by Ben Counter, Guy Haley, Joshua Reynolds, Cavan Scott (epub)
Hive Morn, like all of the hives of Ghul Jensen, was arranged in a series of ascending, ever-contracting hab-rings, protected by internal emplacements which marked the demarcation line between the outer and inner ring. Great, reinforced bridges marked the circumference of each emplacement, connecting the upper to the lower. At a single word of command, he could order the bridges destroyed, isolating each hab-ring as necessary. The thought evoked a momentary sense of nausea in him. The bridges were ancient, as were the hab-rings themselves, the work of generations now lost to history. He wasn’t entirely sure that they could be replaced once lost. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he knew, with a growing sense of dreadful certainty, that such a hope was in vain.
Outside, the last of the outer defensive batteries had fallen silent. There were orks on the outer shell now, as well as beneath it. Bodies fell like rain from far, far above as the orks assaulted the shell batteries and sent their brave, doomed crews hurtling down into the depths of the hive they had fought to defend. The orks below were ravaging the destitute slums that marked the narrow circle between the lowest hab-ring and the hive shell. Jensen could hear the raw thunder of thousands of screams echoing up from the shanty-city that grew in the hive’s roots, and he closed his eyes, whispering a prayer for forgiveness. When he opened them, he looked around.
The defence forces of Hive Morn were clad in the char-grey livery of the noble house that bore the hive’s name. Despite the chaos of the ork attack and the destruction being wrought on their home, they remained steady, checking their weapons and readying themselves for the assault to come. Hive Morn was the closest to the ork dropsites, and the first in their path. If they couldn’t hold the orks here, the other hives would be in danger.
But he wouldn’t let that happen.
He turned to make sure that his wives were nearby. Fifteen women clad in form-fitting, black, gilt-edged carapace armour beneath flowing robes of silk, stood ready to fight beside him. The daughters of the fifteen noble families of the world of Ghul Jensen, pledged to him in political courtship, as was tradition. The House of Jensen ruled Ghul Jensen, though the other fifteen families had their say, through the mouths of their daughters. One of them would become his Consort, and provide an heir to the gubernatorial throne, but until that moment, they served as bodyguards and advisors.
Each woman wore the colours of her hive of origin, and they carried a variety of weapons – Sasha swung her crackling power maul in a lazy arc, Beatrix cocked one of the dozen stub pistols holstered about her person, the others hefted their axes, swords, glaives, lasguns and other, more esoteric weapons.
The emplacement trembled beneath his feet. The cloud was thinning, and he could hear the rumble of hundreds of feet on the rockcrete below. The emplacement had sheer walls, but that wouldn’t prove much of an obstacle for the orks. He drew his ornate laspistol from the holster on his hip and readied it. Beatrix caught his eye, and was about to speak, when the sound of ork engines filled the immediate area, echoing around them. A spatter of gunfire erupted from the defenders, forcing them to seek cover.
The orks wore crude rockets strapped to their backs, and they corkscrewed through the smoke on tails of flame. Some didn’t reach their target, either flying too low and slamming into the emplacement or else going too high and hurtling off towards some unknown point, their frustrated cries trailing after them. But most made it. They landed awkwardly, but they landed and set to with an enthusiasm that was terrible to behold up close. Men died without firing a shot, so quick was the attack.
Great crude blades rose and fell as the butchery commenced, and primitive firearms belched and thundered. To their credit, the soldiers of Hive Morn recovered quickly, but Jensen could see that they had already lost the advantage. They outnumbered the orks ten to one, but it would take them precious minutes to put that advantage to use. By then, they would be the ones outnumbered, as the rest of the greenskin assault reached the emplacement, and clambered up the dusty slope to reach the bottom of the wall.
Jensen traded blows with a muscular ork clad in fatigues reeking of oil and blood. It gabbled at him in its savage tongue, taunting him. He lurched forward and the serrated brow of his helmet struck the ork’s head, tearing it open. The ork reeled, and Jensen opened its belly with a flick of his blade. Nearby, an emplacement exploded, and he cursed himself as he realised the true purpose of the assault. The rocket-orks had come to silence the guns that were preventing their comrades from pressing the assault.
Beatrix screamed, and he whipped around to see her stagger back, clutching her abdomen as she emptied her pistol into an ork’s leering face. Blood spattered the ground at her feet, and he felt his heart lurch. The ork she’d shot fell, but there were dozens more cresting the wall. One of the other women caught Beatrix and pulled her back out of the line of fire as she emptied a second pistol. Sasha caught an ork beneath its jutting chin with her maul and sent it flying head over feet backwards and off the emplacement. Blades stabbed and guns roared, but the green tide crested the wall again and again.
‘Fall back,’ Jensen roared, hacking down the next ork over the wall. The defence forces began to retreat with disciplined alacrity, firing as they went. Jensen fired his laspistol, killing an ork who’d been about to brain a soldier. His chainsword growled as it bit through alien muscle and bone, and he booted one of the aliens in the face, sending it toppling backwards even as it crested the emplacement. He caught Sasha’s eye and jerked his head. ‘You as well,’ he said. ‘Fall back to the next emplacement.’
‘And what are you planning to do?’ she demanded.
‘I am planning to show our guests the full width and breadth of Hive Jensen hospitality,’ he said, trying to sound confident. The emplacement shuddered as the gun turrets mounted on the next emplacement began to fire down from the slope of the hive’s core. Soon enough, this entire hab-ring would be nothing but pulverised ruins and mounds of corpses – mostly green ones, he hoped. ‘Go, Sasha. I’ll cover your retreat.’
‘But–’
‘Begin the evacuation procedures – civilians first. We’ll need to hold the orks here as long as possible, so that the other hives can prepare their defences,’ he said, steamrollering over her objections. He was hereditary-governor. It was his job – his duty – to see to the defence of his people, and he would not be the first Ghul Jensen to fail in that task. He hesitated, and then said, ‘Make sure Beatrix is on the first transport.’
He saw Sasha’s eyes widen, and he thought that she was about to argue with him, when something struck him, ripping the air from his lungs and sending him flying backwards. As he fell, he saw that the section of the emplacement he’d been on had disintegrated, struck by ork artillery fire. He hit the ground hard, and only the durability of his armour saved him from being pulverised on impact. Through the rain of debris, he thought he saw Sasha and the others falling back, and he allowed himself a moment of relief, before he tried to push himself to his feet.
The servos in his armour whined and protested, clogged with dust or damaged in the explosion. He fell onto his side, and tried to roll over. He saw shadows approaching through the smoke. He’d lost his weapons save for the poniard sheathed on his hip, but it was less a weapon than a family heirloom. Nonetheless, he clawed awkwardly for it as three orks charged towards him. Stupid way to die, he thought.
A blur of white and green interjected itself between the closest ork and its prey. Jensen rolled onto his back, his armour whining in protest. A man, Jensen saw, clad in green and white silks and carapace armour made from overlapping scales of bronze-hued ceramite, his head covered by a heavy conical helmet surmounted by a spike, with a visor covered in a curling script that had been etched into the metal.
The warrior chopped through the ork’s wrist with the curved blade he carried in one hand. The ork, undeterred, roared and drove a fist into its foe’s helmet. The warrior staggered, but slashed out, opening the ork�
�s throat to the bone. The xenos slumped. The warrior lifted the autogun that dangled below his arm on a sling and fired two precise shots, dispatching the other orks. He turned and looked down at Jensen. ‘Hereditary-Governor Ghul Jensen the Twenty-Fourth,’ he said. His voice was tinged with an accent that Jensen didn’t recognise. His armour was scorched and stained in places, and liberally festooned with spare ammunition pouches and grenades.
‘I–I am he,’ Jensen said.
‘It wasn’t a question,’ the other man said. ‘Up, hereditary-governor,’ he continued, reaching down to clasp Jensen’s forearm in a surprisingly gentle grip. ‘This is no time for lying about.’ The warrior cocked his head, as if waiting. Jensen stared up at him, uncertain of how he was supposed to respond.
‘You should laugh. He was joking,’ a new voice cut in. Jensen turned and saw a bald, scarred man in a heavy fur coat stalk towards them. He felt a thrill of revulsion cut through him as he recognised the markings on the man’s hairless scalp as the brands of the Inquisition and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. ‘Big one for jokes, is our Ismail. The veritable physical embodiment of farce on this misbegotten plane of existence. Pardon me, some of us have work to do,’ the psyker continued, striding past the governor and the warrior, his fur coat flapping about his lean frame. Blue lightning crackled about his head like an elemental crown, and he shoved his hands out, letting the sleeves of his coat slip down to his elbows.
More orks thrust themselves through the gap in the emplacement. They came in a rush, bellowing brute war songs. The psyker interlaced his fingers and cracked them. ‘Boil, burn and burst, little rage beasts,’ he said, clenching his fists.
The howls of the charging orks were cut short as their skulls exploded one by one. The bodies tumbled into heaps about the bald man and he grimaced in distaste as he scraped steaming lumps of green matter from his coat. ‘I hate when they do that,’ he said, looking at Jensen. ‘My name is Harks, by the by. Not that you asked. Not that anyone ever asks.’
‘We have acquired the hereditary-governor,’ Ismail murmured, and Jensen heard the vox-link in his own helmet crackle as someone replied. ‘Understood. Falling back,’ the warrior said. He lifted his autogun and checked the ammunition clip. ‘Harks, escort the hereditary-governor to the next emplacement. I will dissuade any pursuit.’
‘Just don’t get killed, Ismail,’ Harks snapped. ‘You know how Mazarin feels about replacing his tools.’ The warrior’s only reply was the roar of his autogun, as he fired off a burst into the smoke billowing through the shattered emplacement.
Harks caught his arm. ‘Come on, your governorship. Leave the Tallarn to his fun. The inquisitor would like to see you.’ The psyker grinned unpleasantly as Jensen tore his arm loose from his grip. His teeth were black and shiny, like polished chips of obsidian. ‘It’s not polite, rescheduling without prior notice. No one likes that.’
‘I could care less what you like,’ Jensen spat. But he followed the psyker nevertheless, the dull, echoing boom of Ismail’s weapon following him the entire way.
Defensive Emplacement Horabin, Hive Morn
Jensen flexed his hand as his servants cleaned the clogged servos of his armour with holy unguents and sacred oils. They scurried about him as he stood in the command bunker of the second of Hive Morn’s defensive emplacements. Outside, the orks were already assaulting the walls, and the air was heavy with the stink of weapons fire. Jensen longed to be out on the walls, fighting beside his people, but there were long-delayed courtesies to at last be observed.
Inquisitor Emilio Mazarin of the Ordo Xenos had arrived not long before the orks, bearing word of the destruction of Obstiria and the Space Marines of the Obsidian Glaives and wanting to meet with the hereditary-governor. Jensen had avoided the inquisitor with all due tact, hurrying to the front, leaving Mazarin to enjoy the hospitality of Hive Jensen. Mazarin, it seemed, was not content to do so. The inquisitor had followed him into the warzone, and not unaccompanied.
There were two others in Mazarin’s retinue besides the Tallarn and the psyker. One was a thickly-built soldier, clad in faded, colourless fatigues, carapace armour and a full-face helmet in the shape of an eagle’s head. He cradled a combat shotgun in the crook of one bare, scarred arm, and idly tapped blunt fingers against the intricately carved stock. The other was a woman, wearing a vibrant red coat embroidered with the sigils of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She was slim and pretty, in an artificial way, with skin that was too perfect to be natural, and eyes that were too clear to be the ones she had been born with. Her pale fingers tapped against the hilts of the two swords sheathed on her hips. Jensen shivered slightly when he saw her coat bunch and rustle, as if there were something moving restlessly beneath it.
They stood to either side of Inquisitor Mazarin, who sat on a stool that someone had hurriedly fetched for him. The inquisitor was a wasted figure, swaddled in heavy, dark robes. He smelled of age and machine oil, and the two hands that balanced lightly on the head of his cane were withered claws wrapped in blotchy bandages. There was no human face beneath his voluminous hood, merely a metal mask, wrought into the cruel, beaked visage of a bird of prey. Two servo-skulls hovered over him, one with protuberant optical sensors in place of its empty sockets, and the second bearing an old fashioned vox-broadcaster where its rictus grin ought to have been. Both appeared to be recording everything going on around them.
The optical servo-skull floated closer to Jensen, its crimson lenses whirring and clicking as it examined him from every angle. The vox on the second skull crackled, spat and then said, ‘My compliments, Hereditary-Governor Jensen. Harks tells me that you are a man of rare capability. Pragmatic, with a keen mind. There are not many like you in these dark times.’
Jensen twitched on his stool and glanced at the psyker, who grinned his black grin and tapped the side of his head. Jensen swallowed and turned back to Mazarin. The inquisitor hadn’t moved, but the optic-skull hummed around Jensen, interposing itself. Jensen licked his lips and said, ‘Forgive me for not meeting with you when you arrived, but, as you can see, we have an – ah – situation.’ He gestured about him, indicating the controlled chaos of the command bunker. Communications screens flashed, showing the devastation of the ork advance. Dust drifted down as the emplacement to which the bunker was connected came under fire.
A burst of garbled noise emerged from the vox-skull. It took Jensen a moment to realise that it was laughter. ‘And a sense of humour as well. Oh mercy, you are a treasure,’ Mazarin said, via his floating proxy. A frail hand flapped at the woman. ‘I am being rude. You have already met Harks, and Master Ismail of Tallarn and the Doraha. Allow me to introduce you to my other companions – this is Olympia, and the lump of gristle is Mamluc-9. Don’t ask me what his real name is – they forget it when they put on the mask, and I never bothered to learn it, myself. Could be anyone under there… then, you know a little something about that yourself, don’t you, Hereditary-Governor Jensen?’
Jensen hesitated. He nodded brusquely, and reached up, without thinking, to stroke the contours of his own mask. He had five others just like it, and the body doubles to wear them. Besides his wives and the upper echelons of the planet’s military, no one was supposed to know of the existence of those men. Each of the five had been coached and trained in his mannerisms, and taught some of what he knew – enough to convince the troops under their command that they were the hereditary-governor in the flesh. Useful in situations such as this one, where he needed to be everywhere at once. ‘It is a regrettable fact that sometimes a ruler must appear to be in one place, when he is actually in another.’
‘How many times has that xenos-worshipping cult – which was based out of Hive Noctis, by the way, you’re quite welcome, no need for thanks – tried to kill you now? Seven, eight…?’
Jensen grunted. ‘Fifteen,’ he said, knowing full well that the inquisitor likely knew the specifics of each and every one of those incidents.
‘Sixteen, technically,’ Harks said. ‘Your – they are your women, aren’t they? – your women did horrible things to a very unlucky assassin several months ago, but didn’t tell you.’ He grinned widely. ‘They didn’t want to worry you.’
Mazarin shook his head. ‘I apologise, hereditary-governor. To Harks, even the strongest mind is but an open book, which he can’t help but read over the shoulder of its owner.’
‘Except yours,’ Harks said, with evident bitterness and not a little fear, Jensen suspected. ‘And his,’ he added, motioning towards Mamluc-9. The latter twitched, as if in amusement. Jensen looked at the mask, and felt a tingle of disgust as he took in the hooks and wires which anchored it to its wearer’s flesh. He wondered if the man had been a volunteer. He suspected that where the Inquisition was concerned, ‘volunteer’ was a very broad term.
‘The world is made of limits, Harks. It is best for a man to know his, and act accordingly. Which brings us to you, Hereditary-Governor Jensen,’ Mazarin said. He tapped the floor with his cane. ‘Master Ismail, if you would…?’
‘By current estimates, Ghul Jensen has, at best, a month left,’ Ismail said.
‘A month? Of what?’ Jensen asked. Part of him already knew the answer, however, and a sick feeling rose up in him. If an entire fortress-monastery full of Space Marines had fallen, what hope had his world?