And I never really thought about the consequences beyond staying alive. Wars turned or averted. Like the Colonel says, millions of lives saved by a handful of people in a bad place at the right time.
So, I can stay here, with a laspistol and a knife, and wait for warpborn and orks to come and kill us. As sure as Olesh getting blown apart by a bolt, I can see it now, the enemy coming through that gate eventually, over my corpse, and everyone dying. There’s too few of us and too many of them.
I look at the Colonel and grit my teeth. The few can protect millions, if they do the right thing in the worst place. Something I heard from Afahiva surfaces in my thoughts and I stand up, tossing the last dregs of recaff over the wall.
‘I’ve got a really bad idea,’ I tell Schaeffer.
‘I would love to hear it,’ he replies.
Fifteen
FOLLOWING THE GREEN
The grumble of a generator is lost as a grinder screeches into life, throwing sparks across the dim interior of the workshop. With the Colonel behind me I step through the door, to be confronted by an image that will never leave me.
Nazrek is leaning over a workbench, the stump of the severed arm locked in an industrial clamp. In the flickering light I catch a glimpse of rivets holding a metal plate into the alien’s shoulder, three long nails welded into place as defensive spikes. Grot stands on the bench, one foot up on the lacerated bicep, holding the handle of the grinder in skinny but surprisingly strong fingers. The spinning blade carves into a metal cap fixed to the stump, pushed into place by Nazrek’s other hand.
From the metallic stump protrudes the ork’s choppa, removed from the hilt and fixed to the stump with bolts. Heavy-duty springs burrow into muscle, quivering as the grinder chews through an outcrop of iron, finishing a zigzag design on a shield-like plate covering the artificial elbow.
‘Boss!’ The ork forgets that the clamp is on its arm and tries to stand, almost ripping the limb out again. Grot tosses the grinder to the floor with a savage little grin and starts unwinding the handle on the vice. As soon as it’s loosened, the ork pulls up the crude bionic, artificial joint, flexing with a metallic creak, springs tightening like fake sinew.
Grot brings out a lamp and shines the light on the new attachment, which Nazrek turns one way and then another, admiring their joint handiwork. I’m no tech-adept and it looks more like the underside of a Chimera’s power plant than any augmetic I’ve seen, but it seems to work.
‘Good?’ it says, lifting the axe-like appendage. Oil drips from the fixing plate, spattering the ork’s leg.
‘Yeah, looks good,’ I tell it. ‘How did you know what to do?’
‘Reckon must be a mek,’ the ork says with a grin. It raps its knuckles on the jagged-shaped shield, listening to the clang with head cocked to one side. ‘Solid.’
In the lantern light I can see a mess of staples, rivets and stitching holding together the ork’s torso. There are frilly layers of flesh around the edges, like a mix of scab and fungal growth. The skin is darker, leatherier, like the ork’s whole body is responding to the injuries by getting tougher.
‘I’ve got some questions for you,’ I tell the ork.
‘Yeah, boss.’ Nazrek says something to Grot, who scurries off into the gloom. ‘What you want?’
The Colonel and I move further inside, letting the door close behind us. In the semi-darkness I become more aware of the ork’s size, the smell of it mixed with lubricant and the remnants of the Battle Sisters’ unguents and censers.
‘What do you want to do now?’ I ask, keeping my distance while trying not to seem like I’m keeping my distance. ‘I mean, where do you want to go?’
‘Follow you, boss.’
‘Right. What if I wanted to do something for the Emperor?’
‘Fight?’ Nazrek brings up the arm-choppa. ‘Nazrek fight for Emperor too.’
I feel the Colonel shift next to me, but I keep my attention focused on the ork.
‘And if we had to fight other orks to do this thing for the Emperor?’
Nazrek doesn’t reply straight away. I’ve got no idea what sort of thinking passes for morality or loyalty among the orks, but judging by what happened in the underhive, Nazrek’s as happy fighting orks as anyone else. I’m not sure it really cares why, just that there’s someone to hit.
‘Bad orks?’
‘I’ll be straight,’ I say. ‘Good and bad don’t really come into it any more. The warpborn, the plaguebearers and bloodboys and the like, they don’t care about good and bad, ork or human. There’s going to be a lot more of them coming and we think we can stop them.’
‘Fight the bloodboys.’ Nazrek nods. ‘Fight orks, fight warpboys. Yeah.’
‘Good,’ I say. The dark and the oppressive presence of the ork is starting to get to me, like I’m in its lair. It’s irrational, but I can’t shake the feeling. ‘Let’s step outside for a bit.’
Nazrek grunts a few times but doesn’t move. Grot appears out of the back of the workshop lugging a Battle Sister’s bolter and an armful of scrap. It lobs the stuff up onto the workbench and scrambles up, screeching and gesturing. Nazrek rumbles a few thoughts back, finger prodding through the pile.
‘Ready, boss,’ says the ork, looming over us.
Schaeffer opens the door and the light feels like a welcome dawn, the polluted air of Armageddon a fresh breeze compared to the confines of the workshop. I think back to the underhive and realise I never grasped just how rank it was with human and ork habitation. I step outside as the clanging of a hammer starts behind us, resisting the urge to turn and find out what Grot is doing.
‘That,’ I say, looking up. Nazrek follows my gaze and grimaces.
‘Bad,’ it says. ‘Warp, yeah?’
‘Warp,’ I say. ‘A hole between our world and theirs. While it’s open the warpborn will keep coming. Kill all the humans. Kill all the orks.’
‘Not kill orks, not all,’ Nazrek says. It’s not defiance or boasting, far as I can tell. The ork looks at me and bangs its remaining hand against its chest. ‘This world always green. Even if no orks. Green.’
I figure Nazrek’s talking about the way that once you have an ork infestation it’s almost impossible to eradicate all trace of them. The spores linger, growing into orkoid forms, eventually creating a little patch of orkdom that breeds actual orks and grots. I’ve seen it in different places, from the hive to the jungles. The Adeptus Mechanicus probably have a term for it. I just think of it as orkification.
‘I want to talk to you about the green. The big green, that you can feel?’ I make vague motions with my hands, trying to convey the idea of the psychic realm. Nazrek nods its heavy head and I continue. ‘You can feel it here?’
‘Small green,’ the ork says, looking a little forlorn. ‘Lots not-green. Blood-think. Emperor songs. Messy.’
‘Can you feel where the bigger green is?’ asks Schaeffer.
Nazrek looks at the Colonel, the first time it’s been directly addressed, I think. It weighs up the answer, perhaps wondering how the Colonel fits into everything.
‘Yeah,’ says Nazrek. The ork looks back towards Acheron, a little off the way we arrived. ‘Big green that way. Big green and bad think.’
‘A battle, between orks and warpborn?’ I suggest.
Nazrek sort of nods and shrugs, which isn’t the clearest of answers.
‘Is messy.’
‘I heard Afahiva mention a backup plan, in case the strikes on the enemy forces didn’t break the ritual,’ I say, gaze moving from the Colonel to the ork to check if Nazrek understands what I’m saying. ‘A psychic inversion, he called it, I think. Something the Librarians would do if they had to, that would overload the connection between up there and down here. And then I remembered what happened to the psychic ork when the warpborn came.’
Nazrek looks blankly at me and then to the
Colonel.
‘What?’
‘We need a big boom,’ I say, motioning an explosion with my hands. ‘Not an actual boom, but a psychic one. A big green boom?’
‘Big boom?’ Nazrek scratches its chin with the end of its choppa, fungal flakes cascading from the serrated edge. ‘Green boom… Big ’eadbanger! ’eadbang the bloodboys.’
‘Up there,’ says the Colonel, pointing. ‘A headbang inside the hole.’
I look at Schaeffer, mouth dropping open. Now it’s my turn to struggle for words.
‘What?’
‘The goal of the Salamanders’ attacks is to sever the ritual connection between the World Eaters here on the surface and the rift in orbit. It seems to me that if you cannot break the link at this end, it must be severed at the source. If we can psychically disrupt the rift, it could have the desired result.’
‘How we big green bang up there?’ says Nazrek.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ I say.
‘We need to get the ork psyker into the rift,’ says the Colonel, as calm as if he was saying we need to pop to the mess for fresh recaff. ‘Judging by what happened in the underhive, exposure to the raw warp elements should yield a psychic reaction potent enough for our needs.’
A whole bunch of new questions barge about in my brain, but the thought that reaches my tongue sums up all of them.
‘How?’
‘You want us to gain possession of a powerful ork psyker, but the part that is giving you difficulty is getting into orbit?’ says the Colonel, one eyebrow raised.
‘When you put it like that…’ I clear my throat, trying to focus. ‘Is it always like this? I mean, on Ichar IV did you and Oriel sit down and have a conversation that went, “We need to kill this tyranid Norn queen a hundred kilometres from the nearest Imperial lines, past spore mine-infested territory, hiding in caves protected by a thousand lethal aliens,” or something like that?’
‘Yes. Something like that. Start with the objective and break it down until you have all the stages you need.’
I rub my temples, remembering I haven’t slept for two days now. That’s something we’ll need to sort out. No point chasing off after an ork warphead without being able to think clearly.
‘And that’s it? Just come up with everything we need to do, and then do it?’
‘Good plan,’ says Nazrek, catching up with the conversation. ‘Weirdboy make big green bang in sky. No more warpers.’
Which didn’t really leave any room for further argument. I know this is my idea. I look around the courtyard and see a few of the underhivers carrying water from the recycling tank back to their quarters. All across Armageddon there are millions of folks just trying to survive. I get what the Colonel means when I look at it from another point of view. Just trying to survive doesn’t win wars. Being ready to die does.
There are details to be sorted out, but near as I can figure it, we need to get ourselves an ork warphead, get it onto a spaceship, fly into orbit, penetrate the rift and shove the warphead out into the void.
I look at Schaeffer again and he must be having the same thoughts but doesn’t seem at all bothered by them. Just another suicide mission.
Understandably, there are mixed reactions to the plan. As word gets out, a small delegation finds me and the Colonel while we inspect the meagre contents of the abbey’s weapon store. Cornered among the ammunition crates and a few serviceable bolters, we’re penned in by Orskya, Erasmisa and Old Preacher. Sister Superior Aladia stands by the door, committed to her involuntary role as bodyguard of Deniumenialis.
‘You cannot leave us,’ Erasmisa declares, chin thrust out like a sword ready at the lunge. ‘Our Battle Sisters were despatched on the understanding that your militia would remain to garrison the abbey.’
‘No oaths were sworn,’ said the Colonel, crossing his arms. ‘The best way to protect everyone here, and all of Armageddon, is to remove the threat of the warpborn.’
‘For which there is a mission already underway, Colonel Schaeffer,’ the canoness replies. ‘A full Chapter of Space Marines and a company from the Order of the Argent Shroud are embarked upon a plan that was agreed by all. What do you hope to achieve with… with hive scum and waste nomads?’
Orskya darts an irritated look at the older woman, hearing the implied insult. She steps away from the others and turns, so she’s standing beside me and looking at them.
‘I not agree to stay in this prison,’ said Orskya. ‘My people fight better in open space.’
‘That did not seem to be the case when you came fleeing to us from the warpborn.’ Erasmisa’s scorn is harsher than a tech-adept’s las-rasp. ‘We offered you shelter within our walls and this is how you repay us?’
‘There was no hiding. We fight your enemies. Owe nothing!’
‘Ladies, can we please allow sense to be heard?’ says Old Preacher, holding up his hands. Both Erasmisa and Orskya turn their frowns on him but he seems oblivious to their anger. ‘I am sure there is some way we can accommodate all of our needs. I have no doubt that Kage shall lead us towards the Emperor’s Will. I know it in my soul. This is a task worthy of a living saint, to breach the lair of the Eternal Enemy itself to save Armageddon.’
‘It does feel that way, doesn’t it?’ I say. ‘I mean, if I wasn’t being guided by the Emperor I’d have to be insane, right?’
Erasmisa opens her mouth but Deniumenialis cuts her off.
‘To quote the Ministorum Libra Martyr, “It is the story of a man who did insane things because he put in practice what many Saints have preached.”’ Old Preacher rubs his hands together, nervous. ‘But it does leave us with something of a predicament regarding the civilians you brought with you, as well as the remaining Sisterhood personnel. Children. Would you leave them unguarded?’
‘You mean would they leave you unguarded?’ snaps Erasmisa.
‘Not at all, I fully intend to accompany Kage that I may chronicle his exploits for consideration for the Councilla Martyris.’
‘Perhaps not talk about martyrdom quite so much?’ I suggest.
‘You plan to follow this madman?’ says the Sister Superior, stepping forward. ‘And you expect me to go with you as your bodyguard?’
‘Come, Aladia, that is no attitude for a servant of the God-Emperor.’ Deniumenialis folds his hands together and holds them to his chest as if in prayer. ‘If it is the Will of the Emperor, we should not fight it.’
‘We cannot remain and simply hope that the warpborn, Traitor Astartes or orks do not overrun the battle abbey,’ says Schaeffer. ‘One gun or thirty, it makes no difference.’
‘They’ll have to come with us,’ I say, coming to a decision. If they didn’t think I was insane before, the looks from the others, except Deniumenialis, confirm they think I am now. I hold up a hand to stop the arguments before they’re raised, and direct most of my words to the Colonel. ‘Orskya’s right. Her people are much better suited to living and fighting in the ash wastes. They can keep the non-fighters safe while we find our warphead. If we don’t come back from that, they’re no worse off than if we left them here. But if we do succeed in that part, we need to get to the nearest launch facility.’
‘Kraken Station,’ says the Colonel. ‘As I have already told you.’
‘Exactly. And that means either more soldiers to protect them, or a way to get off Armageddon. Both of those are better options than staying here and just waiting for the worst to happen.’
Deniumenialis grins and Orskya nods thoughtfully. I can see the canoness straining to find some kind of opposition, but even she eventually relents, taking a step back with a sigh. The Colonel gives me a sharp look, suspicious, but I’m being genuine.
‘That was the plan, remember?’ I say to him. ‘When we left Acheron. Get to the Imperial lines and get off this doomed world. Now there’s a wrinkle, we can maybe stop that happening, but the
original objective is sound.’
‘It seems you have everything covered, Kage,’ Schaeffer admits.
It’s funny, but the more he says it, and the more I go over the plan in my head, the more convinced I am that we can get this to work.
Maybe this really is what the Emperor wants from me.
Take an asteroid. Hollow it out a bit. Fill it with orks. Cover it in shield generators that probably even the orks don’t understand. Put some ridiculously unstable reactors and massively overpowered engines on it. Now fire it at a planet.
You’ve got yourself an ork rok fort.
The Beast Ghazghkull sent hundreds of these things into the planet at the outset of the second invasion. Loads burn up on their way in and a good few basically smash into the surface to obliterate everything within a few kilometres. That’s what happened to Hades Hive, though that was on purpose, Nazrek told me. A few score of them actually land mostly intact.
Congratulations, now you have heavily armed and fortified positions all over enemy territory from which to launch your attacks.
Given that we’re on our way to kidnap an ork psyker, to send it into orbit so that it can psychically detonate to hopefully overload the warp rift lurking over Armageddon, ork rok forts now seem like an idea of subtle genius.
The particular rok fort squatting just a few kilometres from the battle abbey was purged as part of the siege of Acheron but there’s certainly new inhabitants there now – orks driven out of the hive by the arrival of the warpborn. Smoke billows from hidden engines, newly raised flags flap slowly in the thick Armageddon air.
I borrow Orskya’s magnoculars and scan along the crudely carved ramps and walkways cutting like scars across the surface of the grounded asteroid. It’s not the biggest, maybe thirty metres high, but about a hundred and sixty metres across. The impact crater has been worn away by shelling and the erosion of the harsh Armageddon environment, but parts of the ring have been reinforced with small towers and watch stations. I inspect these with slow sweeps of the magnoculars, but they seem to be empty. Returning my attention to the main fort I can’t see too much going on, trying to count the blurs of movement behind jagged battlements.
Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe Page 21