[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  Lieutenant Kuritsin suddenly looked up from the map and lifted a hand to the vox-apparatus over his right ear. He was getting a message from beyond vox-bead range. “Enginseer Politnov, sir,” he said. “He wishes to inform us that the transports are assembled as ordered. They’re ready to move out on your command.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant,” said Kabanov. “Please ask the enginseer to keep the engines running… and keep trying to reach Nhalich, will you? I’ll want updates on the battle as soon as they come in.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Kuritsin. He relayed the message to Enginseer Politnov, and then resumed his attempts to re-establish contact with Nhalich.

  From the vox-bead in his ear, Kabanov heard breathless reports from Squads Kashr and Rahkman. Both squads would be entering the square at any moment. The orks were close behind.

  Kabanov moved into the cover of the window frame. He raised a finger to his vox-bead, keyed the command channel, pressed the transmit stud and said, “Everyone to firing positions, now! Squads Kashr and Rahkman will be crossing the square any second. The orks are right behind them. All squads prepare to fire on my order.”

  All five platoon leaders voxed back their affirmations.

  Down in the square, on its east side, two squads of Firstborn pounded into view. Sunlight winked at Kabanov from the troopers’ golden pauldrons as they sprinted in his direction, pumping their arms for extra speed. Their breath billowed out behind them in clouds. Both squads merged together, sprinting straight towards the ground level entrance of the hotel that the command staff occupied.

  Seconds later, roaring and laughing, and firing their weapons into the air, the great green horde spilled into the square. It was impossible to guess their number: hundreds, perhaps even thousands. They were a seething mass. The moment they reached the mid-point of the market square, Kabanov hit his vox-bead and called out, “Open fire! All squads converge!”

  Commissar Karif knew it didn’t do to underestimate man’s oldest foe. The ork race was a disease of which the Imperium might never truly be cleansed. Munitorum propaganda underplayed the greenskins’ strengths, leading many to underestimate them. But anyone who met the greenskins on the battlefield quickly developed a grudging respect for this most violent and relentless of enemies.

  Once orks gained a foothold on a world, it was almost impossible to shake them off without the employment of devastating ordnance. The Twelfth Army had been tasked with purging the human rebellion, and they were determined to fulfil their orders, but, according to Captain Sebastev, no one had prepared the Firstborn on Danik’s World for a war against the orks. They hadn’t been detected here until after the Twelfth Army had deployed.

  Karif wasn’t prone to negativism, but it was depressing to think the Second Kholdas War was such a desperate drain on Imperial resources that the Munitorum couldn’t ship a few more Vostroyan regiments out to help cleanse this planet.

  What does that say about the state of play on the Kholdas Line, Karif wondered? The cluster must be in more danger than I’d imagined.

  He stood with the men of Squad Grodolkin at an intersection just south of the market square, awaiting the order to converge with the others and catch the orks in the colonel’s planned crossfire.

  Stavin stood quietly by Karif’s side, checking his lasgun in preparation for the firefight. Sergeant Grodolkin, a monstrously ugly man in Karif’s opinion, stepped up beside him and said, “It looks as if the order to advance is about to come through, commissar. Kashr and Rahkman are crossing the square. My men and I wondered if you might like to lead us into battle.”

  Karif was taken aback by this. He’d expected to have to push his oration onto these men, perhaps competing with a vox-cast from Father Olov. To be asked like this was a pleasant surprise.

  Perhaps my judgement of this sergeant was a little harsh, thought Karif. He’s not even that ugly, now that I look at him. Yes, his disfigured face is more a badge of honour.

  “I accept your request, sergeant. I’d be delighted to lead you and your squad against the foe. When the battle is won, our contribution will be regarded with great envy by all.”

  Grodolkin’s eyes lit up.

  “Open fire!” crackled the vox-bead in Karif’s ear. “All squads converge! This is the White Boar commanding that you do your duty for the Emperor and for Vostroya!”

  “Right, you lot.” Sergeant Grodolkin yelled, “into formation. Power packs locked and loaded.”

  “Stavin,” said Karif, “stick to my left, a few metres behind me. Stay sharp and keep pace. I expect you to cover me at all times. If I move, you move, understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” said Stavin plainly. As usual, there was no hint of disrespect or resentment in the young trooper’s tone. Karif was almost disappointed. There had to be more to him than the diffident exterior he always presented.

  “Sergeant Grodolkin,” said Karif, “let’s move it out.”

  “Right behind you, sir,” replied Grodolkin.

  Karif drew his chainsword with his right hand. With his left, he drew his laspistol. He faced Grodolkin’s squad and thrust the chainsword into the air, shouting, “With me, Firstborn! To glory and honour!” Then he turned and led the charge towards the square.

  Shalkova.

  The name of Trooper Zavim Sarovic’s beloved rifle was Shalkova.

  Sarovic had named her after the first and only Vostroyan woman he’d ever bedded. There had been women on other worlds since, but none of them had ever made such an impression on him as Shalkova.

  He’d been a teenager at the time, freshly graduated from basic training, and released from duty for the last few days he’d ever spend on his home world. It was extremely rare for the firstborn sons of Vostroya ever to return. Just like the other graduates, Sarovic had been given a roll of notes and told to go out and find himself a willing partner. He was supposed to give the gift of his seed back to the world that had raised him.

  It was a Firstborn tradition that Sarovic’s drill-sergeant insisted he keep.

  Sarovic had always considered himself a fumbler where the opposite sex was concerned. With no real idea of how to secure a willing partner, he’d attached himself to a group of troopers that were going to one of the more notorious entertainment districts not far from the base.

  He hadn’t had much luck at first. It was getting late. Most of the others had paired off with women who seemed very keen to accept the honour of Firstborn seed. Sarovic’s lack of confidence was letting him down. The only thing he was confident about was his skill with a sniper rifle. He’d already been singled out for special training. He’d almost given up on meeting anyone, when a skinny girl staggered drunkenly through the door, tripped on her own feet, and spilled her drink over his good, clean uniform.

  He’d been livid, and had chewed her out immediately. But rather than cower before his anger, the girl, unremarkable but for her big brown eyes, had shouted right in his face, telling him to shut up, sit down, and get over himself. Sarovic still didn’t know why he’d done exactly that. Maybe basic training had conditioned him to take orders on reflex.

  A few moments later, she reappeared from the bar, slamming two drinks down in front of him. Without waiting to be invited, she dropped herself into the chair next to his, and began to ask him about himself. Sarovic couldn’t remember even the smallest snippet of the conversation, only that he’d thought over and over again that her perfume smelled nice. Before he knew it, they were back at her scruffy little hab, thrashing around on the bed together as if every second counted.

  In the morning, when Sarovic woke up, he’d been confused by his surroundings. Then he’d seen her standing over a blue flame, cooking breakfast. He’d thrown her a smile. She didn’t smile back.

  Shalkova: cold and silent and deadly. She never missed.

  He racked the slide, chambering his next bullet.

  He’d never understood why the girl had turned nasty on him. From the moment he got out of her bed, she’d attacked him wit
h a vicious critique of his efforts at love-making the previous night. Her taunts were cruel, and her laughter, more so. The breakfast she cooked was hers. He could buy his own or go hungry. She didn’t care. She’d chased him from her door, his uniform stained and in disarray, her taunts following him along garbage filled alleyways as the Vostroyan sky brightened overhead.

  Did she bear me a son, he wondered? A daughter? Anything?

  He’d asked himself a dozen times, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter. He would never know for sure. She represented a single wonderful, terrible night in his life. Her touch had thrilled him. Her words had been as cold and cruel as bullets, fired to inflict maximum damage. So, he’d named his rifle after her.

  He pressed his right eye to the scope and adjusted the zoom to bring his target into clear focus. Range, about six hundred metres. Wind, negligible.

  Snipers from other companies tended to favour the long-las. It was a fine weapon, highly accurate, but its bright beam gave the shooter’s position away. On the orders of the late Major Dubrin, Fifth Company snipers employed hand-crafted, Vostroyan-made rifles that fired solid ammunition. It was a harder weapon to master than the long-las, but a sniper with good cover could take down target after target without giving himself away.

  Shalkova was fitted with flash and noise suppressors. Sarovic enjoyed friendly competition with another sniper from First Platoon called “Clockwork” Izgorod. Each man had made a wager on who would rack up the most kills throughout this Danikkin Campaign. So far, old Clockwork was in the lead, but his numerous augmetics gave him something of an advantage.

  Sarovic centred his sights on the target. It was a massive, dark skinned ork in the front ranks of the charging horde. The monster wore a necklace of severed human hands strung on barbed wire.

  Emperor above, thought Sarovic, these beasts are foul.

  He breathed out slowly as he squeezed Shalkova’s trigger. There was a whisper of rushing air. In the scope, he saw the ork’s head jerk backwards. The fiend sank to the ground with a neat black hole punched in its skull. The other orks trampled over the body, hardly noticing it.

  Another deadly word from the lips of Shalkova, he thought. You never tire of killing, do you, my love?

  Sarovic imagined he could smell perfume. He racked the slide and chambered another bullet.

  The square was full of them now, orks of every shape and size stumbling over each other in their eagerness to engage the Vostroyans. Hundreds, maybe thousands more, were still trying to push their way forward. Retreat for the orks trapped in the square was impossible, such was the crash at their backs. Kabanov watched it all play out as he’d known it would. In the course of his career, he’d seen them make the same mistakes time and time again.

  The greenskins just couldn’t control their urge to fight. If they’d landed here on Danik’s World to find a lifeless rock, they’d have simply fought amongst themselves.

  Kabanov leaned from the window and loosed another shot down into the orks. He’d already lost count of his kills and the battle had been raging for mere minutes. He pulled the trigger of his hellpistol again, but nothing happened. The power pack was spent. As he drew a fresh one from a pouch on his belt, he remembered other scenes just like this one. The press of orks out there in the square was almost as dense as it had been on the bridge at Dunan thirty-five years ago. It had been the same in the canyon on… where was it again? There had been so many battles.

  He slammed the fresh power pack into the pistol’s socket and resumed firing. With the orks bunched so tight down there, every single shot found a mark. Green bodies crumpled to the ground clutching the black pits the pistol burned in their chests and bellies. The hellpistol, a House Kabanov heirloom, still performed with lethal efficiency despite over three centuries of service.

  From positions of cover, both high and low, Firstborn troopers fired again and again into the mass of enemies. There was so much lasfire it hurt Kabanov’s eyes, but the orks were fighting back. Some began throwing grenades at the windows from which Kabanov’s men fired.

  Most of the grenades clattered off the walls, falling to the snow below or bouncing back towards the orks at the fringes. They detonated noisily on open ground, causing welcome greenskin casualties, but a percentage of the grenades found their mark, gliding through the openings they’d been aimed at.

  Muffled booms echoed over the square, and black smoke billowed from old habs. Tumbling red forms plummeted from some of the smoking windows, to land in unmoving heaps on the snow.

  “Men are dying out there!” barked Kabanov. “Where are my flanking squads?”

  On the colonel’s right, Captain Sebastev was pouring shots down on the horde from a smashed window, his bolt pistol barking aggressively. There was a feral look on the man’s face as his finger squeezed the trigger again and again. “We need some fire on those black, battle-scarred ones,” said Sebastev. “They’re leading the charge.”

  Kabanov scanned the green mob and found the individuals in question, three of them standing in the centre of the horde. These ork leaders bellowed orders to their kin in the inscrutable series of grunts and snorts that constituted the ork language.

  “Colonel,” said Captain Sebastev between shots, “I’d like to send an order to First Platoon’s snipers to take them out.”

  “Do so at once, captain. The enemy is pressing uncomfortably close to the east edge of the square. I’m still waiting for my bloody flanking squads.”

  “They’re on their way, sir,” reported Lieutenant Kuritsin, “but Third Platoon reports contact with orks sneaking through the backstreets. They’re engaging them now.”

  “Sneaking?” said Captain Sebastev. “Orks don’t sneak, Rits.”

  “Lieutenant Vassilo was very specific about it, sir. He reported a squad of orks employing something almost like stealth tactics, sir.”

  Captain Sebastev turned to look at Kabanov and said, “If our flanking squads are engaged before they get to the square, sir, we’re in a lot of trouble. The orks are still pouring in. We need those squads here. The crossfire must hold until the sappers are done!”

  “We’ve got to be on our way,” said Kabanov. “What’s the word from our demolition squad?”

  Lieutenant Kuritsin voxed an update request to Fifth Company’s sappers. The men under the command of Sergeant Barady of Fifth Platoon had been given a special mission of their own. Like most Danikkin towns, Korris had been built around a geothermal energy sink. The massive structures generated tremendous amounts of electrical power. Barady’s sapper team was charged with denying the orks this valuable energy source. Enginseer Politnov had advised the sappers how the charges might be set to cause a significant explosion, one that would level most of the town. With Colonel Kabanov personally ordering a full withdrawal, Fifth Company had one final chance to deal devastating damage to the orks that had troubled them for the last two years.

  “Our sappers report a problem, sir. They’re proceeding to rig the charges, but they’re under fire. Sergeant Barady says he’ll need twice as much time to complete his mission if his men keep having to defend themselves.”

  “Damn it,” barked Kabanov, “it’s all going to hell. There is no more time.”

  Just as he spoke, however, the orks began falling back to the centre of the square, desperate to escape a sudden and massive increase in las-fire from the avenues to the north and south.

  “Our flanking squads are here, sir,” reported Captain Sebastev. He began firing again from his position at the window.

  Kabanov saw the full might of Fifth Company hit the orks. It was a wonderful sight, reminiscent of so many old victories, proud Vostroyan Firstborn marching in ordered rows from the openings on north and south sides, loosing well-ordered volleys into the desperate alien foe.

  The square was being covered, metre by metre, under a growing carpet of dead orks. Ork blood had turned the snow into a dark red slush.

  “Outstanding,” said Kabanov. He turned to hi
s adjutant, Maro. “Now that’s a wonderful sight, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Wonderful, sir,” said Maro.

  “Sir,” said Kuritsin. “Squad Barady is again calling for urgent assistance. What is your response?”

  Kabanov quickly assessed the situation in the square. The orks were being murdered in great numbers. They returned fire and tried to charge the Vostroyans with cleavers held high, but Vostroyan discipline was unbreakable and, no matter how great the difference in numbers, the enemy rabble was faltering in the face of it.

  “Very well, lieutenant,” said Kabanov turning, “order Squad Breshek to break from the attack on the market square and divert to the power plant. The sooner we get that thing rigged to blow, the sooner we can pull out and leave Korris to the orks and their doom.”

  Sebastev spoke from his position at the window. “Commissar Karif looks to be enjoying himself.”

  The commissar was down in the streets, alongside Sergeant Grodolkin and his men. The commissar’s gleaming chainsword was raised aloft, and he seemed to be orating to the squad as they fired volley after volley at the massed foe.

  I’d like to hear what he’s saying, thought Kabanov. I notice Father Olov is conspicuously quiet. I wonder if he’s wary of broadcasting a reading with the new commissar around to hear it.

  At the thought of Fifth Company’s battle hardened priest, Kabanov scanned the square and saw him almost at once. He stood out clearly in his tan robes, brightly chequered at the hem and sleeves, yelling at the top of his voice to the men of Squad Svemir. He swung his massive eviscerator chainsword again and again, hewing apart the luckless orks that came at him.

  Half-mad he may be, thought Kabanov, but what a fighter.

  One of the squads on the north side, Squad Breshek, broke from the battle in the square and pounded north, racing to the aid of the beleaguered sappers. The other squads tried to cover the gap this created, but the orks noticed the absence of pressure from that quarter and immediately moved to take advantage.