Demolisher, p.2
Demolisher, page 2
Victory, you told us, begets victory. The road to glory is a gilded boulevard whose flagstones are forged from the gold of medals and stamped with Imperial aquilas. That is what you said, lord militant, and I believed you. I still believe you. No matter the trials the God-Emperor places before us, the mountains He bids us climb, I still envision that golden road to victory stretching before the feet of our armies as they toil up slope and pinnacle.
Yet this is Croatoas, lord. Nothing is as it seems. Nothing stays uncorrupted. You know this as well as I. And so I warn you again, there are other roads upon this world. Roads paved with fool’s gold. Roads inlaid with the silver of liars’ tongues, leading not to the heights of conquest, but instead away into the festering mires of this once-loyal planet.
And I say to you, my lord, that in so adamantly pressing our advance towards Hive Joragh we risk setting our feet upon just such a treachers’ road. The Ruega Front wavers. I do not believe the Cyclameia Mountains are the bastion wall we desire. If the foe break our lines at Ruega and push through the high passes, they will fall upon the eastern flank of the Joragh offensive like an avalanche.
Something must be done, my lord. We must watch our every step in this crucial hour. We must keep our feet upon the one true path. We must press on to victory.
– General Anneka Czethyk, Cadian 17th Army Group,
Coronal Crusade. Excerpt from private missive to
Lord Militant Erasmyan Tuthaelo concerning the
security of the Southern Peninsulate Theatre
ACT ONE
THE TREACHERS’ ROAD
CHAPTER ONE
HELIOS MISSION CLOCK
-01:35 hrs
Hadeya Etsul tried to relax. The absurdity of that notion almost made her laugh, but she bit it back. It wouldn’t do to make sudden movements when someone was probing inside her skull with powered tools. Instead, she recalled, as so often in times of stress, the calming words of Commander Masenwe.
‘Widen your focus. Observe the world around you. Anchor yourself in its details.’
The chirurgeon’s tools ticked and sparked. All right, thought Etsul, observe details. She began with the surgical throne she sat in. She felt its padding supporting her, dug fingertips into the insulation on its arms until a coldness told of underlying metal. She rolled her one real eye – she had to stop thinking like that – upward and saw her face reflected in the mirrors extended on adjustable arms from the throne’s back. In the reflection, its sclera looked grotesquely white and wild. She thought of a caeturid in a paddock-clamp and tore her gaze away.
The chirurgeon grunted. His face was so close to hers that she was wreathed in the sour exhalations from his mask-grille.
Etsul felt a moment’s concern. Had something in the housing of her augmetic eye attempted to mirror the motion of its biological twin, and so disrupted his work? But no, she had an ocular lens, not some imitation eyeball. She doubted that was how it worked. Besides, the chirurgeon had rendered the augmetic’s machine spirit somnolent before beginning. It was just dead, cold metal, driven into the meat of her face like shrapnel from a blast. Except she would at least feel that, a wound, just as she was sure she could still feel her lost eye roll in its socket, her missing eyelids try to snap shut like a mollusc’s shell at the intrusion of the probing tools–
‘Patient cardio rhythm increasing,’ croaked the hunched orderly from somewhere behind Etsul.
The tools paused. Etsul almost wished that she could feel them. Somehow their presence within the metal portions of her skull was all the more horrible for the total lack of sensation. They might as well have been working on the laspistol at her hip.
‘Does the patient require sedation?’ The chirurgeon’s voice was a metallic grind, brusque with impatience. His mechadendrite withdrew, the sparking implement at its tip waving before Etsul like a serpent.
She almost shook her head, then had to clamp down on another laugh. Did she need sedation? Was she hysterical?
Entertaining the thought made her angry: with herself; with the physical limitations imposed by injuries that felt like they belonged to someone else; with the unexpected burden dropped suddenly on her shoulders, and its demand for expediency.
‘Worry what is. Let the rest go.’
‘The patient will repeat?’ asked the chirurgeon.
‘I do not require sedation,’ Etsul replied. ‘My subordinate officers will be reporting to this medicae cell. I must be clear-headed to brief them. What I require is that you complete your duties swiftly and to the best of your abilities, that I might be about mine.’
The flesh portions of the chirurgeon’s face twitched.
‘This bay is not large,’ he said. ‘My work requires precision. I ask again if the patient will reconsider her decision to crowd this space with soldiers. They will aggravate’ – a slight pause – ‘the machine spirits of your augmetics.’
‘A regrettable necessity,’ she told him. ‘I received a fresh assignment slate an hour prior to this appointment, urgent. I can neither do without this maintenance nor delay briefing my officers. And so…’ Etsul gestured around herself, careful to keep her head still.
The chirurgeon grunted again.
‘The patient will refrain from any unnecessary motion. Her officers will abstain from interfering with my work.’
‘Of course,’ said Etsul. The mechadendrite slithered forward. The clicking and sparking resumed.
Details, Etsul reminded herself firmly.
Her attention roved around the subterranean chamber. She took in the plasteel reinforcement bars that gave it shape, the plastek sheeting fixed in place over flakboard walls and dirt floor, the blackened stubs of pernicious Croatoan greenery that had invaded even this sterile space. She noted the lumen-gleam from the tray of scrupulously cleaned surgical tools, and the banks of bleeping and flashing machinery.
Etsul was tallying the colours of the lumen bulbs winking across the contraptions when her officers arrived.
First through the door was Lieutenant Sivana Gelt. She had to duck to pass below the plasteel lintel. Gelt was tall for a tanker, powerfully built with cut-glass cheekbones, eyes of Cadian violet, and ash-blonde hair chopped war-short. An aquila tattoo spread wings above her left eye, and a decidedly non-standard hand cannon rode in a tooled holster at her hip. Gelt commanded the Leman Russ Punisher Might of Antiquity. She offered Etsul an aquila salute and a fierce smile.
Next came Lieutenant Rhus Vaslav, commander of the Leman Russ battle tank Resolute. Etsul regretted recommending her former gunnery sergeant for promotion almost as much as she knew it had been the right call. Vaslav’s pale, scarred features were etched with new worry lines since he’d taken his commander’s seat. However, the glint in his eye and the set of his shoulders told Etsul all she needed to know. Her friend had taken to command well. She’d just never, ever get him to admit that he also liked it.
‘First lieutenant,’ he said, offering a salute of his own, then moving aside to admit more officers. The chirurgeon made a clacking sound that might have been a tut of annoyance. His orderly shepherded Etsul’s subordinates back against the wall, earning a scowl from Gelt.
Next through the door was Omicron Five-Nine. The brawny enginseer made the cell feel more cramped, and the scents of machine oil and incense filled the air. Five-Nine’s robes of Martian red strained over his augmetically armoured frame. Servo-actuators whined and the pommel of his cog-toothed power axe, Optimalus, thumped the ground with each stride he took. Lenses flashed beneath his cowl.
Etsul had only met the tech-priest a few times and then only briefly, in his capacity as one of the 49th Armoured Regiment’s complement of enginseers. Yet she knew his reputation. Five-Nine was held in talismanic regard by the regiment’s crews for the ferocity with which he fought and the dedication he showed. Etsul saw that for once, regimental mythologising had done little to exaggerate. The tech-priest’s dark skin was marked with the scars of battle, and his fingernails had been replaced with chrome talons.
‘Honoured enginseer,’ she greeted him. ‘I would rise as propriety demands, but…’
‘The Omnissiah’s blessings take precedence,’ replied Omicron Five-Nine, his voice the deep purr of a well-tuned engine. ‘Reassurance: your respect is noted and appreciated, First Lieutenant Etsul.’
Two more figures entered the cell, which – Etsul had to admit – really had become rather crowded.
These last two men Etsul had known only as names on a dataslate until this moment. She gave them an appraising look with her one functioning eye, doing her best not to dwell on how compromised she must appear, strapped to a surgical throne, augmetic left leg and eye both splayed open with circuits and wires on show. Like some biologis’ specimen, she thought before she could stop herself. Hardly a sight to inspire confidence.
Recognising her prejudices undermining her thinking again, Etsul focused on the newcomers as they introduced themselves.
‘Lieutenant Shulio Tomaszyn of the Cadian One-Fifty-Sixth Armoured Infantry, Sixth Company, First Platoon, reporting as ordered, sir,’ said the first. He gave a crisp salute. He had a wiry build, broad shoulders, and was undeniably handsome in a propaganda-poster, caricature-like way. The tracery of scars across one cheek enhanced the effect, lending Tomaszyn gravitas despite his relative youth.
‘Glad to have you watching our flanks, lieutenant,’ said Etsul, awkwardly returning his salute. The chirurgeon clacked.
‘Privilege, sir,’ Tomaszyn replied. ‘Every drop of heretic blood we shed is vengeance for Cadia, and to do so in the company of the Giant-killers, well. As I say, a privilege.’
She inspected him, noted his brown eyes.
‘You’re intake, lieutenant, yes? Neo-Cadian.’
‘I assure you, sir, my desire to avenge the home world is no less for that,’ he said, defensive.
‘Not my implication, lieutenant,’ she assured him. ‘I was born on Tsegoha and I remain proud of that fact. I’m no less assiduous in my desire to slay heretics as a consequence. We are all Cadian once we don the uniform, but first and foremost we are soldiers of the God-Emperor’s Imperial Guard, whether we be Cadians, Giant-killers or whatever else. Yes?’
Tomaszyn saluted again. His expression suggested he was unsure whether he had just been upbraided or encouraged. Let him wonder, Etsul thought. She needed competent officers for this mission, not fanatics or hero worshippers. Her glance darted to Vaslav. He raised an eyebrow and she felt his gentle admonition.
Fighting the urge to shake her head in exasperation, Etsul instead turned her attention to the other officer assigned to her command.
‘And you are Scout Lieutenant Josiah Roak, yes?’
He was short, stocky, with a dark beard and messily knife-chopped hair. Roak sketched her a salute.
‘Sir. Geskan Nineteenth Light Recon, sir. We’ll be your pathfinders up there, God-Emperor willing.’
Roak was softly spoken, his voice possessing the sombre musicality Etsul had come to recognise as wildland Geskan. His neck bore the elaborate tattoos of his home world’s guild tribes. His uniform was travel-stained and so casually worn as to border on slovenly. She noted, however, the aquila he wore on a chain around his neck gleamed as though freshly polished, and the magnoculars, auspex and bolt pistol at his belt all looked well maintained.
‘God-Emperor willing,’ she echoed. ‘Now, time is pressing. I will–’
Etsul was interrupted by a string of heavy thumps from overhead. Lumens swung on their cords. The chirurgeon leaned over Etsul, screening the exposed circuits of her eye as dislodged dirt drizzled from the ceiling.
‘Storm must finally be spent if they’ve started shelling again,’ observed Lieutenant Gelt, tone conversational. ‘Splendid. Means our chaps can get back to tossing shells at the heretics.’
‘You are aware that that was the enemy shelling us?’ Vaslav replied. Gelt punched him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion.
‘You old hangdog. Inferior heretic guns, crewed by inferior heretic scum. Hardly think we need concern ourselves with their desultory petulance. Not when our good and loyal crews will be throwing three shells back at them for every one they fire, and aiming properly into the bargain!’
Further impacts shuddered through the ceiling. The lumens flickered, fizzed, stabilised. The chirurgeon waited for a slow ten-count, then resumed his work. As he did, Etsul saw a doubtful look pass between Lieutenant Tomaszyn and Lieutenant Roak.
‘While I appreciate your optimism, Sivana, I am mindful our soldiers are up there on the surface preparing for our mission,’ said Etsul. She did her best to ignore the resumed tick and scrape of the chirurgeon’s tools. ‘Let’s hasten on to the briefing. You have all reviewed your assignment orders?’
‘Yes, sir,’ chorused Vaslav, Gelt and Tomaszyn. Roak folded his arms and nodded. Omicron Five-Nine merely observed her with glowing lenses.
‘Then I will dispense with the strategic overview and move straight to the brief in detail,’ said Etsul.
‘Sir, we have our orders, I’m not sure–’ began Tomaszyn. Vaslav raised a hand to forestall him.
‘The commander always briefs in detail,’ he said. Etsul was warmed by the pride she heard in his voice. Tomaszyn, she noted, looked somewhat less pleased. Not used to being interrupted? she wondered.
‘Just so,’ she continued, then paused as the chirurgeon set aside his tools and took up fresh implements, which awoke in a flurry of high-pitched revving. They reminded Etsul of the rudimentary tank repair kit within her Leman Russ Demolisher, Steel Tread. As he bent back to his work, she dared hope the man was nearly done. It was impossible to tell from the distorted reflections in the overhead mirrors. Feeling the need to escape again, she forced herself to focus.
‘You have been placed under my command for the duration of what strategos has codified Operation Helios. I hold the rank of first lieutenant commander for its duration and thus final authority in all matters. With your assembled strength, Task Force Helios consists of my squadron’s three battle tanks, the honoured tech-priest’s Atlas, Lieutenant Tomaszyn’s mechanised infantry platoon plus their seconded attachments, Lieutenant Roak’s mechanised rough riders, and a small train of support vehicles. Our task is to cross the Cyclameia Mountains via the somewhat ominously named Howling Pass before descending to the Imperial positions on the Ruega Front beyond to offer them reinforcement. Even with the unquestionably vital Joragh offensive in full swing, we have been detached from our regiments for this duty. You are all wondering the same thing, I assume?’
‘Why?’ said Vaslav.
‘Beyond that those are our orders?’ asked Lieutenant Tomaszyn. Vaslav scowled.
‘Yes, Tomaszyn. Beyond that.’
‘On the scale of an entire war front, our small column of infantry and armour would be a pitiful excuse for reinforcements,’ Etsul cut in. ‘So I would hope you are all asking yourselves why we have been ordered to do this.’
‘From what I hear, they’ve got themselves into a mess over there,’ observed Lieutenant Gelt. ‘Take more than we few admittedly exceptional souls to unbugger the situation.’
‘Agreement: we are too few to provide meaningful reinforcement in and of ourselves,’ said Five-Nine. ‘Therefore, conclusion: we are to transport, or provide escort for, an asset of greater strategic significance.’
‘What is it?’ asked Roak.
Explosions rattled the lumens. As the chirurgeon leant over her, Etsul spared a thought for the crew of Steel Tread and their comrades. There were ample shield trenches up there if they were out in the open, besides which they really ought to be in the shelter of the tank hangar that housed the vehicles of the Cadian 49th Armoured.
Then again, she knew her crew. And one of them was Nix Chalenboor, so best hurry, she told herself.
‘It is in fact she,’ said Etsul. ‘We have been accorded the significant honour of escorting Lord Commissar Gardiva Holskein to the Ruega Front. There, I am given to understand, high command fully expect her to provide such inspirational value as to put steel back in the spines of every soldier on the front and halt the heretics in their tracks.’
Roak whistled. Tomaszyn drew himself up, eyes shining.
‘The Eagle Adamant,’ said Vaslav, sounding both impressed and alarmed. ‘Situation must be serious for command to send her.’
‘No matter how serious matters are, Lord Commissar Holskein will set them straight,’ asserted Tomaszyn. ‘It will be a privilege to escort her!’ Etsul heard zeal in his voice. She almost envied it.
‘No doubt you are correct, Lieutenant Tomaszyn,’ Etsul said, shifting uncomfortably as the chirurgeon finally moved down to the exposed mechanicals of her augmetic leg. Etsul didn’t share Tomaszyn’s conviction. She had never commanded more than a squadron of tanks thus far in her military career, and had been so surprised at being placed in charge of Operation Helios that she’d questioned the orders’ validity twice. The thought of being judged by the Eagle Adamant throughout the coming mission on top of that was not a comfortable one.
‘Our mission is one of escort, but we will not be expected to complete it alone,’ Etsul continued. ‘As I am sure you understand, the safety of the famed Eagle Adamant is of paramount importance. As such, we will be consolidating in Howling Pass with a force sent south from the Ruega Front to meet us and provide additional security during our descent. We are to rendezvous in the former mining settlement of Saint’s Vantage, which – according to the strategos notes appended to my order slate – has been secured by Coronal Crusade forces and fortified into a staging post for troops moving over the mountains.’
‘So, escort the lord commissar up to Saint’s Vantage,’ said Gelt, ticking points off on her fingers. ‘Meet the welcoming committee, then together we make sure she gets to the other end without our misplacing her or letting any heretics complicate matters?’
