Armageddon

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  ‘Was that a barb, captain?’

  Helius saluted again. ‘By no means, sir.’

  Sarren smiled, the indulgent grin ruined by weariness. ‘If it was, it’s forgiven. Barasath was right, and he sold his life at great cost to give us an edge in the air. The beasts have thrown up nothing but a handful of scrap-fighters since the siege began, and I’ve already noted on the campaign record – as well as Barsath’s personal file – that he made the right call.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Jenzen. She was an asset we’ll greatly miss: solid, reliable, steady.’

  And she had been. Commander Carylin Jenzen, for better or worse, had been a by-the-book flyer, dependable and constant, if rather uninspired. Under her, the city’s air forces had maintained a campaign of reliable defensive support for over a month. The Crone of Invigilata herself had commended Jenzen’s endeavours in recent weeks.

  ‘Sir…’ Helius began.

  Here it comes… Sarren thought.

  ‘I had hoped to discuss the possibility of a more aggressive tactical pattern.’

  Yes. Yes, of course you had hoped to discuss that.

  ‘In good time. For now, the docks.’

  Sarren nodded back to the gathered officers. Cyria Tyro and Captain Helius joined them, standing next to one another. Major Ryken scowled at the pilot, and Sarren resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Bloody Throne, Ryken. Now is hardly the time for schoolyard jealousy.

  ‘We did not lose the docks,’ one of the Astartes argued, his vox-voice laden with resonant calm. Colonel Sarren had not met Sergeant V’reth of the Salamanders before this morning. He knew from vox-traffic that the green-armoured warriors had deployed close to the remaining civilian shelters and their valour was directly responsible for a great many lives spared.

  But it seemed his tactical outlook varied wildly from the colonel’s.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, sir,’ Sarren offered.

  V’reth’s armour was dented and scratched, but remained pristine in comparison to the wreckage worn by the Reclusiarch at his side. A golden-eyed helm glared down at the human officers.

  ‘I am merely stating, Colonel Sarren, that we did not lose the docks. The enemy is beaten. The seaborne invasion was denied, for the city still stands. The invaders lie dead at the docks.’

  This was and wasn’t true, from the way Sarren looked at it. The disparity was the reason the colonel had called this gathering.

  ‘Allow me to amend my appraisal. The docks are gone. As an industrial factor in Armageddon’s collective output, Helsreach no longer exists. We’re receiving reports now of ninety-one per cent harm to the city’s refinery infrastructure, taking into account the loss of the offshore oil platforms.’

  The soldiers shared uncomfortable glances. The Imperium demanded heavy tithes of materiel from Armageddon. If the other hive cities suffered as Helsreach had, the grade of Exactis Extremis would be lowered significantly. Certainly to Solutio Tertius, and perhaps to Aptus Non. If Armageddon provided nothing, it would be offered little in return. The Imperium would turn away. Without the support and finances to recover after the war, the world might never recover.

  ‘However, all is not dark. As the noble Sergeant V’reth makes clear, thanks to the tenacity of the dockworker population, our own storm troopers, and our Astartes allies, the xenos were repelled.’

  At insane cost, he decided not to add. Tens of thousands dead in four days. The city’s industry reduced to a worthless husk.

  ‘We have received further word from the Crone of Invigilata,’ the colonel continued. What he had to say next almost caught in his throat. ‘The most honourable Legio Invigilata has been petitioned by outside forces to leave the city.’

  ‘She will stay.’ The Reclusiarch’s tone was cold even through his helm’s vox-speakers. ‘She swore to fight.’

  ‘As I understand it, the Imperial advances along the length of the Hemlock River are grinding to a halt. The settlements there, protected by the Salamanders and regiments of the Cadian Shock, are now considered a higher priority than the city.’ Sarren let the words resonate for a few moments. ‘This is from the Old Man himself. It came over the vox an hour ago.’

  Grimaldus snarled as he spoke, ‘I do not care. Our mandate is to defend Helsreach.’

  ‘Our mandate, yes. But Princeps Zarha’s mandate was to deploy where she desired. Most of the Legio Invigilata is already stationed along the Hemlock and across the wastelands, alongside elements from Ignatum and Metalica.’

  ‘She will not leave,’ Grimaldus snorted. ‘She is here until the end.’

  Sarren felt his ire rising at the way the Reclusiarch dismissed his concerns with such blasé finality. On another day, another morning, after any other week of fighting, he would have reined in his emotions better. As it was, he sighed and closed his gritty eyes.

  ‘Enough, please, Reclusiarch. Stormherald is embattled seven kilometres down the Hel’s Highway, with an enemy scrap-Titan battalion in the Rostorik Ironworks. She has given no further word of her decision.’

  Grimaldus crossed his arms over his ruined heraldry. ‘Tartarus Hive and the battles along the shores of the Hemlock will be won and lost without us. This war has taken everything from the city, and we are reduced to fighting like desert jackals over Helsreach’s bones. The only question that matters to us is: What can we still save?’

  Ryken removed his rebreather and took a deep breath. ‘It may be time to consider the last fallback point.’

  Sarren nodded. ‘That’s why we’re here. We stand in the heart of a dying city, and the time has come to decide where we will make our final stand. What of the… weapon, Reclusiarch?’

  ‘A fool’s hope. The Master of the Forge is a single soul. Without Mechanicus support, Jurisian has been able to do nothing more than activate Oberon’s core systems. He can certainly not crew it alone. As of four nights ago, the Ordinatus has locomotion, and on his own the Forgemaster is able to fire the Oberon Cannon once every twenty-two minutes. But that is all. It cannot be defended by a lone pilot. It is worthless in battle.’

  The colonel’s ire rose again. ‘You waited four days to tell me of this? That the Ordinatus has power once more?’

  ‘I have not waited. I filed coded confirmation across the command network the same night I learned Oberon was operational. Yet as I said, it is almost worthless to us.’

  ‘Is your Forgemaster bringing the weapon to the city?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Has the Mechanicus been informed we are defiling their weapon and dragging it into a warzone, almost certain to lose it in its first engagement against the enemy?’

  ‘Of course not. Are you insane, human? The best weapons are those that remain secret until wielded. This truth would force Invigilata to act against us, or to leave the city.’

  ‘You are not the commander of this city. You surrendered that honour to me. This is information I have been eagerly awaiting, only to find it denied to me because of broken vox-traffic?’

  The silver skull breathed out a mechanical growl.

  ‘I was knee-deep in alien dead at the docks, Sarren, selling the lives of my brothers to ensure the people of your home world lived to see another sunrise. You are tired. I understand the limitations of the human form, and you have my sympathies for them. But remember to whom you are speaking.’

  Sarren bit back his disappointment. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, yet with the Astartes, it always was. Compliant and valuable one moment, superior and distant the next, shaped as much by their fierce independence as they were by their loyalty to the Imperium.

  It felt… petty. That was the only word that encapsulated it in the colonel‘s mind. An awkward divide between humans fighting for their home, and once-humans fighting for intangible ideals and heroic codes of conduct.

  ‘Well…’ Sarren began, but knew he had nowhere to go with the words.

  ‘I am not to blame for your malfunctioning vox. It i
s a plague upon the city’s defence, and a burden we must bear. I was not about to abandon the docks to deliver the news into your ears like some enslaved courier, nor would I entrust such a development to any other soul. If the Mechanicus learns of this, we lose Invigilata.’

  ‘None of us had much hope pinned on the Ordinatus,’ Ryken said, seeking to defuse the tension. ‘It was the longest of long shots, any way you slice it.’

  ‘Have you tried the Mechanicus forces again?’ Cyria Tyro asked. Her tone didn’t hide the fact she still pinned a great deal of hope on the weapon, despite what Ryken had just said.

  ‘Of course.’ The Reclusiarch gestured west along the Hel’s Highway, in the direction of Stormherald fighting out of sight in the Ironworks. ‘Zarha refused as she refused before. It is blasphemy to do what we have done.’

  ‘Still no word from Mechanicus royalty,’ Sarren put in. ‘Wherever this arch-priest of theirs is, he’s not responding to any of our astropathic pleas.’

  He spat onto the broken roadway beneath his feet. Indeed, whoever this Lord of the Centurio Ordinatus was, his arrival in the Armageddon system would be far too late to make a difference to Helsreach.

  ‘At least the weapon may yet be put to use in the defence of other cities,’ the colonel forced a chuckle. ‘We stand on the very edge now. The fallback plan is, however, not something I wish to consider any more. There are few enough surviving Imperial forces left in the city. Let us not gather together for the last days of our lives and offer an easy target.’

  ‘So it’s over,’ one of the captains said.

  ‘No,’ Grimaldus answered. ‘But we must keep the enemy locked in the city as long as we can. Each day we survive increases the chances of reinforcement from the Ash Wastes. Each day we hold out costs the enemy more blood, and keeps them here in Helsreach, where they cannot add their axes to the beasts besieging the other cities.’

  Ryken scratched at his collar, soothing an itching scar he’d earned the week before.

  ‘Uh. Sir?’ he said to Sarren.

  ‘Major?’

  Ryken let his expression of disbelief do the talking. Sarren rubbed grit from his eyes with dirty fingertips as he answered. ‘I have studied the hololithic projections in the wake of the dock siege. I have managed, blessings upon the Emperor, to actually maintain a conversation over the vox with Commissar Yarrick that lasted for more than ten seconds, and offered more productivity than merely listening to the crackle of static for once. We are following a pattern being used in several of the other hive cities. The Steel Legion will disperse throughout the city, centring at population centres that remain untouched.’

  ‘What about the highway?’

  ‘The enemy already claims most of it, Captain Helius. Let them have the rest. As of this morning, we are no longer fighting to preserve the city. We are fighting to save every life that can be saved. The city is dead, but over half of its people are not.’

  The captain scowled, rendering his handsome face immediately unattractive. Unreliable friends borrowed a great deal of money with expressions like that.

  ‘None of our remaining airstrips are anywhere near civilian population centres. Forgive me for pointing it out, colonel, but that was the very point of setting them up where we did. To hide them.’

  ‘You did well. And I’m certain you will hold off the enemy for an admirable space of time before you are overrun. Just like the rest of us.’

  ‘We need to be defended!’

  ‘No. You would like to be defended. You do not wish to die. None of us do, captain. But I command the Steel Legion, and the Steel Legion marches in defence of the hive’s people now. I cannot spare regiments of men just to continue covering the air squadron’s inexorable dance across the city. The plain truth is that there are no longer enough of you to be worth defending. Hide when you must, and fight when you can. If Invigilata stands with us, fly in support of them. If Invigilata leaves, then fly in support of the 121st Armoured Division, who will be based at the Kolav Residentia District, defending the entrances to the subterranean bunkers. Those are your orders.’

  The captain’s salute was reluctant. ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘The coming weeks will go into Imperial records as the ‘hundred bastions of light’. We no longer have the forces required to defend large swathes of territory. So we will fall back to the cores – the most vital points – and die before we ever give another metre of ground. The Jaega District, with its storm shelters. The Temple of the Emperor Ascendant, at the heart of the Ecclesiarchal sector. The Azal Spaceport in the Dis industrial sector. The Purgatori Refinery, that blessedly still stands on the docks. A list of primary and secondary defence points is being circulated over the vox-network and via hundreds of courier teams throughout the city.’

  The colonel turned to the hulking figures of the Astartes. ‘Sergeant V’reth, the people of Helsreach and Armageddon offer their thanks to you and your brothers for the assistance. You’ll quit the city today?’

  ‘The Lord of the Fire-born calls.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so. I offer my personal thanks. Without your arrival, many more would have lost their lives.’

  V’reth made the sign of the aquila, his green gauntlets forming the familiar shape to mirror the bronze eagle on his chest.

  ‘You are fighting with ferocity unmatched, Steel Legionnaire. The Emperor sees all and knows all. He sees your sacrifices and your courage in this war, and you are earning your place in the Imperium’s legends. It was an honour to fight at your side, on the streets of your city.’

  Sarren glanced between the two Astartes – the warrior and the knight. He could not doubt the valour of the Templars in past weeks, but Throne, if only he’d had the Salamanders here. They were everything the Templars were not: communicative, supportive, reliable…

  He found himself offering his hand. A moment’s tension followed the gesture, as the towering warrior remained unmoving. Then, with care, the Salamander held the colonel’s small, human hand in a shake. The joints of the sergeant’s power armour hummed with the minor movement.

  ‘The honour was ours, V’reth. Hunt well in the wastelands, and give my thanks to your lord.’

  The Reclusiarch watched this in silence. No one knew what expression was masked by his relic helm.

  Once the discussion is done, I walk from the gathered humans. V’reth remains with me, shadowing my movements. Away from the pitted and cracked hull of Sarren’s Baneblade, I slow in my stride to allow him to catch up. Does V’reth not have his own orders to obey? Does the Hemlock not call? Curious that he chooses to remain.

  ‘What do you want, Salamander?’

  As we walk along the Hel’s Highway, I cannot help but stare at the city below. The platformed road rises above the habitation blocks here, once allowing traffic to rattle through the heart of the city between the spires of its tall residential towers. Now it remains aloft – a rockcrete wave riding above urban devastation. The buildings here are flattened, reduced to rubble by the enemy’s scrap-Titans and shelling from our own forces.

  Across the city, the Highway has come down in several places. Fortunate that it has not done so here, as well.

  ‘To speak, if you are willing, Reclusiarch.’

  ‘I would be honoured,’ I tell him, but this is a lie. We have spent a week fighting together, side by side, and although his presence was invaluable, his warriors are not knights. Too often, they fell back to guard civilian shelters rather than press the attack and prevent the enemy from escaping. Too often they withstood repeated assaults rather than strike first and eliminate any need of further retaliation.

  Priamus loathes them, but I do not. Their ways are not our ways. It is not cowardice that drives them to these tactics, but rather tradition. Yet still, their valour is as alien to me as the disgusting savagery of the orks.

  It is difficult to hold my tongue. I wish him to leave before honesty stains the deeds we have achieved together, and before truth spoken too brutally threatens the
alliance between our respective Chapters.

  ‘My brothers and I came to this city without the illuminating guidance of our Chaplain. We would offer reverent thanks if you would lead us in prayer before we quit the city and rejoin our Chapter by the shores of the Hemlock.’

  ‘I know little of your Chapter’s cult and creed, Salamander.’

  ‘We know this, Reclusiarch. Still, we would offer sincere thanks.’

  It is a magnificent and bold gesture, and I know it honours me far more than it would honour them if I agreed. To lead brothers from another Chapter in prayer is beyond merely rare. It is almost unheard of. In my life, I can recall only one such instance, and that was with our gene-brothers and fellow sons of Dorn, the Crimson Fists, when the Declates system burned.

  ‘Think of the battle last night,’ I tell him. ‘Think of the rooftop battle in the Nergal district. There was one moment in the chaos that still preys upon my mind. It casts a shadow over us now, like an enemy’s spear threatening to fall.’

  He hesitates. This is clearly not the way he thought his request would be answered. ‘What aspect of the battle troubles you, Reclusiarch?’

  A fine question.

  The beast falls from my hands, its skull broken, to die at my feet.

  I hear the burning hiss of Priamus’s blade tearing through alien flesh. I hear the strained snarls of meat-clogged chainblades. I hear the yelling of panicked humans as they cower in the storm shelter, their fear reaching my senses through the armour-plated walls.

  Another creature snarls in my face, spitting thick saliva over my faceplate. It dies as Artarion’s bolter kicks once from a few metres away, shearing its malformed head off in a burst of gore.

  ‘Focus,’ he grunts over the vox.

  I return the favour a moment later, my maul pounding into a beast that sought to leap at him from behind.

  The battle is close, down to pistols, blades and the crashing beat of fists into faces. In the centre of the expansive plaza, the thickly-armoured storm shelter endures siege from close to two hundred of the enemy.

  Footing is treacherous. Our boots are stamping down on pools of cooling blood and the bodies of dead dockworkers. The Salamanders are…