Battle-Brothers

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Not much I can do about the bone damage here,’ he told the warrior, who had now fixed the Apothecary with an intent, almost mindless stare. ‘The blood loss is another matter.’

  Reaching into a pouch at his belt, Gideon brought forth a length of resinous, flexible piping. It was a crude substitute for cartilage and flesh but would suffice for the moment.

  ‘Be still, brother,’ he said, laying a hand on the Space Marine’s chest as he attempted to sit up.

  Skilfully and swiftly, Gideon removed two centimetres of damaged artery from the neck of the Space Marine, quickly replacing it with the surgical tubing. Bio-gel and organic weld secured the bypass in place, but before the Apothecary could apply a layer of protective foam sheath a shouted warning from above him drew his attention.

  The Unworthy had rushed the two Space Marines at the top of the stair, and though a handful lay dead, one had managed to slip past in the fray and came at Gideon with an upraised axe.

  The Apothecary reacted in a moment, punching the blades and syringes of his narthecium into the pirate’s chest, hurling him backwards. Blood frothed from the gaping wound and the man spasmed and thrashed as a lethal cocktail of elixirs created for the augmented physiology of Space Marines coursed through his all-too-human system. Blood poured from his ears and mouth and his eyes burst from the internal pressure.

  Two seconds later the man fell still, organs and nervous system totally overloaded by the stimms and vital fluids that had ravaged his body.

  Back at the top of the stairwell, the Space Marines had thrown back the fresh attack and were finishing off the wounded with single bolt-rounds.

  ‘Apologies, Brother-Apothecary,’ one of them said, turning to look at Gideon. ‘Such disturbance will not happen again.’

  Gideon nodded and returned to his charge, cauterising and sealing the wound. When he was done, he glanced back down to the intersection to see that Charael and his warriors, with the help of the Fifth Company battle-brothers, had slain the orks.

  ‘My work here is almost complete,’ said Gideon.

  ‘The presence of the orks has changed the strategic situation,’ replied Charael. ‘Master Sammael requests that we rejoin the main assault.’

  ‘Then do so,’ said the Apothecary. He switched his comm-feed and hailed Sergeant Cassiel.

  ‘This is Cassiel,’ came the reply.

  ‘What is your current situation, brother-sergeant?’

  ‘Combat outcome is deteriorating, Brother-Apothecary, although physically I have suffered no further injury.’

  ‘I am only a few hundred metres from your position, but we have a substantial enemy presence between us. Can you relocate?’

  There was a pause and some grunting.

  ‘I shall attempt to move position, brother, though I must confess I am not wholly sure where I might find sufficient surcease from attack.’

  ‘If possible head to rimwards, brother, the fighting is strongest towards the central spires.’

  ‘Understood. Location transponder still operational.’

  ‘Keep strong, sergeant, I am coming.’

  ‘We cannot ride escort, brother,’ said Charael as Gideon cut the link. ‘Did you not hear?’

  ‘I understand, huntmaster,’ Gideon replied. He strode back to Eclipse and mounted. ‘Thank you for your assistance but I will proceed alone from here.’

  Charael lifted his blade in salute to the Apothecary’s decision and Gideon raised a fist in reply.

  ‘Speed well and bring salvation, brother,’ said the huntmaster, before leading his squadron away.

  Cassiel had not been entirely truthful in his report to the Apothecary. His entire leg was now numb and his right side and arm were also starting to lose sensation. Knowing that his strength would not last forever, he worked quickly, knowing from the auspex scan that his foes were once again gathering their strength before their next attack. He had accounted for another forty enemies, give or take a couple, but each Unworthy that fell seemed to only add to their determination to see him dead; perhaps they desired to settle the score regardless of cost.

  Looping the bolter feed around his arm, the sergeant set about uncoupling the main unit from Incitatus; the bulky cogitator and display that retained the spirit of his steed. Detaching the device from the bike, he set it to one side and primed the anti-tamper mechanism of his fallen mount. With a grunt, he grabbed the machine-spirit casing under one arm, took up the bolter and crawled back across the warehouse towards the open elevator shaft.

  Detached from the bike’s scanning systems, the auspex had been reduced to short range, intermittently beeping out the welter of contacts behind Cassiel as he dragged himself metre-by-metre towards his escape route. The sound became a more insistent shrilling as the enemy signals started to close once more, and with a last effort, the sergeant hauled himself to the edge of the shaft. A glance at the display showed that the Unworthy, dozens of them, were only a few metres beyond the broken doors.

  Taking a deep breath, Cassiel looked down the shaft. The remnants of the elevator cage were about twenty metres below, three levels down. Pieces of snapped metal jutted dangerously up towards him, but a look up confirmed there were no good handholds to effect a climb; not with the bolter and machine-spirit console to carry.

  The sound of running footsteps spurred the sergeant into action.

  He pushed himself over the lip of the drop, angling his fall so that his backpack would take the brunt of the damage.

  Cassiel’s landing smashed his head into something hard and through the ringing in his ears he dimly heard the thunderous reverberation of his fall echoing back up the shaft. He lay dazed for a moment, vision swimming. A damage warning indicator flashed at the edge of his vision and a whining tone alerted him to several systems failures in his armour, but he did not care.

  ‘The Machine-God blessed you well,’ he muttered in thanks to the spirit of his powered suit. ‘I shall see that proper honour is paid when opportunity presents.’

  The open access door above glowed brighter for an instant, followed by the sharp noise from the explosion of his bike’s self-termination; one of the Unworthy had not been able to fight curiosity, apparently. Shrieks of the wounded and cries of surprise sounded out moments later.

  Smiling grimly to himself, faculties returning, Cassiel pulled himself free from the tangle of the cage around him; the metal struts had been flattened by the impact of his fall. Rolling to one side, he managed to pull himself upright, powered fingers tearing at the mesh of the cage door. Shots started to ring out from above, shells and las-blasts lighting the interior of the elevator shaft.

  Cassiel considered firing back but decided to conserve energy and ammunition. With a snarl, he pulled apart the last segment of the cage door and flopped out into the hallway beyond.

  He checked his surroundings, finding himself at the end of a short corridor, which split into a T-junction ten metres away. There were no other routes of entry or exit.

  Would the Unworthy attempt the climb down? Unlikely, he concluded, but not impossible. Also, a grenade thrown down the shaft might gift his foes a lucky bounce into the hall. And, when he thought about it, he was Ravenwing and mobility, however much impaired, was still a weapon to be used.

  The throbbing pain from his leg was becoming harder to ignore as his armour’s suppressant systems started to run out of stimulants. Steeling himself, Cassiel forced himself upright, slumping against the bulkhead wall. He looked back at the remains of the elevator cage but saw nothing that would be strong enough to fashion into a crutch, so he turned away and started hop-shuffling his way along the corridor, bolter in one hand, Incitatus’s spirit in the other.

  The Dark Angels’ drive towards the central command and habitation spires had punched through the defenders of Port Imperial, leaving scattered bands of pirates and orks in their wake. As Gideon rode through the dilapidated tunnels the roar of Eclipse’s engine heralded his approach, sending stray auspex returns and half-seen figu
res running from his path.

  Here and there he encountered signs of fighting – bullet-pocked walls, bloody corpses and discarded weapons. Occasionally shots sounded in the distance, echoing oddly through the maze of chambers and passages, their sources unknown.

  Gideon opened a vox-channel, concerned that his efforts might yet turn out to be in vain.

  ‘Sergeant Cassiel, respond. What is your situation?’

  Several seconds passed without reply. The Apothecary turned his bike onto a main thoroughfare, noting as he did so the orkish graffiti and the drifts of garbage against the walls. A check of the bike display confirmed that he was only four hundred metres from Cassiel’s transponder position, but also that there were quite a number of unknown energy signatures converging in front of him. An off-ramp less than a hundred metres ahead would take him into the sub-decks where Cassiel would be found.

  Taking the curving ramp, Gideon had to brake sharply as he almost rode into an improvised barricade across the roadway. Storage vats, plates of corrugated metal and other detritus were heaped across his path, metal spars jutting out like the stakes of a revetment.

  As he wrenched Eclipse to the side, tyres juddering over the uneven floor, Gideon saw something else; metal discs half-hidden amongst the trash strewn over the ferrocrete surface. Explosive mines. He braked harder, shedding beads of rubber from the reinforced tyres of his steed, avoiding a mine by less than a metre.

  He stopped, staring at the obstacle, calculating a path through the mess of explosives and debris, but as he did so he also saw a number of enemy signals congregating on his position from stairs and ducts along the rampway.

  A pair of Unworthy burst out of a floor-level maintenance hatch to his right, pistols spitting bullets. A glance directed Eclipse’s bolters in their direction and the Apothecary opened fire, cutting them down as shells sparked from his armour and the canopy of his steed. Others were taking position behind the cover of the barricades; pirates and orks together.

  ‘Shade of the Lion,’ Gideon cursed, returning fire with his bolt pistol as enemy shots zipped and buzzed around him.

  Immobile, he would make too easy a target for his foes, but the mines and obstacles gave him no room to manoeuvre. With a frustrated snarl, Gideon wrenched his mount around, turning back to the main tunnel. As much as he wished to fight, he had a greater priority. Just as the Grand Master was intent upon reaching his objective and would deal with the survivors later, so he too had to withdraw from battle to achieve a higher goal, though it pained him to do so. He might be an Apothecary by rank and expertise, but he was still a Space Marine of the Dark Angels and it wounded his honour to leave the enemy without retort.

  Hitting the main transit route again, he opened the throttle full, knowing that every delay and backtrack cost him time and might cost Cassiel his life.

  Firing again as another Unworthy came around the corner of the corridor, Cassiel put a bolt into the man’s leg, sending him toppling sideways. Another shot ripped open the pirate’s chest as he struggled to stand. The sergeant continued to unleash a hail of bolts as more foes tried to dash across the passage to the sanctuary of a doorway to his right. None reached their goal, their bodies and limbs ripped and torn by the flurry of detonations.

  In the brief pause that followed, Cassiel turned and hopped further along the concourse, heading towards a stairwell twenty metres away. A las-blast skimmed from the wall next to him and Cassiel turned back again after only a few metres, firing once more at a pirate poking his weapon around the corner. The bolt hit the man’s lasgun, shattering the weapon, sending slivers of plastek into his old, wrinkled face. He fell back out of sight with a cry.

  More Unworthy burst into view, firing their weapons wildly in Cassiel’s direction as they raced towards the door, trying to outflank him. Bullets cracked against the sergeant’s armour and one struck the elbow joint of his left arm. His hand spasmed with pain and Incitatus’s mind core fell to the deck with a clang.

  Thoughts muddled with pain, Cassiel returned fire, cutting down two foes, but two more reached the haven of the doorway and disappeared into the hall beyond. The sergeant gazed numbly at the bike console lying at his feet and for a moment considered leaving it there; a free hand would be invaluable.

  He could not forsake the spirit of his mount, though. He had sworn on his honour as a warrior of the Ravenwing to serve and protect his steed as it served and protected him, and he was not about to abandon Incitatus’s machine-spirit to an uncertain fate.

  Summoning up what focus he could, Cassiel directed a deadly torrent of fire at the next band of reckless pirates to dash into the corridor. The first was flung back by two hits to the chest; the second fell with half her head missing; the third was sent spinning to the deck with a bolt in the shoulder, his arm hanging by threads of bone and sinew. As he fired, Cassiel dimly noted that there were about thirty rounds remaining in the feed belt of his weapon.

  With a last salvo of fire to drive back any more pursuers, Cassiel stooped to snatch up Incitatus’s cogitator. Gripping the boxy device to his chest he laboured towards the stairwell, aware that another door ahead passed into the same room into which some of the Unworthy had run.

  The pirates emerged just ahead of him, autoguns held at their waists, firing madly. Cassiel snarled as he was caught in the hail of bullets, his shoulder guards and plastron sparking with impacts, chips of ceramite and slivers of paint forming a dust cloud around him. Raising his bolter he returned fire, still slumping against the wall, hopping forward as best he could.

  The two men were cut down in a single fusillade, bodies raked with bolts, their blood splashing against the walls and decking. More fire rattled against the sergeant from behind, but this time he did not pause but with a herculean effort propelled himself towards the welcoming sanctuary of the now-empty doorway.

  He almost fell into the room – some kind of storage bay lined with empty shelves and broken crates – and only saved himself from toppling by slamming against the frame of the door. Cassiel pivoted and fired back up the corridor before launching himself across the corridor towards the steps.

  Even the sergeant’s enhanced muscles and power armour-boosted leap could not make the gap and he fell short, falling with a loud clatter a metre short of the stairwell. Rolling to his side, he fired blindly along the passageway, his good leg trying to find purchase to heave himself the last metre to the next moment of safety.

  A rocket sped past his head, exploding behind him.

  Cassiel had thought he had no strength left but the appearance of a heavy weapon amongst the enemy spurred him into another impossible effort, flinging himself bodily down the stairs. He rolled and bounced down the steps, cracking armour and ferrocrete, coming to an ungainly stop at a landing. Out of instinct he turned and pushed himself away from the wall, once more tossed and spun by his descent down the next flight.

  The chamber below was lit only by dim red emergency lighting. In the gloom Cassiel could see only one exit, a sealed door just to his right. Hooking the bolter on his belt, the sergeant tried the wheel-lock but it would not move, rusted shut by decades of neglect.

  The sound of boots on the steps caused him to turn, snatching up the bolter again. He did not need to check the auspex to know that dozens of foes were close on his heels, intent on his death. The sergeant fired as the first of them rounded the landing above, and kept firing as more and more Unworthy descended.

  Still shooting, Cassiel allowed himself to slump to the deck, propped up against the door.

  The bolter clicked empty but it took a moment for his pain-addled senses to register that he was out of ammunition. He tossed the weapon aside, but the hesitation allowed the Unworthy to set upon him with blades and rifle butts before he could draw his sword.

  Still Cassiel fought back, snatching a man by the throat to slam him into his companions. The sergeant swung the cogitator as a weapon, cracking open the skull of a pirate even as his fingers drove into the chest of a third
.

  There was a heartbeat’s pause as the dead men fell away, the others behind blocked by their deceased comrades. Cassiel snatched his sword from its sheath, its glowing blade swinging up to sever the arm from a woman looking to drive a knife into the sergeant’s face.

  Cassiel’s rage at being cornered like an animal boiled up inside him. A maul clanged against his helm and an axe head skittered from his right pauldron as he surged up, power sword carving a bloody ruin through the foes that surrounded him.

  ‘For the Emperor! For the Lion!’

  The sounds of fighting from ahead had fallen silent, raising grim suspicion in Gideon. Like a white-and-black thunderbolt he had fallen upon the Unworthy as they had surged towards Cassiel’s last position, Eclipse’s bolters roaring as the Apothecary drove headlong through them.

  Confronted by the vengeful apparition of the Apothecary, unharmed and bellowing for vengeance, the Unworthy scattered, fleeing back into the ducts and holes rather than face his wrath. Coming to a turning, Gideon slowed, heaving his bike around the corner, the heavy machine pulping through the remains of a score of dead pirates. Cassiel had certainly taken a heavy toll before succumbing.

  Following the blinking light of the sergeant’s transponder on the display, Gideon came to a halt next to a stairwell. More bodies littered the steps, a mess of flesh and blood. The Apothecary saw from the auspex return that the Unworthy had withdrawn several dozen metres, scampering away through the narrow hatches and under-levels where he could not follow.

  With pistol in hand, Gideon descended the steps, treading carefully over the dead Unworthy. At the bottom of the stairs was a scene of total carnage; bodies lay upon each other, gouged, limbless or decapitated, at least another dozen.