[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  “Kill them!” Kantor shouted, and the air filled with the bark of bolters.

  Lodric Lician spotted a trolley stacked high with bombs and missiles, and immediately ordered Brother Ramos to bring his plasma cannon to bear.

  Kantor heard the roar of blazing plasma just before he blinked in the blinding flash of light. The ork munitions exploded with such force that they sent two of the fighter-bombers plummeting over the edge of the plate. Others burst into flames and, shortly after that, their exploding fuel tanks ripped them apart, showering the Space Marines with burning junk.

  The ork pilots which had not yet been killed by Squad Segala turned to look at their beloved machines reduced to wrecks. Great rolls of black smoke swept across the plate. Orange fires danced and crackled. The gretchin scattered, desperately looking for any kind of cover at all, but there was nothing they could reach before the Space Marines cut them down. Daecor and the men of Squad Segala picked off the last of the ork pilots as they charged straight at the Astartes with their pistols blazing.

  The fight lasted only seconds.

  “Clear, lord,” said Daecor.

  Kantor scanned the landing plate. “Reload and follow me.”

  He directed their attention to a tight cluster of three slim, black towers linked to the Coronado Plate by a covered bridge.

  “Both our objectives are in there,” he told them.

  Lights could be seen in the tower windows, shining out from rooms on a hundred floors that may or may not have been occupied by the greenskins. Kantor knew exactly where he and his men had to go. He hoped resistance would be minimal. Despite the extra magazines and charge-packs he and his assault force had brought with them, he knew their ammunition must be starting to run low. He checked a readout on his visor and saw that Dorn’s Arrow still had exactly four hundred and eighteen rounds left to fire before the belt feeds ran dry. After that, he would be down to his sword and power fist. Close-quarters would be the only option, and the orks were far more formidable at that range.

  As he led his Fists towards the bridge that linked the Coronado Plate to the central towers, he tried not to worry about Cortez. The 4th Company Captain hadn’t joined them yet, but it had barely been two minutes. Kantor glanced back to check the access ramp. No. There was no sign of him. Either he was still locked in combat, or he had shrugged off the legend of his immortality at last.

  By the Holy Throne, thought Kantor, do not let it be the latter.

  Short of returning to the atrium and interfering in the fight, there was nothing he could do for his old friend. He needed the spaceport. He needed the Imperial fleet.

  The air traffic control tower, he told himself. The defence grid. If you die, Alessio, I promise you, it will not be in vain.

  As Kantor ran for the covered bridge at the edge of the landing plate, he looked up at the triple towers. The outer stonework of each was studded with gargoyles which held pulsating red lights, the kind of lights that all tall buildings employed to warn incoming air traffic of their presence. They pulsed in sequence, creating a kind of wave effect that travelled to the summit, then started from the bottom again.

  Kantor’s eyes followed the waves for a moment as he ran, and he found himself looking up at a sky filled with stars. Night had fallen fast, as it always did so near the equator. Here, three hundred metres above ground level, the air was clearer, less dominated by the haze of ork pollution and clouds of flies attracted by their open cesspits. The stars were sharp and bright.

  And some of them were moving.

  Kantor stopped and held out a hand.

  “Wait,” he told the others. “Look up.”

  As they looked, some of the moving star flashed brightly and disappeared. Other shot out hair-thin beams of white and blue light. Some seemed to travel in formation, others in random patterns.

  “I hope we’re winning,” said Sergeant Daecor.

  Kantor hoped so, too.

  He began to lead them in a run again, and soon they reached the covered bridge.

  Access to the central towers had to be fought for. No sooner had Kantor and his men reached its near edge than a stream of orks began pouring out of the doors on its far side. The bridge was narrow, only eight metres across. It forced the orks to bunch together, a fact that favoured the employment of Squad Lician’s heavy weapons once again. Brother Morai stepped forward onto the bridge, heavy bolter in hand, and began cutting the orks down six at a time with tight scything sprays of fire. Anything he missed was picked off by the brothers of Squad Segala, some of whom soon reported that they were down to their last full magazine.

  Even as Morai continued to clear the way ahead, Kantor hear bestial shouts from behind him. The ork footsoldiers from the atrium began pouring up onto the surface of the landing plate via the access ramp he and his men had used. They charged, and the Crimson Fists found themselves assaulted from two sides with no cover to speak of.

  For all the orks’ lack of accuracy, they managed to pepper the Astartes armour with fat metal slugs simply by virtue of firing so many. Kantor felt his armour struck again and again, each impact sending brief sparks up around him. His armour had once been beautiful, etched, engraved and chased with gems and gold detailing like no other. Now, it was spattered with alien gore, and chipped and blackened in places by the impact of their bullets.

  “Daecor,” shouted the Chapter Master. “You and I will cover the rear.”

  Daecor spun and opened fire with his bolter, sending the lead ork stumbling to the ground, headless, a great red river spilling out from its neck. Kantor brought Dorn’s Arrow level with his shoulder and willed the weapon to fire, controlling it by neural command. The command flashed down through his nervous system, through the sockets in his flesh, along the cables that made his body and armour one.

  Muzzle fire leapt out from the relic’s twin barrels and a stream of brass casings began to pour to the ground. Kantor watched the ammunition counter on his visor fall, cursing as it reached three hundred and fifty rounds, then three hundred. Orks crumpled before him. Every time they rushed upwards from the access ramp, he angled his left fist towards them, and Dorn’s Arrow, mounted on the back of it, cut them into lifeless, blood-sodden chunks.

  More were still coming when he heard Sergeant Segala on the link.

  “The bridge is clear, for now.”

  “Segala,” said Kantor. “Get your men across and secure the first room on the other side. Lician, have Brother Morai and Brother Ramos take position on either side of the bridge and cover Segala’s men. Send Brothers Oro and Padilla to me. Do it now. Move.”

  “As you command, lord,” said Lician. “You heard him, brothers. Get moving!”

  Brothers Morai and Ramos moved to the left and right respectively, and zeroed their heavy bolter and plasma cannon on the doors at the far end of the bridge. Ork bodies littered the smooth metal surface there. Slicks of blood reflected the light of the room beyond, its interior just visible through tinted armaplas windows.

  Brothers Oro and Padilla, both wielding heavy multi-meltas, jogged up to Kantor’s side. Oro, the taller and older of the two, said, “You wish us to cover the rear, my lord?”

  The orks, never particularly quick to learn, had finally grown cautious in their pursuit of the Crimson Fists. Rather than racing headlong from the ramp with guns blazing, they emerged slowly and carefully, poking their heads up first to find the opening surrounded by the fallen bodies of their xenos kin. Keeping to cover now, they fired their stubbers in short burst before ducking back down. A triple-burst of shells rattled off Kantor’s right pauldron as he addressed Oro and Padilla.

  “You will have to hold the plate alone, brothers,” he said, “but the ramp is a bottleneck, a perfect choke-point, well-suited to your weapons. How much power do your meltas have left?”

  “I have half a charge left on this module, my lord, and two spare,” said Padilla.

  “And you?” the Chapter Master said to Oro.

  At his side, Sergeant
Daecor’s boltgun barked. Another ork slumped dead at the top of the ramp.

  “Almost a full charge left on this one,” said Oro, patting the power module currently fixed in place under the weapon’s thick metal frame. “I have no spares though.”

  Kantor turned to Padilla and said, “Then you know what to do.”

  Padilla nodded, unclipped one of the heavy modules from his belt, and handed it to Oro, who took it with a grunt of thanks.

  “With respect, my lord,” said Oro, turning to face the Chapter Master again. “I can cover the ramp well enough alone. Take Brother Padilla with you.” He thrust his chin in the direction of the winking towers on the other side of the bridge. “I have a feeling you will need all the firepower you can muster in there.”

  Kantor hoped not, but, in fact, he had the same feeling. “Very well, but if they manage to break out of there, you fall back and rejoin us.”

  Daecor’s bolter barked again. “With respect, my lord,” said the sergeant, “the more time we spend here, the more time the orks in the tower have to prepare a defence. One multi-melta should indeed be enough.”

  Kantor had already left Cortez to fight alone, and did not relish the idea of another of his brothers being left to do so now. There were so few left as it was. But both Oro and Daecor were right. He couldn’t spare two bodies here. Oro would hold the plate.

  “Padilla,” he said, “you are with us. Brother Oro, may Dorn watch over you. If Captain Cortez survives his battle with the beast below, do not cook him by mistake on his way up.”

  Kantor had wanted to say when, not if, but, as the minutes went by, he could not deny his growing doubts. The only thing good sign so far was that the monstrous warboss, Mag Kull, had not yet emerged from the top of the ramp.

  On the link, they heard the voice of Sergeant Segala. “We have secured the lobby on the other side of the bridge. Access points are covered. Awaiting your orders, lord.”

  Kantor saluted Brother Oro, fist to breastplate, received a sharp salute in return, and turned to lead Daecor and Padilla towards the bridge. “Hold the room, sergeant,” he told Segala. “Lician, start moving your men across now.”

  “My lord,” said Lician.

  Kantor half-turned and looked back at Oro. A group of orks waving large black cleavers tried to rush him from below. At the top of the ramp, Oro met them calmly, setting his feet shoulder-width apart and levelling the multi-melta at them. There was a crack and whoosh of ionised air as the weapon cooked the aliens’ bodies, turning everything black, bone and muscle alike. The orks barely had time to scream. Their armour and weapons dropped to the ground, losing their shape, forming little heaps of hot slag. The stench of cooked flesh became strong on the air, then gusting winds tugged it away.

  Kantor turned and kept moving. He had faith in all of his Astartes. The training programmes and psycho-conditioning they had endured were second to none. Oro would hold the plate. He would hold it until Alessio emerged, bloody perhaps, but alive. He had to believe that. As his feet took him across the titanium-alloy plates of the bridge, he kept telling himself that Alessio would survive.

  He was Cortez the Immortal.

  EIGHT

  The Central Towers, New Rynn Spaceport

  The Chapter Master and what remained of his assault group finally gained access to the triple towers, within which their primary and secondary objectives waited. But there was bad news awaiting him, too.

  Kantor had hoped that the towers would be of little real interest to the orks. There were no portable weapons inside, no vehicles to salvage or customise. In each of the rooms they carefully swept for threats, abundant signs of ork presence were everywhere. The air stank of ork filth, almost drowning out other smells. Excrement stained the walls and floors. Many corners were heaped with piles of dung, armies of flies buzzing noisily, greedily, around them. White bones protruded from the mess, some recognisably human, either the bones of people brought here as food, or those of the defending Rynnsguard troopers who had been overwhelmed early in the alien invasion.

  That thought led him to another he liked even less. Kantor considered the Crusade Company battle-brothers who had died here supporting the PDF. Crusade Company. His company.

  Two squads, Phrenotas and Grylinus, had been charged with holding this place. What kind of fight had they put up? He had seen the signs of battle, the pockmarked walls, the telltale craters in cement and ferrocrete that told of bolter-rounds fired in anger. Even now, so many months after they had fallen, there were traces of their presence that he could not fail to see. But there were no Astartes bodies. There was no sign of the Terminator armour with which the two Sternguard squads had been issued. Where had they fallen? Where had they made their final stand?

  There were plenty of other bodies around. From the moment he had stepped onto the bridge that linked the core towers to the Coronado Plate, Kantor had been aware of the severed squig limbs and the twisted forms of murdered gretchin that littered the floor. These were not kills made by Rynnsguard soldiers or Astartes. This was the detritus of the orks. Gretchin, he knew, were often simply murdered on a whim by the larger orks. And the bulbous, brightly coloured squigs formed a major part of the greenskin diet far more often than they were used for tracking or waging war.

  As he led his men closer towards the central elevators that would carry them up to the air traffic control tower, they passed rooms where machines had been ripped from the walls and their mechanical innards stripped as salvage. Silently, he prayed that the orks had not interfered with the spaceport’s critical systems. He wondered, too, how Squad Victurix and the others were faring.

  Up ahead of him, halfway down a narrow hall in which arc lights flickered from the ceiling, Sergeant Segala halted and raised a hand. On the link, the sergeant whispered, “Occupied rooms on either side. The doors are closed, but I can hear greenskins inside them.”

  Kantor considered their options. He could order his Astartes to stack up outside the doors, then breach and clear, room by room. But the sound of fighting from the first room they assaulted would almost certainly bring the others out.

  Was Snagrod in one of these rooms?

  It seemed unlikely the ork warlord was here. Unlike typical ork warlords, he had not shown his face, not taken his rightful place at the frontline. During the eighteen months of the siege, numerous greenskin lieutenants had been identified and killed, though still more had survived to continue fighting, but Snagrod continued to broadcast his gloating messages in that foul orkish tongue. Kantor had started to suspect that the ork warlord had never even set foot on Rynn’s World. Some orks, for whatever reason, felt an attachment to space and the type of combat they could enjoy there. Such orks were rare, freaks perhaps, but they existed. Was Snagrod up there with his fleet right now, engaging the Imperial ships that fought even now for the chance to land vital ground support at this very facility?

  “Move quietly,” Kantor ordered. “If we can avoid a firelight, we can get to the next elevator all the sooner. Sergeant Segala, continue on point.”

  “Aye, lord,” said Segala, and the Fists began to move again, careful not to generate unnecessary noise.

  It was no easy matter, Astartes battle-plate being what it was, and ork hearing was known to be acute, perhaps to compensate for their eyesight. But with great effort, Kantor and his Fists managed to pass from this hall into another without gaining unwanted attention.

  The next hall ran perpendicular to the previous one. At its far end, Kantor saw broad wooden double-doors, one of which was partly smashed and lying at an angle against the wall. Beyond the double doors, there was a broad, well-lit chamber, and, in the centre of that chamber, he saw the elevator he had been looking for.

  “Keep moving,” he told the others. “Straight ahead, as quietly as you can.”

  Keeping quiet was hardest, of course, for the brothers of Squad Lician. Morai, Ramos and Padilla carried weaponry far heavier than anyone else. Though it did not slow them enough to be a probl
em, it did make their passage more difficult than that of their lighter-armed fellows.

  The hall was filled with pieces of scrap and refuse, and each step had to be placed carefully. There were rooms off to either side of the hall and, as before, the sound of ork occupants could be heard through some of the doors. Kantor was grateful those doors did not boast windows.

  As Brother Ramos, third from the rear, passed a waist-high jumble of twisted metal and wires, the power cabling of his plasma cannon got snagged. Before Ramos knew what was happening, there was a sudden clatter as the junk lurched with his next step, striking and dislodging other debris from a nearby heap.

  Immediately, the other Fists brought their bolters to bear on the doors at either side. The ork voices within those rooms had gone quiet, as if the aliens were straining to hear further noise that might warrant the effort of investigation.

  Kantor was right next to a door of slightly dented black metal. He heard clumsy footsteps on the other side of it, footsteps that sounded as if they were getting closer. He flexed the fingers of his power fist and activated its deadly energy field. Seconds later, the door was yanked hard. A massive xenos with a black eye-patch and earlobes pierced with lengths of bone stood staring out at him, its brain taking a moment to process the message sent by its one red eye.

  That moment was enough for Kantor. He darted straight towards the creature and brought his power fist down in a blistering hammer blow. The energy field cracked sharply, blue arcs of light flashed. One moment, the beast had a head, the next, it was erased. Twitching, the corpse fell backwards. A pistol fell from its meaty right hand.

  The moment the weapon struck the ground, a shot rang out. The fat bullet struck the ceiling. The sound of the shot seemed deafening in the silence.

  “Dorn’s blood!” cursed Kantor.

  All along the hall, doors were flung open, disgorging greenskin warriors that roared as they came. They clashed with Squad Segala first, attacking with furious force, bringing their huge axes and cleavers down again and again. Segala and his men were far faster, far better trained, and they parried or slipped the orks’ blows again and again, driving the xenos to fight even harder, fuelled by anger and frustration.