by Various
Kelt could not stop shaking, irritation flashing through his mind at the frailty of his human psyche.
Dread consumed the manifold. It was a living thing, a growing thing, spreading like infection. Corrupted data corroded the manifold in its wake.
Five tanks, five glorious machines remained. They were the Machine’s First Law, Alpha-45X, Forgefire, the Standard Pattern, and of course the Alpha-01A. The other tank commanders chattered at him, nagging, seeking his attention. Kelt could give them no response. They were afraid. Their armour was vulnerable. Yuriah Kelt felt glad that he sat within the 01A, its armour proof of the manifest destiny of man and the benevolence of the Omnissiah.
The smaller machines clustered around the Baneblade like juvenile bovine around their mother. The arterial they advanced down, the largest road that entered the square, trembled beneath their combined treads.
Kelt could see the flashing ahead, the smoke drifting from the battle. Five hundred metres until entry.
Three hundred.
One hundred.
The Standard Pattern entered first, almost cautious, fearful. The xenos machine made no movement, just stood. Its very existence was a naked affront to the sacred machines of the Omnissiah and His ordained servants, the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The 45X followed close, edging into the square, shouldering aside the burning wreck of the Folly of Innovation.
Kelt was silent aboard the Alpha-01A, suddenly unwilling to open fire.
The other two escort tanks rolled in, forming up, two to a side with a gap in the middle.
The Alpha-01A did not so much as slide into the gap as conquer it, dominating the space. It sat there, full of menace, full of threat, bristling with killing power.
Silence owned the interior of the Baneblade, of each of the Imperial machines. The smell of sweat, the significance of every movement, every sight, every sensory input, each of these took on new meanings.
Everyone within stared at Kelt as the magos twitched. Everyone in the Baneblade waited with hushed breath, sweat trickling, the ritual smoke oppressive and cloying.
Finally Kelt made some small movement, a slight twitch of his hand. Accompanying it was a quiet order on the manifold, a series of numbers in Lingua Technis.
All the remaining tanks opened fire.
The moment arrived.
The Rai’kor Kau’va was ended. The Moment of Perfect Patience passed, the near-climax of the mon’wern’a. Now was the time of the true hunt, the trap to be sprung. The gue’la had taken his bait.
Vre’valel gritted his teeth as his Riptide rocked backwards. One foot splayed behind him, granting him balance.
He was forced back. A shell broke through the whirling drones, impacting against the suit’s shoulder. The concussive force rippled through the suit’s systems, pain sympathetically lancing into his own shoulder.
One step back.
A missile flared from the back of the large gue’la machine. One of the shield drones, chattering rudimentary messages to its fellows, intercepted the missile. The ensuing explosion blinded Vre’valel for a microsecond.
Two steps.
Another tank round broke through. Wrenching metal sounded loud, screeching. Vre’valel grunted a single exhalation, an expression of pain.
Two shield drones exploded. The kinetic impacts taxed the shield to its limit, blowing out drones. The shield was dangerously close to failing.
He twisted at the waist, attempting to minimise his profile, attempting to manoeuvre. The suit warned him, warned him of the rate of fire, of the number of seconds it could sustain this bombardment. He did not have much time left.
Another of the shield drones died in a storm of sparks.
Vre’valel transmitted a single word. The word was simple, as simple an order as Vre’valel had ever issued. ‘Come,’ he said through a grimace.
He received no acknowledgment. There was no need for one.
Smoke, vapours given off by the crude propellants in the gue’la armour, obscured the square, left it coated in a blanket of greasy grey.
He returned no fire. He merely waited the attack out, waited for the gue’la fire to slacken as he knew it would. Their sensors were crude things, easily disrupted by adverse conditions.
The thunder of guns slowed and then ceased. Gue’la tank commanders were trying to find him, to see if he was dead, to ascertain the efficacy of their own craft. They waited for the smoke to clear.
Shas’vre Fal’shia Bas’reh Valel did not.
Fire flared as missiles deployed, trailing brightness through the thick grey smoke. Five missiles, crafted by the genius of the Earth caste, guided by the perfect technology of the Tau’va, lanced towards the gue’la machines.
He could hear them screaming. Two desperately tried to break away, to run, to survive this doom that came for them. Their treads squealed as they reversed.
It availed them nothing.
The missiles altered their course and struck down with clamorous fury.
This was a nightmare. This was the doom waiting for servants of the machine who failed in their function. This was punishment made manifest.
The air reeked. It stank of fear and panic and dread.
They were dead, killed by the xenos machine.
Kelt uncontrollably trembled, shook, moaned.
‘How?’ someone asked, over and over again. Kelt focused on the voice, saw its source: a robed enginseer carved in half by whipsawing cabling. The electrics still sparked in the pool of blood and oil surrounding the dying woman.
Their four escorts were dead, slain without exacting any vengeance.
Yuriah Kelt, tech-priest of the Mechanicus, commanding battalion magos aboard the Alpha-01A, stared without seeing. The man, shocked, aghast, appalled, stumbled to his feet. He didn’t remember falling.
He sucked in a juddering breath.
A console exploded, sparks flaring against the darkness. Bodies lay everywhere while servitors mumbled for now defunct orders.
Fires spat. Pitch flowed. Oil dripped.
Someone gibbered nearby, a scree of numbers and letters; jumbled, senseless, useless data. Kelt stumbled through the crew compartment. Each new blink/click of his eyes bringing with it a new sight of devastation and destruction. He saw the severed head of a tech-adept, still mouthing words, still trying to exload data.
A disembodied arm clutched at a haptic interface, metal fingers still drumming at the keys. Others crawled through the space, alive, bewildered, wounded.
The manifold was a dead thing, collapsed, gone.
Lights strobed.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Red and black, throbbing, as insistent as any migraine. Kelt felt a thrum of joy. The Alpha-01A yet lived, its armour proof against the predatory corruption of the xenos, its machine spirit doggedly refusing to succumb.
The lights returned with a start. The air scrubbers kicked in, bringing with it the faint hint of smoke, but the Alpha-01A resumed blessed function.
The tank jerked forward.
Magos Kelt barked out orders in holy machine cant. His voice was assured, steady.
The guns opened up. The Lament answered again.
Vre’valel weathered the incoming storm. The last gue’la machine thundered towards him, driving through the smoke.
Vre’valel felt no panic, felt no emotion. The mon’wern’a, the killing blow, the end of his kauyon, this was that moment.
Unseen in the barrage, unwitnessed by the gue’la, flew two sets of drones. Their deep red paint was unbattered, unchipped by gue’la guns. They chattered at Vre’valel.
The shas’vre’s smile returned, dry blue flesh crinkling.
Behind the drones, striding down streets that minutes earlier saw the Imperial armour advance, came the rest o
f his ta’ro’cha, their weaponry still smoking, vapours still sliding off their shoulders.
The Imperial tank fell into stunned silence, guns smoking. The main barrel dipped, almost an acknowledgement of defeat. The tau Riptides dipped their own guns in turn, an acknowledgment of the tenacity of their foe.
They opened fire. The combined might of the Tau’va spoke through their guns. The Alpha-01A died as it was born: in fire.
Vre’t’olku, her heart burning, was the first to speak. Her words were filled with the passion that ruled her, that made her a productive member of the fire caste. ‘Blind fools,’ she said.
Vre’valel said nothing. He waited and observed.
Vre’karayyim, second of the ta’ro’cha, displayed the naiveté of his thoughts, of his race, with his response. He articulated the regret and sadness they felt at the necessity of their war. ‘Why do they resist, shas’vre? Why do they reject the Tau’va?’
Vre’valel waited a moment before responding. He allowed them to ruminate on their thoughts, on the ideas they espoused.
‘Because they are blind,’ he finally answered. ‘They lack patience. They are old. We are young.’
Words hissed across the cadre’s communication network, seeking him, and his ta’ro’cha. They were needed, the orders claimed. Another gue’la armour column had been spotted. Another threat to the hegemony of the Tau’va needed blunting.
Shas’vre Fal’shia Bas’reh Valel strode away from the burning wreck of the gue’la vehicle. He did not wait for the rest of the ta’ro’cha to join. He trusted in their following.
‘Come,’ Vre’valel said. ‘The kauyon begins again.’
The fire warrior’s face was frozen in the agony of dying. Strung up on a section of electro-wire, his body was a broken tangle of flesh and scorched carapace. He spasmed, twitching like a macabre puppet as the electrical current played through his limbs. The white moon motif on his ruined shoulder guard was barely visible but marked the warrior as belonging to the Seventh Hunter Cadre.
‘Ta’ma,’ Kal’va cursed. He gritted his teeth in impotent rage. He had never mastered the art of detached observance. Honour demanded that he deliver mercy shots to those still clinging to life. It pained him to stand idly by and watch those of his caste suffer. The sniper took a breath and steeled himself. There was nothing he could do.
He was nowhere near the massacre site.
Kal’va tapped the dial on the back of his glove. In response, the image the spotter drone was overlaying onto his helmet display changed, panning out to give him a wider view of the valley.
The tau dead stretched in every direction. Tens, dozens, hundreds of broken bodies were strewn across the bloodied earth. The ruined hulls of Hammerhead tanks and Devilfish carriers lay in smoking craters. Of the enemy, there was no sign. The Hunter Cadre had been ambushed and destroyed before they could respond.
At Kal’va’s direction, the spotter drone shifted location and moved north up the valley. The drone stopped a few feet from its original position, its auto-sensors focusing on movement ahead.
He couldn’t see what the drone did. A pall of smoke and dust hung in the air, conspiring with the dense rock and foliage to obscure the target. Switching to the visual feed from the secondary spotter, he caught the first glimpse of his prey.
Seven Imperial tanks were snaking their way through the canyon. Two bipedal walkers kept pace, one on either side, protecting the flanks. Three of the tanks had squat turrets, while the other four were troop carriers with little in the way of offensive weaponry. Each was painted in hues of green and brown that masked them against the landscape.
‘Ta’ma va’ra,’ Kal’va growled as he watched one of the walkers clamber over a broken Crisis battlesuit. Looking down at his controller, a cluster of blue icons flashed quizzically as his squadron of gun drones awaited orders.
‘Patience,’ he muttered. ‘Patience.’
The drones were not advanced enough to respond to voice commands. Kal’va spoke for his own benefit. Only those of the fire caste who could temper the flame in their breasts rose to the rank of sniper, but the urge to fight first and gather intelligence later never truly left them.
Tasking the secondary spotter drone to follow the convoy, Kal’va switched to the feed being transmitted from a third drone.
Hovering just below the cloud layer, the drone was well placed to make out the inscriptions on the tanks’ hulls.
‘Cadian 101st. Emperor’s Wrath. Foe Bane.’
Kal’va mouthed the words as the drone relayed them to him, forcing his tongue around the unfamiliar sounds. Unlike the envoys and traders of the water caste, he had only the most basic grasp of the human language – just enough to track targets.
The drone ignored the middle tanks; their hulls carried numbers, instead of names.
‘Terra’s Guardian.’
Kal’va recorded the name of the rearguard vehicle and rotated the altitude dial on his drone controller.
The Imperial convoy shrank into the distance as the image on his display panned out, the tanks merging into a single geometric shape as their outlines blended together.
Tapping the dial again, Kal’va ordered the hovering spotter drone to climb into the atmosphere. The image continued to zoom out, the convoy receding until barely visible, a single blip on a display that mapped the entire region.
Kal’va already knew that the tanks were headed for the Imperial base. The ethereals believed that they sought to reinforce it before the tau could muster another attack. He didn’t care about the reason, as long as they passed within range of his rifle.
Manipulating the information on his display, he plotted the convoy’s most likely trajectory. Human protocol was rigid, predictable. Extrapolating their path was a simple matter. When negotiating hostile territory the humans always took the fastest route that presented the least resistance, travelling in as straight a line as possible. In this case, the convoy would cut through the Arav’la Pass and turn left over the Gal’ta Plains.
‘Ma va’ra,’ Kal’va swore again. He needed them to turn right.
Never chase the prey. Better to adjust its course. Kal’va instinctively touched the helmet mag-locked to his belt as he remembered Sas’la’s words. He wished that his team leader had managed to follow the path he had advocated.
EARLIER
Kal’va pressed his eye to his scope, knowing that Sas’la and Or’shara did the same. Viewed through the blue lens, the human buildings appeared softer than their rough-hewn designs should have allowed. Unlike the smooth domes fashioned by the earth caste, the humans built in harsh angles.
The tau warrior listened to the wind as it blew through the long grass that concealed him. If they stood that long, the wind would erode the human structures and strike them until their corners were smooth and their hideousness was worn away. He ground his teeth in disgust. It was just like the humans to waste time standing against the inevitable.
‘I have no shot,’ Kal’va whispered into the audio receiver in his helmet. Slowly he rolled to his right.
Pinning down a single individual amongst the throng of labourers, soldiers and vehicles swarming the stronghold was proving no easy task. For three days he had observed the human base, waiting for a clear shot at the target.
For their part, the humans had not been idle. Under the direction of their yellow-armoured allies, they had steadily improved the compound’s defences, widening trench lines, bracing redoubts and erecting firing positions.
‘My honour blade for a spotter drone,’ chimed Or’shara’s voice in Kal’va’s ear. The other sniper was secreted in the long grass eighteen spans to his left.
‘Were we so blessed… No shot.’
Kal’va moved again, continuing to flank right. Had the base not been studded with sensor towers and weapon turrets, then a pair of spotter drones would have located the target and
extrapolated the optimal firing position. It had been a long time since Kal’va had needed to hunt the old fashioned way.
‘Visual. The target is in the upper concourse. Sas’la, you should have the angle.’ Or’shara’s voice preceded a raft of tactical data, pinpointing the target’s location on Kal’va’s helmet display.
‘He is obscured. I cannot get a shot. I am moving closer.’ Sas’la’s tone was measured but Kal’va knew that he was anxious. Their team leader had not been the same since the massacre at Yu’vra. Commander Jol’Monn had been his mentor. His death had scorched Sas’la’s spirit, robbing him of stillness. He needed to kill the enemy commander. Nothing else would settle his disquiet.
‘Stay where you are, Sas’la,’ hissed Kal’va. ‘Any further and they will detect you.’ He felt a knot of apprehension as the blip denoting Sas’la on his helm-display moved towards the enemy formation. ‘Sas’la, stop.’
The words had barely left Kal’va’s mouth when weapons fire erupted from the compound.
‘Ve’na!’ Cursing, Kal’va adjusted his scope and took aim at a group of enemy firing at Sas’la.
‘Stay hidden!’ said Sas’la. ‘On the blood of the auns, stay down!’
Kal’va’s finger hovered on the trigger of his rifle. The Imperial base was swarming with targets. He could kill dozens of them before they pinpointed his location.
‘I will fire and withdraw, distracting them from you,’ he said.
‘I am not the mission, Kal’va. Remember the mission,’ said Sas’la. ‘Kal’va!’
‘I hear.’
Kal’va eased his finger from the trigger. Even with his support, Sas’la’s chances were slight. He would not dishonour his shas’ui’s memory by ignoring his final command.
‘The earth keep you,’ he whispered.
‘May your fire always burn,’ Sas’la replied.
Kal’va tracked Sas’la as he rose from under a clump of leaves and ran directly away from him and Or’shara. Kal’va’s heart pumped faster with every step Sas’la took, as though it were he himself running for his life.