Meeks turned his head eerily to one side, as though he’d heard his name. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on a fleshy nose, beneath which his pink lips curled.
“What’s with the heads and coats?” Rosenkrantz asked warily. Most of the Volscians resisted the concept of uniformity.
“Second Platoon has a fundamentalist streak,” Preed told her. “Ardentites, as far as I can tell. Some kind of Thorian incarnationist faction.”
“Religious freaks?” she put to him. His nose wrinkled. “No offence,” she added.
“None taken, sister. They are not of my flock. Ardentites look for evidence of the divine in those around them. They believe that when the God-Emperor fell He disseminated His gift. He believed the best way to protect humanity in His absence was to hide His power—His talents—among chosen individuals across the galaxy, so that they may individually serve His interests and, as a collective phenomenon, hold back the darkness that threatens to engulf mankind.” The Pontiff sighed. “The coats are gang throwbacks. House Zlaw: threw in their lot with the Redemptionists for a time, then kind of outgrew them. The heads are merely an emulation: a mark of respect to the major himself.”
“And what does the major make of Meeks and his boys?”
“He thinks they’re psych-jobs who probably have a little too much time on their hands. But they’re useful. Rask knows the 364th: he probably figures that troops that idolise the major are marginally less of a mission-risk than those out to frag him. After the debacle on Illium with the new commissar, you could hardly blame him. But if you’re asking me if Mortensen ‘believes’, I have no facts to give you. He’s an extremely capable soldier with some extraordinary talents, but it’s not for me to say if they are ‘divinely ordained’. What I can tell you is that these ideas are not politely entertained in the higher echelons of the Ecclesiarchy and many might consider them heresy.”
A shiver worked its way across the pilot’s shoulders as she recalled their encounter with the Inquisitorial corvette above Spetzghast.
Suddenly Meeks was among them, the hiver’s silent steps carrying him across the troop bay in the space of a moment’s inattention.
“Pontiff,” the sergeant uttered with a respectful bow of his head. To Rosenkrantz he merely gave a savage flash of the eyes through his thick lenses, before stepping out into the smashed landscape, disappearing under the starboard wing.
“Thanks,” Rosenkrantz said to the priest before stepping out herself. Her first footfall slipped as her flight boot splintered a piece of crystalline bark and slid towards the continuously foaming waters that lapped up against the shattered shore. Preed’s stubby fist was suddenly there on her arm, holding her up and her foot just clear of the supercooled, chemical brume.
“Take care, lieutenant,” he said, setting her right on the glassy bank. “This is a deathworld, after all.”
She nodded further gratitude.
It was only a few steps to the wing but it was enough to sample her new environment. The smashed trees crunched underfoot and sinister waters spumed up between the cracks. Some of the crystal canopy remained intact above the aircraft and drizzle collected amongst the jewellery on the branches and fell in fat droplets from above, spattering her flight jacket and chilling her to the bone. The ambient temperature was actually reasonably mild but the droplets frosted instantly on the leather. She jumped slightly as a blue-white beam of energy arced between the trunks of two nearby trees, forcing Rosenkrantz to put her back against Vertigo and sidle along the fuselage and under the wing. Every time a beam sizzled between two of the outlandish trees, it set in motion a chain reaction of electrical arcs, passing from one plant to another, lighting up the gloom of the glass jungle. After reaching a light show crescendo the forest would fade to darkness again, waiting for another trunk to gather enough charge to begin the phenomenon again.
“I could have done with more reconnaissance data on this deathworld,” she announced to the group of Guardsmen gathered under the wing. “That kind of information comes in useful.” Conversation died in their throats. Flanked by Conklin and Vedette, Mortensen was peering intently through a pair of magnoculars up and out of the crystal canopy and along the surrounding relief.
Captain Rask stood nearby, leaning against the shattered trunk of a tree. Sass and the captain were studying a data-slate, angling it this way and that to make sense of the carto-pict they were studying. Meeks stood by looking on intensely.
“What difference would it have made?” Mortensen hypothesised from behind the magnoculars.
“Well, we could have expected…”
“The unexpected? You’re not shipping out with the Volscian 1001st now, flight lieutenant,” the major returned. “We’re Redemption Corps: we move fast and with purpose. We get to it.”
“Krieg was right,” Rosenkrantz informed him with mock realisation. She let the insult go home before continuing: “You hit Illium unprepared. You were lucky to get your men out alive, let alone the targets. You’re making the same mistakes here.”
“No,” the Gomorrian told her, unfazed. He came out from behind the glasses. “Just a few new ones. What’s the bird’s status?”
Rosenkrantz glared at him. Then, finally: “The intakes are completely flooded with whatever we came down through and if that’s not bad enough for you, the quad appears to be frozen solid. The only engine with any signs of life whatsoever is this one…” She kicked at the thruster behind Mortensen, “and that’s not going to be enough to get us off the ground.”
The major nodded gravely. “Now, would someone return the favour,” Rosenkrantz put to them, “and tell me what we’re even doing here. This need-to-know crap is wearing thin.”
Rask looked up from his slate: “Forty-eight hours ago, upon my recommendation, Field Marshall Rygotsk despatched Commander Qvist, a Departmento Munitorum officer, to the planet surface with a small recruitment force, seconded from the Spetzghastian Mercantile Militia. Qvist’s orders were to swiftly establish contact with the indigenous primitive inhabitants and begin processing populations for immediate extraction and Imperial indoctrination.”
“They didn’t come back…” the pilot interrupted, filling in the blanks.
“Nothing has been heard from the mission since its departure. Of course, I feel responsible for Qvist: he’s relatively inexperienced and he was despatched upon my recommendation; but the brigadier needs these ogryns to augment our forces on Illium. Something’s gone wrong here.”
“Something’s gone wrong… here,” Rosenkrantz informed him, yanking a thumb at her downed bird. The officer shook his head.
“This is the Spetzghastian back yard: that’s why I sent Qvist down with Mercantile Militia. The platoon guide was a Sergeant Lompock, Mercantile ogryn auxilia. They know the rudimentaries about Ishtar, its dangers. This is something else.” Rask turned grimly. “Sergeant?” he announced.
Meeks cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Gomez is dead, sir.”
“Poor wretch,” Conklin announced. An epitaph it wasn’t. Mortensen raised an eyebrow, letting the magnoculars fall on their strap.
“Israel Gomez was a good Guardsman and a devoted Imperial servant,” Rask told Meeks. The Volscian nodded slowly. “Lijah, I’m giving you Second Platoon. We’re in a bit of a spot here and I need you to keep the men focused. You get my meaning?”
“Loud and clear, captain.” The sergeant’s voice lacked enthusiasm but was thick with honesty. “We’re right behind you and the major, here.”
Mortensen gave Rask an uneasy look, clearly uncomfortable with the Volscian hero-worship. He was ready to move on. “Sass, where are we?”
The adjutant stared back at the slate he was carrying.
“We can’t be too far off the landing zone,” Rosenkrantz offered, staring around the alien jungle as the rain intensified. “We were virtually on top of the coordinates you gave me when we left Deliverance.
“Thing is,” Sass began, “the map doesn’t exactly reflect what I’m seeing here.”
Mortensen stuck out one hand and Sass went to pass the pict on.
“Let me see that,” Rosenkrantz said, snatching the topographic slate from Sass’ grubby paws. He frowned but she had, after all, a great deal more experience reading contours and orbital data than any of the corpsmen.
As she attempted to make out the confusing imagery on the slate a dark figure appeared in the clearing the fallen aircraft had created and padded its way carefully across the smashed crystal and gushing chemical potholes.
His colours identified him as a storm-trooper but his forehead studs marked him out as an Autegan. The Autegan Tactical Rangers were a deathworld regiment and the major had clearly understood that an Autegan’s experience would be invaluable on a world like Ishtar. On Autega, the Rangers’ main duties were scouting the least perilous paths across the planet’s lethal environs and providing mounted escorts to the pilgrim trains that continually moved between the cities and the shrines. As he approached, a double-barrelled grenade launcher rested across one carapace shoulder.
“What have you got for us, Eszcobar?” Mortensen put to him as the deathworlder leaned against the underside of the Vertigo’s wing.
“Beautiful,” the Autegan began, although with his thick accent it was difficult to tell whether he was complimenting his surroundings, cursing them, or both. “Silicon rainforest: it’s like walking through broken glass.” He angled his armour to reveal bloody gashes in his jacket, thighs and calves. “I found the Ecliptic. She’s due west. I told the crew to remain with the Centaur.” The deathworlder sniffed and spat. “I only got about fifty metres in, but it wasn’t just the foliage that stopped me. This whole area is just one big flood plain. Most of it’s submerged, which wouldn’t be a problem except that it’s not water.”
“What is it?”
“Some kind of supercooled chemical soup seeping up through the planet crust.” He pointed up into the drizzle. “Which accounts for the frost on the fuselage. This and the fact that the trees themselves seem involved in some kind of electrical defence mechanism of their own, and you basically have an environment pretty inimical to human life.”
“You’re telling us that we can’t traverse this terrain,” Conklin confirmed.
“Frozen alive, cut to pieces or electrocuted: you decide,” Eszcobar replied, impressed. He regarded Mortensen. “I’m not saying it can’t be done, major. But the losses would be astronomical.”
“What about the Centaurs?” the master sergeant suggested.
“They’d offer protection from the foliage and the cryogenic drizzle, but wouldn’t get past the trees.”
“But this stuff is as brittle as anything,” Conklin said, stamping his boot down on a piece of crystalline bark that obligingly shattered to prove his point. He gestured around. “Look at what the bird did.”
“I wouldn’t want to be inside a Centaur when one of these discharges hits the hull exterior,” Meeks mused.
“So what are you saying? We pull out?” Conklin cried incredulously.
“Bad intelligence,” Rosenkrantz said, flipping Sass back the nonsensical slate, “and no possible way to reach the targets—if they’re alive which, now that we’re here, I very much doubt. Damn right we should pull out. Vox Deliverance and request an evacuation.”
The pilot’s assessment was met with a hail of testosterone-fuelled objections. Only Vedette and the major remained silent throughout, the Gomorrian back to peering through his magnoculars.
“She’s not wrong,” he mumbled, drawing a gaze of disbelief from his master sergeant. The major turned on the pilot. “But he’s right. Redemption Corps don’t run. There’s more at stake here than Rask’s young commander and a few Merc Militiamen. We’re going to need those ogryns on Illium. For the ogryns, we need to make contact with the recruitment party.”
The major’s calm logic went some way to soothe the tension crackling between the pilot and the gathered Guardsmen. Nearby a loud snap of piezoelectric power vaulted between a splintered trunk and the tree line beyond, bathing them in a powerful—if brief—wave of sterile heat. All eyes were on the searing arc as it set in motion another blazing lightshow.
“Besides, we’ll have more to worry about if we stay put.” He passed the magnoculars to Vedette and pointed up at the silhouetted highlands above. “What does that look like to you?”
The Mordian took the glasses and aimed them up at the distant horizon. The magnoculars steadied with sudden realisation.
“Gun emplacement,” Vedette confirmed with satisfaction.
“We’re not alone on this moon.”
“Ogryns?”
“Certainly looks makeshift,” Conklin replied, now staring through the glasses.
Mortensen put them out of their misery. “Greenskins.”
“Here?” Rosenkrantz asked, wondering why even orks would choose to visit such a hostile corner of the galaxy.
“Which is why we can’t fix our position on the charts,” Sass put forward, a sense of relief evident in his voice. “These,” the storm-trooper pointed up through the canopy at the irregular highlands beyond, “are not natural features. That is probably an ork rok.”
If Rosenkrantz had felt vulnerable before, the possibility of being surrounded on all sides by greenskin megafortresses, bristling with large-bore artillery and shot through with subterranean airbases, did not put her at ease.
“Guess we know what happened to Commander Qvist,” Conklin muttered at Rask.
“If they’re here,” the pilot began, “well, that means the entire system has to be infiltrated.”
Mortensen gave her one cocked eye. “You think so?”
“They probably saw us come down,” Eszcobar insisted.
The major looked up at the sky, unconvinced. “In this? Perhaps. But I don’t think any of us want to be here, should our greenskinned friends decide to dump a ton of ordnance on our position. How’s the Ecliptic?”
“Totalled,” Rosenkrantz confirmed. “The crew are fine—no fatalities. They’ve recovered Gundozer but the bird is slipping rapidly into the flood plain.”
“How long to get this beast off the ground?”
Rosenkrantz shrugged. “We could use flame units on the thrusters, but clearing the filters; that could take hours.”
“Okay,” the major nodded. “Then you’ve got your work cut out. We’ll get out from under your boots. I need this bird in the sky as soon as is humanly possible.”
“Think I want to remain here one moment longer than that?” Rosenkrantz replied.
“Sass, Eszcobar: ignore the surrounding relief and plot me a route to those coordinates.”
“You want us to use the waterways?”
“Yeah,” Mortensen affirmed. Rosenkrantz saw a flash of inspiration cross the major’s features. “I got an idea.”
As a rule Navy pilots didn’t tend to have a fear of heights; when you’re soaring hundreds of metres above the ground, distances and their associated fears become meaningless. Hanging off the corrugated compound walls and dangling above the ceramite quad, falling to her death felt like it had more meaning for Dekita Rosenkrantz.
She wasn’t in fact clutching to a wall at all, but Preed’s fleshy back. On the ground the priest’s mass was cumbersome and somewhat of a handicap. Above the ground, carried up and across the improvised ledges and clawholds of the compound wall, the ecclesiarch’s body assumed a surprising grace. Sandalless feet took lighter steps than Rosenkrantz would have thought possible, pushing him up wall to crennelated wall. Stubby arms and those big, hairy hands felt for holds from which to haul his three hundred kilos of devout bulk. It revealed to the pilot just how much of the ecclesiarch’s massive girth was in fact pure muscle.
As Preed pulled his huge form up on the roof edge, Rosenkrantz could hear the fury of a firefight beyond.
Someone had been smiling on them: the route through the incarcetorium to the landing strip was all but clear. The battle-sisters would almost certainly have posted sentries on their own aircraft and t
he storm-troopers had been forced to formulate a brief but brutally simple plan to take the pad under such circumstances. The corpsmen would rush the sentries from the security bulkhead with whatever ammunition and weapons they had remaining, while Preed volunteered to scale the wall and get their most valuable commodity—their only pilot—safely to one of the aircraft.
Two Adeptus Ministorum Valkyries squatted on the landing strip, one behind the other, their fuselages parallel to the compound wall. Like a prisoner, the sorry-looking Vertigo sat between them. Rosenkrantz could just make out the short, power-conserving flashes of las-fire coming from the security gate and the stacks of prison supplies palleted nearby. The storm-troopers had done their best to rush the battle-sisters and their Frateris Militia brothers, but simply didn’t have the coverage to work their way up to the Inquisitorial carriers. She could see the bodies of the dead and dying on the rockcrete; those who had paid the price for such desperate tactics.
Leather masked zealots, draped in chains and brandishing slubbers and shotguns held their ground on the strip. Heavily armoured battle-sisters had fanned out across the landing pad, laying down suppressive firepower from their boltguns and tossing the occasional grenade into the carnage—careful not to damage the precious aircraft. The Spectre and the Valkyries had the worst role to play in repelling the bungled attack, however. The side doors facing the security bulkhead had rolled aside to reveal primed heavy bolters that proceeded to chew up the corpsmen and their fast disappearing cover.
No one could have possibly anticipated an attack on the landing pad from such a position, but the Sisters of the Immaculate Flame were thorough if nothing else. So confident in their ability to ward off such a pitiful attack, they hadn’t even committed all of their troops.
A black-armoured figure watched the slaughter from behind the protective wall of blazing gunfire provided by the assault carriers, holding her sentry point on the wallside flank of the aircraft. Rosenkrantz suddenly became aware that they’d been peering at the firefight from between her legs. The sister unexpectedly turned, her tight, raven curls flowing with the light breeze.
[Imperial Guard 08] - Redemption Corps Page 23