Ghost legion, p.23
Ghost Legion, page 23
His armour was another matter. It had taken a battering in the shelling of the shanty town, but he had not been prepared to put it aside for full repairs in the middle of a war, not with his lingering uncertainty about the security of his own command centre, and especially with the knowledge that an Imperial Assassin was hunting him. It now seemed like a particularly wise decision given that there was apparently another in play, the existence of which had not been known to him. Nonetheless, although it would still protect him to some extent, his armour’s personalised trait – the ability to flip its scales to a reflective surface, which could almost completely negate the effect of most energy-based weapons – would have limited functionality now, if any at all.
It did not matter. Solomon was Alpha Legion, and he would adapt to the situation.
‘Kyrin,’ he said. ‘Order Shadowstrike to prepare for take-off. We have another hunt, and we will be taking care of this one ourselves.’
81.33.35
Everything had been going well for quite a long time, which was why Gavran wasn’t that surprised when it all went to hell.
War didn’t go well. War was long periods of seesawing between tension and boredom, until you felt that your mind would snap from the strain if something didn’t happen soon, interspersed with shorter periods where you desperately wished for everything to stop happening, and most specifically for none of it to happen to you. After the initial charge of the mortars on the ridge – which had been nerve-wracking and bladder-emptying, but ultimately successful in the sense that all of the enemy had died whereas not all of Gavran’s platoon had – their advance had been one of the easiest he could recall. That wasn’t to say it had been actually easy, mind you, since the traitors had still mounted resistance, but that had generally been badly organised and fairly light. Orders had come down from the colonel on no fewer than three occasions to call a halt, apparently simply because no one in charge believed that they weren’t walking into a trap.
The trap had sprung in the end, of course; it always did, even if in this case the Chem-Dogs had been allowed to push much further into enemy territory than Gavran would have expected. He had been busy watching the skies and the high places, looking for snipers, and had forgotten to check the streets beneath his feet.
They came up from storm drains and out of basement doors, firing autoguns and lasguns, and throwing grenades. The first Gavran knew of it was when Half-Face Harrus suddenly became No-Face Harrus, when something hit him between the eyes and burst his skull like an overripe ploin. Morten was on him in a moment – not to help him, because Harrus was beyond that, but to rip the plasma gun off his corpse and fire back, incinerating two of the attackers where they stood. They lost Thlate and Yuven seconds later, each one riddled with autogun rounds. Big Mo snatched off his helmet and dived on a grenade with it, which turned out to be a frekking stupid thing to do because the damned thing just blew apart his helmet and his hands along with them, and drove shrapnel into him so hard that it punched out the back of his flak jacket.
Pious Phinea got them out of the killing zone, leading the remainder of her squad into a side alley to try to link up with another arm of the force. She went down with her knife in a traitor’s throat, having already sliced up two of the ones that jumped them at the other end. Keel died then as well, torn apart by a chainsword moments before Gavran could line up his point-blank shot on the heretic responsible – and he had been trying, at that, since Keel had nothing worth taking once he died.
That left three of them. Sorry, who had claimed half a dozen enemy lives within the space of a minute or so, despite looking like he was about to see his ration bars again; Morten, now lugging around a plasma gun that had to be half as long as she was tall; and Gavran himself. The storm had finally broken, and the Chem-Dogs were suffering in the tempest.
Gavran knew better than to turn back, however. That way lay Commissar Fowle and execution for cowardice, assuming she was still alive. Besides, murderer though he was, Gavran still believed in the Emperor, and these were heretics. What was more, they were heretics who didn’t look too weird and mutated, so their equipment wasn’t likely to be the sort of stuff that the brass would confiscate. All the three of them needed to do was find a few well-equipped enemies in a place where they actually had the privacy to strip the corpses, and this whole thing might prove to be worthwhile after all.
They pressed on at a half-run, hoping that by moving fast and keeping a low profile, a group as small as theirs would be missed. The sun was setting, and the street lumens were not coming on – probably because something that someone had identified as a power station had blown up a while back. There had been mutterings about that: had it been an airstrike, even though no one had seen flyers? Did they have allies in the enemy ranks? Phinea had clamped down on that last one, in case it encouraged anyone not to kill.
She needn’t have worried about that. They were Chem-Dogs, and no life was worth anything to them. Better a hundred loyalists died than one heretic was allowed to live.
Gavran took point, with Morten in the middle and Sorry bringing up the rear. They picked their way through what was apparently a small park – a park! Green space just for city folk to stand in! Gavran was astounded by the concept – and towards a bridge that arced across what was, according to the auspex he’d swiped from Phinea’s body, one of the smaller channels of the river that ran through the city.
‘I reckon we head over that,’ he said, as the three of them crouched in the shelter of a large bush. ‘The southern thrust should be heading over this larger bridge further down, so we can join up with them–’
‘You don’t want to do that.’
They whirled around as one, and Gavran found himself staring down the barrel of his lasgun at a sombre, bearded face that he recognised enough not to pull the trigger – until he realised where he recognised it from, at which point the urge to pull it returned along with a flood of fear.
‘Easy, friends,’ the man he’d known as Drass said, although he was now clad in a black bodysuit instead of his Chem-Dog fatigues. ‘It’s just me.’
‘You’re not just anyone,’ Morten said shakily, which was always an uncomfortable thing to hear in the voice of someone holding a plasma gun. ‘We all saw how you moved back there. What in all the hells are you?’
‘I’m on your side,’ Drass said.
‘No one who moves like that or shoots like that is on our side.’
‘Fine.’ Drass shrugged. ‘I’m on the Emperor’s side, how about that?’
Morten considered this for a moment, then lowered her plasma gun. ‘Good enough.’
‘Why shouldn’t we go over the bridge?’ Sorry asked, then shrank back again as Drass looked at him. ‘Sorry…’
‘Because you’re being hunted,’ Drass said seriously. ‘We all are, me included.’
‘By those sumplickers?’ Gavran scoffed, jerking his head in the general direction of the heretics they’d just encountered.
‘No,’ Drass said. ‘By the Alpha Legion. Space Marines.’
‘The Alpha Legion?’ Morten repeated.
‘Space Marines?’ Sorry squeaked. ‘But sarge said Space Marines couldn’t go–’
‘She didn’t know what she was talking about,’ Drass said shortly. ‘They can, and these have. You ever seen a Space Marine, Chem-Dogs?’
They all shook their heads silently. Gavran felt something cold settle into his stomach.
‘You know what they can do?’
They nodded, tentatively. Oh, they’d heard stories, sure. The thing about Space Marines was that you were never sure what stories were true and which ones weren’t, and whether the ones that weren’t true were inaccurate because they overplayed a Space Marine’s capabilities, or didn’t play them up enough. They were power-armoured demigods.
‘They’re deadly,’ Drass said. ‘Luckily for you, I’m deadlier. I’ve killed seven Space Marines on this campaign already.’
‘You?’ Gavran said, trying not to laugh. ‘You’ve killed a Space Marine? You’ve killed seven Space Marines? That’s ridiculous! That’s–’
‘I believe him,’ Morten said quietly, and Gavran shut up. Morten wasn’t exactly a friend, but he was fairly sure she was smarter than he was, and he wasn’t prepared to ignore her on something like this.
‘Me too,’ Sorry said, even more quietly.
‘But,’ Drass continued, as though Gavran had never spoken, ‘these ones are different. They know how to hide, and they know how to hunt. They’ve nearly cornered me twice, so far. I saw them mine that bridge you were about to walk over. They’re going to cut this little advance of yours to pieces, in between trying to put a bolter shell through my skull.’
‘You’re hunting them while they’re hunting you?’ Morten asked, her expression tense, but strangely eager.
‘One in particular,’ Drass said. ‘But yes, any of them dead is a service rendered to the Emperor, and a step closer to my target.’
‘I want to come with you,’ Morten said immediately. ‘Let me help.’
Drass snorted with laughter. ‘You couldn’t keep up.’
‘Who are they hunting?’ Morten demanded. She nodded to a blank-visored mask in his hand. ‘One man in a mask and a black bodysuit? Not one member of four lost Chem-Dogs, barely worth their notice.’
‘Hold on,’ Gavran said in alarm, ‘you’re not suggesting we–’
‘You might have noticed that I lost my uniform,’ Drass said dryly, gesturing to himself.
‘We’re Chem-Dogs,’ Morten said mockingly. ‘We’ve all got spare kit. Sure, mine probably won’t fit you, but theirs will.’
Drass studied her for a moment, then a slight smile creased his lips. ‘Fine. Let’s try hiding in plain sight again. Give me your kit, Dogs.’
With Morten having suggested it, and Drass – whatever he was – having agreed to it, Gavran didn’t really feel he could refuse. He handed over a spare tunic, while Sorry donated a pair of trousers with only a small bloodstain, and Drass hurriedly pulled them on over his bodysuit. He still had a knapsack, and once he’d slung it over his back with his sword sheathed beneath it, he didn’t look too dissimilar to the rest of them again. At least to the casual eye: Gavran watched him get to his feet, and wondered how he’d ever mistaken Drass’ lazily athletic movements for anything natural.
‘Now, stay close,’ Drass told them. He’d taken Morten’s lasgun to complete his disguise, leaving her with the plasma, although a bulky combi-pistol now hung at his belt. ‘If I hide, you hide. If I start running, you hide. Or run, if you want,’ he added over his shoulder as he started to lead them away. ‘By that point, it won’t do you any good.’
Morten was already tailing him, and Sorry took off after them. Gavran hesitated for a moment, but what were his options? Head through this city by himself, with no one to watch his back? Or stay by the side of the most lethal man he’d ever met?
Muttering curses under his breath, Gavran hurried to keep up.
They’d killed a few isolated heretics as they moved – not Space Marines, just your average heretic – with Drass doing most of the work, punching single shots through skulls with an accuracy that took Gavran’s breath away. Now night was on them in truth, and they were advancing down an apparently deserted street that seemed to have been partially ruined long before war came to Savionus, judging by the graffiti on the buildings.
Drass raised a hand and slid sideways behind a half-demolished wall with a speed and grace that made him look like a shadow slipping across marble. The rest of them hurried to imitate him, and Gavran found himself face to face with Drass when the man raised a single finger to his lips in a gesture for silence, then nodded sideways, in the direction they had been travelling.
Gavran risked raising his head to peer over the wall. For a long moment he saw nothing. Then, just as he was wondering whether their companion had been imagining things, something which he had assumed was part of a ruined wall further down the street moved, and turned into a towering, curve-shouldered shape that was unmistakable to anyone who had seen even the roughest art of a Space Marine. A moment later, it was joined by another.
Space Marines. Gavran was looking at Space Marines.
Space Marines who had forsaken the Emperor, and who wanted to kill him. He swallowed.
Drass pulled him down again, and leaned forward.
‘You three stay here,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible. ‘Wait until I’m halfway to them, then open fire.’
‘What?’ Sorry hissed, then clapped his hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry.’
‘I won’t make it to them undetected,’ Drass whispered. ‘Let me get a head-start, then draw their attention. I need to thin their numbers, or I’ll never make it to my primary target. The plasma gun will make them notice you, at any rate,’ he continued, nodding to Morten. ‘They’ll advance. If they get to you, you’ll die. My plan is to jump them when they pass me. If I can get the drop on them, get in sword range, I can kill them.’
For some reason, Gavran didn’t doubt him.
‘Ready?’ Drass said, and Gavran found himself nodding alongside Morten and Sorry. ‘If this doesn’t work, know that you’ll die having done the Emperor’s work.’
He loped away, fast and silent, another shadow in the night. Gavran watched him go, his heart in his throat. Beside him, Morten propped the plasma gun on the top of the wall, and flicked the power switch to maximal.
‘You’re supposed to wait–’ Sorry began.
Morten fired.
The incandescent bolt of energy streaked out into the night. It seared into Gavran’s night vision, but not before it brought him the image of Drass falling, a hole blown right through his torso.
‘What–’
Sorry was gasping, bubbling, the sound of a man choking on his own blood. Gavran was still blinking away the spots, trying to make sense of what was happening, when he felt the touch of a wet blade against his own throat.
‘Sorry, Gavran,’ Morten whispered. ‘But I did tell you that I weren’t always a Chem-Dog.’
‘Hydra Dominatus! Hydra Dominatus!’
Qope Halver had raised his Stalker-pattern boltgun as soon as the plasma bolt flashed out into the night. His helmet’s night-vision setting registered the downed body, killed instantly, and he saw the distinctive pistol and mask hanging at the belt – the tools of the Assassin they’d been trailing, although he’d picked up some new clothes from somewhere.
He hadn’t expected the short human in the uniform of the enemy, advancing down the middle of the street with her hands raised and repeating the war cry of his Legion.
‘What in the primarch’s name is this?’ muttered Sokrate, beside him.
‘No idea,’ Halver admitted. ‘Let’s find out.’
He covered the human as she approached, then held up one hand when she got to thirty feet away. ‘That’s far enough. Who are you?’
‘Morten Shanell, lord,’ the human replied. She was sweating with nerves, but also, so far as Halver was any judge of mortal emotions, with excitement. ‘I was recruited into the Legion ten years ago, by an operative named Hojun Frale. He gave me a code word. I was waiting for activation, but when I learned that we were fighting the Legion…’ She shrugged. ‘I had to act. That man was an Imperial Assassin.’
Halver grunted. ‘What was your code word?’
‘Haplocke, my lord.’
Halver looked at Sokrate. ‘Mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’ Halver pulled the trigger, and Morten’s head exploded. He activated his vox. ‘Harrowmaster. Mission accomplished.’
81.44.38
Zaefa Varaz knew the moment the Imperial forces ringed around Lucretia Mons moved into the attack. The forge’s sensors had been trained on them, monitoring distance, measuring and remeasuring the heat output from the idling engines of tanks and troop transports. Zaefa did not know why the attackers had waited, but she was aware of it as soon as they stopped.
That still left her with the question of what to do about it.
Short-term self-preservation dictated that she should fire upon them. To do otherwise would betray her to the Diabolicus Secundus and the disgusting, corrupted human troops that had been polluting her forge since the Harrowmaster had arrived with his suspicions and a pile of corpses. The Secundus had been callous and malicious with its presence in Lucretia Mons’ circuits and noosphere, but it had not been actively hostile – a sadistic overseer amusing itself by being harsher than it needed to with its charges, without attempting to actually end their existence. That could quickly change, and then Zaefa would find out if the security protocols that had silently turned aside the abominable intelligence’s prying could stand up to a full-blown assault.
Even if her forces turned upon their repulsive supposed-allies and the Imperials took the forge, that was not to say that Sertra would follow suit. Zaefa had been monitoring the progress of the war, and the Imperium’s initial advance had largely ground to a halt, stymied by the Alpha Legion’s apparently endless supply of feints, traps, and counter-attacks. They were a long way off beating the Imperials back entirely, but Zaefa knew better than to think that Ghost Legion reinforcements were not incoming. If Akurra could mire the invaders where they were, they would be caught between hammer and anvil, and then her treachery would be punished.
Beside which, Zaefa and Lucretia Mons had accepted the rule of the Great Enemy for months. Her reasons for doing so remained valid, by her computations – keeping control of the forge meant it had not been handed over to some twisted adept of the so-called New Mechanicum, and perverted beyond recovery – but to those outside the walls she would almost inevitably be viewed as a traitor, no matter what path she took. Execution or exile would follow.
