[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  Behind Sebastev, the sound of the Danikkin long guns could still be heard raining heavy shells down on the east side of town. The shelling was sporadic. The rebels weren’t trying to level the place; their own forces were already on their way up from the south-east with the intention of taking it back. Fifth Company didn’t plan to be there when they arrived. More Vostroyan wounded had already been loaded into one of the Pathcutters and were being administered to once again by Sergeant Svemir. The able-bodied men, barely a hundred of them now, were busy loading weapons and gear into another of the heavy transports. With so few men left to ride in them, two of the Pathcutters would be left behind, scuttled so the advancing Danikkin couldn’t make use of them.

  Lieutenant Kuritsin stepped up beside Sebastev. “I’ve got some bad news, sir.”

  “What is it, Rits?”

  “One of our spotters reports Danikkin armour approaching the town, coming up the southern highway, strength unknown. At their current speed, they’ll be here within the hour.”

  Sebastev was about to respond when a call came in over his vox-bead. “Tarkarov to Captain Sebastev. One of my men watching the east reports movement, sir. It looks like orks, a lot of them. They’re still some distance away, but they appear to be covering ground quickly.”

  “Orks and rebels at the same time,” said Sebastev. “Someone really doesn’t like us. Tell our men to speed things up. Anything not loaded within the next ten minutes gets left behind.”

  “Sir,” said Kuritsin. “Colonel Kabanov ordered a squad to salvage provisions from the town. Our own stocks are running dangerously low. Sergeant Breshek took a few men from Fourth Platoon and went to take care of it. They’re on their way back with supplies, but with time running out, perhaps we should send extra men to assist them.”

  “Fine, send the extra men. The longer we wait, the more chance we’ll get entangled with either or both of the oncoming foes. In fact, our chances of getting away clean aren’t looking good.”

  Tarkarov’s voice came back over the vox. “Could we perhaps organise some kind of diversion, sir?”

  “I don’t think we can afford to leave without one. We don’t want our flanks harried all the way to the mountains. We mustn’t get sucked into another fight. Our chances of crossing at Grazzen erode by the minute. I’ll consult Colonel Kabanov.”

  As Sebastev walked towards the colonel’s Chimera, vox-reports came in from his platoon leaders. The essentials had been loaded up. The men were, for the most part, ready to move out on the colonel’s command. Sebastev ordered them to stand by.

  Sebastev knocked on the sealed hatch of Colonel Kabanov’s Chimera to announce himself. The hatch was opened by Lieutenant Maro, who ushered Sebastev in quickly and closed the hatch behind him. Father Olov, Enginseer Politnov, Commissar Karif, and the prisoner, Gusseff, sat in the back of the Chimera, still clothed in full outdoor kit. Gusseff’s hands and feet were bound tight and his mouth had been taped.

  Sebastev spared him only the briefest glance before he faced Colonel Kabanov and said, “Sir, we’re almost ready to move out, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get away clean. Danikkin armour is rolling up from the south and orks are coming in from the east. Even if they don’t see us, without some kind of distraction they’ll pick up our tracks all too quickly.”

  Colonel Kabanov indicated a seat and Sebastev took it. No one, it seemed, was particularly eager to sit next to the traitor. The seats beside and opposite him remained empty, despite the otherwise cramped conditions. This is grave news, captain. A distraction would need more time to organise than we can spare.”

  “We could stand and fight,” rambled Father Olov.

  “As much as I believe that a glorious death should be the final wish of every man, father,” said Commissar Karif, “I’m also reminded that General Vlastan gave very specific orders. There’s little glory in a death that leaves important tasks unfinished.”

  “The commissar is right,” said Kabanov. “Besides, I’ve no intention of seeing this company meet its end in Nhalich. Twelfth Army Command wants this traitor, and they’re going to get him. We must be away at once. Captain, are the men loaded and ready to move out?”

  “We await the last few, sir. They’re bringing essential provisions. We’re running very low, as I’m sure you know.”

  “How long before the men return to us, captain?”

  Sebastev voxed the question over to Lieutenant Kuritsin, who was still outside, overseeing the final preparations to move out. When the answer came back, Sebastev relayed it to Colonel Kabanov. “They’ve just returned, sir. The provisions are being loaded up.”

  “Good,” said the colonel, “but that still leaves us the problem of a diversion. I blame myself, of course for the oversight. We should have rigged the power plants here like we did at Korris. There just hasn’t been time. I don’t suppose we could…”

  “I think it’s too late for that, sir,” said Sebastev, “unless you’re willing to sacrifice the few troopers we have left with any demolitions experience. And they’d need one of the Chimeras to get them to the target area in time. Enginseer Politnov would have to accompany them, too.”

  The enginseer swung his cowled head in Sebastev’s direction. His metallic voice sounded from somewhere in his chest. “I have no qualms about remaining to lead such an operation. My life, such as it is, belongs to the Omnissiah.”

  Sebastev nodded, but Colonel Kabanov held up a hand. “No, enginseer,” he said, “I appreciate your willingness, but we’ve suffered enough losses. Fifth Company can’t afford to leave anyone behind.”

  “My own analysis of the situation, colonel,” replied Enginseer Politnov, “tells me that you will lose some men, or you will lose all. Certain losses will be necessary if Fifth Company is to evade pursuit. I have a proposition that I think will help to minimise those losses.”

  In the close air of the Chimera, Sebastev found himself very aware of the mysterious clicks and hisses that emanated from the enginseer’s body. Politnov always wore the same voluminous red robes. Oil-stained and torn in places, they were utterly inadequate for life in the deep winter, even more so than Father Olov’s robes, but the enginseer seemed impervious to the lethal cold. He had little left in common with mortal men. Over hundreds of years, most of his organs and extremities had been replaced or upgraded. Perhaps he had more in common with the Chimeras and the Pathcutters that he worked constantly to maintain.

  “Two of our Pathcutter transports are surplus to current requirements,” said Politnov. “I believe it was the captain’s intention to scuttle them prior to the arrival of the advancing rebels. Confirm, please.”

  “It still is my intention,” replied Sebastev.

  “Aside from my own distaste at the destruction of any machine, captain, I feel you would be in error to do so. My servitors and I are quite capable of driving both of the machines south-east. At a point between both ork and rebel parties, we will generate the sounds and visual signs of an engagement. This will almost certainly draw the attention of the orks. Those among you who have read Anzion’s works will already be aware that orks cannot resist a battle. They crave the opportunity to grow in size and strength. It is like a drug to them. I know from your strategy at Korris, Colonel Kabanov, that you understand this well.”

  Colonel Kabanov looked displeased but, when he spoke, his tone was one of resignation. “You intend to draw the orks onto the rebels, enginseer. It’s an audacious plan. I’d even call it foolhardy.”

  The enginseer was quiet for a moment, but a slight motion of his shoulders suggested to Sebastev that the old machine-man was chuckling to himself. “It has a reasonable probability of success, colonel. Far greater than an uncovered retreat, I assure you.”

  “You and your servants are non-combatants,” said Kabanov, “I can’t order you to do this.”

  “It would be a great and noble sacrifice,” said Commissar Karif, “but who will appease the machine-spirits of our vehicles if you do this thing?�
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  “The machines will take you as far as you need to go, commissar. This planet has made them fickle, it’s true. Offer due obeisance and they will get you to Grazzen. As for my life and the lives of my staff, they belong to the Omnissiah, as they always have. I have lived a very long time. In recent years, I have slowed. Processing takes more time. My functions include more frequent errors. My biological systems are finally collapsing centuries beyond their natural lifespan.”

  Sebastev saw a meaningful look pass between the enginseer and Colonel Kabanov as the enginseer continued. These are matters I have kept to myself, though Tech-priest Gavaril detected the truth easily enough. I have watched and waited for the moment that my life might be spent for greatest gain. I suspected it would come during these dark times. I was correct. For the honour of the Machine-God, I am ready to face my death.”

  Each of the men in the vehicle, with the exception of the gagged rebel prisoner, stared at the old enginseer with silent respect. His offer to stay epitomised the kind of honour and nobility to which every Vostroyan officer aspired.

  I always regarded this man as little more than a functionary, thought Sebastev with no small sense of shame. When did I forget that he is a man of Vostroya? Here, he proves himself the equal of our very best, in spirit if not in combat prowess.

  “Enginseer,” said Colonel Kabanov, “you may take everything you need and go about your plan. May the Emperor as Omnissiah ensure your success for all our sakes. Your sacrifice will be remembered in the annals of this regiment.”

  The enginseer bowed his hooded head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I will attend to the matter with all haste. The Omnissiah’s blessings upon you, gentlemen.”

  Enginseer Politnov didn’t wait for permission to leave. He simply rose from his seat in the Chimera, opened the hatch and clambered out into the cold afternoon. On impulse, Sebastev rose and followed him outside. The enginseer was walking away in the direction of the Path-cutters, his red robes whipping around him in the bitter wind.

  “Enginseer,” called Sebastev.

  Politnov stopped and turned to face him. “Captain?” Sebastev said nothing. Instead, he raised his hands to his chest, made the sign of the aquila, and bowed deeply. Politnov’s laugh was audible this time: a dry, toneless sound like metal scraping on metal. He turned away and continued trudging through the snow. “Get back inside the Chimera, captain,” he voxed, disinclined to shout over the noise of the winds. “Flesh is so weak against this cold. Yes, flesh is weak, but the machine… The machine is indomitable.”

  Kabanov’s Chimera gave a throaty growl as it pulled into position behind the lead Pathcutter. Fifth Company’s vehicles moved away from Nhalich in single file, three Chimeras and two heavy transports in a loose column, making the most of the broad channel the Pathcutter’s plough carved in the drifts. The setting sun fought its way through thick clouds, casting a bloody red glow over the western horizon and throwing long shadows out across the open snow.

  Enginseer Politnov was beyond vox-bead range, but Lieutenant Kuritsin caught a final communication from him on the Chimera’s vox-caster. Politnov reported success in drawing the orks south-west from their original path. As he signed off, he was pulling them straight towards the Danikkin armour column in the south.

  Kabanov offered a silent prayer of thanks, commending the enginseer’s soul to the care of Saint Nadalya so that she might speed its journey to the Emperor’s side. Politnov had offered his life to aid them without a second thought, sure that the time was right for him to step up and make a difference. Kabanov could identify closely with that, particularly now, as Fifth Company sped towards its probable doom.

  There seemed little hope that the Thirty-fifth Regiment would hold Grazzen long enough for Fifth Company to cross with the prisoner. It was far more likely they would arrive to find the place overrun with orks, and the bridge destroyed from the Vostroyan side. A few seconds too late might as well be a year too late for all the difference it would make.

  Such grim thoughts were cut off by a sudden pain in his lungs. Kabanov scrabbled for one of his handkerchiefs and coughed into it wetly.

  The others looked over at him, concern apparent on their faces, but said nothing. Kabanov threw back a weary smile as he stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, keen to hide the red splotch that he knew would be there.

  Kabanov’s age wasn’t considerable when compared to many high-ranking Imperial officers, but, unlike the others, General Vlastan included, he’d never opted to undergo expensive and often excruciating rejuvenat treatments. He had money enough to pay for them — House Kabanov had more than its fair share of investments on Vostroya and its neighbouring worlds — but he’d always trusted that the Emperor would take him when it was time.

  That time isn’t far off, thought Kabanov. Will it be on my terms, I wonder? Or will I be denied my last grand gesture?

  Winds picked up, driving across from the east, buffeting the sides of the Chimera. Kabanov’s body ached for sleep. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but we’ve a hard fight ahead of us — our hardest yet, I’ve no doubt. It’s been too long since any of us had adequate rest. So long as we take turns to keep an eye on the prisoner, I suggest we try to get some sleep. The mountain pass is some hours away.”

  Captain Sebastev nodded his agreement, looking immensely tired himself. “We’ve been running on ohx’ for too long. Get some rest, colonel. That goes for the rest of you, too.” He was referring to Father Olov and Lieutenants Kuritsin and Maro. Commissar Karif, barely able to restrain himself in the presence of the captured traitor, had opted once again to ride with the troopers in one of the Pathcutters. “I’ll keep an eye on this rebel bastard for now.”

  It was clear to Kabanov that Sebastev needed sleep as much as any of them, but the stubborn captain wouldn’t be argued with. Someone else could relieve him later, he supposed.

  “If anyone needs extra blankets,” said Kabanov, “Lieutenant Maro will provide them.”

  Father Olov shook his head, lifted a flask of rahzvod to his lips and took a deep draft. Before anyone else had even settled down, he was snoring like a cudbear.

  As the others closed their tired eyes, Kabanov nodded to Sebastev and said, “Wake Maro in a few hours, captain. He’ll take over and give you a chance to rest. That’s an order, by the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sebastev. “I’ll do that.”

  Commissar Karif couldn’t stand to be near the so-called officer-patriot, Brammon Gusseff. Breathing the same air as a man who had turned from the Emperor’s light filled him with righteous fury. He wanted nothing more than to shove his chainsword into the man’s belly and watch his life pour out.

  At the same time, Karif had to acknowledge that the prisoner was worth far more alive than dead. If the interrogations were handled correctly, what secrets might the rebel give up? The codes to the case that accompanied him? Details of rebel deployment? Perhaps more besides.

  Aware that his self-control was being sorely tested, Karif had excused himself from Colonel Kabanov’s Chimera and opted to ride in the Pathcutter at the back of the column. Since he’d only been among Fifth Company for a matter of days, he expected to find a few faces that were new to him. But with Fifth Company reduced to less than a hundred men crammed into just a few vehicles, he soon found himself sitting among familiar figures. Directly opposite him, just as he had been on the journey west from Korris, sat Sergeant Sidor Basch of Second Platoon.

  “Glad to see you’re still with us, commissar,” said the veteran sergeant.

  “Likewise,” said Karif. “Did you take many losses during the assault?”

  Basch shook his head. “Two from my squad. They’ll be missed. Considering the odds, though, I’d say we didn’t do half bad.” The sergeant paused as if choosing his next words carefully. “Commissar… if I offended you last time we spoke… I intended the comparison with Commissar Ixxius only as a compliment, I assure you.”

  Karif raised a hand. “I me
ant no particular disrespect to the late commissar. I merely dislike being the subject of comparisons, sergeant. I’m my own man with my own merits and, no doubt, my own flaws. I’ll be measured by those alone if I’m to be measured at all. But let’s have no more talk of it.”

  “As you say, commissar.” Changing the subject, Basch asked, “How did you enjoy that pict-slate?”

  At first, Karif was at loss. He couldn’t recall any pict-slate. He’d been with Fifth Company for only six days, but so much had been compressed into that time, he felt he’d been among them for weeks. Then it came to him; he’d confiscated a porn-slate discovered by two troopers searching the bodies in Reivemot Square in order to avoid fighting among the men.

  “Naturally I destroyed it, sergeant,” he said. “A man of the Imperial Creed wouldn’t sully his eyes looking at filth like that. He’d have to flagellate himself.”

  “We’ve got a different word for it on Vostroya, commissar, but I’m sure the meaning is the same.” The sergeant enjoyed a laugh, his infectious mirth spreading to the men seated on either side of him.

  Karif had lied, of course. He had examined the images displayed on the cracked screen of the device. He’d been stunned that such unflattering and clumsy pictography could represent a source of entertainment to anyone. The subjects were unattractive to begin with.

  The Emperor alone knows how you Vostroyans can find delight in such sturdy, thick-fingered women, he thought. Then again, they say Vostroya is a cold place. Perhaps the value of such women is in the heat they generate. And they look like hard workers. I suppose that counts for something.

  Stavin, sitting by Karif’s side as usual, was being engaged in conversation by a kind-faced soldier with a long, brown moustache and a patch of burnt skin below his left eye. The burn was probably the result of a near miss back at Nhalich. Las-bolts could still singe flesh if they passed close enough without hitting.

  “I saw you fighting back there,” said the soldier to Stavin. “You got guts for a shiny. What’s your name, then?”