As the howling wind whistled past the vicious wound in the nose of the Thunderhawk, Derex turned and shouted to the pilot. “Evasive!”
It was only then that the veteran-sergeant caught a glimpse of the charred stub of a neck atop the pilot’s unmoving shoulders, and Scout Grigor slumped over the monitoring station.
“Derex to all points!” the veteran-sergeant shouted, reaching past the headless pilot and grabbing the controls, toggling a switch to open a broadband vox channel. “Taking enemy fire. Repeat, taking enemy fire. Position is—”
At that moment, the second hunter-killer antiaircraft missile struck the Thunderhawk high on its rear flank, managing to punch a hole through not only the armour-plated hull but the heavy shielding beneath that contained the gunship’s fusion reactor.
As the Thunderhawk plummeted like a burning stone from the sky, the automated defence systems of the planet tracked its arc. But as the voxsponder onboard the Thunderhawk was still somehow operational, and still transmitting the appropriate authorisation codes, the planetary defences continued to ignore its passage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the late afternoon of their first full day in the Bastion, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts found Captain Taelos in the chambers in the peak of the Bastion that the Imperial Fists had taken over as their base of operations. The chambers’ original use was as onsite accommodations for the technicians who manned the Bastion’s control systems, and had before the arrival of the Imperial Fists been taken over as the temporary residence of Delmar Peregrine, one of the three Vernalian nobles who had appointed themselves the leaders of the refugee community. But while the chambers had clearly been originally designed with the same austere severity of the rest of the Bastion’s interior—dominated as it was by bare rockcrete floors, exposed duct work and a pervasive smell of refined petrochem—Peregrine appeared to have made significant modifications before taking up residence himself.
“Captain, you wished to see me?” Hilts stood at the entrance, hands at his sides, his eyes assaulted by the riot of colour that surrounded him. But it was not simply the fiery reds and garish yellows of the decor that struck him, but the casual display of so much decadent opulence. For someone who had fled his home ahead of a ravaging army of Chaos, Peregrine appeared to have taken the time to gather up a considerable number of luxury items in his flight—thick-piled rugs covered the rockcrete underfoot, while a menagerie of cushions and pillows of all sizes were scattered everywhere throughout the room. Though Captain Taelos had on arrival extinguished the coils of incense which had hung from the ceiling, the cloyingly sweet smell of the smoke still clung to the room, and whenever one of the cushions was jostled the smoke captured within was wafted out into the air in clouds of scent.
“Yes, Hilts, come in.” Captain Taelos sat at a large dining table, on which were scattered a dozen or more data-slates. He had shoved as much of Peregrine’s belongings to the corners of the room as possible, and made of it a somewhat workable space. He waved the veteran-sergeant into the room. “At your ease.”
Hilts entered, his gaze falling on a low bench that ran along the right-hand wall, opposite the table where Taelos sat. Placed at the centre of the bench was a cut-crystal decanter and a trio of matching glasses, and arrayed behind these like the ordered ranks of a Space Marine squad were a large collection of bottles of various shapes and sizes, no doubt containing a wide assortment of amasec, wine and various other rare and expensive intoxicants.
“This Peregrine doesn’t travel light, I see,” Hilts observed, glancing from the makeshift bar to the trunk overstuffed with fine robes and silks, each of them tent-sized in order to accommodate the Vernalian’s prodigious bulk.
Taelos hummed thoughtfully in response, not looking up from the data-slate in his hands. “Perhaps,” he finally said, glancing up. “He took the precious moments needed to have his servitors gather up all this frippery, but somehow failed to find the time to help his family escape the hive.”
Hilts looked from the noble’s extensive wardrobe to his superior, an eyebrow arching. “Sir?”
“The fat sot claims, or it is claimed on his behalf, that he lost considerable holdings in the enemy attack, and that he left his sisters and their families behind in the north. One wonders at the priorities of such a man, who would take the time to ensure that he himself would flee in luxury, but would cast his own flesh and blood to the tender mercies of the enemy.”
“From what I’ve seen of the man,” Hilts said with a sour grin, “he certainly values his pleasures.”
Taelos nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But enough about these pampered sybarites, I didn’t call you here to discuss the failings and foibles of those we are pledged to protect.” He set down the data-slate he’d been reading, and gestured at the others scattered across the tabletop. “I’ve been reviewing the reports of your squad. I take it there are three principal approaches to the Bastion that we must concern ourselves with? Two above ground—the main hatch to the east, and the pipeline to the north—and the subterranean tunnel access below ground.”
“That was my assessment, yes, sir,” Hilts answered with a curt nod.
“And your squad is equal to the task of defending those points, with the armoury we have at hand?” Taelos slid a data-slate across the table to Hilts, on which was displayed an inventory of the heavy weaponry which Captain Lysander had left for their use, with notations marking those which had been issued to Veteran-Sergeants Derex and Karn along with the Thunderhawks, in the event that they ran into enemy activity.
Hilts glanced down the list, thoughtful for a moment. “I believe so, sir,” he said at last. “Against a force such as we ran up against yesterday, certainly.”
Taelos narrowed his gaze. “Yesterday we ran afoul of two thousand ill-armed and ill-fed infantry, whose only ranged weaponry were a collection of all-but-useless castoffs. We cannot presume that the only enemy elements remaining on Vernalis will all be so poorly equipped. We must assume that the force is considerably greater, with superior numbers and firepower alike.”
This time Hilts didn’t even have to pause to consider. “Yes, sir. Squad Pardus is equal to the challenge. Though naturally, if the opposing force proved to be too much greater or better armed, we would likely request that either Squad Vulpes or Squad Ursus be recalled to assist in the defence. My Scouts are well trained, and know their duty, but there is an upper limit to what we can expect any neophyte to withstand. Particularly if the warband leader Sybaris is revealed to be here.”
“Agreed.” Captain Taelos nodded. There were three main reasons why he was preparing the defence of the Bastion. First, and foremost, was that he was an Imperial Fist, and never walked into a location that he didn’t first consider how he would defend it. The art simply came as second nature. Second, it was a useful exercise for the Scouts, an opportunity to hone their own siege skills. And last, there was always the possibility that they would be attacked.
Taelos noticed the expression on Hilts’ face, a twinge of concern that flitted across the veteran-sergeant’s features like a cloud streaming across the sky. “Something bothering you, brother-sergeant?”
Hilts paused before answering. “Well, it’s simply that I don’t understand what we are doing here, sir.” He waved a gauntleted hand, indicating the Bastion around them, the Vernalian refugees, the planet itself, all of it. “Nursemaiding a bunch of spoiled civilians? What sort of duty is that for an Imperial Fist?”
Captain Taelos narrowed his gaze, lips drawn into a tight line. “Your thoughts echo my own,” he said in a grave voice. “And if there is a chance that Sybaris is here on Vernalis, why leave only a handful of Scouts to contend with him?”
Hilts was thoughtful. “One might begin to suspect a larger stratagem at work, sir.”
Taelos nodded. “You suspect Lysander of laying a trap, with the 10th Company as bait?”
The veteran-sergeant straightened. “It isn’t my place to speculate, brother-captain.
”
A slight smile tugged up the corners of Taelos’ mouth. “A prudent answer, brother-sergeant.” He paused, and then added, “Now, have you had any success in restoring the communication systems?”
Hilts frowned, and shook his head. “No, sir. I have Scouts du Queste and Rhomec continuing the work, as we speak, but so far we have not made any measurable progress.”
Taelos tapped a finger against the tabletop, thoughtful for a moment. “Keep at it. But I have another puzzle for you to solve, as well. Despite our hopes, we have been unable to maintain vox contact with either Derex or Karn, and we have not had any report from them since this morning. Even if you can’t gain full access to the communication system, perhaps we can employ the broadcast array that the system uses to control its remote bases for our own purposes. It should be possible to use the physical structure of the array itself to boost our vox signal strength, and thereby re-establish communication with the Thunderhawks.”
The veteran-sergeant rubbed his chin with a gauntleted hand. “We should be able to, at that, sir.” He stood once more to attention. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall get to that at once.”
“Dismissed,” Taelos said, with a wave of his hand. “And may the Emperor grant good fortune to you, Hilts.”
“To us all, captain,” Hilts answered as he made his way out the door, “if Dorn is with us.”
Scout Zatori Zan knelt on the ledge outside the main hatch on the eastern face of the Bastion, making careful study of the weapon which lay before him.
“You’ll need to watch the build-up inside the coils,” Scout Valen said, standing behind Zatori with his hands on his knees, looking down over his squadmate’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Zatori said with a laboured sigh, “I am well aware.”
“And even if it doesn’t blow back,” Scout Sandor put in, standing a respectful distance from the weapon, almost as if it would fire of its own accord and boil him to a fine mist, “the housing assembly is going to get hot.”
Zatori nodded again. “I completed the same training myself, you know.”
Sandor scratched his head, and looked from the bulky weapon to Zatori’s face. “I don’t envy you. Give me a bolter and a blade, any day.”
Zatori shot a quick glare at Sandor, then returned his attention to the weapon before him. He had so far completed a full field inspection of the weapon’s components, but was doing a final visual survey before powering it up for a systems check.
Is it good fortune or ill, Zatori wondered, that I have the highest accuracy ratios with a plasma gun in all the Scouts of Squad Pardus?
When the Scouts had completed their reconnaissance of the various approaches to the Bastion, and the defensibility of the various key locales on the mountain, Hilts had determined that of all the weapons which had been entrusted to them by Captain Lysander, the plasma gun was the best option for the defence of the Bastion’s main hatch. The weapon’s combination of destructive capability and long range made it uniquely suited to the main hatch, where the defenders would be able to see any attackers approaching the foot of the mountain from a considerable distance. And whether the attackers were regular infantry, or Chaos Space Marines, or even mechanised units, so long as the gun’s operator was able to hit the target accurately, the amount of damage the plasma bolts could inflict would be significant.
So the single plasma gun in the 10th Company’s arsenal was the best suited for the defence of the main hatch, and of all the squadmates of Squad Pardus, the Scout best equipped to operate the plasma gun was Scout Zatori.
Veteran-Sergeant Hilts had called it a signal honour to be chosen to operate the plasma gun, given the weapon’s destructive capacities and the complexities of its operation. But at the moment, Zatori was finding it difficult to feel terribly honoured by his selection.
Plasma weapons of any kind were somewhat rare, even among the Adeptus Astartes, but the Scouts of the Imperial Fists had been rated on all of the ranged weapons in the Chapter’s armoury as a matter of course. This particular plasma gun was of a somewhat different pattern than that upon which Zatori and the others had trained, though, and the detachable plasma flasks it employed were considerably larger. As a result of the greater quantity of the photohydrogen fuel available for the weapon’s plasma reaction, it could be fired for a much longer span of time than a typical plasma gun without requiring refuelling; however, it shared with all plasma weapons the need to allow the core to cool between shots, or else the tremendous heat given off by the reaction would not sufficiently dissipate, and in short order the unit would overheat and, ultimately, explode.
“Hold a moment,” Zatori ordered his squadmates, standing up and hefting the plasma gun. “I need to cycle the power and fire a test round to be sure.”
Scouts Sandor and Valen stood aside, giving him room to manoeuvre the weapon.
“Initiating weapons check,” Zatori said, and toggled the power initialisation switch on the weapon’s stock.
As the plasma gun began to hum, Zatori noted with pride for Squad Pardus that neither Sandor nor Valen stepped back. But he also noticed that neither of them had left their previous positions, when they had been behind him. An Imperial Fist was brave, but he was no fool.
“Weapon initialised,” Zatori said aloud, and raised the plasma gun’s stock to his shoulder.
The humming from the plasma gun increased in pitch and volume.
“Acquiring target.” Zatori sighted along the back of the weapon at a random outcropping atop a rocky hill several hundred metres away to the south-east. On the bare skin of his cheek, only a finger’s breadth away from the housing, Zatori could feel the heat bleeding off the coils and out through the vanes.
“Firing,” Zatori said in calm, even tones. Holding his breath to steady his aim, he depressed the firing stud on the grip.
Zatori’s pupils contracted rapidly as the blindingly bright bolt of plasma lanced out of the weapon’s barrel. Though not as fast as bursts from a lasgun, plasma bolts had a far greater muzzle velocity than the bolts fired by a bolt pistol or bolter, closing the distance from weapon to target in the merest fraction of an instant.
The rock outcropping vanished in a flash of searing heat and explosive shock, sending a puff of atomised flint into the air, a small black cloud that lingered a few metres over the ground.
“Cycling down,” Zatori said with satisfaction and relief, toggling the switch to begin the cool-down procedure.
He lowered the plasma gun from his shoulder, glancing at the black cloud which was already dissipating into the evening air, only dimly visible in the fading light of day. The sun was setting on the other side of the mountain, and long shadows stretched out before them.
“What’s that?” Sandor said, pointing off to the south-east.
Zatori glanced in the direction he was pointing, and shrugged. “Just a random rock. Seemed as good a target as any.”
Sandor shook his head. “No, that.” He gestured again emphatically towards the south-east.
Zatori looked again, his enhanced vision straining. What he had originally taken to be the debris from his test shot, he now saw, was in fact an even larger black cloud on the horizon, far to the south and east of the Bastion. But what sort of clouds could there be on a planet which knew virtually no weather?
“I’m not sure,” Zatori said, eyes narrowed, “but we should inform Veteran-Sergeant Hilts.”
From the dark tunnels far beneath the mountain, Scout Jean-Robur du Queste now found himself dispatched to the mountain’s very pinnacle, but while his elevation had increased greatly, it was no less dark for all of that.
At least, Jean-Robur thought, I have a little peace and solitude, for once.
Scout Rhomec was currently a hundred or so metres away, in a similar crawlspace lower down the mountain’s southern slope. The two Scouts had been dispatched by Veteran-Sergeant Hilts from the control room at the mountain’s heart to the broadcast array threaded through the outer skin of the mountain itse
lf, and there was too much area for the two Scouts not to divide their resources.
The architects of the Bastion had known their business, though, Scout du Queste had to give them that. The automated planetary defences operated countless ground-based batteries and sensor-arrays all over the surface of Vernalis. Communications between the Bastion and the batteries were carried out on several redundant levels, so that if there was interruption or interference on one level the others would be sufficient to continue operations.
The majority of the batteries were connected primarily by buried landlines, either directly to the Bastion or to other batteries or hubs which themselves were. These shielded and armoured cables carried instructions from tire Bastion to tire batteries, and carried sensor data back to the Bastion from the sensor-arrays. Though they were in the majority of places subterranean, buried at variable distances below the shale and flint of Vernalis’ surface, there were a number of locations where the cabling was exposed to the open air, or in which the subterranean cabling passed only a short distance below the surface. And though the chances of any of the lines being cut were remote, given their shielding and positioning, the architects of the Bastion had opted to account for the possibility.
In the event that the landline communication was interrupted, then, the Bastion was capable of communicating with and controlling the batteries and sensors over vox-channels. With redundant relay links located all across the planet’s surface, there was sufficient bandwidth on the multi-channel vox to carry hololithic, voice and data communications.
Unfortunately, though, the Bastion’s multi-channel vox was a closed system, designed only for the automated defence system to control the disparate parts of its planetary network. It was not intended for the use of the planetary population, or else the strike cruiser Titus would have had an easier time of it making contact with the survivors in the Bastion from orbit when first arriving in the skies above Vernalis. The inoperative communication systems had left the planet’s surface all but deaf and dumb.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 21