Baneblade

by Guy Haley

  ‘This raid was a valuable, if costly, lesson to us,’ said the general. He leaned heavily against the dark bronze lectern at the pulpit front, looking more exhausted than before. He was still in his dress uniform, now spattered with ork blood. A team of ork commandoes had disabled the security spirits on a hatch very much like that which Bannick had used, worked their way in as far as the command deck’s armoured doors, catching the general and his staff as they made their way up. The Guard Paramount had made short work of the intruders, killing fourteen orks for the loss of only five men, but four of them had been high-ranking officers. Any doubts Iskhandrian had had about orkish cunning had been firmly displaced. Not that he’d admit to ever having had any.

  ‘The orks are far from beaten,’ he continued. ‘We can ill afford to be complacent. We will not be so taken again.’ The gathered men nodded. All had noted the absence of the Atraxian Colonel Gemael, responsible for setting the camp. He had been one of those most vocal in denouncing reports of unusual ork tactics; several troopers had been condemned to death by him for voicing their concerns. Heresy, apparently, because until tonight the official line had been that orks don’t understand stealth, because that what it said in the Tactica. That it said exactly the opposite elsewhere did not matter much; each volume of the work, and each revision of each volume, had its own adherents. Such inflexibility was dangerous.

  ‘General Basteen and Castellan Sullio have been promoted to second and third in command. Ostilek, Gemael and Tulligen will face disciplinary charges on grounds of treasonous unadaptability. Let us not forget the Tactica Imperium teaches us this valuable lesson among the many others it provides us. Let that be an end to it, and let us bring this war also to an end. Sanctioned Psyker Logan, please.’

  Iskhandrian had a good record, had fought the orks before, a different kind of ork, so it turned out, but had a reputation as a hopeless dogmatist. The orks might have struck a blow against the Imperial effort on Kalidar with their raid, but it would be one that rebounded dangerously against them if it shook him out of his dogmatism. Typically, he made no mention of his own mistakes. It would be the lower-ranking generals who would pay; whether they encouraged him or not was irrelevant. The whole thing was wearily familiar, like the machinations of the clan nobility back home. The only difference was that duelling was outlawed in this particular battlegroup. The Atraxians thought it wasteful. Bannick, once a champion of such encounters, agreed.

  At Iskhandrian’s mention of his name, Logan rose up into the air on a platform at the end of a jointed arm and addressed the officers. ‘Many of you were present at the banquet this evening when Sanctioned Psyker Maldon was killed. You may have realised he was slain by a surge of etheric energy, under the direction of an enemy witch.’

  Several men in the room made the sign of the aquila.

  ‘The agents of the ruinous powers?’ said a horrified aide. ‘A rogue witch, working with the orks?’

  ‘Not in this instance,’ said Logan. His voice was thick with effort. He shook as he spoke, still unrecovered from the psychic backlash he had experienced earlier. ‘The mind we are dealing with is an orkish one, albeit vastly more powerful than the ordinary run of their psykers. Orks are capable of great psychic feats, indeed they are all mildly psychic.’ He shuddered, as if he could hear their barbarous thoughts. ‘Their state of excitement generates ever greater disturbances in the fabric of the warp. There are those orks who are attuned to this excitation of the warp, those that can channel it and unleash it to great destructive effect. But rarely are they capable of such fine manipulations – they draw in the power of those around them, spew it forth, and then they are spent. Explosive power is their art. Invading the mind of another and bending it to your will is a subtle skill, made all the more difficult if the mind in question is not that of one’s own kind. This is something different, something more controlled.

  ‘I have fought orks before, I have felt the minds of their warp-sensitives, I… That it can do this in a situation like this, through the warp eddies and mind-currents produced by the lorelei deposits on Kalidar… The way it knew exactly where our sentries were, the camp’s defences, where to hit the Magnificence…’ The remaining psyker looked from face to face, his own grey, crusts of blood round his nostrils. ‘Frankly, gentlemen, this thing we face, it terrifies me.’

  There were mutters from the assembled officers. Bannick had heard the rumours of the things psykers had to be strengthened against, the nameless horrors that lived on the other side of the veil of reality, the same hideous creatures the Emperor himself battled against night and day for the sake of mankind’s souls. For a sanctioned psyker of Logan’s rank to admit such fear was alarming.

  Iskhandrian spoke again. ‘From consultation with Sanctioned Psyker Lord Logan, and Astropath Prime Mastraen, it has become apparent that the orks are aware of our every move. That is how they knew just where to spring the ambush at the Kostoval Flats. How they knew where we would be tonight, even amid this storm. They have known of our exact disposition time and again, and they are intelligent enough to deploy that knowledge in battle. It is imperative that we destroy this capability.’

  ‘We pray to our most beneficent Emperor that the precautions we have taken to shield this briefing from the prying mind that watches us will be sufficient,’ said Logan. ‘All of you here who are not to take part in the captain-general’s plan will have to remain in the Chamber of Strategies until the culmination of that plan.’

  ‘We will detail this plan to those it truly concerns at the end of this briefing,’ said Captain-General Iskhandrian. ‘Firstly, new intelligence has come to light regarding the orks’ reasons for invading Kalidar. I absolutely encourage you to think about this outside this room as often as possible. If some ork witch is peering into our minds, it will serve us well if they know we know what their ultimate objectives are here, and even more so if they become aware that we have means of blocking their information-gathering. Procurator Actual Eskolios will proceed with this brief.’

  One of Iskhandrian’s aides came forwards and took the place of the captain-general and his guards. He was an effete man in the immaculate uniform robes of a Munitorum official, a backroom quill-pusher who’d not set foot outside the command vehicle, thought Bannick, and judging by the muttering that greeted his appearance, he was not alone in his assessment. But when the Procurator Actual looked at the audience, he met the eyes of many of them, and those that stared back saw a keen mind. He cleared his throat delicately, poured a goblet of water from the lectern’s carafe, drank it, and began.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, without preamble, his quiet voice carrying across the hubbub of the command deck. ‘I will first provide you with some background information regarding the habits of the ork. Please be aware that all information is classified. By all means think long and hard on what you are about to hear. But speak of it, and I will hear of it. And when I do, things will go ill for the man that talks out of turn.

  ‘The ork has been the enemy of mankind since time immemorial, whatever encounter sparked our struggle against their kind now lost to time. It is doubtful any peaceful resolution could have been achieved. The orks are born warriors.’ The chart table burst into light, a life-size depiction of a mature greenskin leaping into the air, where it rotated. Pict-captures of orks in battle, sub-types of orks and their machinery slowly turned round its feet. ‘Bigger, stronger, and tougher than any man, save the Angels of Death, they are far deadlier than we prefer to acknowledge. Tell your average man the truth, and we would quickly run out of soldiers.’

  Bannick thought of the Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer, issued in its billions to soldiers across the Imperium, his own copy thrown on the floor and abandoned by Radden when he came to collect him to serve on Mars Triumphant. Propaganda, pure and simple.

  ‘However, you have faced them in battle, and killed them. You know that they are not undefeatable. Perhaps you will forgiv
e our white lies.’ Eskelios smiled, his lips weirdly pink on his papery face.

  ‘It is speculated by the Magos Biologis of the Adeptus Mechanicus that the orks are a survivor species, an artificially created race designed by a long-dead civilisation. The whys and wherefores of this are not relevant here; what is relevant is how this affects their distribution, and actions. Part of their survival mechanism is the way that they spread themselves; it is common knowledge that orks are to be found across the known galaxy. Everywhere man goes, there is found ork, and if there is no ork, it can be guaranteed that there will be soon.

  ‘The orks migrate in waves, and if they retreat for a while the next tide mark will always be higher than the last.’ The chart table’s display changed, showing a small world, icons and text designating it as an ork planet. ‘Orks will arrive on a world like this. They will increase in number, they will fight the original inhabitants and, when victorious, amongst themselves. War will intensify, until one ork establishes himself leader of all. The orks will then leave. They direct themselves only insomuch as they invade planets conducive to furthering their crusade – resource-rich manufacturing worlds are preferred targets. A crusade, having gained momentum, will assault systems with ever greater strategic value, some psychic mechanism attracting more orks to the flag of the conqueror. It had been assumed that this was the case here, with Gratzdakka’s attack on the Kalidar system. The standard approach to such an infestation of this class of world is abandonment, virus bombing, then reoccupation.’ The chart table cycled through a number of scenarios that could trigger an ork war-migration.

  ‘But that does not take into account the lorelei. The deposits found here are vital to the production of psychically attuned weaponry, making this world valuable to the Imperium. Richer worlds have been condemned to the rightful purge of Exterminatus when thus overrun, but ongoing crusades have need of the resources this world produces. Every day, the Imperium pushes further and further into the unknown, and in the dark we meet strange adversaries with great powers of mind, taxing our own psychic capabilities. This world is therefore strategically vital.’

  Bannick had suspected as much; it wasn’t hard to fill in the picture of why they were there, as Ganlick had said. Kalidar had little to offer, the system’s abundance of minerals common throughout the Imperium. Except the lorelei.

  ‘The lorelei. That is the reason we fight here. Until now we assumed that the orks had come here by chance, an inconvenience.

  ‘We now think differently. This invasion is something away from the orkish norm. We believe that they too have come for the crystals.’

  The chart table flickered, and suddenly the room was filled with a four-metre representation of the ork Titan that Bannick had faced on the Kostoval Flats, eyes glaring, as terrifying as it was in real life. Pict-capture of the Titan taken from a command vehicle somewhere on the front cycled over and over, ending after thirty seconds with massive weapons discharge in a flash of white.

  ‘We suspect that the ork engine utilises large numbers of the crystals in its emitter arrays,’ continued Eskelios. ‘Until the attack on Maldon and the raid, we suspected that this was just the passing fancy of one of their maverick engineers, a machine to tap into the warp, perhaps. We have seen it before.’ A diagram of a bulky weapon, front-mounted with a propeller-like arrangement, each terminating in an iron-bound ball. ‘Or to magnify the abilities of a group of their shaman-psykers. But the attack, coupled with the constant foreknowledge of the orkish forces, led us to suspect one mind. Astropath Prime Mastraen confirmed this today. Behind the psychic noise put out by Kalidar’s lorelei deposits, and the roar of the orkish war-call, we have detected a single, powerful mind looking at us from the immaterium. This is why we are not able to break the deadlock here on Kalidar. The same psychic signature has been detected from this ork Titan,’ he indicated the engine, huge and scowling at the centre of the room. ‘This situation has to change.’

  Eskelios stepped down.

  ‘For some time,’ Logan spoke again, ‘our Schola Psykana prognosticators have been unable to see a clear course. We had thought their foresight to be somewhat affected by Kalidar’s, ah, unique circumstances. Now we believe it to be partly the influence of this mind, partly because they had not all the variables to hand. Having taken these factors into account, we are now able to plot a path through the uncertainties of this war to victory. There is great interference in the warp. It takes more than natural interference to accomplish this on the local scale, as we see here. This witch is employing a device, we are sure.’ Grainy picts of the ruined surface town and central well of the conquered hive flickered onto the chart desk’s display. ‘The centre of the hive has been gutted. The orks are moving large amounts of material into the cavity. These picts were taken four days ago by a specially adapted Lightning fighter on a reconnaissance run. Our commsat network about the world has been severely compromised by the ork fleet – aircraft, as you know, gentlemen, are limited in the time they can spend in Kalidar’s atmosphere. Our good fortune, in this case, because the ork air defence is rudimentary – they do not think we can put up significant airpower.’

  They’d be right about that, thought Bannick. Dust, crazy EM fields, solar flaring and contrary, multi-level laminar windflows had put paid to any attempt to dominate the skies of Kalidar.

  ‘But this Lightning came back, engine fans glassed, with these pictures. It shows some kind of device that we now believe to be a psychic amplifier. This device, part contructed as it is, is to blame for our growing difficulty in utilising psychic communications, but we fear it might also have… darker purposes. This must be our primary target. However, it is protected by a grade omicron psychic umbrella.’ Graphics whirled up, depicting a cross-section of the hive, a visualisation of the device at its base. ‘This effect is more potent a defence that a fourteen-layer deep void shield array. The ork witch is undoubtedly the source of it, until he is dead….’ He shook a little, and mopped at his brow. ‘Strike at his engine, kill him, and we disable the field.’ He dipped his head. ‘And that is all I can tell you at this time.’

  Another of Iskhandrian’s aides took to the podium. He read out a long list of names. ‘Those men whose names are upon the list I have delivered must leave the briefing. We repeat that none of this be discussed outside this room.’ He repeated the list. The greater part of the group filed out.

  Bannick’s name, and Cortein’s, were not on that list.

  Iskhandrian took to the podium again. ‘Gentlemen, I shall now detail to you the plan…’

  INTERSTITIAL

  ii) In the event of a challenge being issued, so long as the challenger and instigator of the challenge holds valid license, legally ratified by two members of recognised enforcement agencies, to engage in personal combat with a man of equal social standing and rank, should any harm come to either party, neither the challenger nor the challenged shall come under the scrutiny of the law for their actions; both shall be held as righteous in thought, intent, and deed, no matter the outcome.

  Paragonian constitution,

  ‘Codicils Regarding Rightful Duelling’

  Chapter 14

  Aronis City, Paragon VI

  2005395.M41

  Bannick staggered out of the cathedral. The day was dusk-dim. On the horizon, Mater Maxima sank from sight, a thin corona of hard light on its bloated curve a promise of the Glory Seasons to come, but promises kept no one warm.

  Glory, when the sun was unobstructed, was weeks away. Frozen Paragon would continue to inch its way around the gas giant, a process that took the best part of two Terran years, the moon-world’s own axial tilt seasonally plunging the temperatures deeper. On the light side of the gas giant, during the Glory Seasons, the Paragonians termed these seasonal variations individually: Growth, Little Summer, Second Growth, Little Fall, Little Winter, twice the planet went through these before Mater Maxima smothered it with the darkness of eclips
e and the Long Winter began its twenty-three months. The years of the Long Winter also contained a series of five seasons, but the Paragonians had no names for them. Winter was winter, and it was long and cold at that.

  Bannick’s lungs burnt with the chill. He clamped the body of a slowtail, a small animal native to Paragon, between his teeth, breathing through it to warm the air. He regretted losing his gloves in the Gardens of the Vermillion Moon. His body shivered, but he paid it no attention, his dishonour worse than the chill.

  He walked along frozen canals. Paragon was turning its back on what little light Mater Maxima let by, and true night was falling. A few skaters sported on the ice, a skiff ground by, hull raised up on winter blades, but people were hurrying home, bundles of fur barely recognisable as human. Bannick wandered slowly, feet leading him where they would, one thing on his mind and one thing only.

  Tuparillio, lying dead on the grass, blue stained crimson.

  The insides of Bannick’s nostrils were raw with the cold, the clouds of his breath transformed to ice crystals. The chase hadn’t given him chance to put his furs on properly. His teeth were beginning to chatter. If he didn’t get inside soon he’d be found frozen hard as stone by the Dawn Watch.