Defenders of Mankind - David Annandale & Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  These were not doubts. These were not frightened musings. Voldo knew his limitations, and compensated for them accordingly. ‘Only will is indomitable,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Will is armour proof against any foe. By will alone will mankind rightfully rule the stars.’

  Then the feeling was gone, and he felt the suit as part of himself again, its feedback mechanisms sending its machine sensations directly into his mind.

  There were three faint rumbles, one after the other.

  ‘My colleagues start their soundings,’ said Nuministon. Through Gallio’s pict-feed, Voldo saw the magos crouch low over his instrument panels. ‘Good, good!’ The magos’s artificial voice abraded away any inflection; his excitement delivered as a monotonous, electronic dirge.

  Three more rumbles resounded through the hulk. Flakes of corrosion drifted free from the ceiling.

  ‘How many must we hold for?’ asked Alanius.

  ‘Five repeats,’ said Nuministon distractedly. ‘That should suffice.’

  The hulk rumbled in response. The chamber rocked, Voldo could not be sure in the uncertain gravity, but it felt like the floor dropped ten centimetres or more. He swayed a little, his suit’s gyroscopic mechanisms keeping him steady. There were distant sounds, as of metal grinding on metal. After the movement ceased, these continued for several seconds.

  ‘The soundings, they exacerbate the instability of this section of the hulk,’ said Clastrin. He swept lights around the chamber and pointed. ‘There, fresh buckling. It will do us well to be quick here.’

  ‘Stand firm,’ said Voldo. ‘The ground may be uncertain, our purpose is not.’

  Another set of soundings. The vibrations sent the motion tracker of the auspex wild, crowding it with multiple false positives, and after every one Voldo checked the auspex feed and his own sensorium’s data in case their enemy had moved forward as the ground shook. It remained clear. ‘Brother Astomar, report!’

  ‘All clear, brother-sergeant.’

  ‘He speaks truth,’ said Azmael. ‘I too register nothing.’

  ‘No movement here, brother-sergeant,’ called Eskerio.

  Voldo nodded. They might yet be fortunate, it could be that the movement picked up by the auspex was not what it seemed; more falling or floating debris, or sudden pressure shifts between compartments. Voldo’s duty was to slay xenos, and he hungered for their deaths, but far better in a situation as this to infiltrate and withdraw with no conflict. That would be the…

  A mighty slam rang through the engine chamber, reverberating around it like the striking of a bell.

  ‘By the Lord of Man, what was that?’ shouted Alanius.

  Voldo strode from his position, rounding one of the giant defunct generator units to confront Nuministon. He was in time to see the device’s broad foot pull itself up and then hammer down into the deck, sending out another deafening concatenation.

  ‘Magos! What is the meaning of this?’

  Nuministon was crouched over the device, insectile and horrible. His thin arms darted out to depress this button or flick that switch. He turned his many-eyed helmet to the Space Marine.

  ‘Why, the machine answers, of course. There are sensors on the surface also, only with my machine’s reply can we build a true representation of the…’

  ‘Shut it off! Shut it off immediately!’

  ‘That is impossible, lord sergeant, you see we must gather the data...’

  Voldo moved as quickly as he could in his armour, sword upraised. ‘No detail was given of this, you will bring every genestealer within five kilometres down upon us!’

  ‘I am sorry, lord sergeant, a regrettable oversight if so, I believed that all this had been discussed.’

  Clastrin stepped inbetween Voldo and the machine. He held up a hand, and shielded the device with the arms of his servo-harness. ‘Hold, sergeant!’ his twin voices demanded. He looked at the screen for several seconds as another series of vibrations shook the chamber, and the seismic probe answered with another loud slam.

  ‘Brother-sergeant, you have been given overall command, but listen to him. What he says is correct, after a fashion,’ Clastrin said.

  ‘Why did you not tell me of this, Forgemaster?’

  Clastrin looked to Nuministon for a long moment, then said to Voldo, ‘I was not told myself, brother-sergeant. It should have been possible to map the upper levels of the hulk with spaced explosive pulses on the surface, as we were led to believe would be the process. Why this additional sounding, I know not. It is a matter we must discuss when we return.’

  ‘If this is so, stand aside, we must stop this noise!’

  Clastrin shook his head. ‘The damage is done now. The magos is right in one regard. This additional source will provide better mapping, and deeper. To the centre of the hulk?’ he asked of the magos.

  ‘Yes, Forgemaster, just so. I require one more sounding, that is all.’

  Voldo stood back. ‘Very well, conclude your business. But mark my words, there will be consequences to this, magos,’ said Voldo.

  The roar of promethium igniting filled their suit helmets.

  ‘The consequences are upon us,’ said Alanius. There was irony in his voice, and excitement.

  ‘Incoming!’ called Astomar. Flame light flickered up the corridor. Inhuman screeching followed.

  ‘Movement, brother-sergeant, all around us,’ said Eskerio. ‘Brother Gallio! Above you!’

  The rapid cracks of storm bolter fire echoed in the chamber. Two bolts shot fractions of a second apart from the weapon’s twin barrels, an unmistakeable pattern of sound; the noise from the report from the gun, the ignition of their ammunition’s propellant, the detonations as they impacted, the sequence repeating rapidly as the weapon discharged dozens of rounds a minute.

  ‘Some consequences are more immediate than others,’ said Clastrin. ‘Argument must wait. We are discovered.’

  Weapons fire died away. A dead genestealer fell from the hole in the ceiling, drifting through the air towards the floor, globules of black blood trailing it. A taut silence snapped back into place.

  ‘Sound off!’ shouted Voldo.

  ‘Brother Astomar, here.’

  ‘Brother Curzon.’

  ‘Genthis.’

  ‘Alanius.’

  ‘Gallio.’

  ‘Azmael.’

  ‘Brother Tarael.’

  ‘Eskerio.’

  ‘Forgemaster Clastrin.’

  ‘High Magos Cogitator-Lexmechanic Nuministon of Mars present.’

  Voldo checked the screen for Militor’s suit pict: a grey snowstorm. The fifth member of his squad was too far away to be hailed and warned. ‘Any signs of movement?’ called Voldo.

  ‘There is a large group of xenos bearing down upon us, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio.

  ‘I register them also, Sergeant Voldo,’ said Azmael. ‘I estimate twenty to forty genestealers, heading towards us on two vectors. One main body split into two smaller groups, one approaches within the ceiling, the other approaching whence we came. There is a third, smaller group coming down from reference 40.3.21.’

  Voldo sent his map skittering to the coordinates. ‘The breach in the ceiling. Brother Gallio, stand ready!’

  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’

  ‘Brother Astomar, keep that corridor covered.’ Voldo looked around.

  ‘Despite our angry hosts, we have the advantage of knowing the way back, at least,’ said Alanius.

  ‘Negative. They are converging to mass along our route, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio.

  ‘By Corvo’s oath! Cousin Alanius, what suggest you?’ said Voldo.

  ‘Are there alternate routes?’ said the Blood Drinker.

  ‘One. Perhaps, but it is poorly defined, and lengthy,’ answered Eskerio.

  ‘Forty genestealers you say?’ said the Blood Drinkers sergeant. ‘A not insurmountable number. I say again, let us fight our way through, Blood Drinkers to the fore, your men can cover our exit should they decide to purs
ue.’

  ‘An inevitability, now the nest is disturbed,’ said Gallio.

  ‘They have yet to taste our steel, my friend, once they have, we shall have the measure of their enthusiasm,’ said Alanius, and Voldo could hear the excitement growing stronger in it. The Blood Drinkers were shifting about, fists clenching and unclenching.

  Like the thrice-damned Knights of Blood, thought Voldo, they are too keen for the fight. There was nothing for it. They had to react swiftly, or they were lost.

  ‘Very well. We depart the chamber. Brother Gallio, cover the door. Brother Astomar, you are to engulf as many of the aliens as the Emperor wills in flame. Brother Eskerio, to the front. Thin their numbers, give our Blood Drinkers brothers the greatest advantage when they engage. Brother Gallio, to me! Keep your eyes on the ceiling, beware the third group. We cannot let them outflank us!’

  ‘We shall smite them righteously with fist, blade, and boltgun!’ said Brother Gallio.

  ‘So it shall be,’ intoned the other Novamarines in response.

  Voldo’s helmet chimed as his threat indicator passed one level and then another. Flashing icons were converging on the corridor, two splinter groups of a greater whole to the front of his party, funnelling into the corridor the party had taken to their objective, a smaller number moving quickly to the breach in the ceiling. ‘Quickly now!’

  The party members lumbered from the machine room, hindered by the mag-locks keeping them to the floor. Voldo stopped by the door, covering Gallio as he walked backwards, his storm bolter never leaving the hole in the ceiling. Alanius moved past him, claws active.

  ‘What of my machine?’ said Nuministon. ‘It is of great value, it should not be left behind!’

  ‘Perhaps we would not have to abandon it if you had revealed the full extent of your plans, magos. If we survive, and if this cleansing is a success, then it can be collected along with your archeotech treasures. For now, it remains here. Every one of us must fight,’ said Voldo.

  ‘I must protest!’ The grinding voice of Nuministon became loud and wheedling.

  ‘Perhaps the magos would rather remain behind and guard it himself?’ said Alanius, bringing forth harsh laughter from the Blood Drinkers.

  Voldo waited until Alanius, Clastrin, and finally Gallio, had filed out of the room. He and Gallio then took up station inside the open door, storm bolters ready.

  ‘They are here!’ called Eskerio. His bolter barked twice. A shrill scream followed it, hard on the heels of that came the whoosh of Astomar’s heavy flamer. The pict-feed in Voldo’s helmet from Astomar whited out. When the flare died back, he noted five or six flaming forms tumbling through the air, a couple coming forward still despite the fire, and then genestealers were crawling through the hole in the engine room ceiling, carapaces glittering in the beams of their suit lights, and his attention was occupied by his own role as rearguard.

  Hunched bodies, over-sized heads, yellow eyes, four arms each, two lower topped with hands in parody of mankind’s own, the upper three-taloned claws capable of punching through adamantium, the genestealers came; deadly enemies each and every one.

  ‘Fire!’ he shouted. He and Gallio opened up, the muzzle flash of their bolters illuminating the field generation room. The strobing light penetrated only as far as the units, obscuring the view of the genestealers further in. The aliens moved rapidly, their sharp claws digging into metal and pulling them along far quicker than the Terminators’ mag-lock boots could. They flickered nightmarishly in the lightning flash of weapons fire, so quick that Voldo was not certain he had hit his targets. From over his head, Clastrin fired plasma from his servo-harness’s weapon arm. A glowing ball of gas blazed through the room. Genestealers shrank back from the plasma’s glare. The round slammed into the wall below the rupture in the ceiling, obliterating two of the creatures as they crawled head-first down the wall.

  ‘Corvo’s oath!’ shouted Gallio. ‘They are at least a score in strength!’

  Voldo’s bolter shouted an answer for him.

  They shot round after round, blasting genestealers apart in fountains of green-black ichor. From behind them came the relentless chatter of Eskerio’s bolter and the periodic roaring of Astomar’s heavy flamer. The corridor leading away from the engine room burned; metal glowed dull red with heat. Snatches of what was happening to Astomar and the others were revealed to Voldo through the suit cameras and squad sensorium feeds: a flash of teeth; lashing, hollow tongues; claws; scurrying movement from things that seemed too big to move as quickly as they did.

  Voldo was unfazed by this. Combat was a frenetic affair, that against genestealers especially. He and they were old foes.

  ‘Stand fast!’ he shouted. ‘They draw nearer.’

  The bolts spat by Voldo and Gallio’s guns felled monster after monster, but each xenos down allowed another the chance to come closer. They advanced screeching, heedless of their losses, pushing through the floating gore, and now the aliens were by the edge of the engines, not more than seven metres away.

  Gallio’s gun clicked. A red icon sprang to life next to Gallio’s suit-view in Voldo’s visor, indicating the brother’s gun had jammed.

  ‘Blessed is my wargear!’ called Gallio. He deactivated his power fist’s energy field and attempted to free the stuck bolt, giant armoured fingers working dextrously and without hurry.

  Voldo widened the cone of space he was covering while Gallio unjammed his gun. He felled another genestealer, a bolt piercing its bulbous skull between the eyes. The mass reactor within detonated the round, spraying the genestealer’s brains to float in the air. Its arms folded in on its ribbed chest, and it floated serenely backwards.

  The sensorium jam icon by Gallio’s feed flashed twice, went green, and blinked out.

  ‘Clear!’ shouted Gallio. He raised his gun again, power fist field re-engaging simultaneously. Together Gallio and Voldo fired and fired. Twinned magazines dropped from the bottom of Voldo’s storm bolter. Another icon sprang up next to his own emblem in his suit display. ‘I am out of ammunition!’ An alarm chimed.

  A genestealer hurled itself down directly from above the door, feet scrabbling to arrest it from bouncing back into the air. Gallio’s bolter tore half its upper body away before his magazines too emptied and clattered to the floor.

  ‘Empty!’ The Terminators carried spare rounds in their suit’s stowage, but such was the bulk of the armour that it was impossible to retrieve them and reload in combat. Clastrin’s servo-harness made the dry cough of plasma weaponry still, annihilating genestealers. Those pouring in through the ceiling came quickly forward. Clastrin extended his two lower mechanical arms, those tipped with flamers, and burned the aliens away with a blast of promethium.

  ‘I have but four shots’ worth of fuel for my flamer, brother-sergeant,’ said the Forgemaster. ‘My plasma cutters must cool also, or they will emergency vent and become useless.’

  Past the writhing genestealers, more dark shapes moved, a tide of aliens creeping downwards. One launched itself from the wall, powerful legs sending it through the air towards Voldo.

  ‘They are coming again!’ shouted Voldo.

  Gallio raised his fist. Voldo prepared his blade, and the genestealers were upon them.

  Voldo’s world narrowed to a maelstrom of flashing claws and teeth as the leaping genestealer landed on his shoulders. Its four arms wrapped themselves around him, clawed feet scrabbling madly at his breastplate. Its long, hollow tongue lashed at his helmet, seeking to implant him with its vile seed. He drove upward with his power sword, the weapon’s field crackling as it passed through the beast’s chitin and into its gut. Voldo wrenched the weapon and flung his arm out to cast the creature’s body from his armour. Immediately he was re-engaged, two more scuttling over the floor, another imitating the first’s leap.

  The genestealers were so fast it was all he could do to match their speed with his sword. He cut and parried, deflecting blow after blow. One riposte severed a genestealer’s lower left ar
m, and he stepped forward to finish it with a thrust to the neck. A second raked a broad hand, horribly manlike, across his chest eagle, scoring the ceramite. He felt the pain of the machine through his sensorium as a dull throb layered over his body’s native senses. Nothing vital was hit, the claws not penetrating far enough to snag a power line or damage the suit’s fibre bundles. He pivoted, and slew the genestealer before it could bring its heavier upper claws in for a killing blow.

  Gallio fought more slowly, the power fist on his suit was a clumsy weapon. He too expended much effort fending off the genestealers’ attacks, but when he did manage to land a blow the effects were devastating, the disruption fields surrounding the heavy gauntlet ripping alien flesh apart at the atomic level with a thunderous crack, bursting the creatures like smashed fruit.

  Clastrin waited for a propitious moment before letting off another shot from his flamer. Genestealers dropped writhing, two more fell back, and Clastrin cut them down with his plasma cutter.

  And then there were no more.

  Voldo panted, body singing with adrenaline. He scanned the room carefully. Nothing lived within. No more shadows flowed down the wall. His helmet was a clamour of alarms, his vision dazzled by icons on his visor. His sensorium filled his mind with further information, the condition of the suit pasted over his own senses as pseudo-pain and phantom sensations. He twisted around, scanning the room with his own eyes and the sensorium of the Terminator armour. The motion tracker was wild with false positives, tripped by the dismembered parts of genestealers floating slowly to the floor all around them.