Hero of the Imperium, page 17
‘They’re all civilians,’ he gasped out after a moment. ‘Anyone in a uniform is one of ours.’
‘Thank you.’ I pulled him into the shadow of a dumpster. ‘Keep your head down and you’ll be fine.’ I scrambled back aboard the Salamander, grateful for the armour plate surrounding me.
‘Broklaw to Cain.’ The major’s voice rang in my combead. ‘Are you all right? We’re getting some odd feedback off your frequency.’
‘So far.’ I checked the flamer, finding it fully charged and ready to go. Emperor bless Jurgen and his streak of thoroughness, I thought. ‘It seems our PDF boys weren’t holding back after all.’
‘Resistance is light here...’ His voice was drowned out for a moment by the crack of ionising air I associated with one of the Sentinel multi-lasers. ‘But we’ll be a while yet.’
‘Don’t hurry on my account,’ I said. The renegades could only have small arms, judging by the sounds I heard, and the Salamander’s armour was thick enough to afford complete protection. I switched frequencies, searching for the PDF squad’s internal tactical net, but found only static; I should have known better, of course,30 but old habits are hard to break.
A few more las-bolts from behind the crates confirmed the identities of the rebels lurking there, making a mess of our paintwork in the process, so I triggered the flamer, sending a gout of burning promethium down the alley. The results were impressive. The crates bursting into flame, and the rebels behind them got caught in the backwash. They burst into the open, their clothes and hair on fire, shrieking like the damned, and Jurgen cut them down with the bolter. Their bodies exploded under the impact, spraying the walls of the building with burning debris, and I was incongruously reminded of fireworks.
‘Let’s finish this,’ I said, and my aide gunned the engine, rolling us forward over the pool of burning promethium which now carpeted the alleyway. As I glanced behind us, the PDF officer was gazing at the devastation we’d wrought, his eyes wide with shock.
The alley opened out into a cross street, the wall of the warehouse forming one side of it, stretching away in front of us in both directions. The distinctive crack of lasgun fire continued to echo through the roads around it, and as our field of vision widened, I could see the sparks of muzzle flashes inside the building, and the puff of vaporising rockcrete where other bolts were impacting around the upper windows. Shadowy figures were visible inside, snapping off shots before ducking back, and I could make out little of them; just that, as the wounded lieutenant had said, they were all in civilian clothes. They were a mixed bunch, too. I caught a glimpse of velvet and the crest of one of the merchants’ guilds, and someone who looked like a pastry cook, before I swept the flamer over the whole façade. The results were spectacular; the firing stopped at once, the wood of the window frames igniting with a roar, and a few short-lived screams cut the air.
‘That ought to keep their heads down,’ Jurgen said with satisfaction, sending a burst of bolts after the promethium to make sure of the fact. Thick black smoke continued to pour from the building, and a ragged cheer mingled with the roar of the flames.
I turned to see a wary group of PDF troopers emerging from the buildings opposite the warehouse, or whatever cover they’d been able to find among the parked trucks and other detritus of the street. A few ragged shots continued to echo between the buildings, indicating that not all the traitors had been incinerated, but their sporadic nature spoke of a panic-stricken retreat which was running into the troopers on the other side of the cordon. The plume of thick black smoke must have been visible from where they were by now, and they were evidently taking heart from the sight. I jumped down from the Salamander.
‘Sergeant Crassus, 49th Gravalaxian PDF.’ A tall, grey-haired man snapped a salute, but kept his eyes on the street; the first PDF trooper I’d seen since I arrived on planet who actually seemed to know what he was doing. I returned it smartly.
‘Commissar Cain, attached to the 597th Valhallan.’ Once again, I had the quiet satisfaction of noting that my name had been recognised, the low murmur of voices among the troopers flattering my ego with its awestruck tone.
‘We’re grateful for your assistance,’ Crassus said. ‘Did the inquisitor send for you?’ I shook my head.
‘Just poking my nose in,’ I admitted. ‘I noticed your little sideshow on the tactical display and wondered what was going on.’ Crassus shrugged.
‘You’d have to ask one of the officers.’
‘I did.’ I pointed back up the alleyway, where the promethium pool had burned itself out, leaving a scorched patch of blackened rockcrete. ‘Back there. He needs a medic, by the way.’
‘Ah.’ Crassus didn’t seem surprised. ‘I thought he’d done a runner, to be honest.’ My lack of a reply seemed to confirm something for him, but after a moment, he detailed one of the troopers to take a medkit and see to the lieutenant.
‘You seem to be standing up to combat better than most of the PDF,’ I said.
Crassus shrugged. ‘I’m a fast learner. Besides, I’m used to looking after myself.’ Taking in his physique and his air of watchfulness, I didn’t doubt it. ‘I was in the Arbites before I joined up.’
‘That seems like an odd career move,’ I said. His jaw tightened for a moment.
‘Office politics,’ he said curtly. I nodded sympathetically.
‘It’s the same in the Commissariat,’ I told him.31 But before we could exchange any more words, a loud crack from behind us presaged the collapse of one of the upper stories of the burning warehouse. ‘Better pull your men back,’ I told him. ‘That’s going to go any minute.’
‘I think you’re right.’ He summoned the squad vox operator, relayed the instruction, and led his men up the alley at a rapid trot. I turned to look at the warehouse again. It was well ablaze by now, and pieces of debris were starting to drop from the roof and outer walls. I scrambled back aboard the Salamander while Jurgen gunned the engine, and began to reverse us to safety.
Abruptly, I became aware of the sound of small arms fire, echoing from inside the building, audible even over the pop and crackle of the flames.
‘Crassus,’ I voxed, chafing at the necessity of relaying messages through his squad vox operator. ‘Are any of your men inside the building?’ He had just begun to reply when the link went dead, overridden by a message on a higher priority command channel. I’d done the same thing enough times to recognise what was happening, but it had been a long time since I’d been the one cut out. Still, I supposed it showed Orelius was still alive, at any rate, and I’d heard enough of the reply to be reassured that I hadn’t accidentally killed any more loyal subjects of the Emperor. That was a relief, as I was still slogging through the paperwork on the last lot of collateral damage I’d inflicted on the PDF.
I’d just decided that the firing I’d heard was overheated ammo cooking off, or xenoist traitors deciding they’d rather shoot themselves than be burned to death, when Crassus was back on my combead.
‘Commissar. The inquisitor’s team are pinned down inside the warehouse. They want immediate extraction.’
Well, what they want and what they’ll get are two different things, I thought. Venturing into that inferno would be suicide. Let Crassus try if he wanted, but it looked to me as though Orelius and his cohorts were about to report to the Emperor in person, and there was damn-all any of us could do about it.
Then a truly horrifying thought struck me. I’d been the one who set fire to the building. If the Inquisition thought I’d been responsible for the death of one of their own, and had just stood by and let him burn without even trying to rescue him, I’d be a dead man – if I was lucky. I dithered for a fraction of a second, which seemed like eternity, and came to a decision.
‘Stay back. We’ll handle it,’ I told Crassus, and leaned over the driver’s compartment to call to Jurgen. ‘Take us in!’ I shouted.
As usual, where anyone else might have hesitated or argued, he simply followed orders without thinking. The Salamander lurched forwards, accelerating towards the blazing building as rapidly as it could.
‘There! Those loading doors!’ I pointed, but my faithful aide had already seen them, and a hail of bolter shells ripped them to shreds an instant before we hit. We bounced into the shadowy interior of the warehouse, billows of smoke shrouding everything, pieces of tattered door spraying from under our tracks. I coughed, tore off my sash, and tied it around my face. It didn’t do a lot of good, to be honest, but my lungs felt a little less choked than before.
Las-bolts started striking the front armour of the vehicle, which at least gave us a clue as to where the enemy was, and Jurgen was about to reply with the heavy bolter again when I forestalled him.
‘Wait,’ I said, ‘you might hit the inquisitor.’ That would have been the crowning irony. Instead, he swung us over to one side, slamming into a pile of stacked crates, and bringing them crashing down. Sudden screams were abruptly cut off. I twisted my head frantically, trying to orientate us, and the whole vast space was suddenly lit in vivid orange as the roof whooshed into flame.
‘Frak this!’ I said, on the verge of ordering Jurgen to withdraw, then I caught sight of a small knot of figures hurrying towards us. I pointed, and Jurgen swung the Salamander round, stopping us almost dead. There were five of them, running for their lives, with an indeterminate number of shadowy figures in pursuit. Orelius I recognised at once, turning as he ran to loose off a volley from his bolt pistol. A couple of the pursuers fell, but las-bolts continued to impact around the inquisitor and his retinue. A heavily muscled man I recognised as one of his bodyguards from the governor’s party was firing, too, but went down hard as one of the las-bolts caught the back of his head. Orelius hesitated for a moment, but even from where I was standing it was obvious the fellow had been dead before he hit the floor.
The rest of his party were in real trouble, so, despite my natural reservations about making myself a more obvious target, I clambered up to the pintle-mounted bolter I’d made sure was installed. Not every Salamander has them, but I’ve been grateful enough for their presence in the past to insist on having one available if at all possible, and I blessed that foresight now as I took advantage of the extra height the vehicle afforded me to fire over the heads of the inquisitorial party and strike home against their pursuers. A gratifying number went down, or scattered, but too many carried on firing. I’d expected them to start shooting at me, but to my relief they continued to concentrate their fire on the fleeing figures before them.
The scribe I’d seen with Orelius was out in front; long white beard flapping as he ran with surprising dexterity for a man of his age. It was only after I saw him take a las-bolt to the leg, which sparked but continued to function, that I realised his lower limbs were augmetic. Behind him were two women: Rakel, whose green dress was now heavily stained with blood, apparently from a chest wound, but who was still babbling nonsense without appearing to inhale, and another who held her up. She was swathed in a hooded cloak of the deepest black I’d ever seen, which seemed to swallow the light that fell on it, blurring her outline. I saw her flinch as a las-bolt scorched the material, but she kept coming, supporting the gibbering psyker with surprising strength.
I hosed down their pursuers again, hoping to throw off their aim at least, but for every one I felled, another seemed to replace it, moving with an eerie precision which seemed somehow familiar. There was no time to worry about it now, though. I reached down to grasp the fingers of the old scribe, which to my total lack of surprise were also augmetics, and haul him aboard.
‘Much obliged,’ he said, dropping into the crew compartment, and glancing around with evident interest. ‘An Imperial Guard Salamander. Good solid piece of kit. Manufactured on Triplex Vall, unless I miss my guess...’
I left him to gather whatever wits he had, and turned to the others.
‘Jurgen!’ I shouted. ‘Help the women!’ Orelius took a las-bolt to the shoulder, dropping his handgun. I wasn’t about to lose him now, not after going through all this, so I jumped down, drawing my laspistol, and went to help him up.
‘Commissar Cain?’ He looked slightly confused until I remembered my makeshift smoke mask and pulled it down; it wasn’t doing a damn bit of good now anyway. The whole building around us was ablaze, the heat terrific, and I suddenly remembered the promethium tanks of the heavy flamer aboard the Salamander. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard you needed a lift,’ I said, hauling him to his feet, and aiming a couple of speculative shots in the vague direction of the enemy. I dragged him back to the vehicle, where Jurgen was doing his best to help the women, but Rakel wasn’t exactly cooperating. She seemed terrified of him, struggling against her companion’s grip in an effort to get away.
‘He’s nothing! Nothing!’ she shrieked, which seemed a little harsh to me. All right, he wasn’t the most prepossessing trooper in the guard, but once you got past the smell and the interesting collection of skin diseases, he had his good points. Then she convulsed suddenly and passed out, dribbling foam between her clenched teeth.
I hustled Orelius aboard, hefted Rakel’s dead weight like a sack of tubers, and let the scribe take her. He lifted her easily with his augmetic limbs, and I climbed up myself beside the woman in black as Jurgen returned to the driver’s compartment and gunned the engine.
‘Jurgen! Get us out of here!’ I yelled, and he opened the throttle fully.
‘With pleasure, commissar.’ The Salamander leapt forwards, breaking for the shattered loading door we’d come in by, and clipped the frame as we passed through, gouging a shower of sparks from it. As we gained the street, the furnace heat seemed to drop away, although it was still hot enough to raise blisters from our paintwork. I sagged with relief, trembling with the reaction, still trying to comprehend what an insanely risky thing I’d done. As if to underline how close we’d come, the building collapsed behind us with a roar of tumbling masonry.
Well, there’s no point cheating death with an act of insane bravery if no one’s in a position to praise you for it, so I voxed Crassus.
‘Crassus,’ I said. ‘The inquisitor’s safe.’
‘So I am.’ The woman in black dropped her hood, revealing a face I’d thought about often in the last few days. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she was even more beautiful than I’d remembered, and the voice I’d last heard singing sentimental ballards still had the faint edge of huskiness that had made my heart skip.
Amberley Vail gazed at me with what I took to be faint amusement as my jaw dropped open, an inquisitorial electoo flashing into visibility in the palm of her hand. ‘Thank you, commissar,’ she added, smiling sweetly.
Editorial Note:
Once again, it seems prudent to insert a little material from other sources here, as the Valhallans’ expedition against the xenoist defectors was to have unexpected repercussions. Cain, as we might expect, has little to say on the matter himself as his attention was elsewhere.
The first is extracted from the after-action report of Major Ruput Broklaw, made on 593.931 M41, shortly after the engagement was successfully concluded.
After the preliminary bombardment ceased both infantry platoons disembarked from their Chimeras, which had been dispersed around the perimeter of the rebel-occupied zone in accordance with the previously determined deployments. Third Platoon was supported by First Sentinel Squadron on the left flank, Fifth Platoon by Second Squadron on the right, leaving Third Squadron with the company command element as a mobile reserve.
Resistance was light, as anticipated, and Fifth Platoon rolled up their flank with little difficulty apart from a couple of heavy exchanges of fire with dug-in survivors of the bombardment. Lieutenant Faril called in Sentinel support for the two squads thus engaged, which committed our reserve squadron. The flamer-equipped Sentinel in each group clear out the entrenchments with little difficulty after the other two laid down suppressive fire from their multi-lasers to allow them to approach.
On the left, things didn’t run quite so smoothly. As Fourth Squad of Third Platoon came under crossfire from two enemy positions, pinning them in place. The flamer Sentinel sent to assist was struck and disabled by a krak missile, forcing its fellows into a defensive posture which severely attenuated the effectiveness of their suppressive fire.
At this point, Lieutenant Sulla broke the deadlock by leading her command squad in a flank attack against one of the enemy positions, while Second Squad under Sergeant Lustig hit the other. By luck or good judgment, both were able to carry the positions almost simultaneously, allowing the remaining Sentinels to close and Fourth Squad to advance.
I am still undecided as to whether Lieutenant Sulla’s action was bold or reckless, but it was undeniably effective.
Extracted from Like a Phoenix From the Flames: The Founding of the 597th, by General Jenit Sulla (retired), 097.M42.
Notwithstanding Commissar Cain’s assurances that resistance would be light, as indeed was to prove the case, I felt more than a touch of apprehension as the barrage ceased and Major Broklaw gave the order to advance. Not at the prospect of combat itself – the pitiful handful of rebels we faced seeming little to fear after the tyranid hordes we’d bested on Corania scant months before – but at the realisation that my first real test as an officer was upon me, and the fact that one of the most renowned heroes in the Segmentum had reposed his trust in me was an added burden which I felt ill-equipped to bear.
All went well at first, however, with the squads in my platoon advancing swiftly to contact. My readers may well imagine the frustration I felt as I sat in my command Chimera, listening to the vox chatter, reliant on the reports from my subordinates for a full tactical analysis, for until my unlooked-for promotion, I would have been among them, facing the Emperor’s enemies head-on, as a soldier should. My impatience increased as it became clear that one of my squads, women I’d served alongside and men I was beginning to know and respect, was pinned down, taking casualties and unable to advance. As the Sentinels which should have relieved them ran into trouble themselves, I could stand by no longer, regardless of the commissar’s admonition to be cautious. Especially since, knowing his reputation, I was certain he would not have hesitated to put himself in danger for the good of his fellows were he to find himself in a similar position.
