Baneblade

by Guy Haley

  Gratzdakka coughed, looked round the room, then grabbed at the enginseer, his hand fitting round the tech-priest’s chest. Thus grasping him, the giant xeno hauled him into line with his eyes.

  ‘Now that,’ said the general in thick, broken Gothic, syllables mangled by its alien throat, words whistling between its fangs, but understandable, nevertheless, ‘is a real, real shame. I tried to be nice little human, I tried. You fix that.’ He pointed. ‘You get this.’ And again, filthy claws jabbing at the proffered treaures. ‘That’s how you trade in the Imperium.’ He pronounced this ‘Imperroom’.

  ‘Eh, eh?’ he shook the enginseer, his grip round Brasslock’s ribs like a vice. ‘Yeah. So that’s how I do it. Shame, shame. Now I am gonna have to ask old Greeneye to take a look in your head, and you are not going to like that one bit, squishy. I’m having me killy wagon, it doesn’t matter if you like it or not. Nah.’ The general dropped Brasslock to the floor.

  ‘Take him away, and get Greeneye!’ he roared. ‘Tell him it’s weirding time!’

  INTERSTITIAL

  ‘They’re here, Emperor forgive me, they won’t stop looking at me, they won’t stop looking at me! My eyes! My eyes! Make them stop!’

  Last recorded transmission of Hive Kimeradon

  Constructor team, M37

  Chapter 20

  Kalidar IV, Ozymandian Basin

  3339397.M41

  The convoy made it down the mountain as night fell with no further losses. In the lee of a slab of rock where the storm was somewhat blunted, the strikeforce set up an encampment, men in protective gear working outside, risking the storm to put up airlocked tents. When Polikon had reached tank five, he had discovered that one of the men had, incredibly, survived. It was a small stroke of luck, but it raised their spirits as they went about the business of assessing their vehicles for storm damage. The hundred and fifty men looked forward to their first proper sleep in some time. Few enjoyed it.

  The nightmares they suffered that night were but a foretaste of things to come. In the morning, they left hurriedly, talking little, many of the men casting nervous glances over their shoulders as they broke the tents down with haste.

  As the convoy trekked further into the Ozymandian Basin, the sense of someone watching him never left Bannick. He’d look up from his monitors, or start from his maintenance duties, sure someone had hissed in his ear, or called his name from far away. One time he swore he saw someone standing in the shadows as he bent to retrieve rations from the storage lockers, sure it was Vorkosigen – he meant to send him off, but when he’d turned round there’d been no one there.

  The men, who’d been avoiding looking one another in the eye for the last week, suddenly began talking again. They went reluctantly to the bunks when their rest rotation came round, and spent time they should have been sleeping playing cards, talking, whatever they could do to drive the phantoms away from the edge of their perception. All except Ralt, who’d come white-faced from his time in the bunks and refused to leave the turret.

  Bannick was deferring the nightmares by playing cards with Meggen in the munitions locker when the alarm klaxon sounded. ‘All hands to stations.’ Epperaliant’s voice crackled over the vox system.

  ‘What in the name of Terra is that all about?’ muttered Meggen round his cigar, althought there was no disguising his relief at the thought of something to focus on.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Bannick. He put his middling hand down on the ammo box they used as a table and went above. Meggen moved over to the shell lift and began unclamping shells, ready for action.

  Cortein was on the vox, rapidly delivering orders to the convoy, when Bannick came onto the command deck.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked as he slid into the third gunner’s station.

  ‘Exertraxes has veered off course and some of the Leman Russ company have followed him. He’s gabbling some nonsense about the spires of Elidia,’ said Epperaliant, not looking up from his station. His hands moved quickly over the tac displays, relaying orders via datapipe to the other vehicles in the convoy. The esoteric piece of Scholastica Psykana equipment added to his station displayed graphs spiked with worrying indications of psychic interference.

  ‘The lorelei?’

  Epperaliant nodded. ‘Evidently.’

  ‘By the Throne! Listen to me!’ shouted Cortein, addressing the rest of the convoy. ‘Do not listen to the captain, he is under the influence of the crystals. Do not follow him!’ Cortein turned back from his station. ‘I’ve stopped most of them, but three of the Leman Russ went after him. There’s swiftdust all over this place.’ The Baneblade was out at the front, a suite of Martian sensors probing the ground ahead.

  ‘Seismic readings say he’s heading right for a swiftdust patch, honoured lieutenant. It’s fifty metres deep and then some, readings give out. If he goes in there, we’ll never get them out.’

  ‘Exertraxes, come in, come in!’ said Cortein. A burst of static, perhaps a hint of shouting lost in the electric noise, then nothing. ‘Can you boost the signal?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Epperaliant. ‘It’s this damn storm. It’s overwhelming everything that I’ve got. Only the tightest databeams get through coherently, and I have to send those by pulsed laser individually to each vehicle.’ A pause. ‘He’s in, honoured lieutenant, he’s hit the swiftdust.’

  ‘Emperor’s Teeth. Outlanner, swing us in as close as is safe. Epperaliant, call up the Atlas. Bannick, I want you and Ganlick outside on this.’ Cortein looked to the outside views given by the pict-captors on the exterior of the tank – front view, weapons, sides and rear – all of them showing sheets of red and grey sand blowing past. ‘I can’t see a damn thing in here. You’ll be my eyes. Full protective wear, be careful.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, now get on it.’

  In the turret, Ganlick and Bannick donned additional gear. Heavy trousers to go under their coats, gauntlets to the elbow that locked down their uniform sleeves, plus fours over their boots, covering the space between sock and footwear, hoods with holes for mouth, nose and eyes and long necks that tucked under the coats. Over this they put on their rebreathers. They fastened belts with carabiners about their waists, tested their voxes, gave Radden the thumbs-up and made for the main hatch.

  Radden closed off the central well, and he and Ralt put on their own respirators and goggles. Then Bannick and Ganlick flung back the hatch.

  Immediately, the turret was filled with swirling sand, the narrow opening the wind forced itself through turning the storm’s tendril into a bucking dust-devil. Papers and flimsies tore around the room. The wind dropped a little as Ganlick forced his large frame out of the top, then again as Bannick followed.

  As his head emerged from the hatch, it felt as if the wind would tear it off. Everything was a hideous grey, a lighter smear where the sun stood shrouded being the only point of reference. Ganlick hauled Bannick up out of the turret and slammed it shut. He grasped Bannick’s shoulder and guided him off the turret, into the lee of the metal where the wind was slightly less ferocious. He patted and turned Bannick, unspooled a loop of line from his shoulder and clipped it to Bannick’s belt, then to his own.

  ‘To the tank?’ shouted Bannick, gesturing at a handhold on the vehicle.

  Ganlick shook his head. ‘Not enough line,’ he shouted back, his voice nearly drowned by Kalidar’s angry roar. They were stood only a metre apart, but Bannick could barely hear him.

  ‘Stay close!’ shouted Bannick. He looked around. ‘That way, the Atlas!’ he jabbed his finger three times to make sure Ganlick understood, and away they went.

  The storm had been raging for weeks, shrouding the entire planet in a pall of sand. With the sun obscured, the temperature had gradually dropped far lower than the usual stifling Kalidarian norm; nevertheless, Bannick and Ganlick sweated hard as they pushed on through the sand, h
unkered down against the wind snatching at them with sharp fingers. The wind did not blow constantly, but buffeted them with cruel fists, first from one side, then the other. One moment Bannick would be leant hard into the wind, the next he’d feel himself stagger alarmingly forwards as the storm’s blasts switched direction. Merely walking was not an option; to stand straight in the teeth of such a gale would have quickly resulted in both men being thrown on their backs, so they crouched and scuttled at an unnatural stoop, legs spread wide, an exhausting mode of locomotion.

  The sandy cargo of the tempest scrabbled at their clothes, a million tiny claws seeking to scratch them, and Bannick’s skin crawled in rebellion at the sensation. From time to time a shower of heavier grit, blasted high up into the air over some distant plain, would rain down. To the men it seemed directed with malice, an attempt on the part of the angry world to lay them low. The plastics of Bannick’s visor were scored and pitted within moments of leaving the security of the Baneblade. He had a sudden recollection of his first battle here on Kalidar, when he would not risk his periscope glass. Time and the war were wearing away his defences, shelling him layer by layer, until now here he was, lost in the teeth of another storm, his protection gone from armaplas and ceramite to heavy clothing. He entertained the terrifying thought that this might be stripped away also, leaving him naked in the sands.

  The shapes of the tanks came and went as they marched, grit rattling from their hulls, faint red blinks coming from their vision arrays, laser-pulsed data flickering from tank to tank. It was sophisticated technology, not often fitted to the humble Leman Russ, these tanks being specially equipped for the strikeforce.

  A flat-topped tank loomed out of the storm, the tracery of a crane arm hard against the buff sky, its metal drawing a chorus of eerie shrieks from the wind.

  Ganlick staggered as Bannick stopped and the line connecting them went taut; the second gunner had not noticed the Atlas, head down against the wind. Bannick went to his aid. Bannick indicated the Atlas, and they both halted.

  ‘Sir, sir,’ said Bannick, shouting to hear his own voice above the storm. ‘We’ve reached the Atlas, orders please?’ Bannick could not stop a small plea entering his voice. A burst of static replied. He leaned into his comrade, resting his rebreather directly against Ganlick’s, trusting that direct contact would carry his voice through rubber and plastic. ‘Nothing from Cortein.’

  Ganlick replied, muffled. ‘Let’s go aboard, see if we can communicate via pulse.’

  Bannick nodded.

  Together they made their way round the recovery tank’s rear traction spade, to one of the side access hatches. Bannick drew his pistol and slammed the butt hard on the door four times.

  Half a minute passed. The door ground open and the mask of a rebreather appeared. They were beckoned inside. They wasted minutes struggling through the narrow door. Eventually inside, the door clanged shut and the tank roared as the engine gunned, sucking the dust-laden air into its purification filters. The tank’s commander gave a thumbs-up, and they removed their masks.

  ‘What’s the situation?’ asked the tank commander. Behind him sat a gaunt-looking driver. On a pile of equipment sat Valle, the taskforce astropath. Valle was the only sure means for the group to communicate with command, although until they left the basin his powerful mind was useless. He sat with poise, his calm, eyeless face framed by green robes, at odds with the vehicle’s operator, who lay bound and gagged on the floor to his right, terrified eyes rolling white. The commander followed his gaze.

  ‘Hmmm, yeah. Tokkan there started up pretty soon after we got into the basin,’ he said.

  ‘I sense your concern,’ said the astropath serenely. ‘He will be fine once we leave the basin. Such a concentration of crystalline lorelei has unfortunate effects upon the weak-willed, but the visions can do no direct harm. His affliction will pass.’

  ‘We’re all affected,’ said Bannick. ‘Exertraxes has gone into the swiftdust, raving. We’ve got to get him out. You had a datapulse on the situation?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’ve got a burst of it on the vox, here and there amid the static.’ The commander nodded to his driver, who turned to a comms panel and tapped out a message. Moments later a thin line of flawed paper spat from the console. ‘Cortein says this is the case, sir. He’s assumed command. They say that Exertraxes has minutes at best before he goes under.’

  The commander sucked in his lower lip, pulling at the stubble on his chin with the upper. ‘We can’t go in there, we’ll sink in seconds.’

  ‘How do you ordinarily pull a tank out of the dust?’ said Bannick.

  ‘Someone takes a line in – men sink less quickly than tanks. Usually him.’ The commander moved his head in the direction of his operator. ‘And he’s not going anywhere. I could go, but…’ he shrugged.

  ‘We’ll do it, we’re suited up already,’ said Ganlick.

  ‘Sure?’ said the Atlas commander, but he wasn’t seeking a reply. ‘We’ll need to reposition…’ He looked to his driver.

  ‘Location’s up on the tac display sir.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll disengage the hook and begin to unspool the wire. When we drop the spade and dig in, that’s the signal to go. Move slow and wide, don’t rush or you’ll be sucked under.’

  ‘Vox is useless in this,’ said Bannick. ‘Send a message to Epperaliant to tell the others not to use their voxes at all. Then we can send a signal like this.’ He activated the vox in the mask hanging from his neck. Three bursts of static came out. ‘A quick double like this means there’s trouble.’ He demonstrated. ‘Pull us out if so.’

  ‘Very good,’ said the Atlas commander. ‘Set out straight from the back of the tank. Use the cable as a guide. We’ll line up as best we can. There’s a couple of sets of sandshoes stowed there.’ He indicated a rack to the rear, where strapped contrivances like broad-woven baskets hung. ‘Good luck. May the Emperor watch over you.’

  ‘Come on Bannick, let’s go,’ said Ganlick, making for the internal door that led through the track unit. ‘Basdack coward, should have gone himself, it’s his damn job,’ he muttered to Bannick as they secured their masks, uncaring whether the commander heard or not. Then, ‘Anything happens to me, and it looks like we’re not going to make it out, cut the line, save yourself. Got it, sir? I’ll be doing the same.’

  Bannick nodded.

  Outside, they stood back as the Atlas ponderously swivelled round, back pointing at the swiftdust. There was a dull clunk and the hook’s lock disengaged, leaving it to swing loose in the wind, and the engine died. The winch wound round, depositing several loops of cable on the ground. Bannick and Ganlick took up the hook, dragging the woven metal rope behind them.

  ‘This is heavy,’ Ganlick said, complaint heavy with interference.

  There was a whine of hydraulics, and the spade at the rear of the vehicle descended, pushing into the sand until the rear of the tank rose slightly.

  ‘That’s the signal,’ said Bannick and pointed emphatically, unsure if Ganlick would have heard.

  They walked out from the Atlas, Ganlick carrying the hook, Bannick taking up station ten metres behind him. That way, should they wander off course the cable would kink and alert them. More cable unspooled as they walked.

  Up ahead, Ganlick slowed. He’d hit the swiftdust. The dark bulks of armoured vehicles resolved themselves. Two Leman Russ were reversing slowly from the swiftdust zone. Another was mired further out, but figures swathed as he and Ganlick were knee-deep in the dust, attaching tow cables that ran back to a fourth tank almost invisible in the dust storm.

  Ganlick had stopped and was donning the sandshoes. Bannick took the opportunity to do the same, laying the cable down while he struggled them on. He’d worn similar broad footwear to walk on snow back home on Paragon; the idea being that they increased the surface area of the feet and so stopped them sinking so easily, but the fastenings wer
e unfamiliar to him, and it took him three tries to get them on. He stood, and Ganlick gestured for him to follow. One of the men to the rear of the swamped Russ looked up and waved, an offer of help, Bannick shook his head and waved them back.

  Bannick was in the swiftdust moments later.

  There was little to warn him. A shift in the stability of the sand, perhaps, a feeling of looseness, but it was hard to tell with the surface being so motile if that was an actual effect or a sensation born of fear. There was no colour variation between the normal sand and the swiftdust, although the latter was usually smoother; this subtle visual clue to the danger was obscured by the storm, both by the lack of visibility and the tendrils of windblown sand that curled at ground level like snakes.

  Soon though, he felt the effects. The sand began to drag at his feet, and he noted that they sank further than before, even with the sandshoes on. He twisted and pulled, the exhausting rhythm he’d learnt as a boy on Paragon coming back easily to him – it was hard work, but he had the cable to lean on, and that helped with the buffeting of the storm winds. He could not see the stranded Chimera, so instead followed the indistinct shape of the large gunner.

  Swiftdust was the bane of life on Kalidar and could suck a tank under in minutes. The constant storms on the planet generated immense amounts of static electricity. Much of this energy was dissipated in ferocious dry lightning storms. But sometimes it lingered, suspending the talc-like dusts in a mixture not unlike quicksand. Within one patch its consistency could vary from near solid to thick liquid, and rapidly fluctuate between. Although here and there across Kalidar there were stable seas of it, the stormy nature of the world meant that any hollow in the landscape could harbour a pocket of the stuff. The Adeptus Mechanicus had devised a complicated means, employing a forest of copper rods and capacitors, to draw away the electricity and collapse the dustfields, but it was a time-consuming and imprecise affair, only used where a swiftdust field had formed in front of a large group or blocked a key line of advance.