by Gav Thorpe
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Battle-Brothers - Gav Thorpe
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BATTLE-BROTHERS
Gav Thorpe
The attack was going well. Elements of the Second and Fifth Companies of the Dark Angels had created a significant foothold on the rebel space station known as Port Imperial, and with a storm of firepower were pushing towards the central habitation and command spires. Though one might not have considered a star fort the ideal battleground for the bikes and Land Speeders of the Ravenwing, Port Imperial was more akin to a city in space, its halls and tunnelways more like plazas and streets than the confines of a starship’s chambers and passages.
With speed and daring, the Dark Angels had seized several landing zones and now the warriors of the Second Company were racing ahead to fracture the enemy resistance whilst the infantry of the Fifth Company secured what gains had already been made. The foe – pirate scum that presented barely a threat to the power armoured Dark Angels Space Marines – were being driven back, their prepared defences circumvented by the insertion of squads and squadrons by Thunderhawk and boarding torpedo.
Sergeant Cassiel and his bike squadron were amongst those at the forefront of the fighting. Having been thrown into the heart of the enemy star fort, theirs was a simple mission: rove the station sowing death and discord wherever they encountered the enemy.
Cassiel had not been drawn into the ranks of the Ravenwing for blindly following orders, but nor had he reached the rank of sergeant by second-guessing the intent of his superiors. His initiative had been enough to attract the attention of Grand Master Sammael and seen him initiated into the Rites of the Raven, but there his curiosity ended, making him an ideal squadron leader for the Second Company. He did not, therefore, wonder too much what brought the Ravenwing and their comrades in the Fifth Company to Port Imperial, but assumed that the anarchy the Dark Angels had discovered on the world of Piscina IV was somehow connected to the pirates.
Grand Master Sammael had explained that it was likely the pirates were led by a renegade of the Legiones Astartes; a traitor who had turned on the Emperor right at the birth of the galactic Imperium. Cassiel had been in the Ravenwing for seventy years and knew well enough what this meant; the Ravenwing would secure this renegade so that he could be taken back to the Chapter and face punishment for his crimes.
This was privileged information, known only to those in the Ravenwing. It was his task, along with the veteran Black Knights that served as Sammael’s inner cadre, to ensure that the Fifth Company were not unduly exposed to the machinations of the renegade. Sometimes Cassiel envied the warriors of the Fifth Company, and those like them that did not have to suffer the spiritual taint of the Truth. A careful facade was maintained by the Chaplains to ensure that the majority of the Dark Angels remained blissfully unaware of the taint that could touch even the soul of a Space Marine. On occasion, when afforded time for reflection in his squadron’s dormer, Cassiel was wistful for the days before he had been introduced to the Truth.
Today was not such a day. Cassiel was proud to be part of the spearhead that would bring the renegade to justice. He led his squadron secure in the knowledge that they honoured the memory of their primarch, the Lion, and did service to the Emperor through their deeds.
As such, the squadron had penetrated more than a kilometre from their insertion point and were making ground quickly towards the more heavily defended interior of Port Imperial. Auspex readings from his bike, Incitatus, had located a group of pirates trying to assemble for a counter-attack. Cassiel led his warriors directly into the ill-judged ambush, securing a large elevator unit to bring the fighting to the heart of the concentration of enemy signals. Las-fire and bullets criss-crossed the conveyor shaft as the squadron ascended in the open cage, stopping just one floor beneath the mass of enemy.
When there was just enough room between the opening cage door and the wall of the elevator, Sabrael hit the throttle and surged out of the carriage, his bolters blazing into the enemy waiting in the chamber outside, bike slamming through their falling bodies. With just enough room to pass Cassiel and hit the gap Annael accelerated from behind the sergeant, exiting the car a second before the sergeant could follow.
Cassiel paused for a moment longer to assess the battlescape. The elevator had deposited them in a warehouse-like chamber, several hundred metres square, and enemy fire descended like a storm from gantries above and behind. Below the walkways more pirates used bulky cargolifters and metal-cased extractor vents as cover, poking out to snap off shots that were wide of their targets more often than they hit.
Ahead, Annael rode over a pile of fallen pirates, cries of pain cut short indicating that at least two had still been alive. The wheels of his bike throwing up a spume of body parts and crimson, Annael hurtled into the mass of enemies while unleashing a constant hail of bolts into the broad space where the foe had lain in ambush.
Remarkably, a man beside the elevator door had been missed by both Sabrael and Annael and he hurled himself at them with a chainsword, the teeth of the weapon sparking across Annael’s backpack. The biker braked and hauled his steed sideways, using it as a weapon; the pirate disappeared beneath the rear wheel, the man’s remains pulped into the metal decking.
Cassiel whirled his bike around, the bolters at maximum elevation as he cleared a gantry above the elevator door, while Sabrael was racing to the far end of the chamber, his weapons gunning down several foes that were making a break for a stairwell up to a mezzanine floor. Fire from Zarall and Araton announced the opening of the other elevator door behind the sergeant as they broke out into the other part of the chamber.
Cassiel shifted his gaze and accelerated, the bolters mounted in the fairing of his bike adjusting their aim to where he looked. He pressed the firing studs and a hail of fire cut down two pirates lurking in the shadow of a large crate, the bolts puncturing flesh and snapping bone with their detonations. To the sergeant’s right Annael slewed his machine around and fired at a handful of foes skulking beside a bulk-hauler, the flash of bolts sparking from the upraised lifting blades on the front of the vehicle. Las-fire snapped back as he cruised across the warehouse, still firing, the fusillade puncturing balloon tyres and severing hydraulic hoses.
Annael’s next salvo struck a pool of leaking fuel. A blue fireball engulfed the load-hauler and several pirates, who staggered from their hiding places with clothes and hair aflame. Cassiel had no time to finish them off as he turned his bike to the left to confront a trio of foes clambering down one of the mezzanine ladders. Metal splinters filled the air as Incitatus’s guns blazed again, shredding the vulnerable pirates. Their ragged corpses flopped to the deck as Cassiel continued to the ladder, one hand on the handlebars, the other pulling a grenade from his belt. He primed the charge and tossed it up through the ladder opening, accelerating away before the explosion scythed down more enemies trying to seek cover above.
‘Maintenance access, quadrant four, high,’ Annael reported sharply.
Cassiel switched his gaze to the left and saw more enemies issuing from a metre-high crawlspace. One of them was dragging a heavy stubber into view as a companion set up a tripod for the machine gun. Sabrael responded first, cutting back along the storage hold, bolt pistol in hand. He fired up through the mesh of the walkway, tearing the legs from the renegade with the stubber and sending another pitching back into the bulkhead minus his left arm.
Trusting that the threat would be dealt with, Annael was continuing his circuit, picking up speed as he curved across the open ground in the centre of the warehouse, Cassiel turning his bike to a counter-circuit of the space. The pair of them opened fire in brief bursts, dri
ving the pirates further back into the darkness behind the stores.
Annael brought his bike to a stop facing a pallet laden with metal drums and fired on full automatic as Cassiel crossed past him. The sergeant noticed a movement in the shadows and directed his volley into more crates and drums lining the far wall, the bolts punching through the metal containers with ease. Cassiel fired again to ensure nobody survived behind the containers, the thrum of the bolters echoing loudly as the din of battle grew quieter.
Cassiel slowed, sensing the enemy were all but wiped out. As he looked back over his shoulder for a quick sweep, he saw there were only a handful of foes left.
One of them had a final surprise for the Dark Angels. A blue plasma bolt shrieked down from overhead, smashing into the rear of Incitatus. Molten metal, ceramite and hardened rubber sprayed into the air and the sergeant was flung from his mount as it careened past Annael, trailing sparks across the floor.
Pain surged up through Cassiel’s right leg and his helmet display was alight with warning runes, a high pitched alert whining in his ear. The plasma blast had thrown him from his mount, and the sergeant’s first glance was to check the condition of his steed. The whole back fairing armour had been melted through, the rear wheel turned to a slag of silver and black. Half a metre further forward and the plasma bolt would have struck the sergeant full on.
Incitatus was wrecked, and as he checked himself, the sergeant saw that his right leg was missing below the knee. The plasma had cauterised the wound with its own energy; no immediate danger. Pulling free his pistol, Cassiel located the plasma gunner, who was skulking behind a support pillar while his weapon recharged. Increasing the magnification of his autosenses, the sergeant picked out the glow of the plasma gun’s combustion chamber. A single bolt penetrated the shielding and the plasma gun detonated, enveloping the pirate in superheated gas. Skin blistering, flesh sloughing away from the bone, the man toppled over the walkway rail and spun crazily to the floor, his impact punctuated by another small detonation.
‘Brother-sergeant?’ Zarall drew his bike to a stop beside Cassiel, shielding the sergeant from the fire of the few remaining enemies.
‘I will signal Command with my position. My steed is no more, anyway. Araton, you have the lead.’ The sergeant looked down at the remnants of his leg, his augmented blood clotting the injury further, the spurts of dark red slowing to a trickle. ‘It looks like I will not be riding with you for some time. Not until we return to the Rock and I can have a bionic fitted.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sabrael as he and Annael turned their bikes’ bolters on the remaining enemy. ‘You can still ride gunner in an attack bike. I will drive for you.’
‘I am obliged for the offer, brother, but if I am to be at the mercy of another’s riding, I will choose Zarall or Araton. You are too fast for my liking!’ Cassiel made light of the injury, knowing that he was in no immediate danger from the wound. More deeply felt was the damage to his steed, and his pride. Speed was one of the best defences of a Ravenwing biker, and Cassiel knew he had slowed too early, giving the plasma gunner an easier shot.
The last of the opposition died when a burst from Sabrael cut him in half across the chest. The warehouse suddenly fell quiet save for the throb of idling engines, the ping of cooling metal and the clink of settling shell cases.
‘Area clear,’ Annael announced. He joined the others as they gathered around Cassiel. Zarall dismounted and helped the sergeant across to the gantry stair where he was able to sit down, the metal steps sagging slightly under the Space Marine’s weight.
‘Keep pushing hubwards and then come around to sector four to meet up with the Grand Master’s advance,’ Cassiel told them. The ruined stub of his leg was now a black and brown mottled mass of coagulant and Larraman cells, the scab thick and leathery. Reloading his pistol, the sergeant gestured towards the wide warehouse doors. ‘No delays. Get moving.’
‘We will return for you, brother,’ said Sabrael, slapping a fist to the aquila on his chest as he turned his bike away. ‘Unless the Apothecaries reach you first.’
‘Concentrate on the mission, brothers. I am not the first casualty we have ever suffered.’
‘Vengeance shall be ours,’ said Zarall. ‘Every drop of blood shed by our own will be atoned for by a river from our foes.’
Cassiel noticed Annael, the newest recruit to the squadron, and raised a hand in thanks as the other Dark Angel bowed his head in respect as he rode past.
‘You are doing well, Annael,’ Cassiel said as Annael turned away and gunned his steed after the others. ‘A true brother of the Ravenwing.’
‘We will be using fists and pistols before we are done,’ Annael said as the squadron rolled out through the opening doors.
‘We shall smite the enemy, brother,’ replied Zarall. ‘Any way that we can.’
‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael.’ The sergeant watched as the others disappeared from view. ‘I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’
In an upper loading deck half a kilometre from the Ravenwing’s main insertion, Grand Master Sammael paused to take stock of the strategic situation. Pirate corpses littered the bay around Sammael and his command squad, and amongst the sable-liveried warriors of the Dark Angels one stood out in his white armour: Apothecary Gideon.
Gideon’s comm-net feed buzzed with activity, tuning in to any transmissions containing key words and phrases that required his attention: ‘Apothecary’, ‘medical aid’, ‘casualty’, ‘injured’, ‘trauma’. During the initial attack there had been no need of his attention, the shock of the Ravenwing assault preventing any serious casualties. However, as the fighting became more protracted and the defenders of Port Imperial responded in force to the intruders, several engagements had resulted in more significant injuries to the Space Marines under his charge.
The Apothecary had just finished replying to a call and was about to request permission to respond when his vox tapped into a communication to the Grand Master, replaying the last few seconds of transmission.
‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael. I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’
A coded identifier tag confirmed the transmission originated from the sergeant; not all casualties were capable of broadcasting their identity or position.
‘Understood, brother,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘Remain in position. There is a squadron within two kilometres of your location, await their arrival.’ Sammael cut the link with Sergeant Cassiel and turned to Gideon. ‘Join with Sergeant Charael and his Black Knights. They will perform escort for you. Of the casualties, which is your priority?’
‘Brother Gabrael needs my attention swiftly,’ replied the Apothecary, referring to a communication he had received moments before Sergeant Cassiel’s. ‘The others are stable as far as I can judge by the reports.’
‘Very well.’ Sammael paused, checking the data display on his steed. ‘Tell Charael you can cut through a maintenance hangar grid-north-west of here. That should take you to Gabrael and his squadron with least delay.’
‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Gideon. The Apothecary turned his bike around and headed back towards the docking spar where the majority of the Ravenwing had inserted aboard their gunships.
Following the telemetry guidance of his steed, Eclipse, Gideon sped through the empty chambers and tunnels of Port Imperial, occasionally passing piles of bodies and other signs of fighting. His bike’s augur detected the signal of Charael’s Black Knights not far ahead even as the distant ring of detonations and grenade blasts echoed back down the corridors.
Gunning the engine, Gideon caught up with the Black Knights as they exchanged fire with a group of pirates holed up behind makeshift barricades at the end of a transit corridor. Plasma fire had smashed through some of the upturned containers and wrecked transpor
t loaders, but not enough to clear a gap for Charael’s squadron to ride through. Thwarted by the barrier, they had withdrawn and were using the grenade launchers of their steeds to lob explosives beyond the barricade. Despite this, there were still several life signals on Gideon’s display as he joined the squadron.
‘The Grand Master said you would be joining us,’ said Charael. The huntmaster turned his ornate winged helm to look at the Apothecary as sporadic las- and bullet-fire whipped down the long corridor towards the Black Knights. ‘How bad is Brother Gabrael’s condition?’
‘Severe chest injury,’ said Gideon. ‘Last report said he was rapidly deteriorating. We have little time.’
Charael grunted in response and returned his gaze to the two-metre-high barricade.
‘The wall must part before us,’ he told his squadron. ‘Durrigan, load stasis grenade. Squadron, pistol covering fire. Follow me!’
Gideon fell in behind the six-strong squadron as they once more roared down the tunnel towards the enemy. The weight of fire increased to greet them as Charael surged ahead. Fifty metres from the barricade, the Black Knights slewed their bikes to a stop and opened fire with their bolt pistols, the rounds snapping past Charael as he continued to close with the enemy.
‘Durrigan, now!’ ordered the huntmaster.
The Black Knight’s grenade launcher coughed once, sending a glittering orb arcing over the barricade. Just as it fell from view, the stasis charge detonated, throwing up a crackling globe of white. Everything inside the field slowed for a moment. Gideon could see a pirate reloading the charge pack on his lasgun, seemingly frozen in place; another rebel was suspended in the act of ducking behind the plasma-melted engine of a cargo hauler, his face caught in a wide-eyed stare.
Tyres screeching and skidding across the deck, Charael hauled his steed sideways and tossed something onto one of the barricade sections. The charge was caught right on the edge of the stasis field and hung in mid-air, a red light glinting at its centre. Turning his steed around, the Huntmaster headed back towards the squadron.