to host intestinal parasites?>
<Of course, I do not!> replied Sennesdiar. <The risk of infestation was acceptably low, adept,
and the general would not have thanked you for the information. Neither would his guests. There are
many things about which normal men prefer to remain ignorant.>
Xephous shifted, sending slow ripples over the surface of the milky goop, and said, <Ignorance
as a preference, magos? The concept is offensive.>
<I agree,> said Armadron.
Sennesdiar turned his whirring eye-lenses from one to the other. <Taking personal offence
indicates unacceptably high levels of subjectivity, adepts. Do not forget, either of you, that your next
upgrade depends on my review of your performance here. The teachings of the Fabricator General
emphasise the need to remain objective in all our dealings. You will both endeavour to uphold his
principles in a more fitting manner or you will be subject to a forced adjustment procedure. Let us
restrict ourselves instead to an assessment of the general’s guests.>
<Of course, magos,> said Armadron. <It was apparent that the Ministorum man, Bishop
Augustus, went to great lengths to cover the residual scent molecules of earlier physical activities.>
<Tried and failed,> added Xephous. <I estimate that he engaged in intimate physical congress
with another individual not more than four hours prior to his arrival at the general’s table. His
partner was almost certainly —>
<The specifics of his actions were as apparent to me as they were to you, Xephous,> said
Sennesdiar, cutting across his subordinate. <But they are irrelevant at this time.>
<But he is an Ecclesiarch, magos,> countered Xephous. <A man of the Imperial Creed is
forbidden from engaging in such practices by the laws of his church. Should we not report this
breach of conduct?>
<Not at this time, no. Deeds forbidden in law are often tolerated in life. The man, like all those
in his preposterous organisation, is clearly prejudiced against us, and would benefit from a lesson in
respect. His private pleasures do not currently interest me, but the information has been logged. We
move on. Let us talk of the others.>
Xephous said, <The military men are predictably uncomplicated types, magos. I judged them
typical of the Cadian officer class. They live to serve the Emperor, expect to die in battle, and
greatly covet the respect of their peers. I found nothing remarkable in this. Nothing that threatens
our plans at this junctures.>
<Armadron?> said the tech-magos. <Do you concur?>
Armadron bowed his near-featureless head, pulling taut the segmented cables that connected his
steel-encased brain to the augmetic ports on his naked metal vertebrae. <I found several notable
exceptions to the honourable adept’s statement. For example, involuntary subtleties of expression
made during conversation suggest that Major General Killian bears a strong dislike for General
deViers. He was careful to present a contradictory impression.>
<I did not register that,> protested Xephous.
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<I concur with your assessment, Armadron,> said the magos, <and I wish to discern the cause of
this dislike. The information may be of use to us if General deViers becomes problematic. Klotus
Killian is to be observed.>
<I note your use of the conditional, magos,> said Armadron. <Have you revised your projections
for our success? Does the general present less of an obstacle than you posited earlier?>
<I am constantly revising my projections. The general presents a complex problem. The strength
of his personal ambition is our greatest hope of reaching Dar Laq and the resting place of Ipharod. It
is this very same ambition, however, that poses the greatest danger to our success. I cannot rule out
the possibility that he will order us removed from his side once the truth becomes known. Should
such an event occur, we will need strong allies and a case for overthrowing him. I have selected
Major General Gerard Bergen as the officer most likely to accept a compromise with us. His
lifelong association with heavy armour means that he has worked closely with enginseers. He may
be more sympathetic to our needs than certain others.>
<I observed him closely,> said Armadron. <This Bergen bears the hallmarks of a man convinced
of his own impending doom. Is there no other?>
<I have factored this into my calculations,> replied Sennesdiar. <It changes nothing.>
<Then you intend to proceed as planned, magos?> asked Xephous. <We did not account for the
worsening of the electromagnetic phenomena in the decades since we last set foot here. The
machine-spirits have become highly uncooperative. The logic engines we brought refuse to function
at all. And vox-communications remain->
<I have already turned my mind to these technical problems,> the magos replied, interrupting
his adept. <Armadron, you will deploy tomorrow with Major General Bergen. Make your authority
known to Tech-Priest Aurien. He is the senior enginseer attached to the 10th Armoured Division. I
will assign you a servitor bodyguard and adequate transportation. I am sure the major general will
be pleased to have someone of your skill and knowledge on hand.>
Armadron bowed his head and issued a short burst of noise that expressed his understanding and
absolute obedience.
Sennesdiar rose from the pool, broadcasting an activation code to the cherub-slaves in their
alcoves. They jerked forwards to tend to him as he stepped out. Thick fluids ran down his bloodless
body, along the piston housings and cables that jutted from the pallid remnants of the flesh into
which he had been born almost four centuries earlier. Silvery drops rolled from his slender metal
fingers to the grille floor below as he waited for the little slaves to dress him.
In his robes once more, he stepped to the door of his private chamber, turned and said, <I leave
you to your duties, adepts. I have much processing to do. The blessings of the Machine-God upon
you both.>
<Ave Omnissiah,> they intoned dutifully.
<May your logic be flawless, magos,> added Armadron.
<And yours, adept,> said Sennesdiar. <Do not disappoint me.> Then he swept from the room,
leaving his adepts to soak in the bubbling pool. They left shortly after him, however, for there was
much to be done.
37
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hold them back, you dogs,” bellowed Colonel Stromm. “Don’t let them pass the outer lines!” He
fired his hellpistol into the charging mass of orks, but, squinting through the haze and the sweat that
stung his eyes, it was difficult to see the level of damage he was causing. With his free hand, he
grabbed his adjutant, Lieutenant Kassel, by the collar, yanking him close to shout in his ear. “Where
the frak are my Kasrkin, Hans? Why aren’t they shoring up those blasted gaps?”
The air danced with tracer fire as the orks pushed closer, huge pistols and stubbers blazing. The
Cadians fired back with deadly intensity, bright las-beams licking out from their sandbagged
positions, slicing through the clouds of billowing dust thrown up by the anti-personnel mines that
were detonating under the feet of the green-skins’ front ranks. Heavy brown bodies spun into the air
to land in bloody, mangled heaps. Other orks trampled over them uncaring, undaunted, yelling and
hooting, and roaring bestial battle cries with unrestrained glee.
Competing with all the noise, most particularly with the deafening crack and stutter of nearby
las- and bolter-fire, Lieutenant Kassel placed his mouth at his colonel’s ear and replied, “Vonnel’s
platoon is taking heavy losses on the right flank, sir. The Kasrkin have moved across to plug the
breach.”
Damn it, thought Stromm. Five days. Five days we’ve lasted out here on the open sand, and not
a single bloody sign of rescue, no vox-comms, nothing. And there’s no end to the greenskin
bastards. Scores of men are dead or dying. Our perimeter is shrinking with every charge made
against us. This looks like the last of it for The Fighting 98th.
His mind turned to his family, safe aboard the naval heavy-transport The Incandescent, which
was anchored in high orbit with the rest of the fleet. He had a son, still just an infant, who had been
born during the Palmeros campaign. Stromm had hoped to watch the lad grow, to see him strengthen
and develop, and, one day, become an officer like his father. No, not like his father, better than his
father. A son should always strive to achieve more than the man who sired him. He had hoped to see
it, to live that long despite the odds. But he’d known the second old deViers had brought Exolon to
Golgotha that his life expectancy had been suddenly, dramatically reduced. Here today, before his
eyes, the truth of it was playing out.
Curse this world, he thought. To the blasted bloody warp with it! We should have virus-bombed
it from space. That would have been poetic justice in that — revenge for all the people Thraka’s
asteroids have killed. If it weren’t for Yarrick’s damned tank…
The orks were closing. Six hundred metres. Five-ninety. Five-eighty. The Cadians’ landmines
were barely slowing them. Heavy alien bodies were being blasted high on pillars of smoke and sand,
but the enemy far outnumbered Stromm’s men. The foe had bodies to spare. Those that escaped the
deadly fragmentation and explosive pressure waves created by each blast just kept on coming, not
faltering for even a moment.
On Stromm’s first day, the day his drop-ship had smashed nose-first into the red sand, he and his
officers had decided that it was best to stay put, sure that Major General Rennkamp would send out
reconnaissance units to look for his missing men. But vox-comms weren’t worth a damn out here,
and darkness fell quickly in the desert, so Stromm hadn’t wasted any time in ordering makeshift
defensives built, though progress was initially slow under lamp and torchlight.
Sand was, of course, in plentiful supply and had been put to good use. The sandbags had
hardened like concrete, such was the effect of water on the Golgothan dust, though Stromm was
38
reluctant to spare even a fraction of their precious reserves for anything other than drinking. Scrap
metal pulled from the wrecked ship was plentiful, too. With these resources, his 98th Mechanised
Infantry Regiment had constructed outer and inner defensive works, reinforcing the heavy-weapons
nests with plates from the ship’s crumpled bulkheads.
The resulting fortifications were basic in the extreme, but at least they offered better protection
than the open sand. As he fired shot after flesh-searing shot into the charging xenos horde, Stromm
was damned glad of those defences.
Torrents of fire blazed out from each of the heavy-weapon nests, chewing apart scores of
grotesque alien bodies with broad sweeps of enfilading fire. Some of the regiment’s Chimeras and
halftracks had survived the crash and were entrenched behind walls of compacted sand and steel,
adding their considerable firepower to the desperate battle. The Chimeras’ hull-mounted heavy
bolters chattered deep and low, ripping the enemy into bloody hunks of meat with their explosive
ammunition. Turret-mounted multi-lasers hissed and cracked, scoring the air with blinding
brightness. A few of the Chimeras boasted autocannon as their main armament, their long barrels
chambered for powerful thirty-millimetre rounds. They made a harsh chugging sound as they
spewed shells out in devastating torrents. Over-muscled brown bodies dissolved into scraps and
tatters wherever the autocannon found their mark.
The Chimeras and the weapon-nests were not alone in providing heavy support. Thick spears of
lascannon fire blazed down from atop the crumpled hull of the drop-ship. The ship’s cockpit had
folded like a concertina in the crash and the flight crew had been killed outright, but a handful of
navy ratings — tech-crew mostly — had survived. They had been insistent about manning the ship’s
turrets, only a few of which still functioned. Stromm had seen it in their faces: the fear, the panic.
When he had agreed to let them man the turrets, their relief had been all too apparent. They were
terrified of meeting the orks face-to-face. He cursed their cowardice, but he couldn’t hate them for
it.
They hadn’t been raised on Cadia. They were lesser men by birth.
In his opinion, that said it all.
Despite such thoughts, he was glad to have those turrets manned by anyone. They poured
blistering fire down on top of the orks, killing dozens at a time, charring their bodies to shrunken
black husks.
Given the weight of combined fire the Cadians were pouring out, it seemed that scores of orks
were dropping with every metre of ground they gained, but they were still gaining. Stromm could
already see that it wouldn’t be enough, not by any stretch. As so often in a straight fight with the
orks, it would ultimately come down to numbers, and numbers were something he didn’t have.
Each day that Stromm and his men had stayed by the shattered drop-ship, desperately and
futilely trying to raise anyone, anyone at all, on their vox-casters, more and more orks had started to
show up. They had been drawn to the site by the spectacular trail of fire and black smoke that the
falling drop-ship had painted across the sky in a descent that had been visible for a hundred
kilometres in every direction.
Stromm regretted entrenching his forces.
I should have moved us out into the desert, he thought, away from the crashsite. I should have
got everyone away from here.
Even as he thought this, however, he rejected it. Hindsight was a fine thing, but he had made the
best choice he could with the information he’d had. Moving off would have left his infantry
companies vulnerable. There weren’t enough vehicles left intact after the crash to carry everyone.
And there were the wounded to think about, too. He had no idea of their exact coordinates, either.
No one did. Where the bloody hell was the rest of Exolon?
His hellpistol clicked, another cell spent. On reflex, he hit the power-pack release, let the
magazine fall to the ground, tore a fresh one from a pouch on his belt, slammed it home and
39
resumed firing. His first shot left a smoking black hole where one monster’s ugly face had been.
