Baneblade

by Guy Haley

  ‘I don’t need to remind you that destroying this nest has been designated an A-plus priority by command. It’s a victory we need after that disaster at the Flats. We’ve been through worse before, men,’ said Cortein, ‘and Mars Triumphant has seen much, much worse.’ He patted the ceiling of the compartment. ‘We draw them out, we draw them away, give those Savlar scum time to get in underneath them and blow the green basdacks into the warp and back. Any remnants, we lead onto Strenkelios’s men. The orks won’t be able to resist us, we’re big but we’re alone, a worthy foe but an isolated one, a combination of strength and weakness that’ll have them scrambling over each other to get at us. That’s the trap. Let’s not spoil this now. Do me proud.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ echoed the men.

  ‘Come down, Epperaliant, I need you here. Comms silence is broken in the attack group as of now. Sound the order, we advance. Outlanner, take us over the rim, now. For Paragon!’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ echoed the men.

  ‘For the Emperor!’

  ‘Aye, sir!’

  ‘For the greater glory of Mars Triumphant!’

  ‘Aye, sir!’

  The light in the main deck shifted to red, signifying combat stations. The engine of Mars Triumphant roared out a challenge, daring any greenskin that might be listening to come and try their luck. With a lurch, the behemoth rumbled forwards on Kalidar’s hard sands, up the spoil line and into full view of the ork base, Leman Russ flanking either side.

  ‘Gentlemen, we have thirty-two minutes until the Savlar detonate their atomic mines. Fire at will, make as much of a rumpus as you can. Radden, throw one down the throat of that mess and see what it pukes out.’

  He stabbed his hand into the holo of the mine-head door, and targeting information sprang up on the gunnery stations’ screens.

  Bannick and Marsello sat side by side, each one controlling a sponson. Bannick peered at the tank’s screens on his station. The weight of the machine’s systems pressed in on his consciousness, lending it physical presence as if he sat in a cave with a bear.

  The tank rumbled forwards in the dawn light, battle cannon spitting rocket-propelled shells as it went. The Leman Russ joined their own deadly shouts to Mars Triumphant’s song of destruction. The heavy bolters were not in range, so Bannick set to picking off lone orks with his lascannon. Through the magnification of his weapon’s augur-eyes, he saw the drunken xenos stumbling to their feet, gesticulating and shouting. Several turned to run inside. Bannick wondered how they could survive without respirators. Ganlick was right, they were tough. That won’t help them, he thought, as he vaporised one of the foul things with a lasblast. He caught sight of the caged and tortured men in the cap and hatred filled his heart. He set to his task with grim satisfaction. Shells exploded amid the xenos. Sand erupted into the air, the orks were in uproar.

  Then there were orks everywhere. A stream of buggies, bikes and other constructions came pouring out of the mine’s mouth. Radden’s shots took their toll as they emerged, but there were scores of them, and they rapidly closed with the heavy Imperial vehicles. Bannick and Marsello opened up with the six heavy bolters at their command. Burning wreckage bounced through the desert, but still the vehicles came on.

  ‘Well done,’ said Cortein. ‘That poked them. Steady as we go, prepare for all back one-third, let’s give it five more minutes then begin to draw them away. Convey my order to our support, Epperaliant.’

  Bannick’s view tracked over the caged prisoners again. He squinted. There, movement. He zoomed in, picture shuddering. ‘Honoured lieutenant!’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Bannick, what is it?’

  ‘Quadrant five, movement, non-orkoid.’ said Bannick. ‘Human prisoners, they’re still alive.’ He threw up a pict onto the comm desk main screen.

  ‘Emperor’s teeth, what have they done?’ asked Cortein. At least ten of the men were still alive, trapped in the cage.

  ‘Maybe we can fire, open a hole in the cage?’ said Bannick.

  ‘Negative, it’s too small a target, we’ll kill them,’ said Marsello. ‘Perhaps we’d better, it’d be a mercy.’

  Cortein spoke. ‘Dammit! There must be a way.’

  Epperaliant yelled. ‘We have to stay clear of the mine, the ground’s too soft down there to support us. We’ll become mired. Let’s give them a clean end and commend their souls to our protector.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting risking this machine for the sake of a few men, Epperaliant, but there are other ways,’ said Cortein firmly. He chewed his lip. ‘That Salamander, boy, how fast is it?’

  ‘Fast,’ said Bannick.

  ‘Get it out here.’ Cortein magnified a pict of the area, pulling up the cage on his chart desk. He transmitted a datasquirt with rapid finger motions across his command suite. ‘Tank two, cover that Salamander when it comes in. I want a wall of fire round it, nothing gets through to harm it!’

  ‘Incoming!’ shouted Epperaliant.

  The Baneblade shook as if it had been kicked by one of the ork’s vile gods, Bannick having to grab at his station to avoid being thrown to the floor. Lights flickered. Epperaliant looked to the ceiling expectantly, but no further blows came.

  ‘Damage report!’ shouted Cortein.

  ‘All systems functioning in the green, honoured lieutenant. We’ve got some energy spiking round demolisher fire control, but it’ll hold,’ said Vorkosigen, his ever-present tarot reader swinging on a cord by his head.

  ‘Don’t risk it, Vorkosigen. Switch to auxiliary,’ said Cortein.

  Vorkosigen replied. ‘Switching to auxiliary. Ganlick, you’ll be offline for four, three, two, one – back online.’

  ‘What the…?’ said Marsello, eyes wide.

  From out of the mouth of the mine came a hulking ork battlefortress, a huge ork armoured vehicle borne on eight fat, metal wheels. Bigger than the Baneblade, it bristled with weapons poking out of gunports lined with the crude glyphs of ork-kind. A massive turret followed the super-heavy’s movement, gunsmoke pouring from its barrel. Three smaller cannons manned by smaller greenskins spoke next; triple impacts banged out a tattoo on the hull.

  ‘We’ll have to take that out for Strenkelios’s sake, we don’t want to draw that up towards the infantry,’ said Cortein. ‘Steady Marsello, don’t panic, it’s no match for Mars Triumphant. Outlanner, forward armour to main target.’ Cortein designated the ork battlefortress as such, targeting information relayed to the gunners’ stations. ‘Take it down.’

  All the men spoke now, busy with their tasks, a constant, unhurried chatter that filled the tank, detailing everything they were doing. Cortein heard them all, despite the roar of the engine and the crash of cannon fire, replying, ordering, conducting them like an orchestra, Mars Triumphant responding smoothly to the crew’s prompting.

  ‘Tanks two and three, concentrate on the smaller vehicles. The battlefortress is ours. Epperaliant, where’s that damned Salamander? I want those men out of there.’

  ‘They’re on their way sir, the crew are not pleased,’ said Epperaliant.

  ‘I’ll have them up on charges if they’re not here within three minutes. Make that clear to them. Get them down here now!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And request Lieutenant Strenkelios move his Atraxians to the ridge, the ambush is off, repeat, off. He can get his target practice from the ridge edge.’

  The main cannons of Mars Triumphant spoke in unison, striking hard at the battlefortress, yet despite its ramshackle construction it was tough and came on, its bestial snout panting fire as it rumbled forwards.

  ‘Damn thing’s got armour thick as grox skin!’ shouted Radden, stitching magnesium tracer across its front, following it with a shot from the main cannon.

  ‘We’re down to two shells up here! Ralt! Ralt! More ammo!’ called Meggen.

  Behind Bannick the shell ele
vator rattled as more ammunition was sent up top by the loader down below.

  ‘Bannick, sweep off those gretchin from the cannons,’ said Radden.

  ‘Gretchin?’

  ‘The little greenskins! Keep the smaller guns out of commission while we load up again,’ explained the main gunner.

  Bannick did as he was asked, raking the gunports with heavy bolter fire; it drove the gretchin back, but no matter how many of the skinny greenskins exploded, there always seemed to be more. He switched to lascannon and burnt out a gunport. There was an orange flash from within, and the cannon fell silent.

  ‘Good shot!’ shouted Radden, deafening Bannick over the vox with his excitement. ‘Now watch this.’ The main gun of Mars Triumphant boomed. The side of the battlefortress exploded in flame and two of its wheels flew off, slowing it considerably, although it did not halt.

  The duel began in earnest, the titanic vehicles circling each other as buggies and trakks buzzed ineffectually around them. Shot after shot went between the two tanks, to little effect.

  ‘Doesn’t this basdack have a weak point?’ said Radden.

  ‘I’m on it, Radden! Give me some time!’ said Epperaliant.

  Bannick listened intently to the chatter, his own eyes firmly on tacfeed and gun cameras. He tracked the left lascannon a full 180 degrees, so that it pointed directly to the rear. Through the weapon’s eye he caught sight of a trio of light half-tracks carrying rocket launchers lining up to blast Mars Triumphant from behind. He annihilated them one after the other with bolts of searing light.

  ‘Keep it up, Bannick,’ said Cortein, in between his endless stream of orders, his fingers dancing over his command suite. ‘Keep them off the powerplant.’

  A huge ork appeared atop the battlefortress, poking out of a turret hatch, a power claw the size of a man on its left hand. It gesticulated and roared as its tank shot at the Baneblade, a bald challenge.

  ‘There, got it,’ said Epperaliant. ‘Logic engine suggests this spot. Check your auspex, data coming up now.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like much. Ganlick?’ said Radden.

  ‘Ready for your mark,’ replied the second gunner.

  ‘Load up AP, Radden,’ said Cortein.

  ‘Load AP!’ said Radden.

  ‘Loading AP!’ said Meggen. In the turret, Radden kissed his hand and slapped the shell as Meggen pushed it home.

  ‘Right sponson lascannon offline!’ said Marsello.

  ‘Power lines, power lines! Don’t fire so often, allow two breaths between, you’re overstressing the shunts.’ Tech-Adept Vorkosigen began a low chant as he attempted a reroute on the weapon.

  ‘Ready!’ said Radden.

  ‘Ready!’ repeated Ganlick.

  ‘Fire!’ said Cortein.

  Radden’s shell arced through the air, burying itself deep in the ork vehicle, Ganlick’s close in behind. The ork warleader had time enough for one more defiant roar before he and his tank were obliterated in a hemisphere of fire and metal fragments.

  ‘Target destroyed, good work,’ said Cortein. ‘Time check?’

  ‘Seventeen minutes to detonation,’ said Epperaliant.

  ‘Where’s that damn Salamander?’

  Epperaliant checked over his instruments. ‘They’ve taken a hit.’ He pushed his mouthpiece in close and voxed them urgently. A voice, drowning in static, came back faintly. ‘Thirty metres behind us. We don’t have time, we’ve done our job, let’s pull out.’

  ‘We shall commend our fallen to the Emperor,’ said Bannick quietly.

  ‘We’ll make time,’ said Cortein. ‘I want those men out of there.’

  Bannick thought for a moment, watching the green silhouettes of ork light vehicles dance round his scope like fireflies. What should he do? He thought back to his youth, to the statue – what would that man do, the hero Cortein, if he could? He spoke up. ‘Sir, I’ll go. I’ll drive it.’

  ‘Will you now?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if the Emperor wills it.’

  Cortein appraised him for a long second. ‘I have known both pious fools and saints in my time. Which are you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Cortein thought rapidly, came to a decision. ‘Go to it. Be quick. You’ve now fifteen minutes! Outlanner, back us out of here, two-thirds speed, concentrate all fire forwards, Mauser’s pattern. Marsello, cover our backs.’

  Bannick nodded a thanks to Cortein, and clambered up into the turret and out the top instead, ignoring Radden’s questions as he went.

  He leapt down from the turret as it swung round, onto the roof of the main deck, then over the side of the track guard. It was a three-and-a-half-metre drop, but Kalidar’s gravity was low and he took the impact with a roll. He was up on his feet and running towards the Salamander before he knew it. The roar of the Baneblade’s engine was terrifying outside the tank. Guns and turrets swivelled this way and that, spitting fire and death, devastating the orks. A wagon full of orks came caroming through the night, then another, and another. One took a hit from the Baneblade, spinning it to one side. The entire machine toppled over, spilling orks across the sand. They picked themselves up and ran on, towards the spoil rim.

  Strenheim and his troops had arrived; a disciplined line of stormtroopers took up station along the depression rim to rain lasgun fire down on the orks, Chimeras at their flanks. The night lit up as a plasma gun sent a small sun burning through the air. It struck and exploded in a miniature nova that immolated an ork biker, droplets of molten steel pattering onto the desert, fused sand glowing hot in the crater left behind. The trucks disgorged their cargo, and the orks ran up the banking. Many died, but several got in close, hurling men this way and that before they were brought down, Strenheim at the front, ordering new fire patterns as he decapitated a greenskin with his sword. More orks came in from the mine, Bannick ran on, the Salamander almost in reach.

  The Leman Russ Punisher roared up and over the edge of the depression, its punisher barrel powering up. The tank halted, weapon swinging round.

  It was pointed right at Bannick. He hit the deck as it fired. Thousands of white-hot shells scored trails in the night, so bright they left tracks on Bannick’s vision. The bullet storm stopped as quickly as it had begun and Bannick glanced behind him to see a wet slick of orkish parts spread in a wide cone behind him. He gave silent thanks and scrambled forwards onto the Salamander.

  The commsman lay curled at the foot of his instruments in a pool of his own guts, the commander was missing, the gunner lolled on the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood coming from a nasty shrapnel wound in his arm. Bannick checked him quickly. ‘Hold on!’ he shouted into his ear, then pushed his way through the door into the enclosed drive compartment. The driver lay slumped at the controls, dead. Bannick shoved him to one side and took his place.

  Emperor, lend me speed, he thought. If not for me, for those men the orks would have killed.

  He slammed the Salamander into forward gear, gunning its overcharged engines as hard as he dared; it jumped forwards, the hard-packed sand almost as good as a road. Free of heavy armour, the Chimera variant was light enough to keep pace with the ork buggies. Several of these peeled away from harassing the Baneblade and gave chase, wild shots from their heavy stubbers hammering off the vehicle. A thump, and Bannick was face to face with a leering ork face pushing and snapping at the vision slit, before it was snatched away. A buggy attempted to outpace him, its cackling gunner bringing rockets round to fire right at the front of the Salamander, but a lascannon bolt from the right cut it in half, and Bannick’s borrowed vehicle bounced as it ran over the wreckage.

  Eight minutes.

  The sand softened to the centre of the depression, slowing the scout tank. Five hundred metres to go.

  The Salamander burst through the fence surrounding the prisoners’ cage. Bannick wrenched back on a drive lever, shutting one of the t
rack units off, spinning the vehicle round. He pushed himself out of the seat and leapt over the dead driver.

  He tried to ignore the sight of the tortured men pinned to poles about the enclosure. The scent of burnt human flesh assailed him through his rebreather.

  He flew as he ran to the cage door. He pulled his laspistol from its holster and shot a cowering gretchin that stood hissing by the cage door.

  The men looked at him in surprise. They stood. They’d had their limbs freed from the yokes, and had the sense to tear some of their uniforms off and wrap them round their faces. Perhaps they’d avoid the dustlung. There were about twelve of them.

  Three shots and the lock was broken.

  Six minutes.

  ‘Everyone out!’

  The men needed little encouragement, those least hurt helping the others.

  ‘Get these men down!’ shouted Bannick as the uninjured guardsmen piled the wounded men into the back of the Salamander, dragging the dead body of the commsman out and leaving him on the sand. Two captives, severely wounded, were brought down quickly, screaming as their brutalised flesh tore further. Bannick quickly scanned round the enclosure. Eight more men were dead, three more living, but so enwrapped in spike and chain he had no chance to bring them down in time.

  Bannick grimaced as he shot each one in the head. Eyes gouged out, noses cut off, skin flayed. As he gave the Emperor’s benediction, his hatred for the orks hardened.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, waving the men onto the vehicle. The tank was designed for five to work without hindrance, but there was just enough space for the twelve men to cram in. ‘The mine is going up!’

  He boarded the Salamander and pushed his way roughly into the drive compartment.

  Four minutes.

  The Salamander was slower than before, weighed down by extra men, its tracks turning less surely on the softer ground at the heart of the depression, but it was quick enough. The mutilated corpses of their comrades were soon behind the escaping guard, the spire of the mining installation growing smaller and smaller. As they hit the harder-packed ground towards the edge of the depression, the Salamander’s speed increased rapidly. In the back, the guardsmen ransacked storage bins for rebreathers, and clung on for their lives.