“The scythe-wing strikes at dawn!” Sarik yelled, his battle-cant warning
providing the White Scars with more information than any formally composed order
could have done in the scant seconds it took to issue. Two-dozen boltguns were
raised towards the direction indicated, while the heavy weapons troopers braced
themselves to open fire with heavy bolter and missile launcher.
Scanning the jade sky for contact, Sarik caught sight of movement near the
pylon’s summit. Within seconds, a fast-moving swarm of disc-shaped objects was
swooping down, angling towards the White Scars.
“Gun drones!” Sarik called out, recognising the machines instantly, for he
had faced them in the opening ground battle of the crusade. “Aim for the
undersides!”
As the drones descended towards the Space Marines, the twin-weapons mounted
beneath their dish-shaped bodies opened fire. More of the blue energy bolts spat
towards the White Scars, but before the tau machines could find their range, the
Space Marines were following Sarik’s order. Bolt-rounds filled the air, the
force’s heavy bolter adding the weight of its firepower a moment later. In
seconds, the alien machines were blown apart as bolt shells penetrated the
weaker armour of their undersides, detonated within, and scattered burning
wreckage across a wide area.
The last of the debris pattered to the dry ground at his feet and Sarik
activated his armour’s strategium uplink. Runes blinked across his vision, and a
stream of text told him what he needed to know. The battle-brothers of the
Scythes of the Emperor were reporting their objective ready to take, the threat
of another Space Marine force completing their objective first bringing a feral
growl to Sarik’s throat.
“Brother Kharisk, bring the melta charges,” Sarik called out. “I want this
place wrecked, now!”
Gauge’s chief of staff looked up sharply from his command terminal, one hand
to the vox-set at his ear. “Enemy flyers!” he shouted over the noise of General
Gauge’s command centre. “Inbound on all objectives!”
“Status?” General Gauge replied.
“Sergeant Sarik reports ready to place charges, estimate detonation within
five minutes,” the officer replied. Lucian breathed a silent sigh of relief that
his warning had got through in time, and the White Scars had been ready when the
gun drones had attacked. By all accounts, the other pylons had been similarly
defended, and the other Space Marine contingents had not fared so well. The
Ultramarines had suffered one casualty, and the Scythes of the Emperor two,
though none of the injuries was life threatening. To a Space Marine, few
injuries were.
“Ultramarines ready to detonate charges,” the officer reported. “Scythes
still facing resistance from enemy infantry.”
“Gentlemen,” General Gauge addressed the gathered members of the crusade
council as he turned from his chief of staff to face them. “We arrive at the
point of decision, the point at which all may be decided, the entire crusade.
Given the previous… disagreements within the council, I would take this
opportunity to show resolve, and to demonstrate that we are united in our
purpose.”
“I propose the final order to begin the landings be put to a formal vote of
the crusade council. Right here, right now.”
Lucian kept his expression outwardly calm, but inside his mind raced. The
general had surprised even his closest allies on the council, as the expression
on Admiral Jellaqua’s jowly face confirmed. Perhaps he had done so as a
precaution against the other faction, centred on Cardinal Gurney, catching wind.
Inquisitor Grand was known to be a powerful psyker, and even if he did not
resort to tearing the thoughts directly from the minds of his rivals, there were
few secrets that could be kept from one who bore the Inquisitorial Rosette.
At the beginning of the crusade, before the mighty fleet had crossed the
Damocles Gulf and plunged blindly into the region claimed by the tau empire, the
council had consisted of twelve members. Three of that number, however, had been
slain at the height of the crusade’s last space battle, the ships on which they
had chosen to travel lost, scattered to atoms in the void. Replacing those three
councillors was a task the body had yet to undertake, but it would need to be
done, and soon, if the council was not to become dominated by the likes of
Cardinal Gurney. Two more members were absent, for they represented the Space
Marine contingent of the crusade: Captain Rumann of the Iron Hands Chapter was
aboard his vessel, the
Fist of Light,
directing his ground troops, while
Veteran Sergeant Sarik of the White Scars was leading his own warriors from the
front, as ever he did.
That left General Gauge, Admiral Jellaqua, and Lucian himself on one side of
the council, and Cardinal Gurney, Inquisitor Grand and Logistician-General
Stempf on the other. Ordinarily, Lucian would have been able to count on Sarik’s
agreement, not because the Space Marine had allied himself to a particular view,
but because the two were simply of a similar mind most of the time. Captain
Rumann was less predictable, keeping his own, inscrutable counsel in most
matters.
“What motion do you propose, general?” said Inquisitor Grand, his voice low
and threatening. “And what is the alternative, should it be rejected?”
So that was Gauge’s ploy. The tough old veteran, born on the Deathworld of
Catachan and elevated through the ranks on the power of his will and the
strength of his arm, was attempting to force the council’s hand once and for
all. In previous sessions, it had seriously been suggested that the crusade turn
back, to return later with a fleet so vast it could reduce the entire tau empire
to ruins. Thankfully, saner counsel had prevailed. While Lucian sought to profit
from the enterprise, his allies sought honour, and neither outcome would be
possible should the tau be completely obliterated.
“I propose the motion that we vote on authorising the landings or we withdraw
the fleet,” Gauge said.
Silence settled upon the assembled council members, but each was painfully
aware that the enemy’s flyers were closing on the Space Marines on the surface
below, every second bringing them closer to their targets.
“I second the motion,” Lucian stated. “Let each cast his vote, while we can
still make it count.”
“Very well,” rasped Inquisitor Grand, barely containing his displeasure. Why,
if he was so displeased, did he not simply brandish his Inquisitorial rosette?
The astropathic transmission relayed in the council chamber came back to
Lucian’s mind, before the inquisitor gave his answer. “I vote in favour of the
motion.”
Now things were really getting interesting, Lucian thought, his glance
meeting that of Admiral Jellaqua for a fleeting moment.
“As do I,” said Cardinal Gurney, who stood beside the inquisitor. “And I,”
added the Logistician-General.
Within moments, Lucian, Gauge and Jellaqua had all indicated their agreement
with the motion, and the vote was sealed. For the first time in the long months
of the crusade, the entire council had, to all intents and purposes, presented a
unanimous front. Even if the two Space Marines had disagreed with the motion,
which was inconceivable, it would have been carried by a majority. But Lucian
could not help but wonder what the vote had achieved, unless Gauge sought to
demonstrate power over the rival faction.
Lucian’s thoughts were interrupted as Gauge’s chief of staff spoke up. “Enemy
flyers closing on White Scars objective. Contact in one minute.”
Sergeant Sarik hauled himself onto the platform at the top of the towering
sensor pylon, directly below the structure’s antennae mast. The platform was
circular and ten metres across. It clung to the side of the pylon precariously,
the dozens of spear-like antennae above swaying slightly as a stiff breeze
rushed through them.
“Brother Kharisk,” said Sarik as a second White Scar climbed up onto the
platform behind him, one more battle-brother following close behind. “Get to
work. High command reports we have enemy flyers inbound.”
Nodding, the Space Marine crossed the platform to stand directly beneath the
antennae mast. Assessing the structure with an efficiency that Sarik had come to
value highly throughout his tenure as the warrior’s squad leader, Brother
Kharisk unclipped three bulky, tubular melta charges from his belt, and set
about placing them where they would do the most damage.
With Kharisk deploying the charges, Sarik turned to the next Space Marine to
climb up onto the platform, Brother Qsal. The warrior carried a stubby missile
launcher, which he handed to Sarik as he hauled himself up. Sarik took the
weapon in one hand, and with the other aided his battle-brother onto the
platform. Despite the additional strength afforded the brother by his power
armour, Brother Qsal was carrying a double load of ammunition for his launcher,
consisting of additional krak missiles to combat enemy aircraft.
“You know your duty,” Sarik said as he handed the missile launcher back to
Brother Qsal. The warrior shouldered his weapon, and crossed to the platform’s
edge to begin his vigil.
With both of his warriors in place, Sarik took the opportunity to examine his
surroundings. The surface of Dal’yth Prime spread out below Sarik, his vantage
point several hundred metres up affording him a stunning view all the way to the
distant horizon. The land was dry and sandy, and dotted with tall, flat-topped
mesas of dark red rock. Over the curve of the western horizon, beyond the area
that had been designated as the crusade’s landing zone, were clustered a number
of small cities. Assaulting those areas, General Gauge had claimed, would draw
the tau to defend them, allowing the crusade to dictate the terms of battle.
Sarik prayed the general was correct, for he had faced enough aliens to know
that their reactions could rarely be predicted in such human terms. To the
north, the dry land rose to form the foothills of a distant mountain range,
which, it was hoped by the general, would protect the crusade forces from attack
from that quarter as they carried out the landing operation. Again, Sarik
determined not to put all of his trust into such a presumption, although the
basic notion was sound.
Fifty or so kilometres from the pylon, the arid landscape gave way to the
sea, which was a deep, blue-green band across the entire eastern horizon. The
only vapour clouds in the jade sky were far out over that sea, and as a son of
the wild steppes of Chogoris, part of Sarik’s mind pondered what natural process
kept them from sweeping in over the land and watering the parched earth. If it
were true that the tau preferred their worlds dry, perhaps they used some form
of planetwide atmospheric engineering, just as there were polluted industrial
worlds in the Imperium where rain was made to fall at the end of each work shift
to wash away pollutants.
Towards the south lay nothing but desert, dotted with the flat-topped, dark
red mesas. The crusade’s high command had discerned no threat from that quarter,
ascertaining that the desert was empty and no enemy was likely to threaten the
landings from that direction. The thought that the tau might prefer their worlds
arid came back to Sarik’s mind…
Brother Kharisk stood back, the melta charges all set at the base of the
antennae mast.
“Brother Qsal,” said Sarik, his eyes fixed on the clear skies to the south.
“Do you detect anything out of the ordinary?”
“No contact, brother-sergeant,” Qsal replied, panning his weapon slowly
across the skies.
“South, high,” Sarik said, a sense of foreboding welling inside of him.
“Maintain overwatch.”
Brother Qsal turned in the direction Sarik had indicated, and resumed his
watch, though the skies looked empty. Perhaps the war spirit residing in the
missile launcher’s machine core would detect what the eye could not.
“Brother-sergeant?” Brother Kharisk said from behind him. “Charges set.”
Command runes blinked across Sarik’s vision, telling him that the other Space
Marine contingents were also reporting that they were ready to begin the final
phase of their assaults.
“Understood, prepare to…” Sarik answered, before he was suddenly struck by
the notion that something was very wrong. He turned a full revolution, his eyes
scanning the panorama intently. “What was that…?”
“Brother-serg—” Qsal began, and then Sarik’s world exploded around him.
A storm of blue energy bolts ripped into the platform, tearing great chunks
from the white material. The air was filled with the ultrasonic whine of the
bolts ripping through the air, and for a second, Sarik could hear nothing else.
Sarik threw himself to the deck as a second blast of energy bolts ripped into
the platform around him.
Something large screamed overhead and was gone before Sarik could identify
it. He rose and looked about for the aircraft, but there was nothing to be seen,
the jade skies as empty as they been but a moment ago.
The sharp scent of burned resins filling his nostrils, Sarik turned to his
brothers, ready to order Qsal to locate the enemy flyer and engage it. He saw
that the attack had chewed great wounds from the platform but left the sensor
antennae masts completely intact and functional, a testament to the skill and
the intent of who or whatever had fired on the Space Marines. Then Sarik saw
that Brother Qsal was dead, torn into ragged chunks as dozens of the energy
bolts had cut him apart. Brother Kharisk was simply gone, thrown from the high
platform by the sheer weight of fire.
Sarik’s next thought was for the mission. He would leave his mourning until
later, as any good leader should. With Brother Kharisk gone, the melta charges
could not be detonated remotely, for the warrior had carried their control
device. Sarik would have to set the charges’ timers manually, and get clear
before they detonated. But such thoughts were instantly driven from his mind as
a high-pitched whine caught his attention.