On Wings of Blood Page 8
Adept Wyn hung suspended by her mechadendrites, much as she had when she had plied the void aboard the Priori. Her physical form was slack and inert, yet she did not rest. Much as she commanded the Adeptus Mechanicus starship, the adept exerted her influence over the forge temple, and the skitarii legions protecting it.
The ranger canted a short burst of binary to announce her presence.
replied Wyn.
The cluster of jade lenses pulsed to life beneath Wyn’s heavy red cowl.
The ranger shifted slightly. Wyn focused her whirring eye-lenses down upon her guardian. Like all her kin, radiation haloed the skitarii huntress in a shroud that was invisible to the naked eye but easily detectable to the adept’s enhanced gaze. The energies that provided the ranger with the means to dispatch the enemy with such skill were slowly devouring her. She was an efficient guardian, thought Wyn. It would disappoint her when she finally succumbed.
Wyn tilted her head. It was rare to hear queries from her protector.
-13.0-
Atraxii heard the soft creak of the control throne as it compressed under gravity’s crush. Ironhawk screamed through the skies of Halitus IV, its spirit slavering like a hound straining against its leash. Diving through the banks of boiling cloud, Atraxii was reminded of the endless rust storms that clawed over the surface of Mars. It was nearly impossible to pierce the veil swirling about Ironhawk, and the sphere of space around the Techmarine became dimmed by an accumulated film of grit and oily micro-droplets from the world’s polluted smog.
It had taken the majority of Atraxii’s focus just to keep the volatile Stormhawk in formation with the rest of the Medusan Wing. The Iron Hands pilots had adopted attack pattern Indomitable as they closed upon the projected flight path of the ork bombers. Dektaan led the squadron, forming the tip of a triangular formation with Enych on his rear port flank and Atraxii at starboard. Colnex held at rear starboard of Atraxii to complete the formation. It was a versatile pattern, able to quickly project a front of three fighters, or have Colnex peel away from his tailing position to offer support, should the situation call for it.
It was imperative for the formation’s effectiveness that Atraxii maintain consistent spacing from the other Stormhawks of the Medusan Wing. Yet Ironhawk’s machine-spirit railed against his influence. It could not wrest control of the fighter from Atraxii, but it bucked his hold, delaying responses by milliseconds or performing them in excess, making the Stormhawk jink and drift erratically.
‘Medusan Four,’ said Dektaan over the squadron vox. ‘Tighten your position and stabilise your flight pattern immediately. Contact with the enemy is imminent.’
Atraxii blink-clicked an affirmation to Dektaan and tightened his grip on the control sticks. The Iron Father had bound the spirit of Ironhawk to his command through ironclad logic and sheer force of will. The Techmarine resisted his temper’s rising call, suffocating it beneath logic’s glacial touch. He was of iron – cold, calculated and resolved. The animus of the Stormhawk would be brought to heel like a wild beast, and logic would be its muzzle.
Voitek sprinted through the packed rubble filling the street. The undisciplined gunfire of the mob of orks pursuing him buzzed past the Space Marine, sending up bursts of dust as the solid rounds struck debris and the pavement beneath his boots. There were nearly a hundred of the howling xenos as Voitek skidded around a corner, barking in their harsh mongrel tongue and waving their brutish weapons in the air.
Voitek increased his pace, his legs a dark blur beneath him as he charged towards a waist-high mound of rubble one hundred feet distant. The sergeant ate up the distance with his rapid tread. The orks filled the street as they charged after him. With three yards separating him from the mound, he leapt into the air, clearing the debris and rolling over his shoulder into a crouch.
‘Now!’ Voitek hissed. A pair of lights blinked on his visor display.
A battle-brother rose from beside Voitek, bracing in a wide stance as he levelled a heavy bolter at the oncoming xenos. The noise of the weapon was deafening. The roar echoed off the towering structures that surrounded the forge refinery’s centre. Greenskins ceased to be, reduced to puffs of stinking blood and gobbets of ragged flesh. The battle-brother swept the devastating chain of bolter fire across the front of the orks, who held their charge. The xenos whooped in harsh laughter at their kindred’s slaughter, before they joined them in decorating the pavement like an abattoir. Bits of meat and orphaned limbs carpeted the street, and beady red eyes stared vacantly at the Space Marine from the remains of blown-apart skulls.
The heavy bolter exhausted the last of its ammunition, and Voitek snapped up from cover. The handful of surviving orks leapt into the oblivion issuing from the barrel of his bolter, as precise shots cored torsos and obliterated heads. The last of them met its end from the veteran warrior’s combat blade, an efficient thrust through the eye and into the brain. Voitek whipped the blade free, and the ork dropped dead without a sound, its foul blood emptying out from where its eye had been in thick pulsing spurts.
Voitek’s comrade knelt, stripping the depleted belt of high-calibre shells from the heavy bolter and feeding a new one in. The sergeant glanced down.
‘Baanoth, ammunition?’ asked Voitek.
Baanoth did not look up. ‘This is the last for the heavy bolter.’ The Space Marine chambered a round into the bulky cannon and hefted its weight as he stood.
‘The smell,’ Baanoth said bitterly. ‘I shall never rid myself of their stench.’
‘Embrace its repugnance, brother,’ replied Voitek. ‘Let it bolster your devotion for the purity of the machine.’
Baanoth nodded sharply. The two Iron Hands could already hear the clamouring din of more orks advancing their way.
Voitek tilted his head slightly as his vox-bead clicked. He turned to Baanoth. ‘Vladoc is pulling his squad back to the Vostroyan lines. The xenos are extending on our flanks. We must withdraw before they encircle us.’
Baanoth turned back, hearing the growing alien howl that was coming, and shouldered his boltgun.
Voitek stepped forwards. ‘Logic calls for tactical withdrawal according to protocol. Do not repeat the Great Failing by sacrificing rationality upon the altar of pride.’
‘Affirmative,’ Baanoth replied, turning and lowering his weapon. The pair of Space Marines began to proceed back through the streets, but Voitek halted, tilting his head once again.
‘Brother-sergeant?’
‘It is the Iron Father,’ said Voitek, his bionic voice box failing to render the puzzlement in his words. ‘He is marching to our lines, at the head of a maniple of skitarii.’
Colonel Dionaki watched the procession of skitarii marching towards her forward operations bunker through the crystal-blue lenses of her magnoculars. After weeks of petitioning the Adeptus Mechanicus forge temple to reinforce her frayed and depleted ranks, her wish had been granted. In the end, all it had taken was the influence of the darkly armoured warrior striding at the head of their column.
Contact between the Iron Hands and the Vostroyan 498th Fusiliers had been minimal to the point of nonexistence. Aside from a brief exchange with the pilot of one of their gunships, the Space Marines had operated independently of Dionaki’s forces, engaging the xenos ahead of her entrenched positions. The effect the small number of transhuma
ns had made upon the battleground was staggering, giving Dionaki time to reorganise units that had been cut to the bone from weeks of sustained fighting against the orks.
Dionaki strode to the bulkhead of her command bunker on black iron legs. She had lost both limbs on Quelx, when her command tank had been blown apart by the guns of eldar raiders. Her left arm was gone from the elbow down, amputated while quelling seditionists in the Fyrian Belt, replaced with further augmentation. She epitomised the Remnant of Fire, the unsanctioned name of her fighting unit. It was cobbled together from the ashes of dozens of regiments lost in combat. Lone survivors, handfuls of squads that were all that remained of the thousands they had once fought alongside, this was the substance of the 498th. Every one of them bore limbs of cold metal, a tangible representation of wounds that only existed behind their eyes. Sons and daughters of Vostroya, they revered Mars, and the exchange of high-functioning bionics for their service as defenders was mutually beneficial. They served with fanatical devotion, unafraid to face the death that they knew so intimately.
In spite of the loyal defence of Halitus IV by the Vostroyans, the Adeptus Mechanicus had refused to draw any of their skitarii from the defence of the forge temple. Dionaki’s troops had been ground to mulch by the crushing waves of xenos without the support of the Adeptus Mechanicus’ battle cohorts, pushed back across the forge refinery in a mass tactical withdrawal. It seemed as though the techno-magi were content to watch from their spires as the Vostroyans died.
Until the Space Marines had arrived.
Did the Adeptus Mechanicus now see that conditions on the ground were as critical as Dionaki had maintained all along, or was it the actions of the Iron Hands that compelled them to dispatch some of their forces? She did not imagine that the methods of negotiation employed by the Iron Hands had been congenial, even with the priests of Mars. Conviviality did not seem to be a priority for them.
Scaling the rockcrete steps of the command bunker, Dionaki walked from the squat enclosure and stood waiting. Columns of skitarii marched in perfect synchronicity, flanked by the tall, stalking forms of Ironstrider Ballistarii and Sydonian Dragoons. The ponderous bulk of Onager Dunecrawlers brought up the rear of their formation, resembling mechanical crustaceans. Bulky eradication beamers protruded from the sides of their chassis, rippling with caged energies. Their stalwart armour and devastating weaponry was sorely needed.
Activity buzzed around Dionaki. Sub-commanders hurried from station to station while directing their soldiers with shouted commands. Heavy weapons and ammunition crates were hauled into recessed firing pits. Trenches filled with the remaining able-bodied soldiers under her command, while the wounded were pulled back to medicae tents or given the Emperor’s Mercy if too far gone.
This was the final line. Dionaki and her troops had withdrawn again and again, each time their territory swallowed by the orks. The Adeptus Mechanicus forge temple rose behind the Vostroyans. If it fell, the entire installation would fall with it. If that eventuality did come to pass, Dionaki would not be alive to witness it.
The other Iron Hands emerged in silence from the smoking ruins, like revenants answering a call only they could hear. They came in pairs, their dark armour rent and pitted, their extensive bionics spraying sparks in flickering flashes. Their heavy boltguns were slung, starved of ammunition, and the blades they wielded in their place were blunted from mass killing at close quarters. Some came back alone. Some didn’t come back at all.
Sparing a glance at the Space Marines who gathered with their leader in silent congress, Dionaki turned back to the trenches, and heard the skies began to churn with the laboured buzz of xenos aircraft. Air raid sirens began to wail across the front, and Dionaki could see the dust churned by the plodding footsteps of thousands of greenskins rise in the near distance.
‘Air batteries, prepare to fire. All units stand ready,’ Dionaki ordered into the vox-bead taped to her throat. ‘Enemy contacts are inbound.’
-14.0-
The ork bombers were disgracefully ugly things. They bore some crude similarities in design with the fighters deployed by the greenskins, with long tubular fuselages and pairs of rattling, angled wings. The prow of each bomber was a gaping ramjet intake, rimmed with jagged scrap armour like broken teeth. The craft sagged and jinked sluggishly, weighed down with dozens of rockets and bombs that clung to the undersides of their fuselages like bloated ticks. Like their lighter kin, the bombers left trails of thick, caustic smoke behind them. This made their dishevelled chain formation, a dense smear of black across the sky, exceedingly simple to track, a tactical weakness their pilots were likely oblivious to as they charged headlong towards their targets.
The Medusan Wing hurtled towards the xenos formation, angling to strike them at their port flank. On Dektaan’s command, the Stormhawks had reformed into the Omniscience attack pattern. The fighters formed a row, wingtip to wingtip, presenting their full forward firepower to the crowded column of ork bombers. The Iron Hands would fire a barrage into the xenos, then break to weave through the enemy formation and curl back upon it to strafe again.
Atraxii tightened his grip on Ironhawk’s twitching control sticks, whispering Chapter maxims and battle meditation protocols to lock his frustration with the fighter’s intransigence away beneath logic and discipline. Its spirit was fighting him, still balking at his usurping of its reins from Oblexus. Read-outs flickered intermittently, and false returns blinked over his auspex.
Atraxii would not cede control to the spirit. He would not cast reason aside and perpetuate the failures that had defined his brotherhood. He aligned his thoughts with the tactical doctrines and protocols of the squadron. He measured distances between his comrades and Ironhawk, and calculated the projected inbound vectors of the xenos targets they would imminently face. His mind computed the algorithms effortlessly to divide the potential number of enemies with the ammunition remaining to him and the time needed to engage each foe, and adjusted his tactics accordingly to prescribed contingencies to balance his approach.
‘I have visual,’ said Enych. At that moment, Atraxii rattled through a dense bank of cloud, seeing the ork formation as a thin vibrating line ahead in the distance.
‘I do not see any fighter escorts,’ said Colnex. ‘Though the ground below us is heaving with enemy hosts.’
‘They are both targeting the forge temple,’ replied Dektaan. ‘The skitarii are moving to reinforce our lines – we must focus on the bombers.’
‘What was it that provoked the Adeptus Mechanicus into parting with troops now?’ asked Atraxii.
‘The Iron Father,’ replied Dektaan.
Atraxii frowned. He had told the Iron Father of his suspicions about the Mechanicus on Halitus IV, and Oblexus had shared the logic of them.
‘Approaching maximum weapons range,’ called out Colnex.
‘Begin lacing target locks on those bombers,’ ordered Dektaan. ‘Open fire as soon as we are in range.’
Had the tech-priests revealed to the Space Marine commander what they were hiding? The thought buzzed in Atraxii’s mind. Or were the skitarii they dispatched to support the Iron Hands on the surface a concession to turn him away? Knowing the zealous guard the adepts placed over their secrets, the latter seemed the far more likely scenario.
Ironhawk began to pull ahead of the formation.
Focus. Atraxii chided himself for his lapse in concentration. He levered down his engine output, falling back in line with the rest of the Medusan Wing. Targeting reticules crystallised over the nearest ork bomber, bonding one of Ironhawk’s krak missiles to each bloated aircraft. Screeds of data appeared beside each bracket, counting the range until the target locks solidified.
Ironhawk’s machine-spirit flooded Atraxii with a deluge of hot rage. The Stormhawk’s engines flared, blasting it ahead of the rest of the Medusan Wing towards the xenos formation.
‘Medusan Four, what are you doing?�
�� snapped Dektaan. ‘Reduce speed and return to formation immediately.’
Alarms cried in shrill tones as multiple auspex returns appeared on Atraxii’s scopes.
‘Multiple contacts,’ said Colnex as they appeared on his screen as well. ‘Enemy fighters coming in.’
‘They are above us,’ called out Enych.
‘Scatter!’ shouted Dektaan.
The craft of the Medusan Wing peeled apart as ork fighters dived into their midst. Flak and cannon fire filled the air with concussive blasts and streams of lashing tracers. Atraxii rolled aside as an ork fighter screamed past. He drew it in his sights and blew it apart with a searing blast from his las-talon. Another greenskin pilot rushed towards him like a missile. Atraxii punched Ironhawk into a dive as proximity warnings filled the cockpit with their urgent screams.
The ork hurtled overhead, and Atraxii hauled Ironhawk into a snap turn, doubling back to come up behind his opponent. Missile locks danced across the Techmarine’s visor.
‘No,’ he snarled, blinking the insistent runes away and bringing up the assault cannons. ‘We need them for the bombers.’
Atraxii opened up with the wing-mounted rotary guns, their high-velocity rounds lancing into the xenos fighter. The ork pilot lost its left wing, causing the aircraft to pinwheel and spin in a pall of smoke. Another burst from the assault cannons shredded the cockpit, leaving the wreckage to dive through the clouds and smash against the façade of a refinery station.
‘Medusan Four,’ said Enych calmly. ‘Enemy fighter has come in behind me. Move to assist.’
Atraxii spotted Enych’s Stormhawk far below, rolling and weaving to buck an ork pilot off him. Pulling Ironhawk in a swift turn followed by a dive, Atraxii swept down from above. He fired his las-talon. Withering streams of blinding energy slashed out, piercing the xenos fighter’s armour and cooking off the unstable energies within its fuselage. The craft detonated in a spray of fire and shrapnel.