by Phil Kelly
Farsight was taken aback by the change in his old adversary, but he did not speak. The sensor antennae of the water caste tower were at his back, no doubt recording his every word. The occasion demanded that he graciously forgive his old teacher, and order the tutor to redeem himself by fighting alongside the fire caste’s finest in the battle to come. But there was a part of Farsight’s soul, part of his youth even, that still remembered every defamatory comment Tutor Sha’kan’thas had ever made. More importantly, the memory of the hurt behind Shadowsun’s eyes when she had talked about her friend O’Myen was still fresh. With his accusations of Farsight being between spheres, Sha’kan’thas had led to Farsight’s exile, to him dishonouring his mentor, and to the use of the engrams that had crippled some of the fire caste’s finest minds.
Diplomacy be damned. The tutor would suffer.
‘As you wish,’ said Farsight, ‘I take from you your former name and title, and give you the name Sha’ko’vash – fire’s worthy cause. And you will live up to it, starting now. You shall return to Gel’bryn and descend into the deepest magnorail tunnels as a monat, there to hunt the gue’ron’sha known as the Scar Lords without so much as a drone to support you. The Scar Lords are disfigured monstrosities that are seeking to use the most covert means they can find as a way to gain entrance to our core buildings. Terminate as many of these vile creatures as you can. Kill them all and earn atonement, or die in the attempt.’
‘Thank you, commander,’ said the newly-named Sha’ko’vash, making the raised palms of the gift received. ‘I shall go immediately.’
The monat turned and walked towards the nearest transmotive node, breaking into a bounding run as soon as he was clear of the landing zone.
‘Good fortune,’ said Farsight. ‘And goodbye.’
‘I must offer contrition, too,’ said Commander Sha’vastos. ‘When the foe’s neck is exposed, only the unworthy stay the blade.’
‘We will talk of that later, old friend,’ said Farsight. ‘Your fate is distressing enough as it is.’
‘A fate avoided is a fate postponed,’ said the commander awkwardly.
‘Yes, thank you, commander,’ said Farsight. ‘I listened well to Master Puretide’s wisdom in my four years atop Mount Kan’ji. There is no need to reappraise me of it.’
‘That is not what I heard,’ came a familiar voice.
Farsight’s mind reeled. ‘Bravestorm? What are you doing on the cadre-net?’
‘Using it to communicate with my field commander.’
There was a distinct thud from behind Farsight. He span around, only to be confronted by a massive iridium Crisis suit with a shield generator on one arm and an outsized gauntlet on the other.
‘Reporting for duty,’ said Commander Bravestorm. ‘Do you want to see something shocking?’
‘Not really,’ said Farsight.
‘Well, I offer no contrition whatsoever,’ said Bravestorm, force-patching through a live feed to what lay behind the thick iridium armour of his plexus hatch.
‘By the light of the Tau’va,’ breathed Farsight.
‘Indeed,’ said Bravestorm dolefully. ‘An unforgettable sight, even from the outside.’ He paused, the battlesuit’s posture changing from formal-ready to at ease.
‘I won’t be leaving this XV8, commander. This is the totality of my form.’
‘I see,’ said Farsight. ‘A life support mechanism, then.’
‘O’Vesa’s best students constructed it. The speech relays are exceptional. I can almost fool myself I have a face again. But to think I shall never truly see, never sense anything again…’ His battlesuit’s giant gauntlet flexed, four massive articulated fingers clutching into a fist that glowed from the inside with barely suppressed power. ‘It makes me want to kill.’
‘Channel it, old friend,’ said Farsight. ‘Use that fire. Make the Imperials pay for what they did to you and your warriors at Blackthunder Mesa.’
‘That is my intent, yes. The earth caste could not deaden my nervous system without ruining the interface with this suit. I am in serious pain, commander, at all times. I intend to repay it tenfold.’
‘Then we must make a start,’ said Farsight. ‘The decoys are in place. We must block the gue’ron’sha advance well before they get here.’
Farsight checked his topographical display. The Imperial tank column was moving at impressive speed from the outskirts of Gel’bryn, given the crudeness and bulk of its vehicles. They had already passed the reservoirs, heading straight for Ath’adra – and in the process, approached Shadowsun’s kauyon traps inside the transmotive sweeprails.
‘We’d better move out,’ said Farsight. ‘It would be a shame to miss Commander Shadowsun saving the fire caste’s reputation.’
According to Farsight’s distribution array, the Imperial vehicle column was one hundred and forty-six vehicles strong. At its fore were the boxy, cobalt blue vehicles of the Ultramarines cadre, pugnacious and graceless but with enough engine strength to crunch over rubble without slowing. The massive tracked giants at their fore were firing thick ruby laser beams at the overland transmotive tunnels as they approached, blasting away the structural integrity so that demolition shells from the rolling siege guns behind could shatter them to crumbled rock. Before the dust had settled the vehicles powered through the breach, each grinding set of tracks pulverising detritus into gravel and making the way clearer for the next. It was an impressive yet vulgar display of power. Farsight had never seen an adversary rush headlong into a trap so fast.
‘This should be a simple challenge,’ came Bravestorm’s voice over the cadre-net. ‘Once Shadowsun brings them to a halt, we will have them surrounded.’
‘I hope you are correct,’ said Farsight. ‘All cadres, prepare for the mont’ka strike as soon as the kauyon has begun. The Way of the Short Blade will be our contingency in case the enemy closes in.’
Golden affirmation symbols winked across his distribution array. All was in readiness, yet something was nagging at the back of Farsight’s mind.
‘Where are the gue’ron’sha warriors?’ he said softly.
‘Commander?’ said Bravestorm. ‘They are the brightly coloured ones blasting a path towards Ath’adra.’
‘No,’ said Farsight. ‘I mean the Space Marines themselves.’
‘Inside the vehicles,’ said Bravestorm slowly. ‘These humans are cunning. They are using transports to move from one location to another.’
‘I am serious about this,’ said Farsight, unease slowly churning in his gut. ‘They tend to man their guns in person. Their turrets and pintles. Check the archives.’
‘Perhaps they took the logical route this time,’ said Bravestorm. ‘Perhaps they are preserving their strength for the main conflict.’
‘No,’ said Farsight. ‘I recognise the icons on their tanks. The V shape with the three vertical lines next to it. It denotes the Imperial numeral eight. I have seen that same cadre’s warriors fight an orbital drop bareheaded, with their helms clamped at their waists, just to show they are not afraid. They would not waste a chance to take the first shot, not for safety’s sake. That is not their mindset.’
‘Wait,’ said Bravestorm. ‘You’re not suggesting…’
‘This is a decoy,’ said Farsight, his voice rising as the shock hit home. ‘There are no Space Marines inside those vehicles, just the crew, I’m sure of it! We are falling for their kauyon, Bravestorm, not the other way around!’
The symbol of the Kan’ji Mal’caor blipped upon Farsight’s command suite. ‘My infiltration cadre has been intercepted by elite gue’ron’sha,’ came Shadowsun’s voice, high and tense. ‘They appeared from nowhere… a burst of light… I must look to my own.’
The air caste symbol of Admiral Teng flashed urgently on Farsight’s coresystem control suite. With a great sense of foreboding, the commander eye-flicked it with one pupil whilst the othe
r remained on the armoured column.
‘Commander,’ said the Admiral. ‘We have inbound. At least thirty airborne Imperial craft, converging upon Ath’adra from three separate cloudbanks.’
Farsight’s eyes widened.
The fire caste had failed before the battle had even begun.
Captain Jorus Numitor sat in the steel-grey belly of the Thunderhawk gunship Sword of Calth as Techmarine Omnid drove it through the cloudbanks towards the hexagonal command complex. The gunship’s interior scryer-slabs showed the site in the distance, lit up from within. It grew closer with each minute until Numitor could see dots of light in a thousand places, its curling transmotive rail lit up by whatever infernal lumen-technology the tau favoured. Behind him his command squad, each having secured a jump pack at Numitor’s behest, were pre-blessing their ignition systems.
‘Side portal disembark, captain?’ said Enitor.
‘No,’ said Numitor. ‘We use the tailgate, as per the Codex. And helms on.’ He slid his into place.
Enitor and Drekos shared a look, the subtlest of nods passing between them.
‘Techmarine Omnid,’ said Numitor, ‘are we nearly in position?’
‘Aye,’ said Omnid over the pilot’s vox. ‘Four minutes till green lumin, if these clouds stay thick. Captain, I have a confession to make.’
‘Speak on, Omnid.’
‘When I was running sanctifications at Theta Tert, the residual fuel in your jump pack proved anomalous. It was more refined than standard Adept-class promethium. Considerably more so.’
‘We had to refuel en route. You purged it, I presume?’
‘At first, yes. Then I took the liberty of analysing it, synthesising it with Theta Tert’s silo arrays, and ensuring the Eighth had enough to go round.’
‘Did you indeed,’ said Numitor. ‘You realise that is a serious breach of Cult Mechanicus commandments?’
‘Hence the confession.’
‘Will it work?’
‘Better than you would believe. It is greater than the sum of its parts.’
‘Then keep quiet about it,’ said Numitor. ‘I am sure Sergeant Sicarius will not object to the extra power, nor the rest of the Eighth, come to that. But it had better be stable.’
‘It is. You have my word as a Techmarine, and as a disciple of Mars.’
‘Very well. This stays between us.’
Numitor’s command squad nodded in understanding. Checking their jump packs were twice-blessed and harness secured, they sent icons of readiness to Numitor’s helm display one by one.
‘A remote missive for you, captain,’ said Omnid. ‘It is the Lord Macragge. I am relaying it now.’
The Chapter Master appeared on the scryer-slab mounted atop the Thunderhawk’s reliquary. His expression was imperious and grave.
‘Captain Numitor,’ he said. ‘I have new orders for you. I have instigated a worldwide evacuation from the planet. The battlegroup invasion is to withdraw entirely and attend the fleet muster at Brimlock.’
‘My lord,’ protested Numitor, ‘we are poised to strike at the tau command echelon.’
‘A major alien incursion is encroaching upon Ultramar, captain, its designation unknown. Its current heading leads it straight to Prandium, jewel of our empire, then onto Macragge itself. You will make haste to the exact coordinates my astropathic choir is sending to Epistolary Elixus, and from there, make the warp jump to Ultramar’s coreward Mandeville point. This matter is of the utmost importance.’
‘Aye, Lord Calgar,’ said Numitor. ‘The Eighth will be there.’
‘Dal’yth can wait, as can these upstart tau. Macragge cannot.’
‘As you say, my lord.’
‘Then farewell, captain, and may good fortune go with you.’ Lord Calgar saluted, and the communique ended in a stuttered blurt of static.
‘Dropsite in three minutes, captain,’ said Omnid.
Numitor turned back to his command squad. The veterans were all looking at him.
‘Captain?’ said Enitor. ‘Do we break off the attack?’
Numitor did not reply for a moment. He could almost feel the paths of fate unfolding around him, the weight of the souls that would live or die based on his next decision.
‘I realise time is of the essence,’ said Numitor, ‘but we are so close.’
‘Surely we cannot receive orders to withdraw, and then immediately attack, without risking censure?’ said Zaetus.
‘To call it off now would strand many of our brothers without support,’ said Drekos. ‘The resultant gene-seed extraction would take longer than securing a swift victory, and likely cost more lives.’
‘So we are to make the drop, then?’ asked Enitor.
‘Two minutes, captain,’ said Techmarine Omnid. Vital seconds ticked past.
‘I know it seems contrary to Lord Calgar’s orders, but yes,’ said Numitor. ‘Many of our elements are already committed, the Astra Militarum amongst them. Without us, they will be slaughtered. We attack.’
Drekos nodded, and Vellu smiled. Enitor simply inclined his head, and turned to make his final preparations.
‘All Eighth Company squads, ready drop,’ said Numitor over the company vox. His helm array lit up with runes of readiness from each of his sergeants, Sicarius amongst them. Numitor closed channels on his vox until only his old comrade’s rune was left.
‘Sicarius,’ said Numitor. ‘I just got orders to withdraw from Lord Calgar. No doubt the other captains have received the same. Ultramar is in danger from a different breed of xenos altogether.’
‘Then why are we still inbound?’ asked Sicarius. ‘Surely this is no time to go against the Chapter Master’s orders.’
‘Dropsite in ten seconds,’ came Omnid’s voice over the Thunderhawk’s interior hailer.
‘We need to make this strike, Sicarius,’ said Numitor.
‘Are you sure about this?’ said the sergeant.
‘Eight… Seven…’ said Omnid over the hailer.
‘Yes,’ said Numitor. ‘We do it. See you down there, old friend.’ He cut off the channel.
‘Six. Five.’
‘Portals open, Omnid.’
The Thunderhawk’s rear doors pistoned apart, and howling winds blasted Numitor as the gunship’s interior filled with the deep purple light of the planet’s sunset. The Dal’ythan gas cloud was visible in the distance, a faint blur of cold blue. Numitor felt the old familiar urge to leap headlong into the nothingness and never look back.
‘Four. Three.’
‘Clean dispersal, brothers,’ said Numitor, hefting the greataxe as his command squad took position. He looked down at Atheus’ gauntlet, still feeling strange upon his hand in lieu of his power fist.
‘Two. One. Site.’
‘For the Emperor!’ shouted Numitor. Leaning forward, he ran headlong into the Thunderhawk’s tailgate portal and leaped, triggering his jump pack and boosting away with his squad close behind.
It was strange, not having the air blasting straight into his face, but the sensation of freefall was still exhilarating. He smiled involuntarily inside his helmet, his grin wide and honest. Around him the Eighth were deploying with near-perfect dispersal.
Below them was the tau command site that Numitor and Sicarius theorised was the headquarters of the xenos Gel’bryn operation. Already tau craft were zooming through the thin clouds to counter-attack the airdrop. Numitor had seen that coming, and organised his assault into three separate groups. If the tau pilot caste grouped to stop one, it would let the others through, but if it spread itself thin to intercept all three, it would be brushed aside.
To Numitor it looked as if the tau were opting for the latter. Two squadrons of the fighter craft were lifting off from the hex-tower with the airfield zone atop it, whilst a golden air superiority fighter cut through the skies ahead. The cannon mounted
off-centre on its prow flashed, and fat spheres of blue energy shot towards them.
‘Evade,’ shouted Numitor. His squad engaged their jump packs, their formation exploding outward to let the hurtling spheres of energy pass. Numitor shut off the vox, laughing wildly for a moment before reopening the channel.
‘Everything in order, captain?’ asked Enitor.
‘Yes,’ said Numitor. ‘Never better!’
The five hexes of the command centre were growing ever larger, a thick column of Imperial tanks crawling towards them from the south. The front elements were swathed in smoke, the Land Raiders at the point of the spear on fire and slewed at a bad angle. The tau had taken the bait and hit the vehicle column hard, but in doing so they had left the Eighth free to make a vertical assault. Furthermore, a hundred and fifty tanks was not a force to be stopped easily. Baleghast transports were already peeling off from the main column and driving onward at full speed, escorted by Razorbacks and the occasional Predator battle tank.
‘Backup inbound,’ said Numitor, ‘we won’t be doing this alone.’
‘Alone would have been fine,’ came Sergeant Sicarius’ voice over the vox-net. ‘The Eighth was made for this kind of action.’
‘You say that now,’ said Numitor. ‘Look at the largest of the hex-towers. Recognise the anatomy of the machine on top of it?’
‘Is that great beast the thing we crippled back in the jungle?’
‘That, or something very similar,’ replied Numitor. ‘We take that out first, or the Baleghasts are dead on arrival. The thing has no shortage of companions, either.’
Around the giant warsuit were six teams of artillery suits. Three had long-barrelled rail cannons held before them much like a Devastator would hold a heavy bolter. As Numitor watched, they fired solid shots that left striated cylinders of air disturbance in their wake before the whip-crack sound of their fusillade reached him. Where the artillery suits struck, Astra Militarum tanks rocked on their suspension before springing high on columns of flame, their turrets spiralling away to smash into the vehicles behind. The other three artillery suits had boxy missile arrays in place of gauntlets, their design reminiscent of the titanic walker the Eighth had fought in the jungle environment. Salvo after salvo streaked out, white contrails intertwining as the missiles smashed into the Ultramarines Rhinos bullying through the wreckage of their comrades’ tanks. One by one the vehicles were ripped apart, yet more wrecks in the burning scrapyard that the armoured spearhead had become.