Hero of the Imperium, page 36
As I staggered down the metal incline, already treacherously slippery from the thin coating of snow which had settled on it, needles of ice seemed to penetrate my temples, replacing the residual headache from the crash with one a thousand times worse. I buried my face in the muffler at my throat, being careful to breathe through it in case my lungs froze, but even so the air rasped in my chest like acid fumes.
A broad plain of ice spread out before me, hazed with wind-driven snowflakes which reduced visibility to a few tens of metres, although the flurries cleared occasionally to reveal the low, grey ramparts of the encircling mountains. They stood out clearly against the lighter grey of the sky, and a moment later I realised that what I’d at first taken for some unusually regular outcrops were the towers and storage tanks of the refinery, still too distant to make out any detail.
‘Seventeen injured, fourteen of them walking.’ Sulla bounced up to me, the trickle of blood from her nose now frozen to her face, and saluted eagerly. ‘Eight of those are ours.’ The others would be from first platoon then. I nodded, not trusting myself to talk yet. It would have been a wasted effort anyway, as behind us an engine roared into life and the first of our Chimeras rumbled down the exit ramp, filling the air with the noise of its passage and the rank smell of burned promethium. Thank the Emperor for that, I thought, at least I wouldn’t have to slog all the way to the refinery on foot. Sulla noticed the direction of my gaze. ‘Lieutenant Voss is assessing the condition of the vehicles now.’
Her opposite number glanced up from a huddle of troopers near the ramp, a data-slate in his hand, and waved a cheery acknowledgement. That came as little surprise, as Voss tended to be cheerful about everything. He was clearly in his element now, grinning widely as the churning tracks bit into the snow, and, dear Emperor, his greatcoat was still unfastened. I immediately felt another ten degrees colder just looking at him.
‘We got off lightly,’ he told us, his voice crackling over the comm-beads. ‘Minor damage only. Nothing we can’t get fixed.’
‘Should be easy enough,’ Sulla agreed. ‘A place like this must be crawling with tech-priests.’
‘Maybe they can do something with this heap of junk too,’ I said sourly, kicking a lump of snow at our downed transportation and deciding to risk talking despite the rush of razor blade air to my lungs. If they couldn’t, the loss of one of our shuttles would be a major blow, severely delaying the deployment of our forces, perhaps to the point where we wouldn’t be fully prepared by the time the orks arrived.
‘We’re in the right place at least.’ Jurgen had materialised at my elbow. I was mildly disconcerted not to have noticed his approach, feeling that something was inexplicably wrong, before I realised the cold had effectively neutralised his body odour. Either that, or my nose had frozen off.
He was right about that at any rate. The pilot, who I was beginning to forgive for having soiled my footwear, had been as good as his word, bringing us down on the main landing pad after all. Not being entirely reckless he’d aimed for the outer edge though, leaving us with a kilometre or so of packed snow and ice to trudge across before reaching the shelter of the storage tanks I’d noticed before. The faint scar of melted and refrozen ice that marked where we had bounced and skidded our way to a stop was already beginning to disappear under the drifting snow.
‘It looks more like a starport than a landing pad,’ Sulla observed. I nodded, quite impressed by the scale of things myself, but determined not to show it.
‘The shuttles from the tankers are over five hundred metres long,’ I said, dredging up a half-digested fact from the largely ignored briefing slate.8 ‘And they land up to twelve at a time.’ Sulla looked suitably impressed. Certainly the thought of a swarm of shuttles almost half the size of the starship we’d arrived in filling the air above where we stood was an awe-inspiring one – or it would have been if I hadn’t been freezing my gonads off at the time.
Any further thoughts I might have had on the subject were quickly driven from my head at that point, however, by the rather more urgent matter of a bolter shell exploding against the ceramite hull less than a metre from where we were standing.
‘Orks!’ Sulla shouted, rather unnecessarily under the circumstances I thought. I whirled around to look in the direction she was pointing. At least she had the common sense to do it with her lasgun, though, and opened fire on a small knot of greenskins that was closing fast, slogging through the snow with implacable ferocity.
‘Are they mad?’ Voss’s voice crackled in my ear. ‘We must have them outnumbered about ten to one!’
That did strike me as pretty stupid behaviour, even for orks, and I was just casting about desperately for the main force which must surely be flanking us when the explanation suddenly hit me. I was the only human they could see; the Valhallans’ camouflage uniforms were blending them into the snowscape, as they were supposed to, and with my commissar’s black and scarlet making me stand out like an ogryn in a beauty pageant, they hadn’t bothered looking for anyone else. I breathed silent thanks to the Emperor for the flakes of drifting snow which obscured the others from their sight.
‘Cease fire!’ I snapped, seeing the opportunity for the perfect ambush. A quick glance around me made out at least three squads fully disembarked. They were lying flat in the snow which they’d scraped out into small hollows. A tactic, I vaguely recalled, which had worked well for their forefathers when an ork horde had had the temerity to attack their homeworld. ‘Let’s draw them in.’ Far better to cut them down at short range than engage at a distance, where we would run the risk of a survivor or two escaping to report our arrival back to the warboss.
‘Good plan,’ Sulla said, as though it were up for debate, and I suddenly realised that it left me the only one in immediate danger. Ork marksmanship wasn’t much to worry about most of the time but even greenskins got lucky occasionally, as the downing of our shuttle had proved, so I dropped suddenly with a dramatically out flung arm and a theatrical scream. It was a performance which wouldn’t have fooled a five-year-old, but I heard a whoop of triumph from the leading ork, who was carrying what looked like a crudely-fashioned bolter. The others began remonstrating in harsh gutturals, and I was able to hear enough to gather that they were arguing about who should get the credit for killing me.9 But then if I had a coin for every time that’s happened...
‘Hold your fire,’ I broadcast over the comm-net. Hardly necessary of course, these troopers knew what to do, but I didn’t want any mistakes. The orks came on regardless, running apparently tirelessly despite the treacherous footing and the biting wind which would have sapped the strength from an unprotected man in seconds. I began mentally counting off the distance. Two hundred metres, one hundred and fifty...
The closer they got, the more detail I could make out, and the less I wished I could see. There were ten of them in all, about half carrying the bolters I’d noticed before. The others held heavy close combat blades and pistols which looked as deceptively ramshackle as the bolters. I’d seen enough examples in previous encounters not to be fooled, though. Crude as they appeared, the firearms were perfectly functional, and quite lethal if they should happen to hit anything. The same went for the axes, which, with the power of an ork’s muscles behind them, were capable of shearing through even Astartes armour.
On they came, snarling and bickering, crude icons decorating their sleeveless vests, which alone spoke volumes for their inhuman robustness in this killing climate. Oddly, I noticed, they were all dressed alike, in dark grey, which blended better into the winter landscape than the more vivid hues I generally associated with greenskins. Then I realised the last ork in the group wasn’t armed like the others. A huge calibre barrel was slung across his shoulder, the bulk of the weapon hidden behind his body. What it was I had no idea, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like the answer.
The mystery was solved a few seconds later as they caught sight of the idling Chimera, which had been hidden from them by the bulk of the downed shuttle. Evidently intent on looting it, and arrogantly sure they could slaughter any surviving defenders, the sudden appearance of a military vehicle threw them into momentary disarray. After a quick exchange of snarls, during which the leader, who I was able to identify with a fair degree of certainty thanks to his habit of emphasising instructions with blows to the head (not unlike one of the less popular tutors during my time at the schola progenium) pointed to the Chimera. The ork with the bulky weapon swung it round to reveal a crude rocket launcher. This at least explained how they’d managed to damage the shuttle, albeit with an incredibly lucky shot. Before I could vox a warning the ork fired, a streak of smoke marking the vector of the warhead, which detonated a few metres to the left of the Chimera.
No point expecting the crew to delay their retaliation, I realised, as the next shot might get them. And sure enough the heavy bolter in the turret swung round to bracket the orks. Puffs of snow and ice were thrown up around them as the explosive projectiles detonated thunderously, tearing a couple of them apart. One of them, to my intense relief, was the rocketeer.
It was then that we saw what makes these creatures so dangerous on the battlefield. Where other, more sensible foes would have taken cover or retreated to regroup, these savages felt no urge stronger than to close quickly and neutralise the threat. With a bone-shaking cry of ‘Waaaaarghhhh!’ they ran forward as one, charging headlong into a hail of withering fire.
Well, there was no point hesitating after that, particularly as one foul-smelling foot missed my head by centimetres as it passed, so I rolled to my feet and issued a general order to fire at will.
I don’t suppose they even knew what hit them: suddenly struck by the concentrated fire of a couple of score lasguns, not to mention the unrelenting hail of heavy bolter fire, there was nothing much left of them apart from some unpleasant stains on the snow within seconds. Sulla ambled over to inspect the mess, and spat a small gobbet of ice into it.
‘So those were orks,’ she said. ‘They don’t look so tough.’ I bit down on the sharp rejoinder that rose to my lips, suppressing it. She might as well feel confident for as long as possible. I knew from bitter experience that when the main force got here the next day it would be a different story.
‘First blood to you, then, commissar.’ Kasteen grinned at me, her red curls falling free as she took off her heavy fur cap, and glanced around the conference room in the heart of the refinery. The smile faltered a bit as her eyes flickered past the little group of tech-priests at one end of the heavy wooden table, but re-established itself as she took in the other people present: a mixed bunch of Administratum functionaries seated in strict order of precedence, and a group of men and women whose hard hands and lined faces indicated that they did most of the actual work around here.
‘Luck rather than judgement, I can assure you,’ I said. Kasteen had come down on the second shuttle, about twenty minutes after our advance party had made it to the shelter of the refinery hab units, and I was still feeling like a freezy stick.10 I tightened my fingers around the mug of recaf Jurgen had found for me, feeling the warmth spread through the real ones (the augmetics felt the same as they always did, of course.) I could have done without the transparent wall at the end of the conference suite, beyond which the snow was falling steadily – a visual reminder of the chill which still had me in its grip. Nevertheless the view of the processing plant with its huge structures and belching flames was undeniably spectacular. The sheer size of it struck me for the first time, and I began to understand why it took hundreds of people to extract the raw materials from the ice beneath our feet and process it into the precious fuel.
‘You call that luck?’ Mazarin hummed into the room behind us, making Kasteen start. ‘Bending a perfectly good shuttle?’
Perhaps there was a family resemblance to her father after all, I thought. She’d come down on the same drop as Kasteen to assess the damage, and had just returned from the landing field, thick flakes of snow beginning to melt across her head and shoulders. ‘Nothing I can’t fix though, praise the Omnissiah.’ That was a relief, at least our deployment wouldn’t be as delayed as I’d feared. She levitated across to the little group of tech-priests we’d noticed before, and began to converse with them in a weird twittering language that set my teeth on edge.
‘She’s asking for the use of their facilities to repair the shuttle,’ one of the Administratum adepts said, evidently noticing our confusion. He was a youngish man, with thinning blond hair and the pasty complexion of someone who spends too much time with a data-slate.
‘You understand that gibberish?’ I asked, impressed in spite of myself. He grinned.
‘Dear Emperor, no. If I did they’d have to kill me.’ He smiled as he said it, although for all I knew he wasn’t joking.11 ‘She’s just filed a request with the main depository for the spare parts.’ He stuck out a hand, and Kasteen shook it formally. ‘I’m Scrivener Quintus, by the way. If you need anything, come to me. If I can’t get my hands on it, I’ll know who can.’
‘Thank you.’ Kasteen smiled warmly. ‘Colonel Kasteen, Valhallan 597th. This is our regimental commissar, Ciaphas Cain.’
‘An honour.’ His handshake was firm and direct. ‘I’ve seen your statue in Liberation Square on Talethorn. I must say it doesn’t really do you justice.’
‘That’ll be the pigeon droppings,’ I said dryly. ‘Tends to erode my natural dignity.’ He laughed, with every sign of good humour, and I decided I liked him.
‘Let me introduce you to a few people,’ he said. He waved at the group of tech-priests, singling out a man of about his own age who was talking to Mazarin with every sign of rapt attention. ‘That’s Cogitator Logash. My opposite number, so to speak.’ His voice dropped slightly. ‘You’ll get more done if you go to him first instead of wasting your time with anyone higher up in the Mechanicus, if you get my drift.’
‘Not unlike you and the Administratum,’ I suggested, and he smiled.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he pointed out. ‘But Logash and I aren’t quite so rigid in our thinking as some of the higher ranks in our respective orders.’
‘You can say that again.’ The man I took to be the leader of the workers joined our conversation. ‘How many more of us are going to have to die down there before they sit up and take notice?’ He had the hard eyes of a man used to physical toil, and his hair was grey; nonetheless he burned with a passion which seemed at odds with the coldness that permeated everything else around here.
‘Technically, no one has died,’ Quintus said.
The man snorted.
‘Disappeared, then. Five people in as many weeks.’ Quintus shrugged.
‘I’ve done my best to get them to investigate, you know that.’ The man nodded reluctantly. ‘But they just argue that accidents happen. Icefalls, gas pockets...’
‘I’ve been working here for over twenty years,’ the man said. ‘I know all about icefalls, and a dozen other hazards you quill-pushers haven’t even heard of. And they all leave bodies.’
‘But officially, without a body there’s nothing to investigate.’
‘That’s insane,’ Kasteen said. The man smiled for the first time.
‘That’s what I keep telling them. But the lad here’s the only one with a functioning brain, apparently.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Artur Morel, by the way. Guild of miners.’ His grip was firm.
I have to admit, all this talk of death and mysterious disappearances had me spooked. If we were going to fight a battle I didn’t want to be looking over my shoulder the whole time, and I resolved to have a longer talk with him at the earliest opportunity. We’d already encountered one ork scouting party after all, and if there was another one already lurking in the mine we’d have to clear them out as a matter of priority.
But first things first: we had a war to plan. Mazarin left the room with Logash trotting along behind her, evidently detailed to sort out her requirements, and the highest ranking Administratum adept, a white-haired woman called Pryke, called the meeting to order with every sign of enthusiasm.
Needless to say, it turned out to be interminable. The facility seemed to be equally dependent on the three factions present to keep functioning, or at least that’s what Pryke fondly imagined, although I’d have laid a small wager that putting the Administratum drones out in the snow to keep the orks amused while we prepared our defences would have had a negligible effect on the promethium output. Every point she raised was politely challenged by Magos Ernulph, the senior tech-priest, who would remind everyone that without his people to perform the appropriate rituals the plant would simply grind to a halt. Of course without Morel’s miners to provide the raw materials it would do so anyway, but the guildsman was tactful enough not to drag things out even further by pointing this out, for which I was extremely grateful, especially since my stomach had started to realise how empty it was.
Fortunately Kasteen had a much lower level of tolerance for idiots than I did, so it was with some relief that I saw her stand to interrupt the ageing bureaucrat in mid flow.
‘Thank you all for your input,’ she said crisply. ‘It’s clear that you all have particular insights to offer, which we will be calling upon as and when we see the need.’
‘I think my colleagues will require a little more than that,’ Pryke rejoined. ‘May I suggest you provide us with daily progress reports?’ Ernulph nodded in agreement, his blank metal eyes turning on the colonel. She ignored him, with an effort only I knew well enough to discern.
