[Imperial Guard 02] - Death World

by Steve Lyons - (ebook by Undead)

  Four gretchin were sorting through this heap, giving each rock a cursory glance before they tossed it onto a discard pile. Nearby, two orks quarrelled over a pickaxe—and ten more stood sentry at regular intervals around the clearing, with one stationed to each side of the mine entrance. A few more gretchin were scampering about, fetching and carrying, offering their ork masters food and drink.

  “What do you suppose they’re looking for?” asked Armstrong, after the Jungle Fighters had backed up a safe distance.

  “Isn’t much worth digging up on Rogar,” said Wildman Storm, “at least not according to Brains—or did I hear that wrong?”

  Greiss shook his head. “You heard right, Wildman. But remember what else Brains said—about this world’s energy signature. There’s something here, something the explorators couldn’t identify. I’m guessing the green-skins are after it.”

  “How?” protested Lorenzo. “If the explorators couldn’t find it…”

  Greiss shrugged. “You know orks. Bloody-minded. Likelihood is they got nothing, know nothing, but they’ll just keep on looking on the off-chance that there’s some miracle rock down there they can mine and use against us. Probably hollow out this whole planet before they admit defeat.”

  “Emperor help us if they do find something,” murmured Armstrong.

  “So what now?” asked Storm—and Lorenzo recognised the impatient gleam in his eyes. “The odds are way better than they were two nights ago, and this time we have the advantage of surprise. We come out firing, we’ll have half those greenskins down before they know what’s hit them.”

  “I don’t care about ‘half those greenskins’,” growled Greiss. “We’re here for one reason, and one reason only—and I didn’t see anyone out there answering Big Green’s description.”

  “There were no huts.” Braxton realised. “Where do these orks live?”

  “Another encampment, somewhere nearby?” hazarded Myers.

  “Your job to find out,” said Greiss. “When I give the word, you take a scout round that clearing, see if there’s any wheel tracks or evidence of orks tramping to and fro. My guess is, there won’t be. I reckon these greenskins have taken their equipment and their beds underground, into the mine itself.”

  “So, getting to their boss won’t be as easy as it sounded,” added Myers.

  “He’s got to show his face on the surface sometime,” opined Braxton.

  “Has he?” said Armstrong, cynically.

  “Normally, I’d say wait,” said Greiss. “Set up sniper positions, sit it out for a few days, let our target come to us. But this is Rogar III. We sit around here too long, we don’t know what it’s going to throw at us.”

  “If we go into that mine with all guns blazing,” said Armstrong, “Big Green will know about it—and I’m betting, if he’s half as smart as Mackenzie reckoned, he won’t let himself be cornered in there.”

  “Something else for you to keep an eye out for, Bullseye,” said Greiss, “on your reconnoitre: a back way in—though if there is one, it’s probably kilometres away, and well hidden. No, I’ve a feeling in my old bones: the only way we’re getting in sniffing distance of our man is if we barge in the front door. Question is, how to do it without tipping off the warboss that we’re coming?”

  Twenty minutes later, Lorenzo was lying flat on his face in the grass, having mud slapped onto his back by his comrades—some of them, he thought, with a little too much relish. He protested as Storm tried to tie a branch into his hair with clumsy fingers, but succeeded only in poking him in the eye.

  Finally, Sergeant Greiss suggested he try standing, and Lorenzo did so, helped to his feet by Braxton. A heap of vegetation crashed to the ground around his feet, and he looked at Armstrong, upon whom similar indignities had been heaped, and stifled a laugh.

  It took another ten minutes’ work to achieve anything like the effect they wanted. Lorenzo and Armstrong remained standing for this final stage, and Lorenzo watched admiringly as his comrade disappeared beneath layer after layer of dirt. Much of it didn’t stick, and even now some patches of Armstrong’s skin showed through, but that didn’t matter so much. A garland of plants had been knotted together and draped around Armstrong’s shoulders, from a distance, it might have looked like the leaves were growing out of him. The likeness wasn’t perfect, but even Lorenzo had to suppress a shudder, staring now at a figure that reminded him of the zombies that had almost killed them all. Of course, although he couldn’t see it, didn’t dare tilt his head for fear of dislodging its dressings, he knew he had undergone a similar transformation.

  Greiss cast an appraising eye over his two troopers, and announced that they were ready. “At least,” he added, “I’d say we’ve done as much as we can with you. I suggest you stick to the shadows at the edge of the clearing, and—I don’t know—try and puff yourselves up a bit, stick your shoulders out. You’re supposed to be orks under all that muck. Pair of scrawny buggers like you two, you’ll be lucky to pass for gretchin.”

  “So long as the greenskins don’t pick ’em as Catachans, eh, sergeant?” said Myers. He had surprised everyone by producing two ork guns from his backpack, now he pressed one into Lorenzo’s hands, and the other into Armstrong’s. “Here, this should help keep up the illusion.”

  “You got any more of them, Bullseye?” asked Greiss.

  “Afraid not, sergeant. Just picked up two at the encampment, for a rainy day. I loaded ’em both up, though.”

  “Rest of us will have to make do with lasguns, then. We let Patch and Lorenzo start firing first, and with a bit of luck the orks won’t think about it in the confusion.”

  It sounded like a risky plan. For a start, the Jungle Fighters were relying upon the likelihood that the orks had had their own encounters with the plant zombies. “When they start falling.” Greiss had said, “we want them to think that that’s who’s behind it: their own living dead. So, no heroics. We’re just going to pick off a few sentries, narrow the odds against us and fall back, no more than that.”

  Greiss, Myers, Storm and Braxton slipped away to their positions then, and left Lorenzo and Armstrong standing, looking at each other. Lorenzo hoped that Armstrong, with all he’d been through, was up to this—but when Greiss had expressed a similar sentiment, the veteran had snapped that he had lost an eye and an arm, not the use of his legs or his brain.

  They waited two minutes as arranged, then began to shuffle toward the lights and the sounds of ork voices. It was easier than Lorenzo had expected to replicate the zombies’ stiff, unnatural gait: it came naturally to him, so worried was he about shedding his disguise before it was even put to use.

  They split up as they neared the clearing, Armstrong going right, Lorenzo left. He saw no sign of his other comrades, but he knew they were nearby. He drew in a deep breath and stepped out into the open, stopping just short of the footprint of the nearest lantern. The nearest ork sentry was a little closer than he’d anticipated, and he squeezed the trigger of his gun and sent a hail of bullets its way. Somewhere to Lorenzo’s right, the chatter of a second ork gun echoed his own.

  The ork was coming at him, snarling, foaming at the mouth. It must have known it was dead, but it was using its body as a shield, giving its fellows time to react to the intruders in their midst. There was every chance that if it could cling to life long enough to reach Lorenzo, it could do some real damage. He took a step back, but he couldn’t display too much speed or agility for fear of exposing his deception. All he could do was keep shooting, and pray.

  Then the ork fell, and the clearing was full of answering fire, then the whines of las-bolts shooting in from positions unknown, and there were four more orks coming Lorenzo’s way and it was time to get the hell out of there.

  It took all the self-control he could muster not to duck or run—to turn his back and to shamble away, hearing ork feet pounding ever closer, making himself a clear target for an agonising second. A bullet whistled by his ear, another blew a clump of mud from his s
houlder and grazed his skin. Then Lorenzo rounded a bush, passed out of his enemies’ sight, and abandoned all pretence.

  He left a trail of debris behind him as he raced through the jungle, he just hoped his pursuers wouldn’t recognise it for what it was. He put as many obstacles as he could between him and them. The orks were snarling and howling, and letting off gunfire in random directions, so he knew they wouldn’t hear him, as long as they didn’t see him either, they should assume he had sunk underground like Rogar’s other zombies. In theory, at least.

  The explosions came in quick succession—two of them. The orks had run into their own traps, the positions of the tripwires changed by Greiss and Myers. Some of them would have died. It was still too early to tell, though, if the rest of the plan—the important part—had succeeded.

  There was mud in Lorenzo’s eyes and mouth, but he had reached his rendezvous point with the rest of his squad. He was the first there. He clawed great handfuls of dirt from his face, breathed deeply of the warm night air and coughed up a leaf. He was recognisably Lorenzo now, but a film of the planet’s substance clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t think he would ever feel clean again.

  Somebody spoke, and he jumped, he hadn’t heard anybody approaching. Then he recognised Greiss’ voice, and saw the familiar figure of his sergeant out of the corner of his eye, though he couldn’t make out what he was saying, so bunged up were his ears. He started to clean them with his fingers, as Greiss padded up to him and laid a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder.

  That was when he saw his mistake.

  Lorenzo’s head snapped up, and he looked into the hollow eyes of an effigy. A better effigy, far better, than the first two, Rogar had sculpted Greiss’ craggy features perfectly, even found plant tendrils to match the iron grey of his hair. And that voice—it had possessed exactly the right gruff tone, even if, Lorenzo now realised, it hadn’t been saying a thing. He muttered a curse, aimed at himself for not having paid attention, as he pushed the effigy away from him and dived at the same time, but knew it was hopeless.

  The effigy exploded, and Lorenzo felt his ears popping, felt its spines stabbing into him before he hit the ground, his left side feeling as if it was on fire.

  He rolled onto his back, raised his left arm, and saw four spines protruding along its length, three more embedded between his ribs. He yanked them out quickly, some tearing his skin and sending more lances of pain through him. Most of the spines, he was grateful to see, still dripped poison and therefore hadn’t pumped the whole of their doses into him. Seven spines, though… He was bleeding through some of his wounds, and this too was good because it meant he might bleed some of the poison out. He twisted his arm around until he could reach two of its punctures with his mouth, and he sucked at them, his tongue recoiling at a strong, sour taste.

  His heart was hammering, his head light. The first effects of the poison—or of his own fear? He didn’t want it to end like this. Not through his own carelessness. Not without a name by which his comrades could remember him.

  He searched his pockets, found the capsule of herbs that Donovits had given him some months ago. A generic antitoxin, he had called it—though he had warned it wouldn’t work in all situations. Deathworlds, Donovits had said, had a habit of evolving poisons faster than men could combat them—and, Lorenzo supposed gloomily, he would have said that went double for a world like Rogar III.

  He gulped the herbs down anyway, taking hold of all the lifelines he could. He clambered unsteadily to his feet as Armstrong burst through the jungle behind him, followed by Storm, Greiss and then Braxton.

  Lorenzo told them what had happened to him. He had no choice: he had to warn them in case Rogar tried the same trick on them. He downplayed his injuries, though, claiming to have been hit by only three spines and professing a false confidence that he had sucked most of the poison out of his bloodstream. Greiss gave him a sceptical look, but Lorenzo was able to return it with clear, focused eyes. Maybe, he thought, he would be alright after all?

  Myers returned a few minutes after that—having stayed to view the aftermath of the Jungle Fighters’ incursion—and Lorenzo could tell from his broad grin that he had the news they wanted to hear. “We gunned down three greenskins altogether,” he reported, “and wounded a few more. They lost another three, and most of the gretchin, to their own traps.”

  “They called for replacements?” asked Greiss.

  Myers shook his head. “Just spread their sentries more thinly. “It worked, sergeant. Judging by the way they’re looking around and pointing guns at the plants, they think the planet did this to them.”

  “How many orks left?” asked Armstrong, performing a quick mental calculation. “Six?”

  “Five,” said Myers. “One went and stood itself right next to my bush. I caught a jungle lizard creeping up on me. I couldn’t resist it. I gave it a flick with my lasgun, catapulted it onto the greenskin’s shoulder. The lizard stuck the ork’s neck with its tongue before it could move. It was on the ground, thrashing and howling, when I slipped away.”

  “Five orks,” said Greiss, “and how many gretchin?”

  “I reckon about four. Five, maybe,” said Myers.

  “Not bad,” mused Armstrong. “We got the greenskins down to less than half strength, and they don’t even know they’re under attack yet.”

  The Jungle Fighters’ next step was to make their presence well and truly felt.

  They synchronised their assault, bursting out of cover from six points simultaneously, their lasguns flaring. Lorenzo, Braxton, Greiss, Armstrong and Storm took an ork each, though Armstrong had grumbled under his breath about being assigned one that was already injured. As Lorenzo fired repeatedly at his target, he was aware of gretchin scampering away towards the mine, intent on taking a warning to their warboss. That was Myers’ job: to stop them.

  Myers’ las-bolts struck the stunted creatures unerringly, often finding the best angles from which to penetrate two or three of them. Two gretchin fell, and the remaining three were deterred from their course, giving Myers the chance to get between them and the mine tunnel. The single ork that had been guarding the entrance had been lured away by Greiss, now it hesitated, glancing back, not sure whether to press its attack against Greiss or to tackle this new foe. In the event, it was spared that decision. One of Greiss’ las-bolts passed through the ork’s thick skull and fried its brain.

  Lorenzo’s ork was thundering towards him, weakened but not defeated. He dropped his gun, pulled his Catachan fang, and greeted his opponent with a well-aimed slash to the throat. The ork was dead, but still fighting. Lorenzo avoided its clumsy grasp, but almost fell as it rammed him with its shoulder. The ork toppled, catching him off-balance, and bore him down with its weight. Its left hand was trapped beneath it, but it seized his throat with its right, and Lorenzo grabbed a chunky green finger in each hand and strained to pry them apart.

  The ork ran out of strength, and its eyes rolled back into its head as it heaved its final breath. Lorenzo pulled himself out from under it, in time to see Sergeant Greiss gunning down the last of the gretchin. The rest of his squad were already pulling ork corpses into the foliage, hiding them, and Lorenzo followed suit. None of their targets had survived to spread word, but it was possible that the sounds of battle had carried into the mine.

  Lorenzo waited, crouching silently, watching the tunnel entrance, the blood of his dead enemy seeping into his boot. After a minute or so, something stirred down there, and Lorenzo tensed at the sight of an oncoming light.

  It was another barrow-pushing ork. Evidently, it hadn’t heard anything amiss, because it strode right out into the clearing and stood there, blinking in the harsh light of the lanterns, just beginning to register the fact that it was alone.

  It dropped its barrow, which teetered and upturned itself, spilling its contents. A look of confusion, tinged with fear, began to spread across the ork’s face—and froze there as multiple las-bolts stabbed out of the darkness to impal
e it.

  The Jungle Fighters emerged into the clearing again, and Greiss jabbed the fallen ork with his toe to check that it was really dead, that it wouldn’t spring up and surprise them. Myers asked if they should burn the bodies, to prevent the planet from making use of them. Greiss concluded, reluctantly, that they had no time, that their work here could be discovered at any moment, and that they would just have to take that chance.

  They headed into the mine tunnel, in single file, Storm taking point wearing an ork miner’s helmet, lighting their way through the darkness. Myers was behind him, then Armstrong, Braxton, Lorenzo and finally Greiss, his knife drawn, ready for anything that might try sneaking up on them from behind.

  They had taken only ten steps, hardly left the lights of the clearing behind them, when they came across another ork with a barrow. Its helmet beam dazzled Lorenzo—but Storm’s beam blinded the ork in turn so that, for a fateful moment, it didn’t recognise the intruders for what they were. Sergeant Greiss had decreed that lasguns should only be used now when strictly necessary—not just because they were low on ammo, but because who knew how far the sound would carry through these tunnels—so Storm leapt at the creature with a muted snarl and his Catachan fang raised and, impressively, he gutted it before it could raise much more than a whimper.

  Storm took the dead ork’s helmet and passed it back along the line to Greiss, who turned off the helmet’s light but placed it on his head for future use. Then they crept on downward, the slope of the tunnel becoming more pronounced until Lorenzo judged that they were descending below ground level.