ‘They’ll be coming soon. Have the others reported in yet?’

  He nodded. ‘Helion and Vostro have both reported in. The Manflayer’s curs have reached the ground safely.’

  ‘Good. Then we can be about our business.’ She swept her maul down and activated it. ‘Have you ever hunted drukhari before, Ruatha?’

  ‘Not in several centuries.’

  She smiled widely and drew her bolt pistol as the first raider appeared at the opposite end of the thoroughfare.

  ‘Then this should be most entertaining.’

  Arrian inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of war. He could hear the sounds of the embattled planetary defence forces attempting to pin down the invaders, or contain the crazed populace. The echoing thud of assault cannons and the whining bark of lasweapons. And above it all, the omnipresent wasp-hum of anti-grav engines.

  The drukhari were adept at navigating canyons of steel and glass. Their war-barques were highly manoeuvrable – but fragile. He pointed down the line of the transit path below.

  ‘They’re heading north, riding the edge of the madness. Picking off the survivors.’

  ‘A solid plan,’ the warrior beside him growled. Helion held his prized lascannon the way a man might cradle a woman. Extra charge-packs hung from his brightly painted armour like decorations, and kill marks blackened his shoulder-plates and greaves. His helm had been ­refashioned in the shape of a stylised sun with a smiling cherub’s face. ‘I’ve used it myself,’ he continued. ‘No sense risking your neck when you’ve got a weapon that’ll do most of the work for you.’

  ‘You’re a credit to your Legion,’ Arrian said.

  Helion laughed. ‘I am more than that – I’m a damn legend.’

  Arrian smiled at his bravado. Helion had once belonged to the infamous ‘Sun-Killers’, or so he claimed. Whether he had been or not, he and his cronies had some skill at long-range warfare.

  Helion looked around. ‘This overpass will make an adequate firing position. We’ll hit them as they advance, and reposition as they scatter.’ He turned. ‘Get those guns ready,’ he snarled.

  His slaves hurried to obey, dragging scavenged heavy bolters and stub-cannons into position along the overpass. Helion’s squad was only ten strong, but they had four times that number of slave gun-crews to bolster their firepower. Enough to give the drukhari pause.

  Helion looked at Arrian. ‘We don’t have the numbers to do more than irritate them, if it comes to stand-down. If they regroup and advance in force – or worse, get air support – we’ll have to retreat.’

  ‘If all goes well, they won’t have time for either.’ A coded burst of static interrupted him. He activated his vox. ‘Report.’

  ‘We’re advancing south, along the primus conduit,’ Skalagrim said. ‘With the gunships providing air support Vostro assures me that we should be at the secondary junction in an hour, if not less. What about you?’

  ‘In position,’ Arrian said. He glanced at Helion, who nodded. ‘Let me know when you’ve reached the junction. Helion thinks we can cover your advance from there, if necessary. Any word from Savona?’

  ‘She’s made contact. They know we’re here now.’

  ‘Good. That’s the point.’ Arrian cut the link. He blinked and a three-dimensional model of the city unfurled across his helmet’s display. Savona’s position was illuminated, as was Skalagrim’s, in relation to his own.

  Fabius’ strategy was simple enough – three forces of varying size, engaging the enemy up-close or at range. The gunships would provide swift transport or air support, as was required. The intent was not to defend the city so much as it was to confuse the drukhari, and draw off those forces that might otherwise assault the cache from outside. The xenos would recover quickly enough, and either regroup or retreat.

  ‘Those aircraft of theirs are going to be our main worry,’ Helion said. He was peering up at the sliver of sky just visible through the canopy of scaffolding above. ‘We don’t have anything capable of counte
ring them.’

  ‘Drukhari are scavengers,’ Arrian said. ‘The most gain for the least effort. They won’t risk valuable equipment unless they’re certain they have the advantage. Once they realise what they’re facing, I expect they’ll start a general retreat.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  Arrian didn’t reply immediately. In the distance, he could see lean forms riding the air currents. The wasp-hum was louder now. He looked at Helion.

  ‘Then you’ll have to work a bit harder to earn your keep, Sun-Killer.’

  Helion raised his lascannon. ‘It will be my pleasure, war-hound.’

  Bellephus sighted down the length of his boltgun, watching as a tide of abomination crested the gate defences. His helm’s targeting array oscillated, isolating and expanding potential targets as he studied the clash occurring below.

  The attackers were – or had once been – human. Prisoners taken on the previous raids, Bellephus assumed. Now they were wretched parodies, stretched and stitched and sealed into crude armour, their bodies swollen with chem-suffused muscles. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Some were conglomerations – two or three bodies combined into one quadrupedal nightmare. Others were starveling-thin horrors, begging for the mercy of death even as they raced into the teeth of the guns.

  The combat-servitors paid no attention. They were as much horrors in their own way, after all. Assault cannons bellowed in staccato rhythm and a metallic cascade of spent shells clattered down to the courtyard below their firing stands.

  ‘Their drums will be dry soon,’ Mayshana said. She crouched beside him, peering through the scope of her long-las. ‘And still no sign of their masters.’

  ‘They’re here,’ Bellephus said. ‘Those things are just chattel. Bullet-sponges.’

  ‘Effective ones.’

  ‘Effectiveness is judged in the aftermath.’ He activated his vox. ‘Spar – report.’

  ‘Four of those anti-grav barques just appeared out of a side passage. There are… flying things with them.’