Straken

by Toby Frost

  The forest rose up around them in a series of curling arcs. The trees – the briefing vids had called them Barabo plants – had evolved to survive in storm conditions. They curved over in u-shapes, like the humps of a Catachan water-drake. Their leaves were broad and sharp, and looked heavy. As Straken passed through, he wondered whether they could be used as blades. The soldiers walked quickly and carefully, stepping high through the tangled ground, pushing back branches and slipping past.

  Straken looked back. The drop-ships sat in the clearing like a herd of huge beasts. Men jogged down the ramps, laden with gear. The ships had turned off their engines to avoid undue noise, and the thudding of boots and the clatter of equipment filled the air.

  ‘Almost done,’ Tanner said, answering Straken’s question before he’d even asked it. ‘The last two are–’

  From behind came a sharp, wet crack, like damp branches being broken. Straken looked round, saw men doing the same, looking for creatures among the trees. Then he realised that the sound hadn’t come from the trees, but from below the ground.

  It came again, as loud as a lasgun shot, and this time it didn’t end. There was a swelling, crumbling noise now, and suddenly two of the drop-ships lurched to one side.

  ‘The ground’s giving way!’ Halda yelled.

  He was right: the ground rumbled around them, the dirt crumbling under their boots. A second crack, and drop-ship eight – Wings of the Righteous – fell as if its left legs had disappeared.

  Other ships saw it. The seventh ship fired its engines, roaring to pull away. The noise of subsidence was suddenly blotted out by the hard roar of thrusters.

  Men sprinted from the ramp of Wings of the Righteous. Someone shouted, ‘Get a rope!’

  Straken saw people surge forward to help. He grabbed Tanner. ‘No. Nobody go any further!’ he cried. ‘Morrell!’

  The commissar took up the cry. A man ignored him and dashed across the shaking, collapsing ground – and disappeared up to his waist. The drop-ships tore upwards, leaving their stricken comrade behind. Troopers stumbled out of the Wings of the Righteous, but not fast enough. It fired its engines in a bid to tear free, but they were half submerged in the earth. Blue flames crisped the ground, turning it and several nearby troopers to dust. Ropes slapped onto the dirt. A few fortunate men grabbed hold and were hauled out by their comrades.

  And then the drop-ship fell out of view. It just sank, pulling a dozen shouting men in its wake. With a terrible rumble the ship was gone, engines still roaring as the other drop-ships disappeared into the sky.

  They stood there for a moment. A rescued man sat at the edge of the hole, shaking. Morrell had unholstered his bolt pistol to maintain discipline; Straken couldn’t tell whether he had fired it. The commissar put the gun away.

  ‘The whole place may be unstable,’ Morrell said.

  Straken nodded. ‘Vox!’

  Guardsman Mayne hurried over, the set banging against his back. He checked the comm-link and said, ‘Oh, Emperor. Colonel Straken, sir…’

  Straken thought he was horrified by the crater. And then he heard the babble from the comm, almost a hundred voices yelling for help, and over it, still in clipped terms, the Navy officer from the Wings of the Righteous. ‘Request immediate assistance – am unable to clear – sinking rapidly – in the Emperor’s name…’

  Straken said, ‘Vox off, Mayne.’ He cupped his hand around his mouth. ‘Everybody, clear the area! The Navy’ll come back and fish them out. There’s nothing we can do. I said move it, Guardsmen! Go!’

  ‘The Navy won’t do anything.’ Straken glanced left, and saw Tanner beside him. The man spoke quietly. He nodded at the men around him. ‘They know that too.’

  ‘You think it would help if I told them so?’ Straken demanded.

  Tanner shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Get your men moving. You know the plan – take your men east. Lavant’s people will be checking the north. And move. This whole place might give way.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner said.

  The air smelt of cinnamon and was full of fine dust, as though someone had poured ground spice over the trees. Several men pulled their bandanas down and wore them like masks. Straken looked back at Morrell. The commissar was grave and composed, his face the same grim mask all commissars put on.

  ‘We’re spread out on a wide front, split into squads,’ Straken said, keeping his voice low. ‘The scout teams keep in touch with signals. Best not to use much vox just after a drop. The orks might be monitoring it.’

  ‘If you think so,’ said the commissar. He glowered into the forest. ‘I didn’t know they were so adept with communications.’

  ‘Most greenskins wouldn’t know one end of a comm-link from the other. But you’d be surprised what some can rig up.’

  Morrell unclipped something at his side and slid out an oiled machete.

  ‘Don’t cut too much,’ Straken said. ‘We don’t want to leave a clear trail.’

  Morrell glared back. ‘There are two thousand of us, colonel, not to mention six Sentinels. I doubt a few branches will make much difference.’

  ‘That’s why we’re in teams, commissar.’ Straken stopped and pointed through the gloom, back the way they had come. ‘See back there? The last five men are covering our tracks. It won’t be perfect with these numbers, but it’ll be good.’

  ‘You think the orks will check?’

  ‘Best not take the chance.’

  Morrell grunted, clearly annoyed that he couldn’t disagree, and they carried on.

  Although the trees were low – the forest was no more than three-and-a-half metres high – they were densely packed to stand up to the wind. Two men peeled off to check the map; they would probably have to climb up to take a bearing. No dangerous native life, Straken remembered. We’ll see.

  Halda, the colour sergeant, said, ‘Colonel.’

  ‘What?’ Straken did not slow down.

  ‘Think I saw movement.’

  Straken froze. ‘Commissar,’ he hissed. Then, louder, ‘Morrell.’

  The commissar stopped and looked back. ‘What is it?’

  Halda pointed. ‘There!’

  Something moved between the trees. It looked like a ripple in the earth, a metre high at its peak but tapering like a tear. Straken boosted his vision, and felt a slight ache behind his eye. He was not looking at an optical illusion – the thing was real, and alive. It slipped between the dry trunks with almost liquid ease.

  Straken raised his hand and gestured for attention. He pointed, and slowly, silently, half a dozen lasguns took aim at the thing. As it drew closer, he saw streamlined armour on its back, the exact colour of the surrounding ground.

  ‘Do we shoot it?’ Morrell whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Wait.’

  The front end of the creature rose. Straken saw thick hide on its underside, six broad legs and a mouth like a leech’s, full of dozens of rows of teeth. The mouth opened, like an iris-lock – and then dropped down. For a moment he heard it grind against the ground, as if it were trying to eat the rock, and then the creature turned and slipped off to the east, its limbs hidden under its jointed shell.

  Morrell blew out. ‘Looks like it’s not hungry.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s keep moving, Straken. Straken?’

  The colonel did not move. He raised a hand. ‘Wait…’

  ‘Wait?’

  The ground burst open behind them. They spun round. An armoured head shot into view, its underside an open tunnel of fangs. Straken leaped aside.

  ‘Throne!’ Morrell snarled. His hand flicked to his side and came up with a bolt pistol. He sighted the beast’s back, and as it dived underground again, fired a shot into its rear armour. Sparks burst from its back as if he’d hit metal.

  ‘Enemy!’ Straken barked, and in answer to him the ground came to life. Heads burst from the earth like torpedoes. An armoured form shot along the surface, wriggling.

  Their lasguns cracked out. A Catachan blazed away at one of the monsters
, his legs braced against the recoil. It slammed into him, knocking him down and killing him in the same motion. The ground rippled. ‘Watch it!’ Straken called.

  He fired his shotgun into an armoured flank, with no effect. One of the beasts reared up and dropped onto a corporal, his head disappearing into its gaping mouth. He heard its teeth grinding and, the soldier screamed, muffled and mercifully short.

  Morrell brandished his pistol. ‘Hold your ground!’

  ‘Split up!’ Straken bellowed. ‘Don’t bunch together!’

  Morrell lined up another shot. In all the chaos, the commissar was weirdly calm. ‘Xenos filth,’ he growled, and he fired one-handed like a duellist. He was lucky; the bolt-shell hit one of the aliens in the underbelly, and it rolled over, thrashing. Catachans raced towards it, lasguns and knives at the ready, and grappled with the beast. Long blades rose and fell.

  ‘Halda, with me!’ Straken called, and the colour sergeant ran over, the standard in his hands. ‘When I say,’ Straken said.

  He pulled his shotgun up and fired into the largest creature he could see. It turned, the bad light catching on its armour, and shot towards Straken.

  It was like standing in the path of a train. The thing rushed at Straken like a shark through shallow water, tail thrashing behind it. Fifteen metres away, it quickened, frantic for blood. Straken couldn’t help but think of the land shark on Miral all those years ago, the great maw descending over his left side, jaws shearing his right arm away.

  The worm reared up, cobra-like. ‘Now!’ Straken called, and Halda rammed the standard into its flank. The point scored its armour but did not pierce it. The beast twisted, its dripping maw searching for the sergeant, and for a moment the flesh of its underside was exposed. Straken drew his knife and darted in.

  He drove his arm out, the fang-knife at the end of it. The force of the blow tore the beast’s underbelly. The worm squealed and shot forward to escape the blade. Straken gritted his teeth and pushed against its weight, and as the thing tore past, his knife ripped a great gouge out of its underside.

  Grey blood spattered the ground. The thing screeched, reared up and flopped back, legs thrashing. Men hurried over with knives and bayonets, but it was already dying. A hideous, sickly smell came from the creature, like escaping gas.

  Straken looked around. The other worms were in retreat; a few soldiers fired at them as they fled, but the attack was over. Morrell loomed out of the shadows, checking his bolt pistol. Halda prised the standard from the ground.

  ‘How’d they dig through this?’ he demanded, tearing the banner pole free. ‘The ground’s like rock!’

  Heat, maybe, Straken thought. Or some kind of phase field. He’d seen tyranids with something like that. But there were more important things to worry about.

  Morrell did not look round. As if reciting a mantra, the commissar said, ‘The ways of the xenos are many and foul, Guardsman.’

  ‘Any wounded?’ Straken asked.

  ‘Two dead,’ Halda replied. ‘The others are okay.’

  ‘Then let’s go, before those things get hungry again. Mayne, try to get a warning through to the others on the vox.’ Straken raised his metal arm. ‘All right, let’s move!’

  They walked on.

  One of the flanking soldiers gestured to a man between the trees, using quick hard hand movements. The man gave a sequence in reply, then slipped back into the gloom.

  ‘One of the Sentinels’ sensorium rigs has picked up an opening, sir. There’s a vent shaft for the city three kilometres south-west. It’s probably coming from there.’

  Straken nodded.

  ‘Mayne, get on the vox and tell them we’ve found our entry point. Tell them to pivot on my team and hold positions once we’re in place. I don’t want anyone breaking cover until we have to.’

  Guardsman Mayne, only eight months off Catachan, cupped his hand around the vox-mic and relayed the orders. Straken checked his chrono.

  ‘Five hours till sun-up,’ he said. ‘Let’s move.’

  They reached the edge of the forest half an hour later. Straken stopped a little way back, where the trees were thin enough to give a good view but could still hide his men. For a moment, Straken thought he was looking at a set of low hills, but suddenly he realised that this was Excelsis City.

  The city met the surface in a set of wide, low domes, as though it had just started to push its way into the light from below. The domes were sloped to deal with the wind, and Straken could have walked up the side of most of them. They looked like the caps of mushrooms, he thought. The streamlining had only been partly successful, though – the wind had torn great gouges in the sides of many of the domes, ripping away the paint and armour, as though a huge animal had tried to tear its way inside.

  As if to confirm it, a low moan came from the north-west: the gathering wind.

  Mayne pressed the vox-link to his ear. ‘Colonel, message from Captain Lavant with Eighth Team. There’s a storm brewing up sixty-two degrees–’

  ‘North-west, I know. Tell him to stay put. Ask him how far away the storm is.’

  Straken waited. He flexed his mechanical fingers, tapped them against his steel side.

  ‘About two hours, maybe less.’

  Straken made a quick gesture to the men around him. They whistled softly, motioned to the outrunners and First Team drew close. Straken looked at the two hundred men around him. He didn’t raise his voice.

  ‘Listen up. Over there’s Excelsis. What we’ve got to do is get inside, and fast. I’ve just heard there’s a storm gathering, probably coming our way. I don’t know the strength, but I doubt we’ll want to be outside when it hits. I’m not sure the forest will give us much cover. Up ahead, there should be a ventilation shaft for the city. We can probably get in there. Once we’re inside, I want everyone securing the area to help the teams behind us get in. All right?’

  There were nods and murmurs.

  ‘Good. Sergeant Pharranis, your people are coming with me first. Mayne, stay back until I give the order. Keep on the comms. Tell Lavant and Tanner to keep their eyes open for another way in, just in case. Tell them I don’t want them going in until I say. Commissar, you’re welcome to stay here if you’d rather–’

  ‘I’ll go in first,’ Morrell said.

  Good, Straken thought. The less time Morrell spent around the men without Straken being present to mediate, the better. He glanced back; the soldiers looked ready. ‘Let’s go,’ he called, and they moved on.

  They cleared the edge of the forest. Orks were far from experts in fieldcraft – they were easy to track, usually by the wreckage, boot prints and discarded food they left behind them – but there was always the risk of encountering trouble. You could never be sure in unfamiliar terrain, Straken thought, and he heard the voices from the sinking drop-ship in his mind, shouting over the comm. He pushed it aside as best as he could. They had to press on.

  Morrell made heavy work of it – he was built for marching down city streets, not creeping through jungle – but the going wasn’t anything like some of the terrain Straken had seen on other worlds. By Catachan standards, it was like rolling downhill. They crept forwards, quick and quiet, through the thin trees and the low, looping shrubs at the edge of the forest that curled over like snares. The vegetation thinned around them, and Straken quickened his stride. The forest fell away, and the Catachans hurried through wasteland, towards the low domes of the city.

  On the right, a small building cleared the surface. It was the shape of a wide-capped mushroom and had no doors. Words, perhaps a blessing, had been stencilled on the surface. Straken activated the zoom on his bionic eye and saw that the wind had blasted most of the letters away.

  Pharranis trudged beside Straken, plasma gun held close across his chest. He was a bald, thuggish man who always looked dirty and resentful, as though he were about to commit mutiny. He was also one of the best sergeants Straken had ever known.

  ‘Colonel. Map says the waypoint’s seventy metres u
p ahead.’

  ‘Get the team up. We’ll hit it together.’ Straken peered into the dark, tried to guess seventy metres, and saw a low ferrocrete block, its sides slanted against the wind. It could have been anything.

  Pharranis gestured to the men around them, beckoning them in. Straken looked back and motioned for Morrell to wait. Half a dozen men jogged over, weapons ready. Straken pointed with his metal arm. ‘Valchek and Larse, watch the flanks. The rest of you, with me. Nice and quiet.’

  They reached the building in a quick, scurrying jog. It was no higher than a man. Two Catachans ran up to cover the sides. Three more crouched and aimed at the top of the building in case anything leaped over the top.

  Straken glanced at Pharranis. ‘Cover me,’ he said, and he ran up the sloped side, as if to climb onto the roof.

  There was a massive hatch on the side of the building, the metal scuffed and scored by generations of storms. A handle was set into the metal.

  Pharranis knelt down and tried the handle. ‘Locked,’ he grunted. ‘Want me to get demolitions?’

  ‘No,’ Straken said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  The sergeant moved aside, covering him with his plasma gun, and Straken crouched down and assessed the lock. He recognised it, a standard industrial type, and gritted his teeth.

  His hand closed smoothly on the handle, pulling it out of shape. Straken felt a slight pulse through his metal arm, into his flesh: a warning sign. He kept up the pressure, felt the lock bend and snap under his grip. When he released the handle, it was twisted into junk.

  The hatch was loose. Straken put his fingers underneath and lifted it. Pharranis called two men over and they helped. Three more shoved their lasguns into the aperture, ready to shoot anything rising from inside.

  Straken boosted his vision, and saw no movement. There was just enough light to see a steep concrete slope ending eighteen metres below.

  ‘Get a rope set up,’ he said. ‘I want twenty men down there to secure the area. Then we’ll move in.’