“It’s all you’re getting,” Sergeant H’lal Odassa of the Dust Marauders squadron said, standing up in his cockpit. He stretched out his back. “And, as senior officer,” he grunted, “you’re my support, as of now.”
Cartouk ignored Iban Dubar’s quick indignant glance at him. Now was not the time to indulge the typical Banna/Turenag rivalries. “Yes, sir,” he said.
The two Turenag mounted their birds and wheeled them around to follow in step behind Odassa’s Dust Marauders and the second squadron, the Blight Thorns.
The plan was simple, conferred over micro-bead on their way to the snail ship. The Blight Thorns would strafe the small swarms still milling about the base of the tyranid vessel and draw them into giving chase. The Burning Falcons, the Dust Marauders and two Hellhounds would then attack the ship and attempt to gain entry. Given the size that some tyranids reached, Odassa reasoned that they could enter the vessel with their vehicles and destroy both it and any hive-mind driving the swarms.
Cartouk disliked the plan immediately and expressed his doubts, as one of the only veterans to have faced the tyranids. Nobody, in his experience, had ever entered a tyranid vessel, and nobody knew what to expect inside. Moreover, any number of the enemy could be waiting within, and only the Emperor knew what shapes and horrors awaited them.
Odassa had his orders, however, and he was dead set on killing the tyranid mind beasts, and proving the hero of the day. Not that Odassa said that, but Cartouk assumed as much.
So… just out of sight of the ship, nestled between the bosom of dunes, the squadrons and Hellhounds waited. The Blight Thorns’ pilots, quiet to the last, streamed past the dunes and built up steam on their run for the ship. Cartouk listened over the vox, and to what he could hear within earshot.
“Contact!” a voice said over the vox.
The whoosh of promethium-driven flamers, and the steady pulse of las-fire being spewed out from the rotating barrels, sounded over the dunes, followed by the echoes of terrible screeches. A rumble filled the air, and the ground shook, the dunes sloughing off sheets of sand.
“We got them mad,” the vox chatter said. “Disengage and run!”
Cartouk and the others listened, their collective breaths held and their plan hinging on this precise moment. After what seemed like forever, the rumble faded, the sand no longer shook and the shrieks grew distant.
“Report,” Odassa said, his voice hushed over the vox. “How many did you pull away?”
“I don’t know,” the voice rang back, “a good number. “There’re far less of those bastards there now, I know that.”
Odassa waited another gruelling half-hour before deciding that the swarms were far enough away. The blue sun had dipped down to the horizon, but the air would not be cool for some time. The glass fields were still hot, despite the jets of gas belched out by the ship.
On Odessa’s order, Cartouk and Iban Dubar followed the Dust Marauders around the dune and out into the open. The ship loomed into view, suddenly larger and more sinister against the setting sun. The glass field, cracked and broken by the weight of the tyranid swarms, reflected the dusk light like a thousand lakes. The pilots fumbled for the diffusion oculars and swung a wide are around the ship, making it look as though they were going to strafe and run.
Small swarms of tyranids, numbering in the dozens, immediately moved to intercept from their nests around the vessels. These beasts were larger and slower than their comrades. They were scorpion-like with eight pereopods that ended in wickedly curved scythes that clacked against the glass fields. Their bodies were long and segmented, and measured up to the Sentinel in stature, when they rose on their back four legs and lunged to attack the birds with their front four. Segments of long bone-plate ran from their heads, down the length of their spines, and ended in long tails and bulbs of thorn barbs.
Several of what Cartouk called “scorpions” lashed out with their tails, firing a spray of barbs at the Sentinels. A pilot screamed over the vox, and Cartouk turned in time to see a Dust Marauder tumble to the ground and crack the glass. The pilot was riddled with the spines and screaming, his skin bulging under the strain of the hundreds of welts that were merging and growing, and tearing the skin open.
Cartouk looked away. He had his own problems, more scorpions were chasing them, a good three dozen by auspex count. Two new runes also appeared on auspex, coming up fast behind the swarms. It was working, Cartouk thought. They hadn’t spotted the Hellhounds sneaking up.
The Sentinels wove in between each other, trying to trip up their pursuers. This strategy was far easier when used against the orks, whose vehicles were not as nimble as the tyranids and more prone to collisions. It didn’t matter in this instance, however. The two squadrons were merely the head of the snake, weaving back and forth, distracting the tyranids from the real threat behind them.
The two Hellhounds suddenly announced their presence. They pulled up alongside the rear-most scorpions, flanking the train on either side, and fired with their inferno cannons. Sticky promethium flame swept over the swarms, engulfing them before they could react. Even ahead of the mob, Cartouk could feel the heat surge at his back, blistering the paint job on his bird. His ears ached with the death cries of his pursuers.
“Now!” Odassa screamed over the vox.
The four Sentinels broke formation and scattered in different directions. The swarm was distracted, trying to escape the hellish onslaught of the inferno cannons. The Sentinels decelerated and spun around, adding their own promethium to the mix, or opening fire with their multi-lasers.
Tyranids in flight made for good target practice, and for the first time since fighting the beasts on Absolomay, Cartouk laughed and whooped as his las-fire brought scorpions down, one after the other.
It was over all too quickly, however, and the sense of danger returned.
“Hurry, find a way inside,” Odassa ordered. “The tyranids won’t let that go unanswered for long.”
The sun had almost set, and everything was deathly quiet, the tyranid rock apparently casting a hush over the winds and the sands. Night was already throwing its starry cloak over the heavens when they finally found an accessible door into the ship.
Not a door… a sphincter, Cartouk corrected himself, and shivered.
The oval-shaped orifice puckered out against the skin of the vessel. Many like it honeycombed the ship’s surface, but this was the only one level with the ground. It opened into an organic-looking tube that angled upward into the darkness. There didn’t appear to be any lights inside the vessel. But then, Cartouk reasoned, the tyranids no more needed to see to navigate their ship, than blood did inside one’s body.
“The Hellhounds can’t fit inside,” Odassa grumbled over the vox. “Stay outside and secure the door. Sentinels, with me.”
Odassa’s beacon torch flashed on as he entered the dark tube. Cartouk followed, instantly cringing at his surroundings. The dark grey walls seemed to glisten and envelop him. The curved floors felt spongy beneath his bird’s feet, and the air smelt humid and fetid in a way that dug deep past his nostrils. Cartouk pulled his kafiya over his nose and mouth, grateful that the stench he smelled was that of his own unwashed body.
They moved slowly through the tubes, past intersections, and up some steeply angled passages and down sharp slopes. What guided them wasn’t any sense of direction, but the size of the corridors. No two tubes were exactly alike, differing from each other in dimension and composition. Some tunnels seemed to breathe, the air inhaled and exhaled, the vein-like walls pulsing and glinting. Other places seemed more like a proper ship, the walls and floors made from hardened resin with the coolness of steel.
Throughout it all, there were no signs of life, at least nothing that proved a threat. Small cockroach and crab-sized tyranids scurried about on mysterious business, moving from underfoot when approached, falling back in place when the Sentinels passed. For all that, Cartouk could not help but feel they were somehow witnessing some grand orchestra
of purpose, a symphony they would never see or hear entirely. And, for that, he was grateful.
“By the Emperor,” Odassa whispered, stepping into a large chamber. “This can’t be.”
At first, Cartouk didn’t understand Odassa’s shock. It was hard to see the chamber’s true size in the darkness, but it appeared no different than the corridors, fleshy walls and coats of hardened resin melting over everything. Then, Cartouk stepped onto the chamber’s tilted floor and heard the metallic ring to his footfall. Slowly, the chamber came into focus in his mind as their torches swept the emptiness. The floor was grated, the holes plugged with detritus. Arched cathedral struts that extended high above them, protruded through the resin layers on the walls, along with the frames of arched windows, bits of stained glass windows floating in the resin.
“It’s one of ours,” Odassa whispered. “It’s one of ours.”
“Not anymore,” Cartouk said. “The tyranids must have cobbled it together from the wreckage of a cruiser.”
“We’re never getting off this world,” Odassa said. He continued staring at the chamber, gap-mouthed.
“There’s nothing more to see here,” Cartouk whispered, urgently. “We must leave.”
Almost on cue, the vox crackled and sputtered, the panicked Hellhound driver screaming “Enemy contact. Enemy contact!” The roar of the inferno cannon drowned out the voices. “Too many of them… merciful Emper…” the signal died.
“We’re trapped!” Cartouk said. “They’ll be on us now.”
Odassa stared up into the empty cavern of the vaulted chamber, unable to act. “We’re going to die here.”
“Sergeant Odassa!” Cartouk screamed. Nothing. Cartouk spat out a curse at the Banna for his weak blood, and voxed the other two Sentinels. “We’re trapped,” he said, “but perhaps we can hurt them before we die. Form up on me.”
Iban Dubar and the other Sentinel fell in behind Cartouk. He regretted not knowing the name of the other Dust Marauder pilot, but right now, other concerns took precedence. The three Sentinels ran across the chamber, their torches sweeping from side to side, looking for an exit. They found a side corridor large enough for them to use, the metal walls and floor of the Imperium vessel swallowed up by thick growths of resin and tyranid bio-matter.
Cartouk cast a last glance at Odassa before darting into the tunnel. A moment later, over the vox, they heard him scream.
Where there was nothing before, the tyranid vessel suddenly surged into life. Tyranids appeared in the corridors, as though birthed from the very walls. They scampered along walls and ceilings, racing to overtake the squadron. They seemed to be everywhere at once. Iban Dubar had taken point, and was blistering enemies with his promethium fuelled cannon. His fingers seemed to be stuck on the trigger, the corridor heated to the point where it hurt to breathe, yet Cartouk knew he could never let up.
Cartouk took the rear, and back-pedalled through the corridors, unleashing streams of las-fire at anything that moved. Scorpions, runners, leapers and snakes darted towards him, but in the confines of the corridor, he held them at bay.
Their progress seemed interminably slow, each step a kilometre in the making, until finally, a terrible rending filled the corridor. The ceiling seemed to rip open behind Cartouk. He glanced back, the air filled with screams. An avalanche of white maggots spilled from the rent in the ceiling, drenching two Sentinels under its mass. The screams turned to agonised shrieks, and then to gurgles Cartouk knew the pilots were being eaten alive. Maggots were already dropping into his cockpit, through the crack in the ceiling, and racing over him.
Cartouk screamed in pain, the maggots biting oft fingertip-sized chunks of meat as they bored into his flesh. More rained down, on his face and arms. Cartouk spun his Sentinel towards the other two birds covered in maggots. Blood and pain filled his vision until the things burrowed into his eyes. He spasmed in agony, his finger clutching the trigger, and he opened fire on his squadron.
Cartouk never saw his shots clip the Sentinels, or the promethium tanks of Iban Dubar’s bird. The accelerant fuelled explosion ripped through the tunnel, detonating the engines and fuel tanks of the other two Sentinels.
The blast tore open the adjoining tunnels and pumped fire through endless corridors, flash-frying all manner of beasts in its path. Walls cracked and tunnels collapsed; perhaps not a deathblow to the vessel, but certainly a crippling blow that sent Shockwaves across the hive-mind, enough to give the creatures pause… enough to pull several swarms back to the nest.
10
Sergeant A’rtar Shamas, squadron leader of the Orakle’s Apostles, craned his neck to look around. They’d been engaging the tyranids for several hours, and night had firmly locked its place over the world. It was a beautiful, star-filled evening, but with the darkness came a sense of isolation. The night winds even sounded different, and Shamas jumped at the errant noises.
The tyranids had remained with them for the first few hours when, suddenly, they dropped back and kept their distance. Now Shamas knew they were out there, just out of sight, keeping pace and waiting for the Sentinels to misstep.
“Report,” Shamas whispered into his micro-bead.
“Orakle Three here.”
Shamas waited for another moment before clicking the micro-bead again. “Orakle Two? Report.”
The subtle hiss of static played back. No answer. It was as though the desert had swallowed him up.
“All right… pull in formation,” Shamas responded. “I want you in visual contact.”
“I have you on auspex,” Orakle Three reported. “I’m heading your way.”
Shamas was sweating hard. He ran a dusty sleeve across his forehead and hailed Orakle Two again. There was still nothing on micro-bead or auspex. He tried listening to the desert, picking out sounds between the heartbeat thumps of his Sentinel’s footfalls, but it was impossible to discern any noise over the servos or his rattling engine. Worse still, the fuel gauge on his Sentinel was dangerously low. He had enough left in the drums for a few more hours of this hellish pace, but that would mean stopping to refuel, and even a minute standing still seemed too great a risk.
In the distance, he saw the repeated muzzle flare of an autocannon on full bore. A second later, the flashes stopped and it was dark again. The thump-thump-thump of autocannon thunder echoed across the desert. Shamas glanced at the auspex, but no identity runes appeared. He seemed alone in a sea of green sensor wash.
“Orakle Three,” Shamas called, “was that you firing?” That, of course, was an obvious question, since Orakle Three was the only one in the squadron with an autocannon. “Can you still see me on auspex, Orakle Three? Because I can’t see you.”
This time, it was Orakle Three’s turn to remain silent. Shamas whimpered, the night hedging in on him. He was all alone, the last one still running. He switched channels on the micro-bead.
“This is Orakle One… is anyone out there?”
He heard nothing for a moment, until, “This is Runner One,” Hussari’s voice crackled back. “Report.”
Shamas bit his lip and forced himself to speak slowly and clearly. He would not be seen as the resident coward, even though he was fighting the urge to soil himself. It felt as if his insides had suddenly liquefied, and he was struggling against his fear and the urgent need to let go.
“My squadron is gone and I’m running low on fuel.”
“What happened?” Hussari asked.
“For the love of the Emperor, I don’t know,” Shamas reported, biting his lower lip against the squirming pain in his bowels. “One minute they were there, and the next minute… gone.”
“Did the tyranids get ahead of you? Did you double back?”
“No… I don’t know, sir. We’ve been running straight since this thing began. Oh Lord Emperor… I’m almost out of fuel.”
“How much remaining?”
“Ten minutes… less. I have to stop.”
“Not yet you don’t. We’ll do this together. Rendezvous with
the Runners. We’ll cover each other as we refuel.”
“And the other squadrons?”
“We lost contact with the Holy Striders a while ago… now yours.”
“I’m sorry sir,” Shamas said, genuinely regretting disappointing the major. Thankfully, the wave of bowel cramps was retreating and the night air flushed his skin with a cool breeze.
“Nothing to apologise for. Just rendezvous at 30.03N 31.15E. Can you make it?
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll refuel there.”
“What about the tyranids?”
“We’ll worry about that when you get here. Just get here in one piece.”
The micro-bead clicked off, and Shamas felt grateful for a moment… a short-lived one at that. The movement was rapid. Something darted across the sky and blotted out the stars for just long enough to draw his attention heavenward. Shamas barely caught the movement as it hurtled towards his Sentinel.
No other thought entered his head other than to click on the micro-bead.
The flying tyranid landed atop the Sentinel, its almost vestigial hook-like feet catching the frame of the cockpit. It nearly toppled the bird, but continued flapping its great leathery wings. Shamas screamed.
“Orakle One?” Hussari shouted.
Before Shamas could even react, the tyranid’s long bladed tail lanced into the cockpit, impaling the sergeant through the stomach and out through the back of his chair. He shuddered, his bowels releasing in a warm, wet rush. The tyranid, however, didn’t seem to care. It leaned into the cockpit with its elongated, ridged head, and opened its jaws to reveal its hard, cartilage spike of a tongue.
Shamas could feel the world slipping away, the wrenching pain of his gut wound submerging beneath a haze of darkness. In the back of his thoughts, there was one last thing to do. He wasn’t sure what that thing was, at least not until he said it.
[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Page 11