Yarrick: The Wreckage

by David Annandale

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  Yarrick: The Wreckage – David Annandale

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  Yarrick: The Wreckage

  David Annandale

  Their fire drove us to shelter. The enemy was at the top of the ridge, dug in, behind cover, invisible. We were exposed. We had nothing to target. The las hit us hard. The night screamed with lethal energy. We lost three more squads before we made it inside the shell. Just ahead of me, a shot struck a pocket of gas. I ducked back, shielding my face from the heat of the explosion. Flames washed over troopers, melting rebreathers into flesh. The barrage drove us on, and I ran through smoke thick with the stench of burning corpses.

  Sixth Company of the Armageddon Steel Legion’s 252nd Regiment went to ground. Our shelter had been a freighter once. Its provenance, its identity, even its shape, were long gone. I guessed what it had been by the size of the ruin, and by the eroding remains of its former self: the length and curve of the hull. The ship had been destroyed by its crash onto the surface of the moon. The wreck had been stripped of anything worth having, then had been mined for scrap metal. Now it rusted, its bones gnawed by the corrosive rains of Aionos. It had been reduced to a cyclopean, arthritic talon.

  ‘Lures,’ Sergeant Otto Hanoszek said to me as I caught my breath behind a wall of pitted iron. ‘Those damned ships were lures.’ He pulled off his rebreather and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his trenchcoat. He was a thin man, much younger than he looked, with a face in perpetual flush. He was greying, looked like a veteran, and commanded his squad like one, but was only a few years older than I was, and the mantle of commissar still felt new on my shoulders.

  ‘They were lures,’ I agreed. ‘And they worked.’

  Hanoszek waved an arm, encompassing all of Aionos. ‘Not for the first time, either.’

  He was right about that, too. I ducked my head around the tear in the hull and looked uphill. I hadn’t given up hope of gauging the location and size of the enemy forces. We needed better intelligence than ‘high ground’ and ‘many.’ At least a thousand, I guessed.

  Night had fallen on Aionos. Its planet, the gas giant Kylasma, took up a third of the sky, and was still only half risen. A green smear through the drizzling clouds, it silhouetted the spires of the moon. They were twisted, broken shapes. They were the accumulated wrecks of thousands of ships, the centuries-old graveyard of the victims of the heretics we had come to purge.

  ‘Lures,’ I repeated. ‘So the attack on Statheros was one too. Lures to catch what?’

  ‘Us?’ asked Hanoszek.

  ‘I think so. But why?’

  The incursion into the nearby Statheros System had been an atrocity. Three planetoid mining colonies devastated, their resources plundered, and everywhere the eight-pointed star of Chaos daubed with the blood of slaughtered civilians. Sixth Company’s frigate, the Castellan Belasco, was dispatched. We had pursued what we had thought to be a force no larger than a squadron of lighters to Aionos. We had made moonfall and descended upon what we had thought was an encampment. It had been just another decoy.

  The rain worked its way down behind my cap and down my collar. Its slight acidity burned. The troopers were used to this and worse on Armageddon, but as the precipitation broke down the metal, it released combustible pockets of gas from the wrecks.

  ‘I hear you were on Mistral, commissar,’ Hanoszek said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was it as bad as they say?’

  I shrugged. ‘We had wind there instead of rain. Take your pick.’

  He didn’t need to know any more. The wounds were still fresh. Some were still bleeding.

  Las-fire streaked past my face as I pulled back. The sergeant grunted in surprise. ‘Some good shots up there.’

  ‘In that position, I should hope so,’ I said. ‘There is nothing impressive about their having the upper hand in these circumstances.’

  Hanoszek laughed. ‘As you say, commissar. Of course, they also created these circumstances.’

  He was right, of course. I liked Hanoszek. He had a clear eye for the battlefield and the lunacies of war. What might have sounded like misplaced admiration for the enemy coming from someone else was, with him, a simple acknowledgement of how things stood.

  ‘Then let’s see if the captain has something to say about changing them,’ I said. I had seen him move on towards the uphill end of the wreck.

  ‘Yes, commissar.’ His tone was noncommittal.

  We clambered over heaps of broken metal and through the ghosts of the ship. Here and there, a bulkhead still projected sideways from the hull. Doorways without walls or rooms stood like skeletal sentinels. Along the way, we passed small groups of soldiers. Clad in their iron helmets and light-tan trenchcoats, they rested. Many were wounded. I was young, still feeling my way as a commissar, but I was no novice at war. I knew the challenges of this interlude. The relative safety after the punishing, unsuccessful fight was its own form of curse. During combat, there was no time to think of anything except the act itself. Now, in the limbo of inaction, when wounds were felt and when reflection was possible, was when thoughts of what might come next surfaced, and became apparent, and morale suffered. I stopped briefly to speak to a few troopers. I let them speak to me first.

  I have known commissars who declare that there is no need to understand the soldiers who are in their charge. They say that it is enough to demand obedience to creed and mission. Perhaps it should be. But to understand the troops is to be better able to direct them. I sometimes think that the coldest commissars are fearful, though they would never admit this. They are afraid that if they get to know the soldiers as human beings, they will find it more difficult to carry out the more merciless aspects of their duty.

  If this is so, they are cowards and a disgrace to our uniform.

  So I listened to the troopers, and I spoke to them, trying to temper my response to the needs I heard. Where there was firmness of purpose, I gave encouragement. There were only two instances where I heard faltering that required discipline. Both cases, I noticed with some concern, were soldiers who appeared to be close to the captain. I had seen them drinking with him in the Castellan Belasco’s dining hall.

  Context matters. So I had been taught, and so I had already learned, through hard lessons in the field. Context was why I tried, in those early days, to memorise the names of every soldier who fell within my remit. The day would come when that was no longer possible. I am pained by the thought of the anonymous thousands who, in later years, would die because of my decisions. I am pained, but not haunted. I know that if I had not made those decisions, the numbers would be infinitely worse. Context matters.

  And on that day, on Aionos, I could still know all the names. I noted the problem cases, and a doubt festered.

  We found Captain Jeren Marsec near the uphill end of the hull. He stood between two pieces of bulkhead that rose twenty metres above our heads. He was well under cover, but ahead of him was a large gap in the shell, wide enough for ten men to pass through. The other sergeants were there too, and a large number of troopers had gathered to listen. Marsec stood on a heap of refuse so all could see him. He was grinning. He could grin well. Though he had the flash, pride and handsome profile, he was no aristocrat. Before conscription, he had been a foreman in a Helsreach manufactorum. His natural charisma had carried him far. He was as popular with his superiors as he was with his subordinates.

  ‘So, Yarrick,’ he said when he spotted me, ‘ready to spoil the enemy’s little game?’

  ‘What does he think he’s playing at?’ Hanoszek muttered under his breath. I almost didn’t hear him
.

  I frowned. I didn’t mind the sergeant’s borderline insubordination. What I disliked was Marsec’s flippancy. He should show confidence in our ultimate triumph. But the confidence he radiated seemed to be based solely on his own self-admitted brilliance. It was perhaps true that, on the tactical level, we were engaged in a game with the cultists. But it was a serious one, and the enemy was winning. There was something in Marsec’s tone of voice that suggested he did not respect our foe’s skills. We had already been given ample evidence that we should.

  Cheers greeted the captain’s question. Perhaps I was wrong. Hanoszek wasn’t happy, and some of the other sergeants were looking grim, but most of the soldiers around us hooted their approval of Marsec. He had, it was true, led many successful missions. So I swallowed my doubts for the moment and said, ‘I am always ready to ruin the day of a renegade, captain.’

  ‘Good.’ He pointed at the gap. ‘What do you see there?’

  ‘A way into the field of fire.’

  He wagged a finger at me. That summoned a somewhat more nervous laugh from the troops. The commissar’s uniform is not well-loved. Nor should it be. It is meant to be respected and feared. Marsec’s little show at my office’s expense was expertly calculated to endear him even more to his company, but it was a brave soul who openly enjoyed mockery of that sort. ‘You lack imagination, Yarrick. I expected better of you. Where you see a death trap, I see opportunity.’

  ‘Oh?’ I grew uneasy.

  ‘The entire company is going to charge through that opening.’

  My doubts about Marsec were twofold. In the first place, his very popularity was, I thought, a problem. He loved his troops, that was clear, and they loved him back. That was all very well, but I worried that the affection he felt would get in the way of making the hard choices that befell every command sooner or later. Would he be able to issue the orders that would lead to the sacrifice of some squads for the preservation of the rest of the company?

  Secondly, and paradoxically, he was reckless. I believe this was because he was aware of his popularity. He wanted to be worthy of it. He wanted to give his troops glory. It is one thing to send soldiers to their death with the full knowledge that one is doing so, and of the necessity of this action. It is another to make a grand gesture with no thought of the consequences. And because his troops loved him, they would throw themselves after his dream no matter how unsound. There was a cult of personality growing around Marsec. That was dangerous. They always are. I still believe that today as I wrestle with my own.

  ‘He’s mad,’ said Hanoszek.

  I silenced him with a look. I approached Marsec. At the base of his makeshift podium I said, ‘I wonder if you might explain a few details to me, captain.’ I kept my voice low, hoping he would take the hint. I had no desire to undermine his authority without sufficient cause.

  He understood perfectly well. He remained where he was, and announced, ‘Commissar Yarrick is worried. He thinks I’m about to order a suicidal charge. Let me reassure you, comrades, I am doing no such thing. There is a risk. Of course there is. This is war! And without risk, there is no glory!’

  Shouts of affirmation from the company. A bit muted, though. Hanoszek and I weren’t the only ones to see the obvious drawback of running straight into enemy fire.

  ‘I am in constant touch with the Castellan Belasco,’ Marsec continued. ‘We have the means to destroy this nest of rats in one swift move. We will present such a target, and such a threat, to our foes that they will be forced to respond in kind. They will mount a counter-charge, or they will have to concentrate their fire massively. Either way, they will be giving away their precise position. At that moment, the Belasco will strike with an orbital barrage. Comrades, are you with me?’

  The roar was unequivocal. They were.

  Marsec stepped down with the cheers still deafening.

  ‘So?’ he asked me. He had to speak into my ear and raise his voice so I could hear him. ‘What do you think, Yarrick?’

  ‘It’s a big gamble.’

  ‘Worth taking, though. We have to try something to break out of this box they’ve put us in.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong? If it doesn’t work? We could lose this war in this single action.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Marsec assured me. He clapped my back. ‘The rockets are ready to fly. The ship’s augurs almost have the enemy’s position. The problem is that those vermin are a bit too spread out, and under cover. We need to draw them out.’

  ‘We’re likely to do that,’ I conceded. I still didn’t like the plan. It felt wrong. Wars were rarely won by glamorous schemes.

  ‘So we shall!’ he said, delighted. He thought he’d won me over.

  I was not convinced. Even so, I took my place at the front of the line as the company prepared to charge out of the hull. I would be coming out of the left-hand side of the gap. Marsec was in the centre. Hanoszek’s squad was a few rows back and on the right. The sergeant made a point of walking past me before joining his troopers.

  ‘What do you think, commissar?’ he asked. ‘Is this going to be a good death?’

  His question was honestly meant. He wasn’t joking.

  ‘If this tactic achieves what the captain expects, then yes, to fall in this effort would be a good death.’

  Hanoszek gave me a lopsided grin. ‘I already knew that. Do you think it will work?’

  That was his true question: were the deaths going to be worth it? Was he about to die for a good cause, or in the service of another man’s ego? And I had answered him like a politician. I was a political officer. That wasn’t the same thing at all. Not if I could help it. So I gave a direct answer to his direct question. ‘I don’t know.’

  His grin became broader. ‘Fair enough.’ He moved on.

  ‘The Castellan Belasco stands ready for our signal,’ Marsec announced a few moments later. ‘Warriors of Armageddon, forward!’

  We charged out of the shelter and emerged halfway up the slope towards the ridge. On all sides, the corpses of the renegades’ victims loomed over us. We were storming up a valley of wrecked ships. Few bore any resemblance to what they had once been. They had become massive tombstones, designed by lunatics. Metal reached for the sky with twisted desire. There were jagged angles the size of habs. Rotting husks, broken cylinders, fragments of towers and tumbled superstructures stretched away forever. We were in the land of industry’s death.

  I yelled my challenge at our enemies, daring them to cut me down. I raced with pistol drawn and sword upheld. I fired blindly into the night. And though I threw myself completely into the task of killing and survival, a part of my mind looked at the wider picture of two forces clashing in an ocean of wreckage and was dismayed.

  The enemy did not return fire. There was no response at all to our attack. I stopped firing. Was anyone still there? We kept up the advance. In less than a minute, those of us at the front were almost at the ridge. I looked back. The totality of Sixth Company was now on the slope.

  We reached the top. Before us was a landscape of exposed corridors and gigantic heaps of slag. There was no sign of the renegades. We stopped. If we advanced further, the footing would be treacherous and slow.

  ‘Captain?’ I asked. I knew we had fallen into another trap, but I couldn’t see what it was. Seconds were ticking by. With each one that passed, I cursed myself for failing to see what had to be done.

  Marsec was just as confused. ‘Get me the vox!’ he yelled.

  Trooper Versten ran up with the communications equipment. ‘I have the ship,’ he said.

  Marsec grabbed the handset. ‘Come in, Castellan Belasco,’ he said.

  ‘We are here, Captain Marsec,’ a voice from the frigate crackled back. I moved closer to hear the exchange. ‘Are you in position?’

  I didn’t recognise the speaker.

  ‘We are,’ Marsec replied. ‘But there’s no one here. Abort mission.’

  ‘We have you,’ said the voice.

  We have you.
What did that mean? Marsec stared at the handset, then at me. His face was blank with confusion. I’m sure mine was too. When the realisation hit, it couldn’t have taken more than two heartbeats after Marsec had received that answer. It was still too long. When I pick at this memory, I want to grab that commissar by the lapels and shake the young fool into action. How could he not see what was coming? How did he not realise the danger the moment he stared at that empty ridge?

  My anger with my younger self is not rational. I realise this. It is powered by hindsight, motivated by my wish that I could have averted what happened next, and by other, later, greater frustrations. I have become much better at foreseeing disaster. But thanks to the stupidity of powerful men, I don’t necessarily have any better luck at heading it off.

  So it took me those few beats. Even then I was still confused, but the presentiment of doom was strong. I knew enough to listen to it.

  ‘Take cover!’ I yelled. I plunged back down the hill. ‘With me!’ I didn’t worry about the protocols of the chain of command. I was obeying dire necessity. I ran in a diagonal path, abandoning the clear route of the slope to forge into the thickets of wreckage. It was slower going, but there was cover, and I had to get us away from where the enemy wanted us to be.

  I glanced back. Marsec was among those following me. Another contingent was disappearing into the ruins on the other side of the path. Then a comet pierced the night. The orbital bombardment was coming, and it was aimed at us. The barrage bombs landed on the peak of the ridge. They were little more than large masses. But then, so are meteors. Dropped from space, their impact was devastating. The hill became a volcano. Tonnes of metal were vaporised or turned molten. An angry god hammered the ground, smashing it, reshaping it. Hundreds of little insects in human form died in an instant. I was running, and then I was tumbling, and then I didn’t know if I was on my feet or not. The world had become a riot of sense impressions, all of them too much, too loud, too painful. I kept moving. I didn’t know where I was going. As the night screamed, I barely even knew who I was. But if I stopped, I would die, and so would the soldiers who had followed me down the hill. That I knew. So I struggled on, buffeted by the monster sound, pursued by the heat of metallic lava. Behind us, the world flew upward in blazing fragments. Wreckage became ash. The air was choked with rust.