Fire Caste Page 10

  When the end came Calhoun was shouting at him to shut the Hells up and Roach was turning to offer a gem of sarcastic wisdom. And then something slapped Boone right in the eye. For a moment he was angry and then he was hurt and then he wasn’t anything anymore except a slab of dead meat toppling into the water. Toomy splashed down beside him, groaning reflexively at the shock.

  Roach grinned, thinking the big groxbrain had slipped. And then he saw the black spine sticking out of Boone’s right eye as he sank below the scum. Something whickered past Roach’s ear and a Hawksbill greyback gurgled, clutching at the arrow sprouting from his throat. In another heartbeat the air was alive with a hail of arrows and men were screaming and falling all around him. Their native guide dived below the water and Roach followed, screwing his eyes shut against the filth. Above him the surface popped with impacts and he felt something scrape his shoulder. Desperately he forced himself down to the silt bed and swam, blindly hunting for cover.

  ‘Get into the mangroves!’ Calhoun yelled, ignoring the arrow jutting from his shoulder as he surged through the mire towards a clump of trees. Cully and Pope splashed along beside him, firing wild volleys of las-fire at the shadows dancing in the mist. They could see Lieutenant Sandefur leading a gaggle of Hawksbill men to a mound of fallen trees, his sabre raised and his pistol flaring, sending heroic, hopeless bursts into the mist.

  The three men crashed down into cover and found Dix already there, struggling to jam his wiry frame into the cavern of gnarled roots. To Calhoun’s disgust he was whimpering Kletus Modine’s name over and over like a child begging for its mother.

  ‘They’re coming at us from all sides,’ one-eyed Cully snarled, frantically trying to train his lasrifle everywhere at once as the Saathlaa guerrillas tightened their circle. The naked warriors dissolved out of the mist like hunched ghosts, fired their arrows with guttural whoops and then faded away to reload.

  ‘Get in as deep as you can!’ Calhoun shouted, his eyes hunting for the boy as he snapped the shaft in his shoulder and crawled into the tangle. He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Joyce crouched in the hollow bole of a tree across from him. This was the greencap’s first real tussle but he didn’t look scared. In fact there was a big grin on his face that made Calhoun proud and uneasy at the same time.

  Dix squealed as a huge spider flopped down onto his face from the rotten hollows of the mangrove. It gripped his head like a pair of skeletal hands, all bony legs and hard ridges and far too many eyes. Calhoun ripped it away and threw it aside. It took Dix’s nose with it, leaving a gushing crater in the middle of his face. Swearing in disgust, Calhoun pumped the scrabbling spider full of las-bolts and turned to the others.

  ‘We’ve got to start dishing the pain back at ’em!’ Calhoun yelled, trying to blot out Dix’s screeching. ‘They can’t get at us under here, but we’ve got to hold ’em back!’

  One of the giant insects swooped low, hooked its clawed feet into a man’s back and tore him shrieking from the ground. Surging back into the treetops it let go, turning its victim into a shrieking, flailing manikin. Captain Templeton leapt back as the man crashed into the mulch at his feet, broken but still breathing. Blood gurgled from the wreck’s ruptured throat as it tried to beg for help and Templeton fell to his knees, his hands fluttering helplessly over the broken pile as it gasped for words that wouldn’t come. Templeton understood. The words wouldn’t come for him either.

  Commissar Cadet Rudyk charged past him, leafing frenetically through a battered Tactica manual with one hand as he snapped off shots with the other. Somewhere nearby Sergeant Brennan was shouting and the vox-operator was screaming into his crackling set and a Steamblood Zouave had triggered his shoulder speakers, flooding the glade with bombastic music. And men were swearing and fighting and dying all around Ambrose Templeton.

  The captain shook his head and slapped himself hard in the face, trying to dislodge the clouds in his skull. The attack had come so suddenly. His platoon had just entered a wide forest glade when a battle had flared up somewhere in the distance. In that moment the insects had surged down from above, almost as if they were obeying a prearranged signal…

  And damn it all, they were! And I knew it was coming all along! I knew they were talking to each other!

  Yet again Captain Machen heard the ghost rattle from the mist. Then again on their left flank… their right… from behind…

  ‘Whatever it is, there’s more than one,’ Valance whispered.

  ‘Let’s flush the craven scum out,’ Wade said over the intra-suit vox, his patrician tones filled with contempt.

  ‘Wait. Let them come to us,’ Machen hissed. ‘They’re hungry for it.’

  He had the platoon formed up in a tight phalanx that bristled with lasrifles on every front, reinforced by the three armoured Zouaves and their heavy stubbers at equidistant points. It was a textbook defence that Machen had favoured against feral greenskins and Outlanders back home on Providence, but his patience was wearing thin. They could all hear the muffled sounds of distant las-fire as the other platoons engaged the enemy, winning glory while Jon Milton Machen just sat here.

  Suddenly something clacked and whirred in the fog, like a machine slowly winding up. Two more machines chugged alive in response.

  ‘Sir, might I suggest…’ Prentiss began, but his voice was disintegrated in a screeching cacophony as a storm of metal erupted from the mist, tearing into the phalanx from three sides.

  Sergeant Calhoun grinned as another primeval guerrilla leapt from the mist – right into the sights of his lasrifle. Before the Saathlaa could loose his arrow the sergeant lanced him through the eye and flicked the barrel across to another savage. Cully and Pope were wedged between the roots on either side of him, backing him up with short, sharp bursts, but he’d given up on Dix. The injured Badlander had huddled up into a foetal ball, whimpering pitifully as he clutched at his ruined face.

  The ambush had cost them nearly half their number, but the survivors were pulling things back. Lieutenant Sandefur had set up a decent firing perimeter with half a dozen greybacks, targeting the rebels with precise, disciplined volleys.

  These savages have spirit and cunning, but bows and arrows are no match for Arkan fire! Calhoun thought fiercely.

  A bolt of energy streaked from the mist and tore through a tree sheltering a lone greyback, sundering his chest into charred chunks of meat. Calhoun’s confident grin faded.

  ‘What in the Hells was that?’ Pope hissed.

  ‘That was us fragged,’ Cully answered as a second killing bolt sizzled out of the jungle. And Calhoun had to admit he was probably right.

  Something buzzed behind Templeton. He lurched round and stared blearily into a face out of nightmares. It looked like an insane three-tiered pyramid of compound eyes built on a plinth of mandibles. Long, tapering antennae flared out from either side of the conical head, tilted sharply towards its prey as it closed in.

  Despite his peril, Templeton was fascinated by the monstrous warrior, almost hypnotised by the quicksilver blur of its wings. The thing was craggily bipedal, but any resemblance to humanity ended there. Its double-jointed legs ended in massive talons and its body was a patchwork exoskeleton of hard plates and vicious barbs. Strangest of all, the insect was carrying a gun. As it levelled the weapon he saw the blur of its wings flitter and oscillate, modulating their rhythm. The crystalline prong in the gun barrel shimmered, resonating in harmony with the droning, almost as if the wing case was calibrating the gun and…

  Sergeant Brennan bowled into Templeton and threw him aside. Spinning, he sent a volley of las-fire into the insect’s face, incinerating two tiers of eyes. The creature chittered in pain and pulled away, its wings beating furiously as it soared towards the canopy. Brennan spun after it, tracking its path with a stream of las-fire that flared off its tough exoskeleton. With icy calm he adjusted his aim and ripped through the delicate web of
its wings. Twittering furiously the thing crashed headlong into a tree and plunged to the ground. A band of baying, vengeful greybacks were on it in seconds, hacking and stabbing with their bayonets.

  ‘We have to find cover!’ Brennan yelled, hauling Templeton to his feet.

  A ripple of energy pulsed down from above and struck the sergeant, unravelling his atoms in a frothing crimson spiral. A moment later, all that remained of Brennan was the hand gripping Templeton’s greatcoat. The captain glanced up as Brennan’s killer streaked towards him with outstretched talons. He ducked frantically and the insect swept over his head, whipping him with a trailing claw that shredded his hat and sent him reeling. Off balance, he sent a salvo of wild las-rounds after it and drew his sabre, hunting the sky.

  Watch the skies, the fangs of their eyes, weeping chittering chitin rain…

  Only the three Zouaves had weathered the razor blade storm. Wave after wave of metal filaments had bombarded Machen’s phalanx, the tiny threads shredding flesh and bone but only scratching the solid Steamblood carapaces. The attack left them standing over the mangled wreckage of their comrades like knights in an abattoir. Incredibly a few of the butchered carcasses were still alive, moaning and wailing as they bled out from a thousand cuts.

  ‘Both of you stand absolutely still,’ Machen whispered over the vox.

  ‘I don’t understand…’ Wade voxed back.

  ‘Quietly!’ Machen hissed. ‘We’re sealed up tight but let’s not play with fire. Now just do as I say unless you want to die!’

  ‘By your command,’ Wade whispered formally.

  ‘Prentiss?’ Machen said. ‘Prentiss, did you get that?’

  There was no reply from the third Zouave, but Machen couldn’t risk checking on him. He had to ignore the wounded too. They were probably beyond help, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  ‘Sir, what in the Hells just happened to us?’ Wade’s voice sounded strained and Machen guessed some of the filaments had got through his armour, probably slipping in at the joints.

  ‘Loxatl,’ Machen said bleakly. The moment the attack had come he’d recognised the weapon and realised the folly of bunching his men up.

  ‘What are those lizard trash doing here?’ Wade hissed incredulously.

  ‘What they’re always doing – killing for pay. It seems these tau bastards like to hide behind mercenaries.’

  I’ve travelled so far only to find the same old vermin waiting for me, Machen thought bitterly. And why should I be surprised when that has always been the way of things?

  Long ago an old preacher had thrown him a scrap of wisdom that hit him with the force of absolute truth: ‘Wherever you go, there you are.’ It was a bleak truth, because wherever Machen went, horror went too. Why would Phaedra be any different? Besides, the loxatl were naturals for this filthy planet and its filthier war: amphibians and mercenaries who fought for the highest bidder, just as they’d fought for the rebels back on Providence.

  ‘I can’t see anything out there,’ Wade said. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll wait.’

  ‘But they’ll tear us apart!’

  ‘I’ve faced these scum before. They’re virtually blind on land. They rely on smell and taste to find their prey.’

  There was a long pause as Wade considered this.

  ‘Our armour…’

  ‘Exactly. We’re sealed. If we stand perfectly still the bastards won’t even know we’re here.’

  ‘Sir… I’m bleeding. Rather badly as it happens.’

  ‘And so are fifty other souls, lieutenant. Just stand still and the lox won’t sniff you out from the crowd.’

  ‘But the wounded…’

  ‘Will draw the lox out. These scum may kill for pay, but they like the killing.’

  ‘You want to use the wounded as bait?’ Wade sounded appalled.

  ‘I want to give them vengeance, man!’ Machen struggled to keep his voice down as the fury welled up. He crushed it with an effort. ‘The lox won’t leave anyone alive, but they’ll want to enjoy the killing. If we wait they’ll come to us…’

  Another bolt of superheated energy sizzled across the swamp, tearing a chunk out of Lieutenant Sandefur’s cover, but Calhoun’s eyes were on his boy. Joyce had slipped quietly into the water and lay floating on the surface, playing dead. Calhoun had seen him emptying some of the promethium from his flamer’s fuel canister and wondered what he’d been playing at. Well it was obvious now, but Calhoun didn’t like it any better. The air in the tank was keeping Joyce buoyant as he paddled slowly towards one of the lethal snipers. To a careless observer he would pass for another floating corpse, but it was a hell of a risk. Calhoun ground his teeth in frustration.

  As he bobbed towards the Emperor’s foes Audie Joyce was thinking of the saint from the battleship. How proud that wonderful, terrible giant would be of him now! Like the saint, he had passed beyond fear and doubt. The epiphany had come to him during the terrible sea crossing, born from the fate of the Zouave knight who’d been thrown overboard. Joyce hadn’t been able to shake the look of surprise in the knight’s eyes and the more he’d thought about it the angrier he’d become at the sailor who’d doomed him. That was why he’d crept back to the cabin after the boat had landed. The sailor had grinned impudently, but he’d soon stopped grinning when Audie had put his big hands round his throat. He’d watched the man’s eyes goggle with shock as he squeezed and squeezed, confirming his intuition that men were always surprised when death came for them.

  That vengeance had felt pure. Holy. Like the saint, Audie Joyce had done the Emperor’s work with his bare hands, but now he had a flamer and there was more work ahead.

  ‘Aim for their wings!’ Templeton yelled, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. His greybacks were dashing about, firing frantically into the air or diving to avoid the deadly beams. Several of them had fallen to their knees, risking death for a better shot at their speeding tormentors. Their remaining Steamblood knight had locked his armoured legs, transforming himself into a sturdy firing platform. His massive heavy stubber was blazing away, raking the canopy with a steady stream of high velocity rounds and spilling out a cascade of spent shells. Martial music blared from his shoulder speakers in accompaniment to his amplified bellowing. The man’s comrade had fallen in the first flyby, atomised by a concentrated lattice of beams, and the surviving knight wanted payback.

  As Templeton watched, the Zouave snagged a flier from the air and the greybacks yelled triumphantly. Like a mob, they charged towards the tumbling ruin of chitin and Templeton charged with them, suddenly eager for blood. Commissar Cadet Rudyk got there first, yelping with hatred as he rammed the barrel of his pistol between the creature’s twitching mandibles and emptied his clip on full auto. His eyes were bright as he looked up at Templeton and grinned. He shook open the Tactica manual clutched in his other hand, revealing the page he’d marked with a finger. Templeton glimpsed a crude sketch of the insect warriors.

  ‘Is the vespid we face, yes! Ves-pid Sting-wing!’ The youth explained, brandishing the manual triumphantly. ‘Is vassal race for the tau, you see? For scout and assault. Is very quick and is very agile.’

  ‘We have to… find cover...’ Templeton muttered blearily, seeing two grinning cadet commissars.

  ‘Maybe we find the kroot here too!’ Rudyk said, licking his lips at the prospect.

  The loxatl slithered from the mist with sly, sinuous movements, crawling with its belly to the ground on four clawed legs. It paused and sniffed at the air with flaring nostrils, sifting through the scent of carnage for a threat.

  Watching the beast from the corner of his eye, Machen’s finger caressed the trigger of his heavy stubber. The loxatl aroused an almost primal revulsion in him, its serpentine form somehow embodying the worst aspects of otherness. Its head was a flat, snakelike torpedo that bristled with teeth under the
slits of pale, almost sightless eyes. Black saliva drooled from its maw as it flicked its snout back and forth, tasting the air with a questing tongue. Its languid movements were mirrored by the stubby flechette blaster attached to its back. Mounted inside a synapse-linked augmetic cradle, the gun responded directly to the creature’s thoughts, allowing it to track prey without encumbering its claws. Machen heard the weapon clack and whirr as it spun about, lingering on the men who still breathed amongst the pile of bodies.

  ‘Sir, one of the bastards has just crawled right into my sights,’ Wade voxed from somewhere behind him. ‘Request permission to open fire.’

  ‘Wait. That’s only two. There’s still one more out there,’ Machen said.

  ‘Sir, I’m bleeding…’

  ‘I said wait. We’ll only get one chance at this.’

  Motionless, Machen kept his eyes on his own loxatl. He couldn’t see the one approaching Wade or risk looking around for the third, but he sensed it watching and waiting. It was more cautious than its brethren, probably the brood leader, old and canny with the wisdom of countless hunts. Even so, once its packmates started killing the wounded it wouldn’t be able to hold back…