Planetkill, page 6
‘A decent bottle for once,’ Vickers said, indicating the glass.
‘Yes.’ The word ‘sir’ hung on Marcher’s tongue.
‘Not as good as in the officers’ mess. But this isn’t bad. When you make it there, Mister Marcher, I’ll show you their selection.’
‘Yes…’ Marcher rallied. ‘That would be very good of you, Mister Vickers.’
The senior armsman swirled the drink thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Mister Marcher, let me give you some advice. Your new fellows, you will never win them over with kindness. Don’t even bother with them. They’re relics; washed-up officers who have less than half your ability and none of your promise. They are not there for you to befriend; they’re there for you to outshine. Be exceptional, and those who matter will not ignore you.’
‘Thank you, Mister Vickers,’ Marcher replied, surprised and flattered at the attention.
Vickers nodded, swallowed the rest of the drink and left. Everyone knew the senior armsman was close to the first officer. Another rush went through Marcher; his future was bright indeed with Commander Ward smiling down upon him.
‘Confirm the origin of that message,’ Ward bit, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘If the astropath has made any mistake then I’ll have his head!’
‘The Telepathica sanctuary confirms, sir,’ the vox-officer replied. ‘Message coding is correct – Optimus level.’
Ward swore under his breath. He could not possibly ignore an Optimus level distress call; even the slightest delay might be questioned.
‘Contact the Navis dome, give them the coordinates.’
‘Already done, sir.’
This vox-officer was keen to the point of presumption, Ward reflected.
‘Tell them this, then, Lieutenant. Flank speed and nothing less.’
The table shook again and Governor Kaizen grabbed at the teetering stacks of data-slates to prevent them from falling.
‘Call up to the bridge,’ he snapped. ‘Find out what in the devil’s name is going on.’
One of his assistants ran to obey his command while the others shrank back, as much as from their Governor’s wrath as from the sounds of the attack. He had commandeered the top-level grand suite of the Gloriana Vance, rather than be on the bridge, specifically so he could escape the mundane interruptions of the trip and get on with the real work: the plans the industrialisation of Reeza. And now this!
The ship lurched and this time the data-slates practically flew from his hands.
‘This is contemptible,’ he exclaimed. ‘I want to talk to the bridge. Is a squadron of the Battlefleet’s frigates not sufficient to keep us safe from one pathetic raider attack? I do not expect to have to be disturbed for every little thing.’
He stormed over to one of the portholes, but nothing could be seen apart from the starfield whirling as the Gloriana Vance banked and turned. Then there was a flash. It was too close to be another ship; it was the flash of a point-defence turret. Costs and quotas, Kaizen realised, they must be right on top of them!
‘Get out,’ Kaizen bellowed at his assistants. ‘We’ve got to get back to–’
The impact threw Kaizen from his feet. An ear-splitting whine drilled into his head. He glanced back at the porthole. The starfield had gone; in its place he looked straight down the maw of the evil machinery that was cutting through the hull.
‘They’re boarding!’
The Relentless burst from warp and the command deck was immediately overwhelmed by a tumult of new data. Ward restrained his impatience and remained still within the captain’s chair. Nothing he could do would hurry the initial reports. They had made excellent time. Ward knew there was no love lost between him and the Navis dome, but whatever else he thought of them he could never claim they had shown less than exemplary talent in the role for which they were born. Thanks to them, he may just have a chance to save his neck.
‘Situation analysis compiling, sir,’ the auspex officer reported.
‘Let’s have it then, Mister Aden.’
The battle appeared upon the main view-portal. The convoy was in disarray. The dozens of cargo scows were scattered, the Gloriana Vance was bucking like a bull trying to throw an unwelcome rider, the frigates…
‘Where are the escorts?’ Ward demanded. ‘Where are the enemy? Find them, Mister Aden.’
‘They were dispersed after their last jump, sir. The Spur and the Illys are reporting bomber attacks, minimal damage. The Onyx is out of position but on a heading back to the Spur. The–’
The auspex officer paused as a light winked out on his display.
‘The Illys has been destroyed.’
‘How?’
‘It’s… it’s not clear, commander.’
‘Incoming transmission from the Gloriana Vance, sir,’ the vox-officer reported.
‘Put it through, but get me the Spur. Show me the Gloriana.’
The view-portal swivelled to close on the liner. Its pale hull was pock-marked with dark spots, assault boats biting into its skin like tiny parasites. It looked diseased, being eaten from the inside out. Governor Kaizen’s voice cut straight through the chatter of the command deck.
‘Commander Ward. I demand that you immediately–’
‘What is the tactical situation, Governor?’ Ward cut him off.
‘–you must attack them at once. They’re taking my men. They’re taking my men! You must get them back. They’re priceless–’
‘Ordnance! Assault crews to the transports. Reinforce the Gloriana.’
Below on the command deck, the master of ordnance ordered his officers down to the launch bays. Ward noted that his protégé, Mister Marcher, was amongst them, trying to conceal his eagerness with a mask of professionalism. Senior Armsman Vickers, in his usual place beside the command dais, shifted and Ward gave him the nod. The first officer never allowed anyone but him to lead his boarding parties.
Ward turned back to the bridge officers. ‘As soon as they’re away move us over to the Illys’s last position and order the Spur to fall into formation. Bombers, assault boats, they didn’t get here on their own. We’re going to find that carrier.’
Enemy fire ripped along the top of the cargo-loader which sheltered Marcher and his men. Their entry into the Gloriana Vance was not going to be as uncontested as they had hoped. No sooner had their transport burned into the Gloriana’s docking bay than Marcher had heard the shots bouncing off their hull. It had been too late to find an alternative boarding point; they were already committed. The transport had landed, its exit ramp had dropped and Marcher and his men had scrambled for what cover they could find as the transport’s multilasers ran red-hot, providing covering fire.
Marcher’s chest felt tight; this was not the same as the fight back on Bahani. This time he was responsible for the life of every single man with him. He could not afford just to think about himself, he had to lead. He had not even had a clear glimpse of the raiders yet. He had to get control of the situation. He had to know what was going on, and then he could give proper orders.
He peered over his cover and tried to get a sense of the battlefield. There, on the upper level, he could make out the shapes. The raiders had a fire-team up there, maybe an officer too; he would have to take their firing lines into account. He inched a little higher to get a view on their ground level positions. Maybe if they could circle around to the left…
Marcher felt something hit him hard in the side and knock him down, as a barrage of shots tore through the space he had just been occupying.
‘I’d keep down if I were you.’ It was Petty Officer Buller, one of Vickers’s veterans who had made it plain that he obeyed Marcher only at the behest of the senior armsman. ‘Sir,’ Buller added as a grudging afterthought.
‘What are your orders, sir?’
‘Well, we need to take down that fire-team on the upper level, then I was thinking if we could flank–’
‘Advance on all sides. Very good, sir.’ Buller cut him off. ‘Armsmen! In your pairs, cover and advance! Ram your shotguns down their throats!’ Buller glanced back at Marcher. ‘Gibbs! See that fire position up there? Keep their heads down!’
All around them the armsmen advanced, half of the party firing, while the other half scrambled for the next position. Marcher picked himself up. Those were the orders he should have given. Right now, he was not commanding this party, Buller was. But he did not blame the petty officer, he had asked for orders and Marcher had given him suggestions.
‘Forward!’ he cried as he dived for cover, then rose, found a target and fired. The shot went wide as the target ducked back, lightning fast. Inhumanly fast, even. The raiders were retreating in the face of the armsmen’s determined attack. Marcher, for a brief second, caught sight of a silhouette. The same shape as a man but tall, too tall, its limbs spindly and elongated like a spider’s. Then it was gone. It was an alien, a xenos.
Eldar, Ward brooded on the bridge of the Relentless, almost certainly one of the piratical sects of that abominable species. Despite its long history, the Relentless had rarely encountered them, but they had had several engagements with other ships of Battlefleet Bethesba down through the millennia, and some of the Battlefleet ships had even survived to report back. The eldar were dangerous, he knew, their motives often unfathomable but at their core they were decadent cowards, liable to hide or run as often as stand and fight. Even now their carrier was hiding somewhere out there instead of giving proper battle. Well, he would smoke them out.
‘Get out the way!’ ‘Let us through!’ ‘Clear a path! Clear a path!’ Marcher and his men forced their way through the crowds of the panicking Administratum officials who were blocking the main concourse. The tall, narrow street was choked with people, pushing and shoving to get to safety. Nowhere was safe; small bands of raiders were all over the ship, refugees were coming from every direction with tales of attacks and slaughter which merely added to the hysteria and confusion. Beside him, Marcher saw that Buller was as much out of his depth as he was, and all he could do was shout himself hoarse and shove the officials away. Marcher’s orders were to get to the bow end of the concourse; with teams from the Relentless at every critical junction maybe they could clip these cursed aliens’ wings.
Suddenly, a scream rose up, though not one that could be made by a human voice. One scream and then more. A half dozen of the raiders burst from the top level, soaring and screeching on armoured sky-boards. The human crush below looked up at the sound and panicked, their shoving turned to clawing in their desperation to escape, they pushed their colleagues aside and trampled the fallen underfoot. Marcher caught sight of one of the sky-boarders as it swooped low, buzzing the crowds and blowing men aside in its wash. More of the raiders dived, but this time it was not for show; they struck out at the backs of the crowd with their heavy halberds as they scorched overhead, lopping off limbs and heads with insolent ease. One, heavier than the rest, had an ugly cannon slung underneath which spat splinter-shot, stitching a bloody line along the deck, slicing apart the bodies of those trying to flee.
‘Armsmen!’ Marcher and Buller shouted at the same time. Those armsmen who could see brought up their shotguns and fired. It was a difficult shot, but Marcher saw one of the raiders knocked back. For a moment, it looked as though he might fall but then he bent his body impossibly and caught himself back on his board. The raiders had clearly not expected such resistance, but they reacted instantly: sweeping back up to the higher levels and then disappearing from sight.
‘They’re gone.’ Marcher breathed, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
‘Wait,’ Buller said and at that moment the sky-boarders blew back onto the concourse. They had returned and, worse, they had brought others. Three times more than their original number. They stayed high, spiralling effortlessly in between each other, tracing intricate patterns in the air. Marcher reached for his vox.
‘Mister Vickers,’ Marcher reported. ‘We have contact with a large concentration of enemy sky-boarders, bow-end of the main concourse. Please–’
‘They’re coming down!’ an armsman shouted, cutting him off. Four of them had peeled away from their aerial display and were bombing down the narrow aisle towards the armsmen crouched on the deck. Buller had seen them and was already issuing orders.
‘Keep to the sides, men, keep to the sides. Close as you can, don’t let them get too close.’ Marcher saw the men obey him instantly, flattening themselves against the walls on each side of the concourse, forcing the raiders to keep their distance for fear of crashing into the sides themselves. The raiders saw it too and a second wave dropped down, this time led by the heavy sky-board with the cannon.
‘Buller, no!’ Marcher yelled at the armsman. ‘Get them away from the wall. Disperse!’
Buller glanced across angrily at Marcher. ‘What?’
It was too late. The first wave had pulled up early, blossoming apart in each direction and wheeling back, and the second wave dove through their trails: it was a clean run at targets who had so conveniently lined themselves up with nowhere to run. The cannon spat again, a clean line of explosions bit along the wall at waist-height, catching those crouching in the shoulders and face and cutting the armsmen standing in two. The blood and the dust billowed up and obscured the carnage beneath for a moment before it was blown clear by the sky-boards sweeping past. The scream of their engines faded to be replaced by the screams of the armsmen left with arms and legs hanging from their perforated torsos.
Marcher froze for a moment, but only for a moment. He looked to Buller, but he was down, his head nearly severed by a flashing halberd. A voice on the vox was telling him to pull back, but he ignored it. He was not afraid. He was angry. So very angry.
A couple of the surviving armsmen had gone to their fallen comrades. Marcher snapped at them to come back, his voice clear, even through the sounds of the wounded and dying.
‘Keep scattered. Keep moving,’ he shouted at them all. He glanced up; another wave was coming, and another behind that. ‘Fire only on my order! Target the leader!’
Marcher brought up his own shotgun as the armsmen shifted around him. Now, now they were obeying him. No, that wasn’t the difference; the difference was that now he was leading them.
The four raiders swooping down were sliding this way and that trying to follow the armsmen scurrying below them. The humans’ officer though stood stock still in the centre of his men and so they instinctively drew together, focusing on him. They liked to take the officers first, the humans ran so much quicker once their officers were dead. Closer, closer, so close they could taste the kill.
‘Fire!’ Marcher commanded. The shot flew in a swarm straight at the lead sky-boarder. The sky-boarder tried to jink but he could not dodge such a volley. His body was torn apart, his board spun and the other fliers screeched as they realised their formation was too tight for safety. Two of them managed to wheel away, the other over-steered and fell. He twisted through the air and landed rolling onto the deck. He sprang to his feet, pulling at a pistol and was blown back by a single shot, half his face missing.
Marcher ejected the spent cartridge. The next wave was coming. ‘Move! Move!’ he ordered, but the armsmen were already moving, weapons ready and tracking the sky-boarder in the lead.
‘Fire!’ They fired in unison. This time the raider was already turning, flipping his board, thinking to use it as a shield. Useless thought. The heavy shot punctured the board’s engine and it spiralled out of control and exploded. The other raiders however had kept well separated and swept down amongst the armsmen.
‘Duck and roll!’ Marcher shouted before diving aside himself. There was a scream behind him from an armsman too slow to react.
The next wave’s leader had seen what had gone before and throttled back. The armsmen smoothly shifted their aim to the new frontrunner, blew him from the sky and then ducked and rolled. In his eagerness for the kill, another of the raiders misjudged the distance and caught an armsman with his halberd but then slammed at full speed into the deck. He tumbled from his board and the barrage of shot from the armsman’s fellows kept him twitching long after he was dead.
Then, Marcher saw something strange happen. The next wave should have been barrelling down upon them, but all the fliers stayed circling near the ceiling. They had lost nearly a third of their number and the humans, instead of fleeing, were knocking them from the sky. A few of the fliers started to drop but as one took the lead he throttled back and then so did the rest and they rose back up to rejoin their fellows.
Marcher could see the eldar commander on the cannon-board, circling faster and faster, berating the others, dragging them back into another attack. The cannon-board led the way, sights set firmly on Marcher.
‘Men of the Relentless!’ Marcher called. ‘With me!’ And he ran at the diving attackers.
The raider saw his run and steepened his dive to compensate. Marcher sprinted all the harder and the raider pushed the cannon-board’s nose down even further. Further and further, until he was nearly pitched straight down. His fellows were unable to hold on and pulled out, but he wanted the head of this human who dared defy him. He triggered the board’s cannon and saw the deadly fire intersect the runner’s path. The human fell and the raider desperately gunned back on his board, clawing its nose up away from the deck racing towards him. The bottom of the board screeched along the floor and the raider felt something strike him in the back and then the board’s nose jerked up and climbed again. The raider found himself starting to slip and tried to readjust his stance. His legs wouldn’t move. He could feel nothing below his waist. He reached round to his back and there he could feel the shot buried into his flesh, buried into his spine. He brought his bloody hand back before his eyes and then fell neatly head-first from the climbing board.
