Damnos - Nick Kyme

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘We are surrounded, Commander Chronus,’ uttered Tigurius. ‘Kellenport is a solitary lantern amidst a sea of night.’

  ‘I always admired your poetry, Varro,’ said Chronus, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. ‘I have no gift for it, myself. I am altogether a much blunter instrument.’ He looked up. ‘Perhaps that is what’s needed now, the more direct approach.’

  ‘I thought you a pragmatist also, Chronus,’ Tigurius replied, ‘and yet it sounds like you’re suggesting we can still take this world.’

  Chronus was impassive. ‘I would see what kind of fight the necrons still have in them. Perhaps Damnos can still be saved. And if not, then the phasic generators present an issue for all of us, which requires an attack.’

  ‘Withdrawal is the only strategy left to us.’ A flash of power filled Tigurius’s eyes in sympathetic frustration. ‘Don’t risk your arsenal on what would be a pyrrhic victory, commander. By destroying the phasic generators you give us precious time to evacuate. To attempt any more than that is foolhardy. Damnos is lost.’

  ‘And yet here we all stand, stooped over a strategium,’ replied Chronus.

  ‘I find myself in agreement with Tigurius,’ said Chaplain Trajan from behind the death-skull mask of his helmet. ‘Even with the leadership of Sicarius, we cannot triumph here.’ He bowed his head to Agrippen. ‘No disrespect, Ancient.’

  ‘None taken, Brother-Chaplain.’ The Dreadnought’s gaze through his vision slit fell upon Chronus, though. ‘But if victory is still possible, then we must strive for it.’

  ‘Even at the potentially futile cost of more lives?’ asked Tigurius.

  All present knew of the guilt he felt about Sicarius, and of the premonition he had failed to discern in time to prevent the captain’s mortal wounding.

  Agrippen had already decided what their course would be, however.

  ‘What is our purpose, if it is not to lay down our lives in protecting humanity and its sovereign domains?’

  Tigurius bowed to the Dreadnought.

  ‘Wise words, Ancient.’ He spared a glance at Chronus, who was studying the map and committing it to memory. ‘If the commander believes there is a chance to save Damnos then we are duty-bound to pursue that unto its end. Whatever end that might be,’ he added, somewhat forbiddingly.

  When he was finished, Chronus looked up.

  ‘From what I know, the majority of the necrons are on foot. They are also slow and their tactics predictable.’

  ‘As we routed them at the gates, they were not as formidable,’ Agrippen agreed. ‘The loss of their leader crippled them in some gestalt fashion.’

  Chronus nodded. ‘The primary function of a tank is to kill infantry. It’s the reason we were forged. We should look towards our defence, and fortify Kellenport. Have your warriors keep vigil on the walls, your gunships the skies,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve drawn all defences back to the city walls and abandoned all else beyond it. Make what preparations must be made for a planet-wide evacuation. In the meantime I will seek engagement, and treat these necrons like any other enemy in my crosshairs. Piece by piece, phalanx by phalanx, I’ll dismantle them. I have twenty-four engines at my disposal and several others in support. Not to mention those still in their berths aboard the Valin’s Revenge. We’ll head north into Damnos Secundus. Soon as I get a sight of the enemy, we’ll bombard them, break them apart. I understand they don’t run, so if they want to engage us they’ll have to advance. Slow as they are, that will hurt them, even these creatures. When they do, I’ll bring up a second line of armour, heavy cannon and bolters. By the time they reach us they’ll be a ragged mess. And if anything does remain, I’ll crush it under my tracks. There’s no coming back from that.’

  ‘There could be thousands of necrons, commander,’ said Trajan.

  Chronus faced the dour Chaplain.

  ‘Then I shall have to take sufficient ammunition. Rest assured, this is not arrogance or vainglory. I want to know we are beaten before we accept defeat. With all good conscience, I cannot say that I do yet. So I fight.’

  Spurred on by the tank commander’s rhetoric, Sergeant Manorian stepped forwards.

  ‘I’d like to pledge my warriors to your cause, Commander Chronus.’

  ‘Aye, and mine,’ added Atavian.

  Strabo’s fervour was obvious in his eyes, so no offer was needed to convey his feelings.

  All three sergeants looked eager for retribution, but Chronus knew he was going to deny them.

  ‘Your courage is without question, but your place is on the wall. My armoured company can end this threat, but I need to move quickly and with what I know. I am commander of machines, not men. See to the protection of Kellenport, in case I am unsuccessful.’ Chronus turned to Agrippen. ‘We are in agreement, Ancient?’

  ‘Aye, we are. Engage the necrons and assess the threat they still pose to us, but the Chapter has lost one hero already to this enemy. I would not see it lose another.’

  Chronus bowed reverently to the veteran Dreadnought. ‘Understood.’

  Tigurius and Trajan nodded their assent to Chronus’s plan too.

  A warrior appeared at the edge of the circle of officers. His armour markings described him as tank crew.

  ‘Then if all are agreed and everything is in order,’ said Chronus as he noticed the driver, ‘I believe Brother Fabricus here has arrived with news of my errant sergeant’s return, so I shall put actions to these words and seek engagement.’

  He saluted, looking at each and every officer in turn.

  ‘Your gunships, Ancient,’ said Chronus as he was about to leave. ‘I need them as my eyes, to show where my hammer should fall hardest.’

  A machine-growl emanated from Agrippen’s vox-emitter, expressing his eagerness to see Sicarius and all of the fallen avenged.

  ‘They are yours to command, Antaro. Do so wisely.’

  Chronus nodded curtly, saluted again and left with Fabricus.

  The six engines idling on the snow plain expelled steam and exhaust smoke. Ice clung to the hulls of the Predator tanks, but they were, nonetheless, fully operational.

  Chronus approached the lead vehicle as one of its occupants appeared out of the cupola hatch.

  ‘Apologies, commander,’ said Egnatius. ‘We were caught in the storm. Our augurs malfunctioned and took us into a blind ravine. The Vogenhoff region is more treacherous than I at first believed.’ He bowed his head contritely, snow cresting the ridge of his battle-helm. It bore a steel laurel, and some scars that had not been there before.

  ‘Did you run into some trouble, brother-sergeant?’ asked Chronus.

  ‘Just the elements, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s hope you fare better against the necrons. Your squadron is second in the line after mine. We’re heading north into Damnos Secundus.’

  Egnatius looked askance at the serfs freighting a cache of fuel drums in the direction of his squadron, but kept most of his attention on Chronus.

  ‘Far north, it would seem.’

  ‘Indeed. The enemy have retreated deep and are attempting to regroup. We’re not going to allow that. Take on your extra fuel and fall in as instructed.’

  Egnatius saluted and Chronus left him to it. Fabricus had already returned to his vehicle, so Chronus crossed the snow plain alone to where the Rage of Antonius was waiting.

  As he was climbing back into the open cupola hatch, he spared a last look at the white veil beyond the Kellenport perimeter.

  It looked almost impenetrable.

  Almost.

  Ducking inside, he shut the overhead hatch with a dull clang.

  Slowly at first, their tracks grinding and slipping on the snow until they found purchase, the tank company of Antaro Chronus rolled out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ICE ON THE WIND

  Ice was in the air and it cleaved to the Gladius
, riming its wings in white.

  ‘The storm’s fouling the augurs.’

  The voice issued through the hold’s vox, from the pilot in the cockpit up front.

  ‘They’re still down there, Brother Kastus,’ said Scipio, standing in the hold with one hand clasping the rail above his head to keep him stable. ‘How are the engines holding up?’

  There was a short pause whilst Kastus checked his instruments before his disembodied voice answered.

  ‘One of the turbofans is a little sluggish, but nothing to threaten loft or propulsion.’

  ‘We need to come back down out of this cloud,’ said Scipio, ‘and get sight of the enemy.’

  ‘As you wish, brother-sergeant. I’ll plot in a descent vector.’

  The roaring sound within the Gladius’s hold shifted in pitch almost immediately, going from a dull drone to a screech as the descent thrusters eased in and slowly took them down.

  ‘No sensors?’ asked Brakkius, sitting down next to the exit hatch and his sergeant. ‘We’d be coming out of this blind, and low enough for ground-to-air attack.’

  Scipio unclamped the magnoculars attached to his belt and adjusted the settings one-handed.

  ‘They’ve shown little interest so far, brother.’ He gave a feral smile. ‘Besides, I want to take a closer look at what they’re doing.’

  Scipio’s squad, the Thunderbolts, all sat in sturdy grey grav couches, harnesses up and unlocked. They had been reduced down to combat-squad strength, just five men including the sergeant. A gunship the size of the Gladius had capacity for up to thirty armoured Space Marines, including their wargear. With just the five of them aboard, the troop hold felt cavernous.

  Most of Second’s squads had been redeployed, the warriors from the more intact squads re-tasked to those with diminished combat efficacy in order to provide solid operational efficiency overall. Weapons too had been reappropriated and redistributed according to need. All retasked squads operated under their sergeant’s preferred honorific. In Scipio’s case this was the Thunderbolts, Squad Vorolanus.

  Most of Second’s warriors were back at Kellenport on wall duty, and this included some surviving Thunderbolts. Recon patrol did not usually require a gunship’s hold to be encumbered with troops but Agrippen wanted protection for the Thunderhawks he had sent out in case they were shot down. Besides, more souls aboard meant a greater chance of someone surviving and being able enough to send a message if the necrons decided to move or change tactics. The extra guns aboard did not hurt either when trying to put a dent in their vast phalanxes.

  Scipio got back on the vox. ‘Bring us in, pilot.’

  The hull shuddered with some minor turbulence, but the engine noise began to return to its previous drone. Scipio could feel the Gladius levelling off. The gunship’s pilot confirmed it.

  ‘Breaching cloud layer now…’

  Brakkius was on his feet, bolter low-slung but with the slide racked ready to fire. Garrik joined him, the heavy’s missile launcher braced against his shoulder.

  ‘Just in case,’ Brakkius said to Scipio. Auris and Largo, the final two members of the squad, loitered behind him.

  All five Ultramarines had mag-locked their boots to the deck. This close in, their transport might have to shift to combat speed or perform evasive manoeuvres.

  Magnetically secured, Scipio let go of the rail.

  ‘Open her up, Brakkius.’

  Disengaging the locking clamps, Brakkius slid the side hatch of the gunship open, admitting the ice and buffeting wind. It hit them at once, forcefully, peppering their armour with chips of hail. The Gladius pitched a little as its interior integrity was altered, but Scipio and his squad stood firm.

  The sergeant leaned out, hanging on to the rail again so he could extend his body a little further from the hatch without falling out. He was right – the necrons were still there, marching slowly and in phalanx formation. Despite the fact the deadly gunship screamed overhead, none of them looked skywards. Their eyes were dull, aglow, but with barely any sentience, assuming their brightness was any barometer of that. The Ultramarines did not know. They had precious little intelligence about the necrons beyond the fact that they were extremely difficult to kill.

  With one hand, Scipio pressed the scopes to his eyes.

  The image return was awash with grainy green resolution, but the filter cut through the cold interference and the natural obfuscation of snow flurries well. Any heat signature was weak, and judging by that the necrons appeared in some kind of semi-dormant state. They moved in lockstep, their flayer weapons held at ease across their bodies. Definitely advancing south, they still seemed without much purpose.

  ‘Garrik,’ said Scipio, still monitoring the phalanx through the magnoculars, ‘put a missile in their ranks, centre of formation.’

  Brakkius stepped aside to give the heavy weapons carrier some room. Garrik nodded, took a knee to adopt a more stable position and flipped up the targeter array on his launcher. The red crosshair flashed into life on the scope’s small screen, overlaying a hazy rendering of the selfsame image on Garrik’s eye. He closed the other to increase his focus, and gave a thumbs-up to Brakkius before getting his gauntleted finger on the trigger.

  ‘Firing,’ declared Brakkius, warning the others to brace.

  A second later and Garrik’s body jerked with recoil as a payload of light ordnance was spat from the mouth of the launcher with a throaty choom of expelled pressure. A winding contrail of white vapour snaked downwards before impacting in the midst of the phalanx and detonating.

  The explosion tore through the necrons’ ranks, throwing up metal bodies and plumes of displaced snow and earth.

  Scipio let the incendiary flare fade from his magnoculars, the visual briefly overloaded with light and rendering nothing but ugly green. After a few seconds, the image resolved again.

  ‘Nothing,’ he told the others, still looking through the scopes. He saw mechanised limbs and body parts strewn in all directions, and a small crater where Garrik’s missile had found its mark. Already, the necrons were self-repairing. There was a single flare of light where one of the automatons had been too badly damaged and phased out. Scipio increased the range, refocused for a closer examination. Entire mechanised systems were reconstructing themselves. Metal appeared to reflow and coalesce, refashioning back into whatever shape it had previously possessed. Wires reattached themselves, fragments of shattered gears and servos reassembled with one another as if suddenly magnetised.

  The necrons that were spared the blast closed ranks around the fallen, absorbing the damage, whilst those that were self-repairing found fresh positions at the end or edge of the formation as soon as they were mobile again. Barring the one necron that had phased out, the phalanx was identical to what it had been prior to the attack. Their pace had not changed, their demeanour remained the same. Despite analysing the aftermath in detail, Scipio could find no discernible reaction to what had just happened.

  He lowered the scopes and leaned back inside.

  ‘It’s as if we weren’t even here,’ he commented to himself.

  ‘We could try a strafing run?’ suggested Brakkius. Through his helmet’s vox-grille, his voice sounded tinny with a slight reverberation. It could not disguise his doubt, however.

  Scipio’s second-in-command was reaching. They all were. The sergeant shook his head.

  ‘What do you think caused it?’ asked Auris, his beaked helmet giving him the same resonant cadence as Brakkius, only not as deep.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Scipio, still watching the necrons.

  Reports from the Thunderstorm, also on recon patrol over the Damnos skies, gave much the same account. The remnants of the necron horde thrown back at the Kellenport gates after the heroic sacrifice of Captain Sicarius had regrouped much farther north and were advancing, but showed no other signs of aggression.

 
‘I’ve seen servitors acting in a similar vein,’ said a voice from the back of the hold. Brother Vantor sat apart from the rest of the group, quietly ministering to the Gladius’s aggrieved machine-spirits.

  So circumspect was the Techmarine, Scipio had almost forgotten he was there at all.

  Vantor looked up from speaking his canticles of function to address the sergeant. Both Thunderhawks in the skies at that moment each had a Techmarine in their roster. With such adverse weather conditions, together with the Second relying so heavily on the gunships’ ability to track and monitor the enemy, everything was done to ensure they stayed aloft. That included taking a servant of the Martian creed, a Techmarine.

  ‘They are following a prescribed protocol,’ Vantor went on, the dull internal lighting of the hold limning the right side of his red power armour but plunging the left, where he wore his blue Ultramarines shoulder guard, into shadow. The servo-arms attached to his power generator and their various concomitant mechadendrites resembled arachnid silhouettes in the dingy hold. ‘Imagine the entire phalanx slaved to a rigid doctrina wafer instruction,’ he went on.

  ‘These mechanoids are no servitors, Vantor,’ said Scipio.

  ‘Correct, and nor is their synaptic instruction methodology so crude.’ His eyes widened a little and a hollow smile just curled the edge of his lips. ‘It is advanced.’

  ‘You sound almost as if you admire them.’ Brakkius scowled behind his faceplate, but his distaste was obvious in the tone of his voice.

  ‘I find them fascinating,’ the Techmarine confessed.

  ‘The more we know, the easier it will be for us to destroy them,’ Scipio conceded. ‘Every weakness is crucial to us, and this,’ he jabbed his finger through the still-open hatch at the marching necrons, ‘is definitely a weakness, one we must exploit.’

  ‘I have a theory,’ offered Vantor. All eyes were suddenly on the Techmarine. ‘Based on what I’ve observed, I believe the necrons are an evolved cybernetic race, but not all of them have evolved to the same degree.’