Crimson fists, p.35
Crimson Fists, page 35
There was no sign of Brother Oro.
Kantor knew what that meant. The Devastator would not have left his post.
Alessio must be dead, too.
He felt something inside him come dangerously close to breaking, something important, something that had to hold for just a little longer. Alessio’s memory would not be served by succumbing to it now. The survival of the Chapter had to be assured. There was still a chance, a slim chance, that a future remained, a future in which the Imperium could still call on the Crimson Fists as it had done so often in the past.
He looked further north, beyond the Coronado Plate, and saw the flash and flicker of artillery-fire far off beneath the horizon. There were bright pulses of green and purple energy, too. He strained his ears and thought he could just faintly detect the sounds of the battle for the citadel, but he was not sure. Sixty kilometres was a long way for those sounds to travel, and the wind howling through the shattered windows did not make it any easier for him.
How close were the gargants to the walls? The oddly-coloured flashes of light he had glimpsed suggested they had already started to employ the great clusters of energy weapons that bristled in place of their arms. The last few districts around the citadel had almost certainly fallen by now. Kantor had left orders for them to be evacuated by all but the defenders, but there were literally millions of civilians to be moved, and the Silver Citadel could barely contain them all.
It was impossible to predict how long the citadel’s void-shields would last. That all depended on the force the orks brought to bear. Kantor had seen gargants in action before. He had even helped to bring two down, each of those more than a century apart, by leading boarding parties that managed to destroy critical elements in their power cores. Such boarding actions hadn’t been feasible this time. When it came right down to it, securing the spaceport and hoping that the reinforcements were enough was the only chance they had, and it was pathetically slim, depending in large part on factors beyond his control.
Perhaps, he thought, but the things I can control, I will.
He looked down at the console in front of him. Clearly, the orks had recognised the value of not tampering with what they had here. Some of the equipment looked as if it had been taken apart, perhaps to see what made it work, but most of it looked unaltered, if not a little filthier than it normally would have.
Brothers Anais and Ruzco didn’t wait for any commands. They immediately lay down their weapons and began a critical systems assessment.
Kantor let them work without interruption. A moment later, Ruzco came to his side, lifted a black cable with a golden jack at its end, and asked if he might plug it into the Chapter Master’s gorget. There was an uplink socket concealed there. Kantor conceded at once, and Ruzco pressed the golden jack home with a click. Immediately, Kantor heard static inside his helmet. Ruzco turned a dial on the console in front of him, and began cycling through channels. There was nothing at first, and Kantor began to suspect the comms array on top of the tower had been damaged after all. But, if so, then why had the orks been sitting jabbering into their microphones?
Then he heard it, a snuffling, grunting transmission in the ork tongue. He recognised the voice. He had heard it many times since The Crusader had returned from Badlanding with news of Ashor Drakken’s death. It was the Arch-Arsonist, Snagrod, broadcasting his boasts and taunts, as always. As Kantor listened, the message ended, then began again. It was being played on a loop. The moronic warlord continued to broadcast in the orkish language, despite his messages being clearly meant for the ears of the loyalist forces. It would almost have been funny had the alien fiend not been personally responsible for the sickening pain, torture and deaths of so many.
Ruzco continued adjusting the dials comms station. He was in the higher frequency range now, and Kantor was close to losing hope, when he finally heard a human voice, or rather, the voice of a being that had once been human, that may still have been partly human.
It was the voice of a comms-servitor on one of the Imperial ships fighting above the planet. Kantor lifted a hand to halt Ruzco’s adjustments, and listened, but the stream of words from the servitor was intended for the ears of other servitors. It was a constant babble of systems status reports and energy readings. He waved Ruzco on, and the Techmarine turned the dial to the right a little more. Finally, they found what they were looking for.
‘I want all portside batteries on that ship,’ said a cultured voice in High Gothic. ‘And prime the lance batteries for when we come around. We shall want to lend assistance to the Manzarion and the Virago as soon as we’re clear of their fighters. See it done!’
Kantor waited until there was a pause, then he cut in, saying, ‘In the name of the Emperor, identify yourself.’
The well-spoken man spluttered. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing on this frequency? Do you know the punishment for interfering with Imperial Naval communications? Who is this?’
‘Standby,’ said Kantor, ‘broadcasting identicode now.’
There was a runeboard on the console in front of Ruzco. The Techmarine’s fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the runes.
The response was immediate.
‘That’s… that’s an Astartes code!’ stammered the Imperial commander.
‘It is,’ said Kantor. ‘This is Pedro Kantor, Lord Hellblade, Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists Space Marines. Now identify yourself at once.’
The naval commander paused to steel himself, then said, ‘My name is Arvol Dahan, Lord Commander of the Imperial Naval destroyer Adaemus. Forgive me, my lord Astartes, for–’
‘There is nothing to forgive, commander,’ said Kantor. ‘But you will assist me in contacting Lord Admiral Galtaire.’
‘At… at once, my lord. Galtaire maintains an open channel at all times, monitored by his senior commsman. Let me give you the frequency…’
Ruzco turned the dial as soon as he had the numbers. Kantor waited for him to finish, then identified himself to the commsman on the other end, adding, ‘I must speak with Lord Admiral Galtaire at once.’
There was the briefest pause, during which Kantor assumed his message was being relayed to the lord admiral. Seconds later, a gruff voice said, ‘This is Galtaire. I’m glad someone is still alive down there. Even gladder that it’s you, my lord. What’s your status? I can’t help you worth a damn without a secure air corridor and landing zone.’
‘I am working on that, lord admiral,’ said Kantor. ‘But time is running out. The gargants are assaulting the citadel. The void-shields will hold for a while, but no one can be sure how long.’
‘Gargants,’ echoed the lord admiral. ‘We’d best get the Martian priests and their machines down to you in the first wave. I’ve got Astartes here who are most eager to demonstrate their skills, too. I see by the header on your transmission that you’re broadcasting from inside New Rynn Spaceport. May I assume that the facility is now firmly back under Imperial control?’
‘We have air traffic control and comms now. The spaceport defence grid is next. I’m leaving three of my Astartes here to hold communications open and keep this place secure. Your contact is Brother Ruzco. Keep him apprised of any changes. He will relay critical updates to me directly.’
‘Very well, lord Astartes,’ said Galtaire. ‘May the Emperor watch over you and keep you safe.’
‘And you,’ said Kantor brusquely. ‘We shall speak again soon.’
He plucked the golden jack from the socket in his gorget and handed it to Ruzco. Turning from the shattered windows, he marched towards the elevator. His fellow Crimson Fists eyed him anxiously, curious to know what was going on.
‘Two of you will stay with Brother Ruzco and hold this room at all costs,’ he told them. ‘Nothing, absolutely nothing, must be allowed to compromise our communications with the Imperial Fleet.’
‘Are you asking for volunteers, my lord?’ said Daecor.
‘No,’ said Kantor. ‘I’m not.’ His finger stabbed towards two brothers, one of which, Brother Lucevo of Squad Segala, had been wounded in the hallway battle, his side bitten by an ork axe. The other was the Brother Padilla of Squad Lician.
‘Lucevo, Padilla,’ said Kantor, ‘make oaths to me now that you will defend this place, though your very lives may be forfeit. Swear it on your left hands and on the blood of the primarch.’
Immediately, both men dropped to their right knee and clenched their left fists over their breastplates. Lucevo sucked in a hissing breath as his wound sang.
‘For the honour of the Crimson Fists, the primarch and the Golden Throne,’ they said together.
Kantor asked Ruzco if he needed anything else, and was told that he didn’t. He then ordered the others – Anais, Daecor, Lician, Verna and Bacar – into the elevator in which they had arrived. He entered last and closed the metal gate. Lucevo and Padilla watched the Chapter Master and the others descend out of sight.
As the elevator lowered them, Kantor told his Astartes, ‘The air defence control room is in the tower east of this one. There is a walkway linking the towers on the forty-eighth floor. We cross that gantry, take another elevator sixteen floors up, and secure that room. After that… well, all else is in the Emperor’s hands.’
‘We should destroy this elevator once we get off,’ said Daecor. ‘We should cut the cables.’
Lodric Lician turned to look at him. ‘We have three battle-brothers up there. You think we should trap them? Trust me. Brother Padilla will not let the orks retake that room.’
‘It is not a question of trust,’ said Daecor.
Orange lights flashed past them, marking the rapid progress of their descent.
‘It is a matter of practicality,’ Daecor continued. ‘Once the reinforcements arrive, there will be time to extract Ruzco, Padilla and Lucevo. But for now, all of us are best served by cutting off the orks’ only route into that room. Yes?’
Lician grunted in disapproval, but he could not argue against Daecor’s logic.
‘We cut the cables,’ said Kantor, ending further debate. ‘Our brothers will be safer, and so will our ability to communicate with the fleet.’
He looked at numbers changing on the elevator’s small green data-screen, and added, ‘Check your ammunition, all of you. Bless your weapons. This ride is almost over.’
They emerged into the same large circular chamber where they had gotten on the elevator for the journey up. Kantor stepped out first, cautiously, quietly. His eyes passed over the dim hallway in which Segala had fallen. He could just make out the edge of a dark blue pauldron among the xenos corpses, could just see the uppermost red knuckles of the icon of his Chapter.
Then pain exploded in his arm and the world flipped over. He found himself flying through the air and landed hard, sliding to a stop against a pillar of white stone decorated with fine gold-leaf filigree.
The chamber filled with the most deafening inhuman roar, so loud it shook dead leaves from the plants and trees that had once decorated the place, but now only testified further to its state of ruin and decay.
Kantor looked up and something hard and heavy hit him directly in the face, ringing against his helmet. It fell into his lap, and he looked down.
He knew this thing, ancient and so familiar.
It was polished red, chased with gold, inlaid with the finest gems and black pearls.
Skulls decorated its knuckles. The crest on the back was a single fist formed from rubies set between feathered wings of shining gold. Beneath it, a laurel wreath encircled a grinning skull, the brow of which was decorated with the two-headed eagle, the aquila of the Imperium of Man.
It was Alessio Cortez’s personal crest, and this was his power fist.
Cortez’s severed arm was still inside it, edges raw and bloody, white bone poking up through the meat, the cut almost surgically clean.
Kantor was frozen for a moment, reeling, desperately trying to rally himself, to steer his mind away from what this meant.
He looked up and saw the massive yellow-armoured warboss, Urzog Mag Kull, roaring at him in triumph, its left side absolutely drenched in blood. He saw that one of its eyes had been gouged out. A great flap of green flesh hung from its head, showing the bright bone beneath. Sparks flashed and spat from ruptured power-cables in its right leg. Cortez had punished the beast before he had succumbed to its superior strength. It roared again, raised its twin-linked heavy-stubbers, pointed the barrels at Kantor and fired.
There was a loud click and the whine of cycling ammo-feeds, but no armour-piercing rounds leapt out, no deadly hail. Kantor glanced at the weapon and saw that its barrels were badly crushed and mangled. Somehow, during the fight, Cortez had put the weapon out of commission. Had he not, Pedro Kantor might have been torn apart right then.
‘Xenos filth!’ spat the Chapter Master, pushing his old friend’s arm from his lap and rising to his feet. ‘You will pay!’
He broke into a run, racing directly for the towering two-tonne creature, peppering its armoured bulk with torrents of fire from his storm-bolter as he moved. In just over a second, he crossed the gap, and found himself mere metres from it, scowling up into that terrible fang-toothed face, power fist crackling with electrical arcs, diamond-edged combat blade held ready in his left hand.
‘Let’s have you, wretch!’ he hissed, drawing a last howl of threat from the beast before it lunged straight at him with its blood-splashed power claw.
Despite the creature’s speed, the blow was telegraphed, the ork taking a fraction of a second to shift its weight forward into the lunge. It was enough. Kantor slid aside just as the claw slashed towards his abdominal plates. He struck at the extended arm with his power fist. Had he connected properly, he might well have sheared straight through the arm, but the ork was blisteringly fast. It did not leave its arm extended long after the blow, but recoiled it as quickly as a striking snake recoils its head.
Kantor’s fist passed through thin air, putting him ever so slightly off-balance for an instant. That was when the ork whipped its battered twin stubbers at him. There was no evading the blow. Instead, Kantor raised his left arm, couched his head against his inner forearm, and tried to absorb the impact.
The force was stunning, slamming into him and hurling him from his feet despite his best efforts to resist. He landed hard on his right side and slid six metres across the floor.
He cursed as he pushed himself up and tried to shake off a momentary dizziness.
He saw Sergeant Daecor, Brother Verna and Brother Bacar try to surround the beast, Daecor taunting it from the front while the other two each took a flank. It looked like it was working. The monster hurled itself at Daecor, its massive claw hammering into the marble flooring as the sergeant leapt backwards. Verna and Bacar moved the instant the blow missed their new squad leader. Verna thrust his combat blade into the workings of the left leg and yanked back hard, ripping cables from their housings and spraying himself with oil and hydraulic fluids. Bacar tried to lever his knife up underneath the monster’s armpit where mobility demanded there be a gap in its armour.
The monster’s remaining eye was its right one, and it saw Bacar move in its peripheral vision. In a flash, it spun on him, striking his helmeted head with the battered barrels of its twin stubbers. With Bacar momentarily stunned, hands thrown out to stop himself from toppling, the creature torqued the left side of its body and hacked him into three with a great diagonal slash of its power claw.
Bacar’s body, power armour and all, slid into three parts. His head and left arm flopped to the floor. Great gouts of blood geysered upwards from his open torso.
That was when brothers Lician and Anais tried to enter the fray.
‘No!’ bellowed Kantor. ‘Brother Anais, get back in the elevator. Lician, defend him with your life. We cannot lose him!’ The Chapter Master raced towards the beast that had just killed another of his beloved Crimson Fists.
How many more did he have to lose before Urzog Mag Kull would die?
Daecor had Mag Kull’s left flank now, but, as he lunged, the beast turned and clipped his breastplate with a savage backhand blow. The upwards angle of the blow sent the sergeant metres into the air. He crashed down on his back, bolter skittering away from him.
Verna, finding himself behind the beast, threw himself at the back of its piston-powered knees and tried to take it to the floor, but it was hopeless. Even in full Astartes plate, he weighed a fraction of what Mag Kull did.
He managed to confuse the creature for a second, allowing Kantor to launch himself into the air, power fisted right hand held high for a deadly downwards blow.
For a moment, the Chapter Master literally flew, all his prodigious power and strength, all his athletic ability, invested into the attack.
Mag Kull managed to kick Verna away, shattering the armour of the Crimson Fist’s left arm in the process and breaking the bone beneath. It turned in time to see Kantor’s attack, but not quickly enough to avoid it. Instead, it could only try to minimise the damage from the blistering overhand strike.
It rolled its massive metal shoulder in front of its face at the last instant. There was a massive crack, like sharp thunder, as Kantor’s fist struck the beast’s armoured plate, shearing straight through the metal and pulverising the dense bone and muscle beneath. The force of the impact launched the beast backwards and sent Kantor crashing to the ground.
The ork raged. The sparks from its malfunctioning legs ignited the oil leaking from its cables, and fire engulfed its lower body. But it was not finished with the Crimson Fists. Its right arm, the one bearing the useless heavy stubber, now hung from its shoulder by little more than a thin bundle of nerves and sinew. It slapped uselessly against the burning monster’s side as it struggled forwards in Kantor’s direction. Irritated, the beast raised its huge power claw across its body and, with one motion, snipped the useless arm away completely.
