The Purging of Kadillus

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘This is Sergeant Naaman, approaching from the south-west,’ he called out, cupping a hand to his mouth. It was better than relying on the comm, and he had no desire to be shot by his own battle-brothers.

  The assault ramp was blocked by the awkward angle of the wreckage. Naaman used the edge of the buckled roof armour as hand and footholds, pulling himself up the six metres to the almost-horizontal starboard side of the fuselage.

  ‘This is Damas. Area is clear of enemy.’

  ‘Confirm, Damas. Set up perimeter on my position, brother.’

  ‘Affirmative. Three-hundred-metre perimeter on the wreck site.’

  Naaman padded along the length of the hull to the service hatch just behind the main cockpit area. Crouching, he punched the activation rune. There was a hiss of released gas, but the small door did not move. Slinging his bolter strap over his shoulder, Naaman opened up the manual crank and grabbed the half-wheel in both hands. With a quarter-clockwise turn, he unlocked the manual bolts and heaved the hatch free, tossing it to the ground.

  ‘Brothers?’ Naaman’s voice echoed tinnily from the interior of the gunship. ‘This is Naaman.’

  He heard a muffled reply, probably from the cockpit. A screech of twisting metal and a thump reverberated along the hull.

  ‘Can you hear me now, brother?’ came the voice again.

  ‘Brother Hadrazael? This is Naaman, Tenth Company.’

  ‘The fore bulkhead has sheared, blocking the entranceway. I need your help to move it.’

  ‘Is there anybody else on board?’ Naaman asked, dropping through the hatchway.

  He landed on the door on the opposite side. It was strange to see the inside of the Thunderhawk at a ninety-degree angle. Naaman glanced around to orientate himself.

  ‘Brother Mephael was in the port weapons seat when we hit,’ said Hadrazael. ‘I think he is dead. Check on him first.’

  Naaman clambered aft along the tilted fuselage, stepping over equipment that had fallen out of the lockers, picking his way past fallen ceiling plates and dislodged cabling. He located the gunnery control position for the dorsal cannon, midway along the hull. He found the top half of a Space Marine trapped under a twisted support strut. He wore no backpack, helmet or shoulder pads, as was usual onboard a gunship. Not that their protection would have helped. There was no sign of Mephael’s legs; Naaman assumed they had been ripped off in the crash. Without hope, the sergeant checked for signs of life, and found none.

  He scrambled back to the cockpit, where the front bulkhead had buckled and torn away from the ceiling, closing off the doorway to the cockpit. Through a small triangular gap, he could see Brother Hadrazael peering through at him.

  ‘Mephael’s dead, brother,’ said Naaman. ‘Let us get you out of there. Is the comm unit disabled?’

  ‘Affirmative, brother,’ said Hadrazael. ‘Mephael’s harness release had jammed. I had released my own to assist him when the ship nose-dived. I believe it was the impact of my head that broke the comm.’

  ‘Are you injured?’

  Hadrazael laughed.

  ‘Not significantly. The control console was hurt more than I was! Pull from your side and I will push from mine, brother-sergeant.’

  Naaman grabbed the broken bulkhead, his thick gauntlets protecting his palms against the sharp edges. He braced a foot on the lip of an observation portal and pulled back. He heard a grunt from within the cockpit as Hadrazael leaned his weight against the reinforced metal. The bulkhead scraped a few centimetres, opening more of a gap. Using his bolter as a lever, Naaman prised the gap wider until Hadrazael could push his arm through.

  ‘Step back, brother,’ warned the pilot. ‘I’ll take a run-up.’

  Naaman retreated a few metres from the doorway. A few rapid thuds of Hadrazael’s boots rang from the ship and then he smashed into the bulkhead. With a wrenching screech, the fallen wall parted from its surviving bolts and clanged down, Hadrazael falling on top of it. Naaman helped the pilot to his feet.

  ‘Sensor logs, brother?’ Naaman asked.

  The pilot pulled a datacrystal from a pouch at his belt.

  ‘Already uploaded, brother.’

  Hadrazael searched through the equipment lockers and scattered debris and located his helmet and pads. His backpack was still secure in its recharging alcove, but could not be released. Naaman climbed outside first, quickly noticing the Scouts patrolling around the downed Thunderhawk. He dropped to the ground as Hadrazael extricated himself from the wreck.

  ‘Command, this is Sergeant Naaman,’ he called over the comm. ‘Brother Hadrazael is fully combat-functional. Brother Mephael is dead. Sensor logs intact. Request Rhino pick-up from the crash site.’

  The comm buzzed for thirty seconds. Confused by the delay, Naaman transmitted his report again. After a few more seconds, he heard the voice of Brother Sarpedon.

  ‘Naaman, this is Sarpedon. Negative on your request, brother. Force encountering increasing resistance. Ork numbers higher than anticipated. No Rhinos are available at this time. Escort Brother Hadrazael and the scanner data to Koth Ridge.’

  ‘What has happened to Brother Uriel, Brother-Chaplain?’ asked Naaman.

  ‘Contact lost with force commander three minutes ago. Ravenwing Sergeant Validus reports intense fighting on the north flank. I am diverting the task force to counter the attack. Proceed to Koth Ridge on your new orders. Confirm.’

  ‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain. Escort to Koth Ridge.’

  Naaman called Damas and the others to gather around. He related what was happening to the rest of the force with a frown.

  ‘Just how many orks did you see at the power plant?’ Damas quizzed Hadrazael.

  ‘At least one hundred infantry,’ replied the battle-brother.

  ‘Even if they all left immediately and headed westwards, that’s not enough to account for the resistance the others are encountering,’ said Damas.

  ‘No, it isn’t, brothers,’ said Naaman, keeping his suspicions to himself. Returning to Koth Ridge seemed like a good idea. He needed to speak with Belial.

  The wind had shifted to the south and brought with it a cold edge from the sea as night fell. Naaman waited patiently for his contact request to be answered by Master Belial, and he stood watching Hadrazael having his injury treated by Apothecary Nestor. In the dying light, Naaman’s eyes scoured the ridge for the trooper, Tauno. There was no sign of him. The veteran sergeant did not know why he was so interested in the youth: he was just one of hundreds randomly picked from the mass of soldiers manning the defence line. It was that randomness that held the appeal; Naaman could have picked any of the men and he was sure the story of the man’s life would not be so different.

  He watched the troopers with narrowed eyes. There were so many tiny differences: short or tall; fat or thin; old or young; brave or cowardly; clever or stupid. None of those differences meant anything. For the most part they were simply a finger on a lasgun trigger. In the grandest scheme of all, the great Imperium stretching across a million worlds, each of their lives was wholly pointless.

  There was nothing remarkable about any of them.

  Each of those men had no more impact upon the fate of the galaxy than a piece of sand would have on the orbit of a planet. But like anything else, it was quantity that mattered. Enough sand, one grain at a time, could tip a planet on its axis; enough men could decide the future of worlds or the entire destiny of mankind. One human was unimportant; a million were hard to ignore; a billion…

  Tauno was just one unimpressive man, but he was one amongst countless billions. He had picked up a lasgun, for reasons Naaman could probably never understand, and decided to fight. On his own, he was nothing. With nine other men, he was a squad. With hundreds of other men, they were a company. Dozens of companies made a regiment. On and on, one man after another, becoming divisions and army groups and crusades, utterly unaware of each other, spread across thousands of star systems. Tauno was just a man picked from a crowd, but he was all of them. He
was mankind, rendered down into a single body and reduplicated over and over and over.

  That was what Naaman found so remarkable.

  The sergeant smiled to himself and wondered if he should write his observations down. The Teachings of Naaman? It was better to leave the philosophy to other, more educated minds. The true teachings of Naaman were with bolter and blade, camo-cloak and sniper rifle. Those were useful lessons for an aspiring Space Marine to learn.

  The chime of the comm interrupted his thoughts. He thumbed the reception stud on the headset.

  ‘This is Sergeant Naaman.’

  ‘This is Master Belial. Brother Sarpedon is leading the remnants of the task force back to Koth Ridge.’

  ‘Remnants, brother-captain?’ Naaman could not keep the shock from his voice.

  ‘Your earlier assessment of the enemy numbers seems to be more accurate than mine, Naaman,’ said Belial. It was a statement of fact, not an apology or admittance. ‘Ork strength to the east has increased again. I cannot account for the appearance of these new forces. It is not only illogical, it is out of character for the orks to leave behind such a strong reserve. Why were these forces not committed to the initial attack on the city, or in the second advance on the ridge? It seems that the enemy is arriving in waves. I must know the strength of the third wave.’

  ‘I will find the answers, brother-captain,’ said Naaman. ‘If I can locate the ork ship, it should be possible to make a correct gauge of their strength. Better still, it may be possible to destroy the site from orbit.’

  ‘That is a risky proposition, brother-sergeant,’ replied Belial. ‘It is imperative that this new ork wave does not reach the city. To provide the troops necessary, I am suspending offensive action in Kadillus Harbour and moving to a containment strategy to keep the orks in the docks. I cannot retake the defence-laser silo at this juncture.’

  The company commander hesitated. When he continued there was an odd note in his voice, a slight reluctance in his quiet words. Naaman listened without comment.

  ‘On my instruction, Brother-Librarian Charon has sent an astropathic message to the rest of the Chapter, warning them of the worsening situation on Piscina. I expect Grand Master Azrael to divert additional resources on receipt of this message. Such help will be at least ten days away. If we can destroy the ork ship and any reinforcements, this diversion of the Chapter will not be required and Charon will cancel the call for aid.

  ‘I need you to find out what is happening, Naaman. I do not want any more surprises. You have been further east than anybody else. You must bypass the orks and make a direct investigation of the East Barrens geothermal station.’

  ‘Confirm, brother-captain. Am I to take Squad Damas with me?’

  ‘Affirmative. Ensure that all in your patrol know how to use the long-range communicator.’

  ‘I do not expect any of us to return, brother-captain. Survival on such a mission is typically zero-point-seven per cent. If it pleases you, I would request that the members of Squad Damas be honoured in the Chapter records as battle-brothers. Their sacrifice should be remembered.’

  ‘I concur, Brother Naaman. In perpetuis Leo gravitas excelsior. Walk in the Lion’s shadow without fear. Emperor speed you to victory.’

  ‘I have no fear, brother-captain. I am Astartes. I am that which others fear.’

  When the link was cut, Naaman spoke privately with Sergeant Damas, explaining the difficult mission they had been tasked with.

  ‘You and I both know that none of us is likely to get through the orks’ lines and back again, Naaman,’ said Damas. ‘Do you wish to inform the Scouts of this factor?’

  ‘They are your squad, brother, it is up to you,’ Naaman replied with a light shrug.

  ‘Then I see no advantage in telling them this will be a one-way trip. Knowledge of this will cause apprehension, which will have a negative effect on combat performance and therefore decrease the chances of success.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Naaman. ‘The odds of survival are exceptionally low but there is no need to make this a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

  ‘You’ve been out there and back twice already; if anyone can bring us back it will be you, brother,’ Damas said, slapping a hand to Naaman’s arm.

  The Scouts reached the Indola Mines just before nightfall by commandeering one of the defence force’s Chimera transports. There was no report of the orks west of Indola and Naaman had judged correctly that speed had been preferable to stealth. After despatching the worried Free Militia driver and his vehicle back to Koth Ridge, Naaman and the others lay up in the mines until night shrouded the East Barrens. For two hours they waited, scanning the horizon with monoculars, alert for any ork activity.

  They saw no sign of the greenskins.

  Naaman called Damas and his squad together as the first of Piscina’s moons rose as a sliver in the eastern sky. The wind had freshened from the south, coming off the sea, bringing a haze of cloud that did little to obscure the stars.

  ‘There is no merit in delaying our departure,’ Naaman told the others. ‘It is unlikely the cloud cover will increase. Our mission is to penetrate the ork lines and reach the next series of ridges just westwards of the East Barrens geothermal station. There is no accurate intelligence on the orks’ numbers or deployment. All that we know is our task force was halted and driven back, which indicates the orks have enough strength to mount a serious offensive. We are not here to kill orks – that will come later. None of you will engage the enemy without express orders from me or Sergeant Damas.’

  Naaman took a deep breath, the air frosting in front of his face.

  ‘We cannot be detected. If the orks become aware of our presence, not only will they attempt to hunt us down, we will have no opportunity to investigate the power plant. Mission success depends upon us moving like ghosts. Sergeant Damas will lead the way, I will follow you. Communication will be limited to sub-vocal comms. Our foes may be crude, but do not mistake them for being stupid. Confirm?’

  There was a hushed chorus of affirmatives. Naaman nodded in satisfaction and signalled for Damas to move out. As the Scouts filed out of a gateway following a winding track to the east, Naaman stopped for a moment and checked his equipment one last time. Along with a bolt pistol, chainsword and grenades, he had a special piece of wargear that had been brought to him by Brother Hephaestus just before the Scouts had left Koth Ridge.

  The cylindrical container looked unimpressive. It was about the length of his forearm, made of plain metal save for a runepad on one end and a comm-socket in the other. Inside was a different matter. Once erected, the teleport homer would send a sub-warp signal to the Unrelenting Fury in orbit above the planet. On board, Sergeant Adamanta waited with four of his fellow Deathwing Terminators. Within minutes of the beacon’s activation, they would be able to teleport to the surface and provide support. It was a last-ditch strategy – the arrival of a teleporting squad was the antithesis of stealth – but if the mission was in serious danger of failure, the extra firepower could prove crucial.

  Naaman knelt down and laid the teleport homer in the grass. Drawing a cable from the long-range comm-set, he plugged himself into its transmitter. He punched in the test-sequence on the keypad and waited.

  ‘Teleport frequency locked-in.’

  The droning voice came from one of the faceless servitors wired into the comm boards on the battle-barge. Little more than a processor embodied in a once-human shell, the servitor reeled off a stream of frequency data and coordinates. Checking his digimap, Naaman confirmed that the signal location was being accurately traced to within three metres. Confident that the beacon was operating properly, he cancelled the test signal and detached himself from the comm-link.

  Using a magnetic clamp, Naaman strapped the device to his left thigh and stood up. Damas and the others had become shadows in the darkness, their cameleoline cloaks blending with the dark blues and greys of the night. If Naaman had not known where they would be – and benefited from the a
ugmentation to his eyes that all Space Marines underwent – he would not have seen them at all.

  Wrapping his cloak around him, Naaman headed after them, merging with the darkness.

  Progress was slow but steady. Damas and Naaman ordered the squad to halt every few hundred metres so that they could sweep the surrounding wilderness with the monoculars. The Scouts did not hurry, but kept a steady pace that gradually swallowed up the kilometres between Indola and the power plant. They had covered about half the distance when Damas attracted Naaman’s attention during one of the routine observation stops. The two sergeants met atop a low hill covered with waist-high brush.

  ‘Three kilometres east,’ said Damas as the pair crouched amongst a scrub of waxy-leaved grass. ‘Thermal signature. Vehicle, perhaps?’

  Naaman looked for himself and saw the orange glow of a heat haze through the monocular. The signature looked too hot and localised to be engines.

  ‘Campfire,’ Naaman said.

  Damas looked again and grunted to himself.

  ‘Of course it is. There are two more, about five hundred metres apart, to the north of the first. What is our plan?’

  Naaman swept his view south and saw more campfires, a kilometre or more further away than the ones directly east, spread haphazardly across the Barrens. Some were close to each other, but he could see a path through that headed south-east and then cut to the north-east. If this was meant to be some kind of picket, it was a clumsy one.

  Naaman pointed out the safe route to Damas.

  ‘I concur,’ said the other sergeant. ‘No vehicle lights, but there is the possibility of roaming patrols between the camps.’

  Naaman patted his bolt pistol.

  ‘That is why we have these,’ he said with a grin, which was copied by Damas, who drew his combat knife.

  ‘I prefer this,’ said Damas.

  ‘The Lion’s blessings come to us each in different ways,’ replied Naaman. ‘Prepare your squad to move out and I will make one last sweep.’