[Imperial Guard 08] - Redemption Corps

by Rob Sanders - (ebook by Undead)

  A ragged cheer swept the pit as Mortensen’s harassed adjutant brought the hololith to life and decorated the space above the table with a three-dimensional representation of the fabricator moon of Illium. The small planet was one of the shepherd moons keeping Spetzghasf’s pole-to-pole-ring system of dust, rock and ice in good order. Jagged holographic asteroids span across the display and past the Adeptus Mechanicus world, casting ugly shadows across the sickly factoryscape that plastered every available metre of space on the moon’s surface.

  “Right, lads. This swillhole is Illium,” Mortensen addressed the crowd of malingering officers and storm-troopers. He caught himself, bobbing his head contritely at Magister Militum Trepkos. “Of course, no offence intended to you, sir.”

  Trepkos nodded, his face a paralytic mask. It was well known that the skitarii underwent all manner of psychosurgical procedures to remove even the smallest traces of emotion and personality. Mortensen went back to work.

  “Adeptus Mechanicus fabricator moon: culture mills and cybernetic workshops in the main, specialising in biological technologies. So that means built up areas and close quarters; limited fields of view and high concentrations of non-combatants crowding an already tight extraction zone. It isn’t pretty—but then it rarely is. Sass.”

  The adjutant recalibrated the hololith, zooming in on the black, baroque nightmare of the planet’s capital. The Gothic metropolis sprawled across the fabricator moon’s equatorial bulge and thrust skyward above the endless sea of greasestacks and cooling towers.

  “Corpora Mons is the religious district and the moon’s administrative capital,” Sass continued, relating the sum total of the gathered reports and intelligence from his freakishly photographic memory. “There is open rebellion across many of the districts, major areas of civil unrest being centred on military and municipal targets. Mechanicus shrines have been desecrated and a significant section of the menial workforce has taken to the streets. The workers have used their knowledge of the infrastructure to sabotage communications and transport networks. Fires are widespread and large mobs of seditionists have converged on the capital.”

  “What do these mungers actually want?” Minghella slipped in casually, as though he were actually interested.

  “It’s a straightforward rebellion, in all probability,” the adjutant said honestly. “Although no figurehead or rebel organisation has been identified and no actual demands have been made.”

  “Then how can you know that?” Krieg challenged.

  “Sass knows a lot of things,” Mortensen intercepted.

  Krieg fixed the adjutant with a withering stare and continued unfazed: “What if you’re wrong? What if it’s some kind of cult influence, Chaotics or wychbreeds simply intent on mass destruction?”

  “I don’t know,” Sass retracted with new-found caution. He wasn’t used to people questioning his strategic diagnosis. “But I do know that they have taken out key tactical targets: the kind of targets that unchecked would make any kind of successful coup untenable.” Sass stabbed his finger into the holographic image of the city. “A quarto-legio of Imperial Titans on loan from the Legio Invictus were being housed in a massive complex to the east of Corpora Mons. The Adeptus Biologus on Illium are famed for their refinement of Titan crew mind link technologies. These technologies have been sabotaged on all but two of the god-machines. They knew exactly where to hit them. They knew that the Mechanicus Titans would crash this rebellion. This isn’t bloodlust or corruption. It’s too cold, too audacious.”

  “Cultists, freedom fighters, mechheads…” Conklin blustered, “what does it matter? They all die the same way.”

  “He’s right,” Mortensen confirmed, hating to agree with the sergeant. He indicated his intention to move on. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters if you’re waging war on an unknown enemy,” Krieg protested, his voice carrying. “You have no idea of their capabilities. How can you prepare to counter them? Your approach is informed by everything you know, or more importantly, don’t know about the enemy.”

  Mortensen gave the cadet-commissar the slits of his eyes. “We’re not waging war on them: we’ll leave that to the 364th Volscian Shadow Brigade. We’re going to be in and out before the ‘enemy’ knows we were even there. Anything else, quite frankly, doesn’t concern us. All I really need to know is if one of these scummers puts themselves between me and an exit, are they going to drop when I put a bolt through them?”

  “And you don’t even know that…”

  “The Shadow Brigade started landing troops yesterday,” Sass offered helpfully, “and are making predictably slow and steady progress up through the slum sectors, taking it hab by hab. Everything by the book: but not fast enough to recover the assets.”

  “We get on the ground and if it turns into a grox heap, we’ll improvise: it’s the Redemption Corps way,” Mortensen told Krieg. “Live with it.”

  Rosenkrantz watched the cadet-commissar’s lip wrinkle before he got a hold over himself. Perhaps it was Krieg’s inexperience, the recent events of the mutiny or something else entirely but the flight lieutenant had seen commissars have Guardsmen shot for less.

  “What’s the mission?” Krieg asked, his eyes burrowing into the back of the major’s shaven skull.

  “And where?” Rosenkrantz ventured, the mission location being of most relevance to her and the Vertigo’s crew.

  Magister Militum Trepkos stepped forward with a stiff swish of scarlet. A series of ghostly lights flickered across the chrome of his trunk, activating the focal controls on the hololith and bringing the crackling image to full resolution on a gargantuan structure at the heart of Corpora Mons. His voice—a hollow mechanical echo—was everywhere at once and didn’t come from his mouth, which remained tightly shut.

  “This is the Artellus Cathedra: the centre of worship for the Cult Mechanicus on Illium. It contains the largest shrine to the glorious Omnissiah on the planet, in addition to a quad of orbital defence lasers, one housed in each steeple. The tactical as well as spiritual significance of Artellus necessitates an honour guard of two hundred skitarii troops and the Warlord Titan Mortis Maximus, outside the giant adamantium doors of the cathedra.

  “As of sixteen hours ago, all contact with both cathedra and Titan has been lost. The skitarii garrison has orders to hold the cathedra for as long as possible under such circumstances. Final communications confirmed that the Mortis Maximus has no motive power or weapons control. Understandably the Fabricator General is concerned about the Maximus’ current status, but the crew in themselves are a valuable resource and could be transferred to another god-machine if the circumstances allowed. He wants the assets back: in one piece.”

  “How the hell do a bunch of trigger-happy menials take out a Titan?” Krieg shot across the pit with unmasked disbelief.

  “Lucky shot?” the major asked with mock sincerity.

  “Have you even read the reconnaissance files?”

  “There are reconnaissance files?” Mortensen blurted back, his voice thick with meaty derision.

  “Perhaps the war machine was critically damaged at the installation, with the other Titans,” Sass offered, hoping his hypothesis would throw a little cold water on the increasingly incensed Mortensen and Krieg.

  “Or perhaps we’ve got some Alpha-level psyker running around down there,” the commissar hissed through clenched teeth. “Or worse.”

  “You’re clearly new to this, so I’m going to make it real easy for you,” Mortensen rumbled caustically. “If there was any evidence of corruption or the influence of the Ruinous Powers, the Volscians would have reported it by now. Believe me. These guys don’t wipe their backsides without filing a reconnaissance report.”

  “Better than wiping your backside on the recon report, which seems to be Redemption Corps standard practice.”

  “Look, cadet-commissar,” Mortensen seethed, “if you feel this mission is beyond your particular talents, whatever they are, please feel free to stand
aside and let us do our duty.”

  “I’d hardly be doing my duty if I did that,” the commissar shot back.

  “Well, this is what we do Krieg, so you’d better get used to it. Your alarmist threat assessments aren’t wanted or needed.”

  The cadet-commissar’s voice became cold and certain. “Don’t do that,” Krieg warned him with brutal sincerely. “Don’t question my courage. Your own infamous variety of bravado isn’t worth spit if it does nothing to serve the Emperor’s cause. You won’t find me sending your men into the embrace of thoughtless slaughter. Mind that you do the same, major.”

  Rosenkrantz had watched these two men publicly goad one another for the past few minutes, but when the flashpoint came, even she was taken off guard. The major’s men were barely out of their seats and only a handful of corpsmen had managed to bring the greased barrels of their weapons to bear. Trepkos, of course, did nothing, despite having the only reflexes in the hanger swift enough to intercede. By then the two men had clashed in the centre of the amphitheatre. A dazzled Sass had been rammed aside and the hololith toppled, crashing to the metal floor. The gathered soldiers froze and Rosenkrantz with them.

  The razor edge of the major’s storm blade trembled against the flesh of the commissar’s throat, each minute tremor nicking tiny slices across his oesophagus; the muzzle of Krieg’s hellpistol hovered between the major’s eyes, humming its supercharged intention to spread his brains across the flight deck. Each man had got a free hand to the other’s wrist in a messy, makeshift hold and the two soldiers snarled at one another across the hate-charged space that separated their contorted faces.

  Rosenkrantz flicked her eyes around the amphitheatre. No storm-trooper would move to stop them now. This wasn’t shock or surprise anymore: shoulders and weapons had since sagged. It was respect. Honour. No corpsman would deny his commanding officer the opportunity to kill the commissar himself. The pilot could almost feel the soldiers willing it on.

  Either way, Rosenkrantz sensed that she was about to witness a murder. Something gave inside her. She felt herself take a step forward, but became suddenly aware of Rask’s bony fingers closing on her arm like a vice. She turned. He gave her an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her own before breaking from his grip and striding across to the wrangling spectacle of the two men in the centre of the amphitheatre. They barely seemed aware of her presence.

  “There is a saying on Jopall: ‘To Evil everything when good men do nothing’,” the flight lieutenant cited softly. She slipped her slender hands slowly between the men, resting her fingers on the safety stud of the hellpistol and the clipped tip of Mortensen’s survival knife. Pushing gently at both, the blade came away from Krieg’s raw neck and the stud slid finally to safe. “My bird is prepped and ready to fly. What’ll she be carrying? Corpsmen or corpses?” she put to them.

  The grip relaxed and the major and commissar untangled themselves. Krieg took a measured look around the amphitheatre to make sure the barrels were down before bolstering his hellpistol. Mortensen turned and buried the storm blade in the table before helping Sass to his feet and righting the toppled hololith. Krieg straightened the lapels of his greatcoat. Mortensen stretched his brawny neck and faced the Redemption Corpsmen once more.

  “Okay, just like Abraxus V. The extraction zone is too tight for a landing,” Mortensen continued stolidly. “I will take the Redemption Corps and make an airborne deployment above the zone: a high altitude insertion directly onto the top of the Titan. Magister Militum Trepkos has agreed to accompany the insertion. He has the Mechanicus runecodes for the bridge top hatch. That should save some time. Second Platoon from the 364th Volscian Shadow Brigade will rappel to the surrounding roofs from the Valkyries—establish and hold a four-point ground extraction zone around the Titan’s feet. Captain Rask will coordinate the deployment from the air.”

  “What about the Reapers? Airstrikes prior to insertion would certainly soften things up a bit on the ground,” Minghella advocated.

  Rosenkrantz nodded. She was all for Wing Commander Wharmby’s Reaper Wing to blaze them a path up to the extraction. A fly-by from Deliverance’s Tactical Reconnaissance Group had already given Brigadier Voskov valuable information on the situation at ground level. Why not have Wharmby’s fighter squadron do a preliminary run? His strike fighters, Bolts and Marauders would only be sitting on the flight deck.

  “Absolutely out of the question,” Trepkos cut in, the stainless steel timbre of his voice echoing around the amphitheatre. “The Fabricator General would never sanction a bomber attack by the Aeronautica. The collateral damage to the faith district would be incalculable. What if Artellus or the Mortis Maximus were hit? It’s one thing for the enemy to indulge in wanton destruction. You’ll have to do what you can with your gunships and transports.”

  A ripple of discontent and profanity swept the audience but Mortensen silenced the disgruntled corpsmen with a hand. “A convoy of fire support Centaurs carrying Fourth Platoon in small groups under Lieutenant Deleval will deploy from a secure landing zone nearby and make their way to the extraction point.”

  “How do you know the landing zone is secure?” Krieg threw in.

  “The Legio’s only other operational Titan—a Warhound Scout called Ferrus Lupus—is handling that for us, as we speak,” Sass declared with confidence.

  “Cadet-Commissar Krieg will accompany the convoy,” Mortensen continued. “Just in case they run into something they can’t handle. By the time they arrive I should have the assets out, on the ground and ready for evacuation. All squads will then collapse back to the convoy. The column will punch its way back to the secured landing zone. The Spectres will then lift us back to Deliverance. Mission time, deployment to extraction—three hours. Like the lady said, let’s make good on this. To your stations.”

  Corpsmen around the amphitheatre evaporated. Mortensen’s strident form cut a swathe through the exiting troopers, flanked by Minghella and the bruiser master sergeant. Rask hobbled to catch up, with Sass clutching the battered hololith and bringing up the rear. Before she knew it, Rosenkrantz was alone with Krieg.

  “I want to thank you,” he said plainly, breaking the blanket of silence that had descended on the amphitheatre. “A light touch was needed there.” She nodded slowly. “But please, I must warn you. Don’t interfere with Commissariat business again.”

  With that, the cadet-commissar left.

  “You’re welcome,” the pilot called after him before setting off also, for a place that made marginally more sense to her: the cockpit of the Vertigo.

  II

  Like some cosmic gliding behemoth, Sigma Scorpii extended tendrils of rusty light across Illium’s asteroid-dominated sky. As the shadows began to recede across the fabricator moon, Flight Lieutenant Dekita Rosenkrantz rolled the Vertigo to port to avoid yet another belching smoke stack. Swooping in like angels of the armageddon, the procession of Spectre Valkyrie-variants had dropped out of the sky above the sea of Adeptus Mechanicus surgical sweatshops and cybernetics mills, flanked by a cortege of Valkyries and lean Vulture gunships.

  Lieutenant Commander Waldemar had been more daring than Rosenkrantz would have imagined, bringing his precious Deliverance down below the thin upper cloud layers and shaving precious minutes off their descent. As soon as Waldemar had delivered his payload, the Navy carrier vanished though, probably not too comfortable above Mechanicus defence lasers and missile silos.

  Ordinarily, Illium’s immigrant workforce would just be stirring in their bunks by now, but today was not an ordinary day. The citizens of the fabricator moon were already out in force and had been most of the night, lighting up the streets and dusty plazas with the flash of lasguns and pipe bombs.

  As Vertigo led the formation across the skies of the greasy industriascape, Rosenkrantz’s keen eyes were drawn to an irregular arrangement of fat, rusted chimneys and smog stacks. The cluster of mill vents belched thick, black smoke, but none of
it was coming from the chimneys.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” the pilot muttered to herself as the Spectre closed on the area. The configuration of chimneys was irregular because of their angle: it was the feature that had attracted her attention in the first place. The vast majority of the vents struck for the sky, vertically upwards; but these seemed at all angles, crisscrossing one another like fallen trees in a forest battered by a storm. Some were leaning or prone but largely intact; others had been demolished and smashed and lay broken-backed and shattered across the devastated district.

  Rosenkrantz hit the vox-stud for the troop bay.

  “Major, you’re going to want to see this—forward portside.”

  The pilot heard the storm-trooper grunt and direct one of his men to roll aside one of the Spectre’s side doors. The gushing wind howled down the vox, drowning out a stream of the major’s bitter oaths and curses as he saw what she saw.

  Back at the vox Mortensen barked at the flight lieutenant: “Have our formation hold and circle at this altitude. Inform them we are going in.”

  “Benedict—handle that, please,” Rosenkrantz instructed, before dive-rolling the Spectre down towards the spectacle. As their angle of approach changed, more of the destruction was revealed. Instead of the stack tops the black smoke was pouring from the base of the chimneys where a coordinated set of explosions had levelled the district. At the centre of the fallen giants lay another giant: the Ferrus Lupus. The Mars-Pattern Warhound must have been making its behemothic approach to secure the landing zone when it stomped into the only trap bigger than itself.