The Purging of Kadillus

by Gav Thorpe

‘Brother-captain, this is Sergeant Naaman. I will shortly be sending my collected data via the link. It is my belief that a small disruption to the power network of the plant will disrupt the entire operation. I will append monocular images of the relays for the examination of the Techmarines.’

  ‘Report received, brother-sergeant,’ replied Belial. ‘Standing by to receive data transmission.’

  Naaman hooked the auspex into the long-range comm and punched in the rune sequence to uplink the information the scanner had collated. He waited impatiently until the auspex chimed three times to indicate the upload was completed. Switching connectors, Naaman attached his monocular to the comm-piece and spent several minutes sweeping the plant area with the optical device, transmitting the images to his commander. When he was done, he packed away the monocular and auspex and waited for Belial and his advisors to formulate a plan.

  The minutes crept past. Naaman retreated from the tip of the stairway and joined the others. The orks had shown no sign that they were aware of the Scouts’ presence and Naaman felt relatively safe. He knew that such sanctuary was only temporary. If the Deathwing launched an attack it would stir up the orks, not only around the power station but also those westwards on the ridge.

  There would be no way to get back to Koth Ridge, as Naaman had known since setting out. He called the Scouts together to make an announcement.

  ‘The time is fast approaching when we will be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for the Chapter,’ he said. He was pleased to see that none of the Scouts showed any sign of fear or surprise. ‘We have used stealth as a weapon and it has served us well, but there comes a time when stealth is no longer enough and pure force must prevail. We will not live to see the success of our mission today, for the consequences of our actions will not be measurable in moments but in hours and days.’

  He looked at them in turn and saw nothing but determination and pride. Damas spoke next.

  ‘We will demonstrate the most fundamental power of the Astartes,’ said the sergeant, glancing at Naaman before continuing. ‘All of your training, all of our secrecy and circumspection is but a preliminary to one simple purpose: the destruction of the Emperor’s enemies. Though our mission shall succeed and our part in the greater campaign will come to an end, it still remains our duty to slay as many of the foe as is possible. We will fight to our last breath and even then we will fight until death claims us. We are all Space Marines, inheritors of the Lion’s legacy, upholders of the Imperial Will.’

  The comm-chime attracted Naaman’s attention.

  ‘Sergeant Naaman, this is Master Belial. We have analysed the data and discerned a weakness in the enemy structure. The orks’ teleporter beam is interfering with our own lock-on signal. The orks are still in possession of the defence-laser silo and the Unrelenting Fury can only make a quick pass. Estimated window of operation is less than five minutes. For these reasons, you must place the teleport homer as close to the objective as you can. Is that possible?’

  Naaman looked out of the window at the orks scattered around the power plant.

  ‘Affirmative, brother-captain,’ he said. ‘I can have you teleported directly into the power station precinct.’

  ‘Good,’ said Belial. ‘We are ready to commence the operation as soon as we receive the lock-on signal from you. Energy interference prevents teleporter lock on your squad. We will not be able to extract you.’

  ‘We are aware of that factor, brother-captain. Squad Damas and I will provide a diversionary attack to ensure minimal resistance to your arrival. We are honoured to serve.’

  ‘You will be remembered, Brother Naaman. You and your warriors are an inspiration to us all.’

  The link went silent. Naaman unslung the comm-unit and set it to one side. He did not need it any more. He looked at the Scouts and saw that they had been listening to his part of the conversation. Standing up, they formed a circle, weapons raised in salute to each other, brothers in battle.

  ‘Fight hard, fight long,’ said Naaman. ‘No surrender, no retreat. We are Astartes, the bane of the heretic, the mutant and the alien. We are the Dark Angels, the first and the greatest. Honour our battle-brothers and cherish the opportunity for sacrifice.’

  ‘What is the plan, Naaman?’ asked Damas.

  ‘I have a teleport homer. On my signal you will open fire. In the resulting confusion I will infiltrate the power-plant complex and place the beacon. Master Belial and Squad Adamanta will insert by teleporter, disable or dismantle the energy relays and teleport back to orbit. We will remain to inflict as many casualties as possible. There will be no withdrawal.’

  ‘Understood, brother,’ said Damas. The sergeant pulled free his chainsword. ‘Purge the alien.’

  ‘Purge the alien,’ the Scouts quietly chorused in reply.

  ‘For the Lion,’ whispered Naaman, heading towards the door.

  The veteran sergeant broke from the building at a run, bolt pistol in one hand, teleporter beacon in the other. He moved as fast as possible, heading directly for the closest generator housing. An ork strutted across a walkway above. The greenskin stopped as it caught sight of Naaman. It started to raise its gun. A moment later, the sergeant’s shot caught it in the throat, hurling it over the railing to plummet to the hard ground. Naaman heard startled grunts from the other orks around the power plant.

  ‘Bellicus extremis,’ he growled over the comm. ‘Open fire!’

  Naaman rounded the corner of the generator and came face-to-face with a startled ork coming the other way. The Scout-sergeant fired twice, putting two bolt-rounds into the creature’s gnarled face. He was about twenty metres from the optimal spot for the beacon. Jumping over the fallen ork, he headed straight on while the station echoed with the snap of bolter rounds from the Scouts and the crackle of the orks’ primitive guns.

  The sergeant could smell ozone in the air and feel the building energy on his skin. A fork of lightning leapt across the relays above, heralding another portal opening and sending a tingle of static across the sergeant’s flesh. Bare cables and bundles of wires hung like bunting between the generator blocks and the ground throbbed underfoot from the geothermal reactors hundreds of metres below.

  Feeling the thrum of the power lines, Naaman realised that the place he had chosen was too close to the main transmitter: there was a chance the teleporter signal would be fractured by interference from the orks’ energy relays.

  He cut to his left through a crumbling archway looking for an open space and was confronted by half a dozen orks dressed in red flak jackets, with grinning suns painted on their faces. The orks were intent on reaching the Scouts and did not see him as he ducked back into the archway. He crouched in the shadow with his pistol ready and peered around the corner to see the front three orks shredded by a hail of heavy bolter rounds.

  ‘Good aim, Luthor,’ Naaman said over the comm. ‘Keep up your fire!’

  The orks scurried for cover as more heavy bolter fire screamed into the power plant, severing wires and ripping small craters into the generator housings. Naaman dashed from the archway, bolt pistol blazing to cut down an ork sheltering behind an angled girder. Bullets whined in the sergeant’s direction as he reached the cover of a pillar, rockcrete shards spraying around him. A glance at the portal hill revealed more orks hurrying towards the power plant, their padded vests and armour plates decorated with red and black checks. The orks wielded stubby pistols and cleavers, their fanged mouths wide as they bellowed encouragement or warnings to the other greenskins.

  Naaman holstered his pistol and keyed in the activation sequence of the teleport homer. More and more bullets converged on his hiding place as the device shed its outer sheath. With a series of growls and clicks, transmitter vanes opened up, splaying from the tip of the beacon.

  With a benediction to the Emperor in mind, Naaman broke cover and dashed across the dusty ground just to the south of the power plant. The black-clad orks were less than fifty metres away as Naaman speared the teleport
homer into the dirt and leapt back. A bullet caught him on the arm, ripping through his sleeve to carve a furrow across his bicep. He knew he had to distract the orks from the beacon and sprinted to his left, firing his pistol as he did so. Behind him the teleport homer opened fully and sent its silent, invisible signal.

  Naaman dived through the leaves of a bush as more bullets kicked up puffs of dust around him. Rolling to his left, he came up on one knee and sighted on the closest ork. Three bolt-rounds punched through the alien’s jacket with spurts of dark blood, toppling the creature. The orks returned fire, howling faces bathed in the flare of their pistols.

  In the storm of fire, another ork bullet found its mark, catching Naaman in the thigh. Grunting, he shot back, finger hammering the trigger of his bolt pistol to send a salvo of bolts into the orks. Two of the beasts tumbled into the dirt but the survivors were now less than twenty metres away.

  Then Naaman felt something: his highly attuned senses detected a slight increase in air pressure, like the bow-wave of an aircraft. Miniature dust devils writhed across the dusty ground and the air swirled into a haze.

  In a blistering ball of blue light, the Deathwing arrived with a thunderous crack. Five hulking armoured suits appeared between Naaman and the onrushing orks. The Terminators opened fire immediately, their storm bolters scything through the remaining orks in a couple of seconds.

  In the glare of muzzle flare stood Captain Belial, Master of the 3rd Company. His shoulder pads displayed the heraldry of the Chapter and the skull device of a veteran, the white robe of a Deathwing warrior hanging from his shoulders. He fired a storm bolter with his right hand, a crackling power sword in the left.

  Surrounded by the five heavily armoured Space Marines, Master Belial waved the squad forwards with his glittering power sword. Ahead of them the ork portal pulsed again and another stream of greenskins surged through onto Kadillus. Meanwhile, Naaman could hear shooting coming from the ridge. The orks to the west were alert to the attack and were turning back to the power plant.

  Reloading his pistol, Naaman ran through the power station, heading back towards the Scouts. To his left Belial and Squad Adamanta plunged into the heart of the transformers and generators, heading for the ork power relays that were transmitting energy from the geothermal station. Pulses from weapons screamed down from the ridge above the heads of a sea of greenskins. The Deathwing moved out of sight as Naaman emerged from the power plant. Ahead of him, the Scouts kept up a constant stream of bolter and heavy bolter fire from the ruined building, gunning down the orks that had emerged from the teleporter opening.

  Naaman sprinted back though the door to rejoin the squad. Looking through a window, he saw the Deathwing forming an armoured cordon around Belial as the company commander pulled himself up a ladder below one of the ramshackle ork relay discs. Broken cables hurled sparks around the Terminators as they launched a steady barrage of fire at the incoming greenskins. Belial reached a gantry above them and crossed over to one of the generator housings. Bullets skipped up from the rockcrete casing under his feet, cut ragged holes in his bone-coloured robe and scored grey welts across the dark green of his armour.

  ‘Enemy to the south!’ warned Damas, shifting his position at one of the windows.

  Naaman turned his attention to the approaching orks for a moment, but they were still out of range of his pistol. He pulled free his chainsword and tested the motor. Razor-sharp teeth whirred with a satisfying growl.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Naaman saw the ork portal expanding into life again, revealing the tide of waiting greenskins. After only a moment, the opening shuddered and the black disc returned, shrinking to half its size. Belial stood triumphantly atop the power plant, a piece of ork equipment in one hand, ripped from its makeshift housing. Without the relay, the generators no longer buzzed with electricity and the flare of energy along the cables had died to a trickle.

  ‘Squad Damas, honour your commander!’ Damas barked over the comm. The Scouts turned and raised their weapons in honour of Belial. The master returned the salute, lifting his glittering power sword towards the Scouts.

  More blue energy swirled through the power plant, engulfing the master and his Terminators with its glow. They were swallowed up by the roiling ball of the teleporter field and faded from view. The light dimmed leaving only empty air where the Deathwing and Belial had been.

  The Scouts were alone. As it always was, Naaman thought, and as it should be.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ he quietly announced.

  Enraged by the damage done to their teleporter, the orks converged on the Scouts. The walls of the ruined building exploded with bullet impacts and the detonations of rockets. Forced back from the western wall by the weight of fire, the Scouts followed Damas into the next room while Naaman once more sprinted up the crumbling stairway to gauge the enemy positions.

  A swarm of gretchin were running down the ridge, driven on by the lash of their ork overseer. Behind them came several squads of infantry wielding a variety of guns, pistols, brutal clubs and jagged blades. From the direction of the portal, another mob of orks had taken up a firing position in a cluster of shallow rocks. They opened fire with their strange heavy weapons, rattling off blasts of green energy and fist-sized shells that ripped holes through the thin walls protecting the Scouts.

  With a cry of pain, one of the Scouts was hurled back as a green bolt of energy screamed into a window, through the internal door and struck him in the shoulder. Bloodied and burnt, the Scout dragged himself to the doorway, fumbling with his bolter as more bullets whined into the building. He fired once in reply before a ricocheting bullet took him in the cheek and killed him.

  Naaman leapt down the steps and snatched up the fallen Scout’s bolter. As more blasts of energy exploded against the window frame, the veteran sergeant vaulted through another opening, determined not to be caught.

  He stormed through the ork fusillade, large-calibre rounds whipping past, ignoring the ravening balls of energy flying by, and reached the cover of another ruined outhouse. Ducking inside, he found himself in what seemed to be an old store, the walls lined with broken shelves, the floor littered with crates broken open by the orks. Naaman hauled himself up a metal rack to a slit window near the ceiling. Smashing out the pane of glass with the butt of the bolter, he brought up the weapon and fired at the orks close to the portal, his salvo ripping up a hail of rock shards from the orks’ cover and punching into green flesh.

  The blossom of a detonation behind Naaman’s right attracted his attention. Glancing over his shoulder he saw through another window an ork Dreadnought clanking towards the Scouts’ defensive position. It was twice as tall as the Space Marines, a massive armoured can on stunted legs with four mechanical arms; two ended in crackling power claws, one a rocket launcher fed by a hanging belt-feed, the fourth a broad-muzzled flamethrower that dribbled burning fuel into the grass at the Dreadnought’s metal feet. Naaman could see the ripple of bolt detonations across the walker’s armour but it advanced into the teeth of the Scouts’ fire, impervious to their weapons. Another rocket corkscrewed from its launcher and exploded inside the Scouts’ position.

  ‘Status report!’ Naaman barked into the comm.

  A few moments passed before Damas replied.

  ‘Just me and Luthor, brother. Withdrawing from this position.’

  The Dreadnought was almost at the building. Naaman could see nothing of the Scouts inside. Barely a heartbeat after Damas finished speaking, the Dreadnought’s flamethrower roared into life, a billow of black and yellow filling the ruins where the Scouts were sheltering.

  ‘Damas?’

  The comm stayed silent, while the pop of exploding bolt-rounds and the crackle of flames echoed around Naaman.

  ‘Damas? Luthor?’

  There was no reply. Naaman was the only Dark Angel alive on the East Barrens.

  He had no time to mourn the loss of his battle-brothers or ponder the fortunes of war. The sergeant heard the crun
ch of a booted foot and the crash of a door falling from its hinges. Dropping to the floor, Naaman slung the bolter and drew out his chainsword and pistol again.

  The first ork to enter the storeroom was met by the teeth of the sergeant’s chainsword, chopping into its face to slice through eyes and brain. Naaman fired his pistol into the chest of the next, the explosive bolts throwing it back into the ork behind. Naaman hacked the arm from a third before driving the point of the chainsword into its throat. As he parried a cleaver swinging at his gut, Naaman could feel a heavy thud shaking the ground. He spared it no mind and swung his chainsword low, hacking through the knee of the next ork to appear. As the creature tumbled, the Scout-sergeant fired two rounds into the back of its head, obliterating its skull.

  In a cloud of dust and bricks, the ork Dreadnought crashed through the wall to Naaman’s right. In an instant the sergeant saw the flicker of the flamethrower’s igniter growing brighter. He leapt towards the war machine and rolled against the remains of the wall as a sheet of fire engulfed the store room, setting fire to wooden shelves and bathing the orks with its burning fury.

  Looking up, Naaman saw a fanged face had been bolted to the front of the Dreadnought, made from jagged pieces of metal. The eyes were open slits, through which he could see the red of the pilot’s own eyes. Naaman raised his pistol to find a shot but the Dreadnought swung at him with a clawed arm, pneumatics hissing, pistons buzzing. The claw missed but the arm caught the sergeant on the shoulder, hurling him into the wall. By instinct he blazed with his pistol, the bolts ricocheting from the Dreadnought’s armour, the small detonations leaving scorch marks across the yellow and red paintwork.

  The Dreadnought lifted a claw as Naaman’s bolt pistol clicked empty. Without thought, Naaman raised his chainsword to ward away the blow. The claw cleaved down, smashing the sergeant’s weapon to pieces and severing his hand. Blood spurted from the ruin of Naaman’s wrist. With his right hand, he snatched something from his belt and held it in his palm.