Tallarn

by John French

‘Master,’ the serf spoke again. He was trailing just behind Argonis’s head and shoulders bent, eyes pointing down. ‘I am commanded to tell you that your craft is still being made ready for launch.’

  Argonis did not reply. The serf bobbed his head and hurried to keep pace. The human’s words were unnecessary; Argonis could see that both the Sickle Blade and its escort were still several minutes from launch readiness. Once they were ready, the descent to Tallarn would begin. For such a simple flight the tactical planning had been extensive. The Iron Blood would move closer to the planet, as a sub-fleet performed an attack run against the enemy forces in orbit. Argonis and his escort would drop to the surface above a deserted area to one of the Sightless Warren’s landing fortresses. There was a certain risk to the operation, but nothing substantial. On one level that disappointed Argonis.

  The last minutes before a launch were amongst the few pleasures he allowed himself now. The smell of fuel and oil, the sound of engines test-firing, the itch of passive anti-grav flickering across his skin. He let it all wash over and through him, sharpening him. It reminded him of the knife fights he had fought before he had become a legionary, the moments just before everything became the flicker of razors, the moment when he felt a knot of doubt in his heart: would he live or was he about to walk down a tunnel that had no end?

  He came around the rear of the Sickle Blade and ducked into the open assault hatch. The space within was dark, lit only by the light from the hangar and the glow of instrument panels set into the walls. He stepped inside, eyes checking the position and readiness of every detail. Prophesius and Sota-Nul followed. The sound of a third set of feet on the assault ramp made his head turn. The serf was still following them, head still bowed in respect. Argonis opened his mouth, but the serf was already moving, all semblance of respect gone.

  The bolt pistol was free from his thigh and rising as Sota-Nul began to turn. The serf was already at the door controls and the hatch was closing. Argonis’s finger closed on the bolt pistol’s trigger. It froze. Frost was spreading from his trigger finger up his arm. Beside him Prophesius was twitching, masked head shaking.

  ‘That would be a mistake,’ said the serf as he turned to face Argonis. Beads of sweat formed on the man’s forehead, catching the light as they ran down to the rim of his breath mask. ‘Please relax your trigger finger. I can stop you shooting for a few more moments, but with your masked associate so close it is taking a lot of effort.’

  Sota-Nul hissed. Argonis noticed that an array of exotic weapons on metal tentacles had sprouted from beneath her robes, each one poised like a dozen scorpion stings. Prophesius was still twitching and shaking. The air had become heavy and thick.

  ‘You are?’ he asked, though he felt he knew the answer.

  ‘A gift from Lord Alpharius,’ said the man. Argonis nodded, relaxed the tension in his trigger finger, but did not lower the pistol. ‘My thanks,’ said the man, reaching up to unfasten the breath mask covering his lean and hairless face. Green eyes looked up at Argonis without fear. ‘Greetings, Argonis. I offer apologies for the manner of my arrival. This is one of the few places in which it is at least moderately safe for us to meet. I would have organised our meeting sooner, but care had to be taken. You understand.’

  ‘The proof of who you are,’ said Argonis, the barrel of his weapon still level with the man’s forehead.

  A smile twitched on the man’s lips, but the eyes stayed cold and steady.

  Reptile eyes, thought Argonis.

  ‘Of course.’ Patterns began to spiral across the man’s face. The rank code on his forehead vanished, swallowed by green scales and blue feathers. The patterns grew thicker, until the man’s exposed skin was a tangle of crawling serpents and spread birds’ wings. He blinked, and the patterns slid down onto his eyelids. Carefully, he pulled a heavy glove from his left hand. A simple symbol glowed on the centre of the palm: two lines joined to make an open-bottomed triangle. The alpha, the mark of the XX Legion.

  ‘My name is Jalen,’ said the tattooed man. He let his hand drop. Two heartbeats later Argonis lowered his gun. He glanced at Sota-Nul, but the tech-witch’s weapons had already vanished beneath her robes. ‘How may I serve the Warmaster’s emissary?’

  ‘Why are the Iron Warriors here?’

  Jalen blinked slowly, nodded.

  ‘We do not know.’

  ‘You–’

  ‘There is a reason they are here, of that we are certain, and it is not the reason that they have given you. Most of their own warriors do not know the truth, because they have been told a lie. The same lie told to you. It is a good lie, and like all lies it has been grown from a seed of truth. But it is not truth.’

  ‘Your breed would know.’

  Jalen smiled, white teeth bright in a tangle of colour.

  ‘Yes, we would.’

  ‘Why are you present-here?’ asked Sota-Nul. Jalen glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and the pattern of scales around his eyes rippled. The tech-witch’s eye lenses pulsed as if in imitation. ‘Your Legion-warriors are fighting on Tallarn,’ she continued. ‘If you do not know why the Fourth Legion are present-engaged, then your Legion must have its own reason.’

  ‘We were here before they came.’ Jalen shook his head. ‘You think that all the worlds that declare for the Warmaster without a fight do so willingly? Tallarn’s use to the Great Crusade had passed, but in this war it could have been useful again. We were… realigning its loyalties.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Argonis. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Making the best of the situation.’

  Argonis watched Jalen carefully. Every instinct bred and trained into him was screaming that he should turn the operative’s skull into blood mist, or drag a bloody smile across his throat. Jalen’s eyes twitched, as though in response to the thought. Argonis remembered the force holding his trigger finger still, and answered Jalen’s smile with one of his own.

  ‘You know that they lie,’ Sota-Nul’s voice buzzed into the silence, ‘but you have not found what it masks-hides.’

  ‘Not for lack of trying, I can assure you,’ replied Jalen. He glanced at Argonis. ‘Since the Iron Warriors have arrived we have done nothing but try and discover why they are fighting this battle.’

  ‘And tried to bring about a swift victory for our forces, no doubt,’ said Argonis.

  ‘We have made a contribution, but there are wider concerns at play.’ Jalen cocked his head, his eyes fixed on Argonis. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, emissary. Otherwise you would not have summoned me. Otherwise the Warmaster would not be considering ordering Perturabo to abandon this fight. Is that not right?’

  A sudden shudder rolled through the gunship’s hull. Argonis recognised the metallic thump of fuel lines disengaging. They were almost ready to launch. A low rumble filled the gloom as distant machines began to hoist other craft into launch rigs.

  Jalen turned away and made for the hatch controls, his hands fastening the breath mask back in place.

  ‘I cannot give you the answer you want, emissary,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you that you travel in the right direction.’ He keyed the hatch and it folded down. The light of the hangar bay beyond pulsed with amber alert lights. Jalen stepped onto the ramp and looked back, his tattooed face a painted mask. ‘Whatever keeps the Iron Warriors here, it is down there, on Tallarn.’ Argonis held his gaze for a second, and then Jalen stepped down the ramp, and the tattooed patterns drained from his pale skin.

  ‘How do you wish us to proceed-continue?’ asked Sota-Nul. Argonis did not look at her. He realised that he still had his bolt pistol drawn, his finger still on the trigger.

  ‘We go down to the dead world,’ he replied.

  The girl died quietly, her neck broken and her dead weight caught before it hit the floor. Iaeo was already pulling the corpse into the maintenance niche before the last air had sighed from the girl
’s lungs.

  Pict images from her net-flies winked at the corner of her sight. A group of three tank crew in overalls turned into the passage, talking in low voices and exhausted glances. She watched them pass the shadowed niche. Once they were past, she began to work fast.

  The dead girl’s uniform fitted Iaeo to a reasonable approximation. She pulled it on, feeling the rubberised seal squeeze over her head, noting with a detached interest that it was still warm from body heat. She had studied the girl’s face for hours through the eyes of her net-flies, but she glanced at it again, trying to make sure that her facial features were a rough estimation of the leaden exhaustion written over the dead face. She hoped the uniform would be enough. If someone looked closely they might notice that it did not fit her properly. A guess of size and body shape was all she had been able to manage in the time she had. Even then finding the correct moment to remove the girl had been uncomfortably open to error. She was no Calidus.

  Data: 605 seconds to patrol muster. 907 seconds to terminal projection deadline.

  She stood and moved into the passage. Behind her the corpse lay hidden in shadow. It would be found, but by that time she would be beyond reach.

  She began to walk faster, hurrying towards the blast doors to the muster cavern. The enviro-suit hood swung from her hand.

  Messy. Imprecise. She did not like this, not at all.

  Behind her the four net-flies watching the passage buzzed after her. They landed on her shoulders and crawled into her hair. The rest were already dormant, their silver bodies gripping her synskin inside the enviro-suit, like hatchlings clinging to a mother queen.

  Getting out of the shelter had not been a difficult problem, but it had not been easy either. Getting into a vehicle was a low-grade sub-problem. Getting into a vehicle that she could take control of quickly was another factor, but not a significant one. The number of other machines accompanying a potential machine was more important too many others and she would not be able to break away from them. That shrank the field of selection to a few. Then there was the matter of time. It was a strong assumption that the Alpha Legion might be drawing their snare tighter. The more time she spent in the Crescent Shelter the smaller that snare became. On the other side of the calculation was the fact that she was working quickly, and errors clung to haste like maggots to a corpse. Go too fast, take too many shortcuts and her plan would fail.

  The time at which all the risk factors became overwhelming was her terminal projection deadline, and it had drawn closer with every second after she had killed the girl.

  Data: 581 seconds to patrol muster. 883 seconds to terminal projection deadline.

  She walked into the muster cavern. Rows of vehicles stretched away under the stark light of lumen-strips and stab-lights. The corrosive toxins saturating Tallarn’s air had pulled the colour from their war paint. Exhaust fumes stained the ceiling, and the smell of oil was thick. The air chimed with the sound of metal: metal cases rattling as belts of ammunition snaked into hoppers, tracks clanking over rockcrete, hatches hinging open and closed.

  She took it all in with a glance, and extrapolated to a 99 per cent accurate estimation of machines and personnel in the chamber.

  675 war machines, 356 operational, 100 in need of fuel/service/rearming, 170 in need of repair, 49 likely to be scrapped and broken for parts, 980 humans, 680 servitors, 64 tech-priests. 23 per cent were tank crew either coming off mission or preparing to go out. Level of activity consistent with standard levels of operation post arrival of…

  ‘What machine are you on?’ She looked around, blinking fast. A man in a green and grey uniform was looking down at her.

  Data: Rank pins – Lieutenant, Fenellion Free Guard, Logistics Rated.

  She realised that she had not replied and began to open her mouth.

  ‘You going out?’ he asked. ‘What machine?’

  ‘Vanquisher 681, Saraga Armoured Continuity Force Lionus, Fifth Subdivision, Gamma Squadron.’ She took a breath, then thought, and added, ‘Sir.’

  The lieutenant let out a sigh, bloodshot eyes focusing under a frown.

  Data: Eyes and breath odour indicate spur addiction.

  Projection: 78 per cent probability of chronic insomnia, 56 per cent probability reduced fine motor function and sensitivity in extremities, 34 per cent probability of ni–

  ‘You floating on something?’ he said.

  Iaeo froze for a second. She had a deep compulsion to look around her. She felt blind, her awareness confined to the data coming from her base five senses. There could be eyes watching her, feet moving closer, hands reaching for weapons. She ran her tongue over her lips, eyes darting over the lieutenant’s face.

  ‘You know…’ she began, ‘gotta… stay on top of it somehow.’

  She had once heard a soldier say those words, and then watched him consume a large volume of alcohol. It had seemed to be a form of explanation.

  The lieutenant stared at her. She hoped that the correct/expected facial expression was on her face. After a second he nodded.

  ‘Down that way, second row over.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, but he was already moving away. She had to hold back the instinct to run. Instead she moved as she thought people would move in a hurry. She saw the machines she wanted within a second. She had looked them over remotely, and reviewed each detail of their specifications. They were as familiar to her as her own hand. Except, of course, she had never been inside a tank.

  Heads turned to look at her as she hurried closer. She scanned the faces, found one whose cardinal facial points corresponded to the squadron commander she was looking for, and saluted.

  The woman’s face was flat, and seemed to be sheened in a mix of sweat and bearing grease. The black hair framing her face was clumped and matted.

  Data: Lieutenant Casandra Menard, two years’ service in Saraga Armoured Continuity Force Lionus. Fought in the battle of–

  Iaeo cut the data recall from her awareness. This was a crucial moment, and she needed to get the interaction right. Useful though the data she had sucked from the shelter’s regimental records might be, right here and now it was utterly irrelevant.

  ‘What do you want?’ the lieutenant asked, barely looking up at Iaeo.

  ‘Gunner Vorina reporting for duty.’

  ‘I don’t need a gunner.’

  Iaeo spoke the next words carefully. She had constructed them from a patchwork of observed and recorded interactions between officers and tank crews. She had practised the cadence, intonation and studied weariness in the words one thousand seven hundred and eleven times. She was still wondering if that was enough.

  ‘Regiment sent me over.’

  ‘All right.’ The lieutenant nodded as though Iaeo had a point. ‘But I still don’t need a gunner.’

  ‘They said that I was for tank 681. Something about the gunner for that one being out, and you needing someone in the slot for a surface run.’

  ‘Huh. Cali’s out? What happened?’ Iaeo was about to answer when the lieutenant waved her hand. ‘Never mind, probably fell over her own boots.’ She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder at a Vanquisher with a long gouge across its front armour. ‘That’s 681. Commander’s called Fule. Get comfortable quick. We are rolling out in three minutes.’

  Data: 243 seconds to terminal projection deadline.

  Iaeo stood for a second, her mouth ready to give a reply that now did not fit the pattern of conversation.

  She had selected the squadron, tank and crew member she would replace with all the care she could afford. She had falsified a medical record that would confirm that the gunner of Vanquisher 681, Saraga Armoured Continuity Force Lionus, Fifth Subdivision, Gamma Squadron, had fallen and broken three bones in her arm. She had constructed a functional – if imperfect – ghost identity for herself, and implanted orders into the command chain which replaced the now
absent gunner from Vanquisher 681 with her ghost identity. All of it balanced so that no one would spot the inconsistencies and contradictions, unless they were looking very closely. It was not the most delicate web she had ever created, but under the constraints it was still functional.

  ‘Need something else?’ asked the lieutenant as Iaeo continued to blink.

  ‘Err… No.’

  ‘Good. Then get moving.’

  Iaeo nodded, and jogged over to the Vanquisher. Crew were already dropping the hatches on nearby tanks. Engines gunned and breathed hot exhaust into the air. She reached the Vanquisher, swung up, and dropped through the turret hatch. The metal hull was already vibrating to a rising pitch.

  Data: 61 seconds to terminal projection deadline.

  She pulled the hood of the dead gunner’s enviro-suit over her head, plugged her breathe-line into the Vanquisher’s air supply, and pulled the hatch closed above her.

  Projection: Probability of exodus from Crescent Shelter 88 per cent.

  The battle for Tallarn was a matter of numbers: numbers of ships, numbers of war machines, numbers of war machines damaged, numbers of war machines lost, numbers of crews, numbers of officers to lead crews, numbers of reserves to make more crews, numbers of stores, numbers of shells, numbers of bullets. The simple truth, believed by both sides, was that they were involved in a battle that would be decided by who had most, and who would run out soonest.

  In the strategiums of the Sightless Warren the Iron Warriors calculated their active and potential strength ceaselessly. This was war as they had mastered it, the application of force and logistics until the enemy broke. Since they had come to Tallarn the numbers had changed drastically. They had begun with the overwhelming strength, and then seen that eroded by the flea bites of the resistance. They had pulled in more strength. Then the first forces loyal to the Emperor had arrived, and the advantage had shifted from overwhelming to simply significant. More had come to both sides, and losses for all had risen and risen. Which side possessed the numerical advantage had become far from clear.