by Phil Kelly
‘Quite so. In fact, there is another early-model prototype we might wish to try out whilst the data flows so freely. I am sure honoured Fio’o Bork’an Ishu’ron will forgive us once he has seen the field data we accrue.’
The drone Ob’lotai bobbed a foot higher in the air.
‘The KV120?’
‘The very same,’ replied O’Vesa.
Chapter Seven
EXTRACTION/TO BLIND A GOLIATH
Sicarius fought through the jungle with a face like thunder. The thin creepers tugging at his armoured legs snapped with each stride. Progress was slow – painfully so for a member of the Eighth, more used to ground-eating leaps than the grim trudge of the Tactical Marines. Worse, they had yet to find any evidence their course was still true. Many of his squad had already replaced their helms, thinking the danger of the chameleonic warsuit had passed, but Sicarius was not so sure.
Nearby, Numitor shouldered through a curtain of brittle lianas, power fist swinging idly at his side. A crude weapon, massively powerful, but blunt and slow next to a blade. Its very design invited an enemy swordsman to strike first before the wearer could level a blow. Sicarius had always seen it as an outward sign of Numitor’s attitude: let one’s adversaries prove themselves guilty before meting out the punishment. One day that philosophy would get the sergeant killed, leaving Sicarius in an unrivalled position for captaincy after Atheus himself.
The thought made Sicarius feel a number of conflicting emotions.
‘No sign of any more xenos,’ said Numitor, threat-checking the canopy just to be sure.
‘Hmm,’ said Sicarius. ‘You have a strategy in mind for exiting this place? It feels like we’re wasting time here.’
‘Keep on this heading until we get to an exit, or a wall – either way, we smash our way out.’
Sicarius shook his head and spat a thin stream of saliva by way of answer. It hit a broad tangle of roots, and burned part way through with a hiss of potent acid. Sicarius ripped it the rest of the way with a cutting motion of his hand; he would not stoop to using his ancestral tempest blade to hack down vegetation. Even to risk fouling a chainsword was beneath such a weapon, and the tempest blade was a relic of Talassar, so finely made that the rest of the squad’s weapons looked thuggish and blunt by comparison. Another metaphor, perhaps. There were times when he fought better alone.
Sicarius’ brow knotted in aggravation. Unhelmed, he could feel the gaze of Sergeant Antelion on the back of his head. No doubt the Ultramarine was silently judging the Eighth’s departure from the main battle plan, and he did not like it at all.
Up ahead, an overhang of rock jutted from between two minor waterfalls. There was a deeper darkness beneath it, a cave shrouded by overgrowth. Behind the twisted vines covering its entrance it was easily as large as a gunship’s void hangar.
‘Colnid, Veletan, scout that cave,’ said Sicarius. ‘Then debrief inside. All of us. We have much to discuss.’
Numitor met Sicarius’ gaze before relaying the message to his own squad. Antelion gave a curt nod, gesturing for his squad to form up around him and follow him up the incline to the cave’s mouth.
‘Sergeant Sicarius is right,’ said Antelion as the three squads assembled in the gloom of the cave. ‘We must assess and amend our approach. Captain Atheus’ plan did not anticipate such high levels of tech. We cannot afford to stumble into the tau’s gunsights.’
The assembled squads began to check their wargear, their movements smooth and economical. Sicarius barely paid attention as his hands went through his own weapons drill, practised a thousand times and more. The cave, dank with mildew and slime, echoed with clicks and hisses as bolt cartridges were locked into place, dwindling fuel reserves optimised, and helms replaced.
‘Keep your helms off until we’re in open ground, squad,’ said Sicarius, the steel in his voice brooking no argument. ‘That thing compromised us somehow, used some haywire pulse that has scrambled our comms and auspex alike. There will likely be more hidden assets in here with us, probably interference based.’
‘Camouflage,’ said Kaetoros, ‘is the colour of cowardice.’
‘Dorn’s words rather than Guilliman’s, but still true enough,’ said Sicarius. His flat, once-handsome features were serious and cold. ‘The ambush warsuits of the tau are invisible to augur cogitators. The naked eye is our best weapon against them.’
‘You’re de-helming your entire squad?’ asked Antelion.
‘You heard my reasoning, sergeant. Besides, the larger ones have firepower enough to burn through six inches of ceramite. That’s a killshot, whether the head is protected or not.’
‘So acuity is our best defence,’ said Glavius.
‘Aye,’ said Sicarius. ‘So we must rely on the senses the Emperor gave us. Furthermore, with our promethium reserves depleted, our ammunition running low and no sign of resupply, it looks as if we will be working closely with Squad Antelion. De-helm and introduce yourselves.’
His unit made to obey. Glavius, his helm already mag-locked at his belt and his face set in an expression of po-faced obedience, stood all the straighter. ‘Ignacio Glavius of the Eighth,’ he said, saluting sharply.
Sicarius shifted stance to take the weight off his bad knee and to better look at those of his squad still joining them, meeting their gaze one by one as they lifted their helms. Glavius moved into a similar stance behind him.
Kaetoros was next, his helmet shedding flakes of scorched paintwork as he pulled it free to reveal the severely burned skin beneath. Taut and unwholesome, his complexion was like a map of some alien continent rendered in off-white, pink and red. It was healing quickly enough, but still sticky with fluid after the engagement with the tau bombers in the plaza. ‘Locon Kaetoros, flamer specialist,’ said the warrior, his ironic half-smile quickly turning into a wince of pain. ‘Feels good to get some cool air on these little gifts from the tau, I’ll not lie to you.’
Sicarius fought to keep his expression neutral. Kaetoros was never handsome in the first place, but the blackening of his armour and the facial disfigurements him look more like a filthy traitor than a proud Ultramarine. There was something wild in his eyes, something bitter and dangerous behind a facade of controlled pain.
‘Vortico Ionsian,’ said the stern figure behind Kaetoros. His stance was statue-straight, his skin pale to the point of albinism – more like one of Corax’s sons than Guilliman’s. A third eye was tattooed in purple ink on his forehead, the icon stark and clean. Sicarius had long believed it hinted at a history as a Navigator House juve, but had never cared enough to ask. ‘This air is foul to me,’ said Ionsian dolefully, nostrils flaring, ‘but breathable. I will forsake my helm.’
‘I am Daelios Veletan.’ The speaker’s eyes scanned the jungle outside the cave, meeting Sicarius’ gaze only for the most fleeting of moments. Veletan was obsessed with protocol, one of the reasons Sicarius valued him. He was obviously uncomfortable without his helm. Come to think of it, Sicarius couldn’t remember the last time he had set eyes on Veletan’s clean, angular features. ‘To de-helm in a hostile environment contradicts the teachings of the Codex,’ said the Space Marine quietly. ‘Yet I respect the authority of my sergeant, and thus I comply. However, once we leave the confines of this jungle, I recommend an immediate reappraisal.’
‘Just deal with it, Daelios.’ Colnid grinned up at his squadmate from his kneeling stance, his jump pack detached in front of him as he tightened its harness and cut away damaged material with his combat knife. He met Sicarius’ unwavering gaze, and stood quickly. He sketched a small salute to the assembling Ultramarines before returning to his work, using the tip of his combat knife as an improvised driver-head to detach a damaged overplate. ‘Alucidan Colnid,’ he said. ‘Earthbound and not enjoying it, not one bit.’
Sicarius cast an expectant glance at Denturis. He was helping Colnid turn the faulty jump pack on its end so he
could clear the turbines. Denturis’ blades were propped against the cave wall; having lost his bolt pistol in action, he had taken to wielding not only his own chainsword, but also that of his fallen comrade Endrion.
‘Deccus Denturis.’ The Ultramarine rested Colnid’s jump pack against his hip for a moment to make the sign of the aquila. ‘One day I hope to join a Tactical squad myself,’ he said, looking at Antelion and inclining his head in respect. ‘For now, though, it’s whatever works best. If that means slogging through some xenos worldscaper’s idea of Catachan, so be it.’
‘Get through this,’ said Sergeant Antelion, ‘and you’re in with a good chance. I have Atheus’ ear.’ He came forward, his men taking as many steps in perfect formation behind him, two ranks of five. They held their bolters with ready ease, muzzles canted sharply downwards.
‘I am Doricus Thaeos Antelion,’ said the sergeant. ‘Ultramarines Fifth Company. And with respect, Sergeant Sicarius,’ he said, ‘I intend to leave my helm in place as per the Codex. My armour is ancient, and its machine-spirit easily angered. Besides, there are no doubt adversaries out here of a more conventional nature, enemies that may be marked and countered by more conventional doctrine.’
‘Cleave to the teachings, then,’ said Sicarius, ‘even if they do not apply here.’
‘Do not apply?’ said Antelion, drawing up to his full height. ‘Do you dare to infer that Guilliman’s wisdom is unfit?’
Sicarius’ nostrils flared, opening his mouth to retort before Numitor interrupted.
‘Pleased to meet you all, I’m Jorus Numitor.’ He stepped forward with a huge and insincere smile until he was shoulder to shoulder with Sicarius. A shaft of sunlight glinted from the crested dome of his head. ‘Sergeant of the Eighth, and leader of the Calgarians. I shall be enjoying the sensation of the wind in my hair. My squad, however, will remain Codex compliant. I prefer them with their heads intact. Purely for aesthetic reasons, you understand.’
‘Illuminating.’ Antelion did not break eye contact with Sicarius for a long moment, but as Numitor extended a hand, he finally broke away, turning his shoulder to Sicarius and clapping his gauntlet over Numitor’s forearm in a traditional warrior handshake.
‘Numitor, yes,’ he said. ‘We met in battle at the landing site.’
‘That we did, brother,’ said Numitor, ‘when the 4th Company stepped in to save your unit from a long and invariably fatal drop. Not Codex methods, of course, but effective. You and your men are living proof of that.’
‘I realise what you are saying,’ intoned Antelion, ‘though I have already thanked you for your aid. Do not think to hold it as debt over me, nor to use it as a tool to cast doubt upon the Primarch’s teachings. We will work together only for as long as necessary. The tau pilot caste is lethal, true enough, and I approve of finding a vector of approach that avoids enemy airspace. But straying into a weapons testing zone…’ He paused, head cocked. ‘I fear we have gone from the hearth into the furnace.’
‘Thank you for your confidence,’ said Numitor, casting a baleful glare over at his fellow sergeant of the Eighth. Sicarius noticed him make a tiny beckoning motion with his finger towards one of his squad.
‘Elio Magros,’ said the nearest Assault Marine, taking the hint. ‘Been with the Eighth for twenty-eight years now.’
‘So still a stripling,’ said Sicarius.
‘Long enough for Techmarine Omnid to trust me with a plasma pistol,’ said Magros with a wry chuckle. His blunt features twisted as he hefted the massive chain-toothed blade he had recovered from the forest mulch. ‘I prefer to hit hard. Speaking of which, Trondoris has no more use for his eviscerator. I’ve trained with greatswords before, and this isn’t that different.’
‘Take it, then, Magros,’ said Numitor softly. ‘Do Brother Trondoris proud.’
‘Aye,’ said Magros. ‘That I shall, sergeant. He will be avenged tenfold.’
Duolor was placating his own plasma pistol’s machine-spirit with a tiny syringe of blessed oils when Sicarius’ gaze fell upon him. ‘Duolor?’
‘At your service, sergeants, I am Envictus Duolor of Iax.’ He straightened. ‘By my count at least, there is no fault in your methods, Sergeants Numitor and Sicarius. An enemy we can actually fight is well chosen, for there will be conflict, no matter the path.’
‘Quite,’ said Numitor.
‘Iaxan word-mangling,’ said Sicarius quietly to Antelion. ‘He never says something simply if he can say it backwards instead.’
‘Aordus,’ said the hulking Assault Marine behind Duolor, the chestplate of his armour a molten mess. It had been severely compromised since the pulse bombs dropped on Squad Numitor in the battle at the plaza. He snapped off a blackened spur of ceramite with a growl of displeasure, battering the sharp edge flush with a bunched fist. ‘Thellacos Dontae Aordus. Oevrian Greatspire. Jump drop specialist.’ He motioned absently to the figure on his right. ‘And this is Kaeric Golotan.’
Golotan merely nodded, a typical enough gesture for the near-silent Ultramarine. His helm was at his waist, revealing a cleft palette that twisted his features into a perpetual sneer. The scar was a relic of a lictor hunt upon Talassar, and it gave a drool-thick slur to his words – the Ultramarine only spoke when absolutely necessary, a laudable aspect of his character. It had been Sicarius’ own blade that finally dispatched the hunter-killer organism; he knew Golotan wanted nothing more than to repay the debt one day, for all warriors from Talassar shared a common view of honour. Yet the fates had not ordained it. Atheus had assigned Golotan to Numitor’s unit instead.
Probably a good thing, thought Sicarius. At least there was one right-thinking warrior in that squad.
‘I said for our squad to leave helms on, Golotan,’ said Numitor.
Golotan turned, eyes cold, and slowly replaced his helm without a word.
‘Our enemies are no doubt busy preparing another surprise for us,’ said Antelion, ‘so I’ll make our part quick. Left to right, we have Daen, Throcius, Hereclor, Anaclystos, Clavius, Aurius, Thantus, Gaelocor with the missile launcher, and Natoros with the meltagun. I suggest you commit those names to memory, Squad Sicarius, as you won’t have your helm displays to remind you.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment, broken only by hissing and cawing from the jungle outside the cave. There was a distant crack of snapping wood. As one, the Assault and Tactical Marines moved to the edges of the cave, scanning the dense foliage below for assailants.
There was nothing there, not even a rustle of artificial wind.
‘Onwards, then,’ said Sicarius. ‘Same course.’
Weapons held at the ready, the Ultramarines moved out.
In the depths of the cave, a tiny chameleon drone whirred upwards, its sensor array refocusing as it floated silently out after the intruders.
A dozen sets of eyes tracked the Space Marines as they tramped out of the cave and on through the humid vegetation of the false jungle. The trespassers were massively built, optimised for strength instead of stealth. Many of them had forsaken caution entirely. Their cobalt battle armour was garish against the greens and yellows of the carefully cultivated vegetation. Rich streams of data poured from them into the night, and the hunting pack analysed each screed for the attack to come.
Quills twitched in the foliage, shifting colour subtly. Every nuance was a sign to the rest of the pack that could not be misinterpreted. These intruders would fight hard. A kauyon was the best option, using the Giant’s Mantle as the final component.
Soundlessly, the host of long-limbed hunters climbed up the vine-wreathed trunks into the forest canopy, every movement so fluid and dextrous that not a single leaf shivered in their wake.
Soon it would be time to feed.
‘There it is again,’ said Numitor.
‘It’s whatever passes for fauna around here, nothing more,’ said Sicarius. ‘Or else it would ha
ve struck by now.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Something’s stalking us, I can feel it. Smell it, even. Can’t you pick it up? Something oily and foul on the wind?’
‘I do my best to filter out your unpleasant odour, Numitor.’
‘Emperor’s sake, Cato,’ said Numitor. ‘Focus. We’re low on bolt clips and promethium, and we’ve lost too many brothers already. The last thing we need is to walk blindly into a combat we don’t need to fight.’
‘The sergeant is right,’ said Antelion. ‘Weapons ready. Intermittent idents on the auspex. Thirty-eight signals, by my count, ambush pattern. Look to the trees.’
‘Emperor’s teeth,’ swore Sicarius softly. Numitor met his gaze for a moment, but there was no way Sicarius would admit his mistake and replace his helm – just as there was no way Numitor would undercut his old friend’s decision by donning his own. Sicarius lifted his ancestral sword and took off at a run, leaving Numitor behind. It took a great physical effort not to sprint off after him.
‘Show yourselves, cowards,’ shouted Sicarius, his squad pounding through the jungle in his wake. ‘Your death comes for you!’
‘There,’ called Anaclystos, his bolter barking as he sent two shells rocketing into the undergrowth. ‘Up in the clearing!’
There was a muffled thump in the distance, and a flash of yellow light. Two more of Antelion’s squad took firing stances and snapped off shots, a cluster of explosions flaring behind iron-hard trunks and draping tendrils.
The air filled with clicks and shrieks as a score of gangle-limbed bipeds dropped from the trees, many leaping down to smash feet-first into the Ultramarines. Several were caught unawares and bowled into the peaty foliage. Their attackers thrashed atop them, gouging with claws and stabbing with long, curved knives. Colnid was knocked from his feet, but fired his pistol underarm as he fell, blasting his assailant backwards. Then the barrel of the bolt pistol gave a pair of dry clicks.
‘I’m out!’
As Colnid cast around for support Numitor saw a blade thump into the back of his neck, gouging away a flap of bloody skin and sending him staggering away. Ionsian charged in, but another of the creatures dropped from the trees to land crouched on the big warrior’s jump pack. It threw back its head and shrieked in triumph, its awl-like tongue wiggling, before sinking its beak into Ionsian’s pale scalp. The Space Marine roared in pain and leant back hard, triggering a stuttering burst of power from his jump pack to slam backward against a nearby thornoak. Numitor saw thick bark spines punch through Ionsian’s attacker in a dozen places. Each javelin-thick barb bit so deep that when Ionsian dropped back down to his feet, the xenos ambusher remained hanging in place like some cursed pagan effigy.