by Paul Kearney
All the Ultramarines were taking advantage of the momentary lull to reload and refit and repair, and the wounded of Avila’s squad were being seen to by Brother Parsifal in a special apothecarion that had been set up in the palace itself. One of the Ultramarines, Brother Tarsus, had been badly burned and would not return to the front line for some time to come, but the others were coming along more quickly. The incredible genes and implants of the Adeptus Astartes rendered them hard to kill and quick to heal.
‘It was a victory, sure,’ Governor Fennick said, ‘but last night we burned through almost a third of our artillery munitions. Shells for the Basilisks, in particular, are in very short supply.’
Calgar regarded the governor, his pale eye cold as winter. ‘My lord Fennick, you must remedy that situation.’
Fennick met his gaze squarely; with repeated exposure to Calgar’s presence, the initial reverential awe was wearing off. He spoke now with respect, but less of the outright fear that had characterised their first interactions. ‘It takes time to start up a whole new heavy industry, my lord. It will happen – the machinery is being retooled even as we speak. But until we can manufacture our own heavy shells, we must be careful in their expenditure. Another barrage like last night’s will see our reserve almost exhausted.’
‘We should perhaps throw rocks at the orks, or ask them nicely to run away,’ Proxis said, his square mouth skewed with contempt.
Fennick faced him boldly, though he was very pale. ‘I only tell you the facts of the matter. It is for you to make of them what you may.’
‘Very well,’ Calgar said, holding up one hand. ‘From now on, all harassment and interdiction fire of the enemy will cease. All mortar and artillery ammunition will be saved for genuine assaults, at least until we have the new manufactoria up and running.’
Proxis bowed his head, frowning.
‘Colonel Boros, I believe you have some reports to relate to us,’ Calgar went on. He sat down in a huge chair that had been fashioned out of ironwood. It looked very like a throne, and even sitting down, his head was on a level with those of the ordinary human officers in the room.
Fennick watched the Ultramarine Chapter Master covertly while he gathered up his papers from the map table, and tapped closed the files running on his data-slate. Was it his imagination, or did the Lord of Macragge look… tired? No, it was not that. He was somehow listless, like a man being told things he already knew. A man who was waiting for bad news.
Boros stumped forward, holding a list. He read it off somewhat mechanically, not looking up. He was still apprehensive of the Adeptus Astartes in the chamber, as were most of his officers. Only Roman Lascelle, standing behind him, seemed uncowed by the sheer raw presence of Calgar and his brethren. The aristocrat stood balancing one fist on the hilt of his rapier, observant and thoughtful.
‘We lost upwards of six hundred men last night,’ Boros said. ‘Most were from our original divisions – good, trained soldiers it will be hard to replace. The Vanaheim Gate is essentially intact, but many of the heavy weapons which defend it were destroyed in the ork assault – I have a list here–’ He held it out. Calgar took it, a scrap of parchment, tiny in that massive, seamed fist. His eye ran over it in seconds, and his face darkened.
‘Almost half of them.’ He handed it to Proxis.
‘We will miss those autocannon,’ Proxis muttered.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Boros went on doggedly. ‘If the Vanaheim is to be restored to its former strength, then we will have to withdraw weapons from other locations, principally the defence towers. That will leave portions of the perimeter defended only by the lasguns of my men, and the range of a lasgun…’ He trailed off. The Ultramarines regarded the standard sidearm of the militia with something close to derision. Las-fire was all very well against human foes, or even the more delicate anatomy of the eldar, but against the robust brutishness of the orks it was an inefficient tool.
‘The Vanaheim must be restored to its former complement of heavy weapons,’ Calgar said. ‘Colonel, you will remove them from every other defence tower on the northern perimeter and have them transported south to the barbican. I want them emplaced there by tonight, along with their crews. Lieutenant Janus’ firefighters are currently garrisoning the Vanaheim. They must be relieved so they can return to the reserve. Pick your best men. And I want Hydras on the roof, to guard against any repeat of last night. It is unlikely, but it cannot be ruled out.’
Boros bowed.
‘Next,’ Calgar said.
This time it was a newcomer, a black-haired man in opulent civilian clothes. He had a hard face, but all the same he looked utterly out of place in that sober gathering, his cloak embroidered with gold and silver thread. Calgar cocked his head to one side and brought his bionic eye to bear on the finely dressed figure.
‘You are the man we have to thank for the Vanaheim Gate,’ he said.
Kurt Vanaheim bowed deep, the hem of his cloak whispering on the floor.
‘My Lord Macragge, it is an honour.’
‘You built well, Vanaheim.’
‘I only did my part for the good of Zalidar.’
‘Is there something else now you would like to do for the good of Zalidar?’
Vanaheim swallowed. Fennick watched him, fascinated. He had never before seen the swaggering, arrogant businessman so cowed. He had to fight his own features not to smile at the sight.
‘My lord, Governor Fennick has seen fit to place me in charge of husbanding the raw materials needed to feed the war machine. I own a whole series of warehouses full of the material that supplies our manufactoria.’ He hesitated, and now Fennick started to feel the beginnings of alarm at the fear on Vanaheim’s face.
‘I am sorry to report to you that one of the ork fighter-bombers that was brought down in the night crashed full square into that warehouse complex. A chain reaction was set up which resulted in a series of–’
‘How much was lost?’ Calgar demanded, his eye flashing.
Vanaheim clasped his hands together, eyes fixed on the floor.
‘The most critical loss was to our store of heavy metals and minerals. Of our palladium reserves, we have lost some eighty per cent of the stockpile.’
Calgar stood up, and instinctively they all backed away from him. He began to pace up and down the room. ‘Some among us may not be aware of the uses of palladium. Enlighten them, if you please.’
‘The… the manufacture of munitions requires a very particular menu of raw materials. Steel, copper, even ceramite, we can still produce in quantity within the city foundries – the ores for these survive in their hundreds of tons. But the palladium, which is used in the detonator mechanism of every shell and bolt-round, is rare. It was our stores of this element which were largely destroyed in the crash and the subsequent explosion of ordnance on the ork craft.’
He raised his head and spread his hands. ‘My lord, we can still make the bodies of artillery shells, once the new manufactoria are up and running, but not the detonators which will set them off. And we can no longer make much in the way of ammunition for bolters, either the heavy ones in the defence towers, or those of your own Ultramarines.’
‘Throne,’ Proxis swore softly.
‘What do we have left in the arsenal?’ Calgar asked Fennick. He seemed unmoved by Vanaheim’s tidings, though the rest of the human officers present looked sick with dismay.
The governor thumbed his slate. ‘Some three-quarters of a million rounds.’
‘The city can burn through that in one day’s fighting,’ Proxis rasped.
Calgar stopped pacing and stood with his back to them all, facing out over the balcony that looked down on the rainswept sea of buildings below.
‘I had a feeling, when I saw the ork craft go down…’ he murmured. Then he raised his voice with the accustomed snap of command in it.
‘The fact of the m
atter is that this material is required for the survival of the city,’ he said. ‘Therefore more of it must be found. Where can we get it?’
Vanaheim cleared his throat. ‘I own a complex of quarries far to the south of Zalathras, beyond the Dromion River, in the foothills of the mountains. We use palladium in the mining charges. The quarry is almost played out, but there are stores of the element there in an underground facility which may well have escaped the attention of the orks. It was left there for safety reasons, and because I was moving my base of operations to a new site.’
‘How much?’ Calgar demanded.
‘Several tons, my lord. Not enough to replace all that was lost, but enough to keep arms production running for a few weeks.’
Calgar breathed out slowly. ‘And is that all there is?’
‘There are scraps of it here and there, even in the city, but that is the only place on the planet where it exists mined and refined in any quantity.’
A silence fell in the map room. Calgar looked them over, his own brethren, and the human officers. He saw the same shattered, hopeless look on all their faces. Only Proxis seemed unperturbed, but then Proxis had always taken disaster in his stride.
He smiled at them. ‘Then the course of action is clear. Somehow or other, we must go to these quarries of yours, Vanaheim, retrieve the palladium, and bring it back here.’
‘My lord, we do not possess the means–’ Fennick began, the first of a chorus of naysayers.
‘We do not have the transports,’ Rear Admiral Glenck protested.
‘I do not have the men – trained men – to spare for a sortie, my lord,’ Boros said.
‘I’ll go.’
It was a different voice, from the back. The ranks of military officers parted to reveal the old man, Ghent Morcault, sitting there leaning on a pitchthorn stick. His lined face was calm and set below the shock of white hair which thatched it.
‘I’ll take the Mayfly – it’s only a couple of hours’ flight to the Ballansyr Quarries,’ he added.
‘You’ll never make it through, Ghent,’ Fennick said.
‘Do you have a better idea, Lucius?’
Again, the silence. Calgar strode up to the old man and stood towering over him.
‘Can your ship make the journey?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be nip and tuck, all the way,’ Morcault said, ‘but I believe I can evade the orks, as we evaded them on the way here. Yes, my lord, the Mayfly can get through, given a little luck. It’s what else we may find at the quarries besides the palladium which is the problem.’
‘The orks have overrun all the southern Tagus,’ Boros said. ‘The odds are they will be waiting for you, Morcault.’
‘Then perhaps some Ultramarines should go along also,’ Proxis spoke up. He shrugged. ‘Just to keep an eye on things.’
Calgar strode across to the balcony again.
‘If we do nothing, the orks will be over the walls in a week,’ he said, and paused to let this sink in.
‘We have no choice.’
He turned to regard Morcault. ‘Proxis will go with you, and also Brother Valerian. His abilities may be invaluable. I will also detail others of my brethren to accompany them. Three or four is all I can spare.’
‘I can add a platoon of militia,’ Colonel Boros said. ‘You’ll need strong backs, and a couple of tracked lifters.’
‘With your permission, colonel,’ Roman Lascelle said, ‘I would like to volunteer for command of that platoon.’
‘You?’ Boros asked incredulously. He looked at Fennick, and the governor nodded.
‘Very well,’ Boros said.
Calgar looked Lascelle over, his gaze missing nothing. ‘I had thought to send Lieutenant Malleus, but he is needed here. If you vouch for this officer, Lord Fennick, then go he shall. Morcault, when can you leave?’
Morcault stood up. He looked very lean and frail in his stained voidsman coveralls, but his eyes were as bright as those of a much younger man.
‘We’ll wait until dark and make a course for the north before doubling round. The orks have their own anti-aircraft batteries positioned mostly around their camps to the south of the city.’
‘Anything you or your ship need, you shall have,’ Calgar told him. ‘Are you sure your crew will be as keen to undertake this mission as you are?’
Morcault smiled. ‘They are my crew. Where I go, they go.’
Calgar nodded. ‘That is as it should be.’
Fennick caught him as the meeting broke up and he was limping towards the conveyor terminals in the lobby of the palace.
‘Ghent, what is this – some last death or glory stunt? You’re too old to be pulling off things like this.’
‘I’ve been pulling them off for sixty years, Lucius. It’s become something of a habit.’
Fennick set a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t need to go personally. The Ultramarines can do this on their own.’
Morcault shook his head. ‘The Mayfly is my ship. Besides, no one knows that rough country down around Ballansyr like I do. They’re not called the Morcault Mountains for nothing.’
Fennick snorted a kind of laugh. ‘You old goat. Is this one last attempt to get yourself written into the history books?’
‘It’s one last chance to prove myself useful.’ Morcault thumbed the elevator button and his head sank down on his chest. He tap-tap-tapped the pitchthorn stick on the floor.
‘I’m not long for this world, Fennick. If I am to go out, it might as well be on this trip as any other.’
Fennick looked at him. ‘Then I wish you well. For all our sakes.’
The old man stepped into the elevator as the doors opened. He turned around and grinned. ‘I should think so. From the sound of things, if I don’t come back, you’ll be following me before very long. Stay alive, Fennick. Look after my world for me.’ Then the doors closed on his face. Fennick set a hand upon them.
‘Stay alive yourself, you crazy old fool,’ he murmured.
All that day the ork hosts remained within their camps, but shuttlecraft of all shapes and sizes came and went constantly some twelve miles south of the city. The observers on the walls of Zalathras tracked them through the clouds by the bright glow of their afterburners, but had no way of impeding the traffic to and from the ork fleet in orbit.
The main body of the xenos armies stayed clear of the noisome swamp that now lay before the tall walls of Zalathras. There were a few artillery barrages that snapped out with a distant rumble and slammed down into outlying districts of the city, but the inhabitants were now as accustomed to these as they were to the weather, and they did not seriously interfere with the reconstruction work on the Vanaheim Gate, or on the thousands of conscripted workers who laboured in the wreckage of the munition warehouses.
The debris of the artillery strikes was methodically cleared away, the main avenues of resupply and transport kept open, and in large habs all over the city the newest recruits to the militia were run through weapons training, tactics, communication protocols and basic fieldcraft by the training cadres set up on Marneus Calgar’s arrival. The parlous state of their ammunition reserves was kept a secret from all but the high command, and the myriad citizens of Zalathras knew only that a great assault had been beaten off from the Vanaheim Gate, with ruinous casualties to the orks.
The green storm had receded once again, and the Zalathi fell back into their new routine, one dominated by the waging of war, with all its backbreaking work and thin rations and stultifying boredom. It had been over a month now, and they were becoming used to it.
The Mayfly had been given a once-over by the best void mechanics in Zalathras, much to Jon Gortyn’s resentment. But his anger was eased by the sudden influx of new parts for the drives, replacement instrumentation, and a new Navigation cogitator that was installed in a matter of hours. At the same time, a small but p
owerful generator was set up in the hold and linked into the hull superstructure, giving the ship limited void-shield capability. It would not protect the Mayfly from shipborne armaments, but it would deflect autocannon fire and perhaps even guided missiles.
‘Do you think they’ll let us keep it, after?’ Gortyn asked Morcault, and the old man had laughed like a drain.
‘Jon, if we make it through this, they can plate the hull in solid adamantium for all I care.’
Roman Lascelle whistled softly as he led his militia platoon into the hold of the little tramp freighter, his men followed by two heavy tracked lifters.
‘Morcault,’ he said, ‘you’ve been flying in this thing for fifty years?’
‘Nearer sixty.’
‘You’re a braver man than I am.’
Last to come aboard were six Ultramarines, clanking up the ramp in single file like weather-beaten giants. Their blue armour had been beaten and scraped and stained until it was all a uniform nondescript shade, like that of the Mayfly’s hull itself. But their bolters were clean and shining, and their red eye-lenses gleamed darkly as the brutal helms turned this way and that.
The last two Adeptus Astartes up the ramp were the Librarian, Brother Valerian, and Proxis, Ancient of the honour guard of Marneus Calgar himself. The militiamen in the hold shrank away from all the Ultramarines, as dogs cower in the presence of a wolf. Proxis banged the handle of his axe on the deck.
‘All present? Very well. Then let us shut the door and get on with it.’
Fifteen
Proxis had not wanted to go, and had fallen back on protocol and tradition. The Ancient of the honour guard should remain close by the Chapter Master, he had protested – but Calgar had overruled him. He wanted someone on the Mayfly’s mission with combat instincts that matched his own, and Proxis was the closest he could come to going himself. Also, he was the best close-quarter fighter in the Chapter. If anyone could hack a path through a horde of orks, it was Proxis.