Vainglorious, p.6
Vainglorious, page 6
‘I’d expect nothing less,’ I said, more to keep the conversation going than anything else, but Vorspung took the remark at face value, and nodded, a trifle smugly.
‘The greatest reward of service is the service itself,’ he quoted.[34] My surprise must have been obvious to him, as he rather spoilt the effect by adding, ‘I inloaded the volumes you have stored in your recreational reading files to facilitate social interaction.’
‘Very thoughtful of you,’ I said, not bothering to wonder how he’d obtained access to the contents of my personal data-slate – he was a magos after all, and I’d taken the precaution of making sure there was nothing sensitive in there before leaving Coronus in any case. I’d had dealings with the Mechanicus before, and was well aware of their propensity for considering any data in the vicinity to be public property; trying to restrict access to it was like trying to lay personal claim to the air we were breathing, and any encryption or security protocols would simply be taken as a challenge. I fleetingly wondered if he’d done the same for Jurgen’s usual choice of reading matter, and its associated illustrations. If so, he’d probably be discovering a great deal more about the unmodified human anatomy and the uses to which it could be put than he’d ever thought possible.
‘We always attempt to put our guests at their ease,’ Vorspung said, ‘although the unmodified are often difficult to understand.’
‘Not only for the augmented,’ I conceded. ‘Pretty much everyone has their own quirks and foibles. I should know, it’s my job to stop them getting in the way of winning battles.’ Which was sort of true, and sidestepped the possibility of making any potentially embarrassing comments about the augmetically enhanced.
‘Which way are we going?’ Jurgen asked, peering down through the armourcrys wall of the bridge to the blocky manufactoria filling most of the valley below. The hab-units surrounding them[35] were smaller overall, but their position ranged about the lower slopes raised many of them to a similar roofline, giving the impression that the cleft in the rocks sprawled further than it actually did.
‘To our closest production facility,’ Vorspung replied, with a gesture which took in about a quarter of the complex on that side of the bridge. No doubt deducing that this was of little help in getting orientated, he pointed at the structure almost directly below us, which was seeping vapours in various unhealthy-looking colours from a number of vents. ‘It, at least, is functioning at optimum efficiency.’
‘And producing munitions?’ I asked, thinking I might as well remind everyone of why I was here in the first place. The distant contrail was definitely heading in our direction, but still too far away to make out anything of the aircraft generating it; if it was indeed making for the complex, it wouldn’t be arriving for some while yet. Dismissing Jurgen’s dire prognostication in the control chapel with rather more of an effort than I would have liked, I squinted at the manufactorum as though the answer to my question ought to be obvious. And maybe it would have been if I were a little more familiar with the iconography of the Cult Mechanicus. As it was, though, the sigils decorating the roof and walls meant nothing to me.[36]
‘For the most part,’ Vorspung said, a little uncomfortably, ‘although only a modest proportion of its current output is destined for the Imperial Guard.’
‘Then who gets the rest of it?’ Jurgen asked, with his usual lack of diplomacy.
‘Our own skitarii, of course,’ Vorspung said. ‘As our output increases, this world will become of ever greater strategic value, and therefore a higher-priority target for every enemy of humanity in the sector. Bolstering our defences to keep pace with the increasing threat level is the only rational course of action.’
‘I’m delighted you think so,’ I said, quite truthfully. The last forge world I’d visited had relied almost entirely on the Imperial Guard to defend it, seeing the maintenance of their own forces as an unnecessary diversion of resources given the number of regiments usually in-system for resupply at any one time, and that had almost proven to be a fatal miscalculation. ‘Although there’s no denying the Astra Militarum needs all the ammunition it can get at the moment.’
‘We are aware of the difficulty,’ Vorspung assured me, gesturing towards the opening doors of an elevator at the far end of the bridge. ‘Perhaps we can put your mind at rest.’
The first thing to strike me as we entered the factory floor was the noise. Vorspung and his retinue seemed entirely unaffected by it, as did the tech-priests bustling about the place, herding servitors and the artisans tending to machines of staggering size and complexity. The things they spat out onto conveyor belts were picked up, attached to other things, and dropped into hoppers or thrown onto fresh belts which whisked them away to be packed, sorted or fed into still more machines.
‘Most impressive,’ I said, or, to be a little more accurate, shouted. We were standing on a mezzanine over the main work area, an architectural quirk the Mechanicus seemed particularly fond of, looking down at a seething hive of activity.
‘Everything is functional,’ Vorspung agreed, leading the way towards a large metal door at the end of the gallery. ‘Perhaps you would care to inspect the finished output?’
‘Very much so,’ I replied, and followed him through the portal, which swung closed behind us, cutting off most of the noise. After descending a set of metal mesh stairs, we reached the floor of a warehousing area which looked pretty much like any other storage facility I’d ever been in. Cargo containers with Munitorum loading codes stencilled across them were neatly stacked, awaiting collection, and I glanced at the nearest with interest. ‘Lasgun powercells?’
‘And the weapons themselves, of course.’ Vorspung indicated a nearby pallet, laden with familiar rectangular cases, and glanced at the battered longarm slung from Jurgen’s shoulder. ‘Feel free to obtain an upgrade should you so wish.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll stick with the one I know,’ Jurgen said, as I expected. Though bearing the marks of long and hard use, the weapon was still reliable, and he was familiar enough with its weight and feel to aim and fire it without any conscious thought – something the subtly different balance of a new one would make more difficult. I felt the same about my laspistol, come to that, having steadfastly refused to replace it on several occasions when the opportunity arose, even though the proffered alternatives had had greater range and stopping power. Neither of which would have been much good to me if I’d missed the target in the first place.
‘These all seem satisfactory,’ I said, exhuming a lasgun from a nearby crate, and slotting the powercell into place with a satisfying click. I aimed it at the wall and pulled the trigger, adding a small, charred blemish to the general patination of scuffs and grime. One of Vorspung’s retinue hurried forward to take the weapon as I lowered it, removing the power pack and restowing both in the box I’d taken them from with a muted binharic benediction. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Plasma guns,’ Vorspung said, heading off at an angle between the nearest group of containers. He glanced back in my direction. ‘Although I would advise against confirming their operability in quite the same fashion, given the nature of the materials surrounding us.’
‘Point taken,’ I agreed. Plasma guns are one of the most dangerous man-portable weapons in the Imperial Guard arsenal, almost as much to their operators as to the enemy.[37] This accounts for their relative rarity on the battlefield, most regimental commanders preferring their troopers not to be reduced to a cloud of greasy smoke if that can be avoided.
‘That’s something you don’t see every day,’ Jurgen said, in tones of grudging approval, as the magos opened a cargo container to reveal a dozen or so of the bulky weapons.
‘Indeed it is,’ I said, lifting one cautiously from its cradle. It was heavy, more so than I’d expected, the plasma vents hissing in a faintly sinister fashion and emitting a faint smell of ozone as I flicked the activation rune. Mindful of Vorspung’s admonition, and my own disinclination to accidental self-immolation, I switched it off again almost at once, returning it to the packing material with a vague sense of relief. ‘And they seem in excellent condition.’
‘Again, feel free to avail yourselves if you wish,’ Vorspung said.
‘Thank you, but I think we’ll pass,’ I said. I had no use for anything so bulky, even if it weren’t so dangerous, and Jurgen was far too fond of the melta he’d scrounged decades ago for those occasions on which we needed a bit of extra firepower to give it up for an untried replacement. I indicated a cargo door in the nearby wall, large enough to have accommodated a utility truck, and from behind which more sounds of industry were echoing. ‘What’s through here?’
‘The supplies for our skitarii garrison,’ Vorspung said, ‘and the workshops which keep them functioning at peak operational efficiency.’
‘They certainly sound busy,’ I said. If anything the noise had increased while we’d been talking, the intermittent thudding of heavy machinery now loud enough to be sending faint tremors through the floor. I felt a vague sense of disquiet beginning to build, although I couldn’t really have said why.
‘Our mechwrights are–’ Vorspung began, then broke off suddenly, staring into space for a second or so. ‘We should leave. At once.’
‘What’s going on?’ Jurgen asked, his hand straying instinctively towards his lasgun.
‘A malfunction has occurred,’ Vorspung said, turning back towards the staircase, which suddenly seemed a lot further away than it had done. The loudest thud yet shook the floor, raising a faint pall of dust, and the coin belatedly dropped: I’d been hearing explosions, not distant industrial processes. ‘It is being contained, but…’
This time the detonation was unmistakable. The wall crazed, chips of masonry flying everywhere, and a ragged crack appeared in it next to the thick metal portal.
‘Doesn’t look very contained to me,’ Jurgen said, unslinging his lasgun and aiming at the steadily widening breach. Something metallic was moving beyond it, too large to make out clearly. A gigantic hammer blow struck the crumbling wall, smashing it to rubble, and he squeezed off a burst at the Dreadnought-sized figure thus revealed.
‘What the hell’s that?’ I asked, as the tech-priests scattered. The looming figure ducked a little, and began to force its way through the breach it had made.
‘A Kastelan,’ Vorspung said, making for the stairway at a pace demonstrating beyond any lingering doubt that the dignity of his office was now the farthest thing possible from his mind.
‘Which is what?’ I asked, matching his pace, Jurgen at my heels as always, if my nose could be relied on. ‘Some kind of combat servitor?’ Those were tough, true, but I’d bested them before.
‘A relic,’ Vorspung said, no doubt grateful that his voxcoder still let him pontificate while he was using all his breath for running, ‘from the dark times before the light of the Omnissiah. It has no organic components.’
‘So it’s like a giant CAT,’ Jurgen said.
‘Which will try to kill us,’ Vorspung added.
‘So how do we stop it?’ I asked, focusing on the essential.
‘We cannot,’ Vorspung said. ‘Our only recourse is to retreat, while the datasmiths attempt to regain control.’ His eyes unfocused again for a moment. ‘Which may take some time, as the one assigned to this unit is dead.’
‘Then we’ll have to take care of it for ourselves,’ I said, veering off towards the still-open container of plasma guns. Standing and fighting was never my favourite course of action, but the thing bearing down on us, scattering containers as it went, would be on top of us before we even reached the stairs. Twin power fists sent a parked cargo-6 bouncing across the warehouse, toppling stacks of crates as it went, and I found myself fervently petitioning the Emperor to have seen to it that none of their contents were too volatile.
‘Easier said than done,’ Jurgen opined, sending another burst at the towering metal monstrosity. His shots raised a few sparks from its carapace, but did nothing to slow it down. ‘Las-bolts won’t stop it.’
‘But these will,’ I said, hoping I was right, and grabbing the nearest plasma gun from the batch Vorspung had shown us as I spoke. The tech-priest was halfway to the staircase by now, putting on an impressive turn of speed, thanks to the augmetic legs pistoning away beneath his flapping robe. His retinue had scattered, trying to find whatever refuge they could among the crates and cargo containers, but given the trail of damage the rampaging automaton was leaving in its wake, I doubted that would be much of a long-term survival strategy. An impression confirmed a moment later by another resonant thud and a choked-off scream from somewhere in its immediate vicinity.
‘If you say so, sir,’ Jurgen said, slinging his lasgun and seizing another of the heavy weapons. He activated it, and raised it to aim with a halitosis-laden sigh of exasperation. ‘But I’d have preferred the melta.’
‘You weren’t to know you might need it,’ I said, bringing my own weapon up, and thumbing the activation rune with a faint tingle of apprehension. A towering stack of crates was unceremoniously swept aside, revealing our target, and we both fired almost simultaneously. Two beams of ravening star-stuff ripped through the air, lashing the thing’s torso, but to my astonished horror having little visible effect.
‘The repulsor grid is still active,’ Vorspung informed us helpfully, his voice buzzing in my comm-bead. ‘It will absorb copious amounts of incoming fire.’
‘Then how do we hurt it?’ I asked, falling back in the face of the thing’s implacable advance. My skin was tingling from the thermal backwash, like a mild case of sunburn, but at least we were still in one piece.
‘You cannot,’ Vorspung said pedantically, ‘since it is incapable of feeling pain. But prolonged intense fire might overload the grid, allowing you to inflict damage on it.’
‘Great,’ I said, prolonged intense fire being just the kind of thing guaranteed to make the weapons we were holding overload and blow up. But under the circumstances, it seemed like the only plan we’d got. Then I noticed something else that made my blood run cold. ‘Is that a flamer it’s got on its shoulder?’ I began to look for some refuge which looked relatively uninflammable, but that seemed to be in short supply. Not to mention pointless, as the whole idea of incendiary weapons is to negate hard cover by flowing around it.
‘Not exactly,’ Vorspung said, ‘but the principle is close enough. However, while it is executing the Conqueror Protocol, it will be incapable of firing.’ Which was not exactly good news, given how efficiently it was tearing the place apart, but the best we were going to get.
‘Make for the stairs, sir,’ Jurgen said, with grim determination. ‘I can hold it off.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said, strongly tempted to take him up on the offer, I have to admit. But if I made the attempt, I’d barely get halfway there before the thing tore my aide apart and ran me down like a rodent on a highway. ‘But let’s take the magos’ advice. Fire together.’ This time the backwash felt less like sunburn and more like opening a bake oven.[38] The automaton staggered for a moment, then came on again, crushing the container we’d grabbed our weapons from underfoot. An alarming number of sparks and electrical discharges rose around its legs.
‘Get behind those containers!’ I commanded, a desperate idea beginning to form. ‘And shoot at its feet!’
‘That would be highly inadvisable,’ Vorspung began, ‘as the plasma coils of the damaged weapons are liable to–’
‘Fire!’ I yelled, as Jurgen joined me in our makeshift refuge, and the air thickened perceptibly. Flash burns seared my skin, the light of the plasma streams almost blinded me, and then we were picked up and thrown through the air by a detonation which seemed to fill the world. I hit unyielding rockcrete and rolled instinctively, the unwieldy weapon clattering across the floor to Emperor knew where, and good riddance to it. I regained my feet, reaching by reflex for my laspistol and chainsword, which would have been next to useless, of course, and stared back in the direction of our erstwhile antagonist.
‘Did we get it?’ Jurgen scrambled to his feet, looking even more dishevelled than usual, which was quite a trick when you thought about it.
‘I think so,’ I said. The automaton stood immobile for an interminable second or so, then toppled, with a sound like the galaxy’s biggest ration kit hitting the floor. I turned to face Vorspung, who by now was halfway down the staircase again. What little I could read of his face registered stupefied astonishment. ‘And I suppose at least I can report that the weapons you’re producing are effective.’
SEVEN
‘So, where to next?’ I asked, as the lift doors squealed closed, cutting us off from the bustle of emergency workers and a belatedly arriving squad of skitarii, who’d seemed vaguely disappointed to find nothing left to shoot at. Judging by the size of it, the elevator was intended primarily for shifting cargoes in bulk, which at least meant we weren’t too crowded now most of Vorspung’s entourage had caught up with us; the ones still missing, I strongly suspected, never would.
‘To the landing pads,’ Vorspung said, with an air of faint surprise. ‘Although if you would prefer to suspend your tour of inspection in the light of the recent incident, that would be acceptable. I am told the unaugmented often require time to process a traumatic and unexpected event.’
‘Many do,’ I replied diplomatically, ‘but for Jurgen and I this sort of thing is a frequent occurrence.’ Despite my best efforts to the contrary. ‘We won’t need time to recuperate.’ Because if the rampaging automaton had been set to malfunction in a plot to kill us, then handing the initiative to our enemies would be a very bad idea.
‘Why the landing pads?’ Jurgen asked.
‘Because an aircar has been placed at the commissar’s disposal for the duration of his visit.’ He turned back to me. ‘Our manufactoria are widely dispersed, so it was deemed more efficient to assign you your own transportation.’
