Necropolis (17 page)

“I have never seen anything like this,” he said honestly.

“A private indulgence. House Chass built its success on servitors, cogitators and mechanical development. I make working machines for the Imperium. It pleases me to let them evolve in natural forms here, with no purpose other than their own life.”

Merity stood back from the pair. “I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said.

Chass nodded and the girl stalked away between the wire-vines and the tin blooms.

“You have a fine daughter, lord.”

“Yes, I have. My heir. No sons. She has a gift for mechanical structures that quite dazzles me. She will lead House Chass into the next century.”

He paused, snicked a rusting flowerhead off into his waist-slung sack and sighed. “If there is a next century for Vervunhive.”

“This war will be won by the Imperial force, lord. I have no doubt.”

Chass smiled round at the commissar. “Spoken like a true political animal, Commissar Gaunt.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a platitude.”

“Nor did I take it as one. But you are a political animal, aren’t you, Gaunt?”

“I am a colonel of the Imperial Guard. A warrior for the almighty Emperor, praise His name. My politics extend as far as raising troop morale, no further.”

Chass nodded. “Walk with me,” he said.

They moved through a grove of platinum trees heavy with brass oranges. Frills of wire-lace creepers were soldered to the burnished trunks. Beyond the grove, crossing iron lawns that creaked under their footsteps, they walked down a row of bushes with broad, inlaid leaves of soft bronze.

“I suppose my daughter has been bending your ear with warnings about my liberal ways?”

“You are correct, lord.”

Chass laughed. “She is hugely protective of me. She thinks I’m vulnerable.”

“She said as much.”

“Indeed. Let me show you this.” Chass led Gaunt into a maze of hedges. The hedgerows crackled with energised life, like veils of illusions.

“Fractal topiary,” Chass said proudly. “Mathematical structures generated by the stem-forms of the cogitators planted here.”

“It is a wonder.”

Lord Chass looked around at Gaunt. “It leaves you cold, doesn’t it, Gaunt?”

“Cold is too strong a word. It leaves me… puzzled. Why am I here?”

“You are an unusual officer, Gaunt. I have studied your record files carefully.”

“So have the housemaids,” Gaunt said.

Chass snorted, taking a cropping wand from his belt. He began to use it to shape the glowing, fractal hedges nearby. “For different reasons, I assure you. The maids want husbands. I want friends. Your record shows me that you are a surprisingly moral creature.”

“Does it?” Gaunt watched the noble trim the light-buds of the bush, disinclined to speak further.

“True to the Imperial Cause, to the crusade, but not always true to your direct superiors when those motives clash. With Dravere on Menazoid Epsilon, for example. With our own General Sturm on Voltemand. You seek your own way, and like a true commissar you are never negligent in punishing those of your own side who counter the common good.”

Gaunt looked out across the vast hive below them. “Another sentence or two and you’ll be speaking treason, Lord Chass.”

“And who will hear me? A man who roots out treason professionally? If I speak treason, Gaunt, you can kill me here.”

“I hope we can avoid that, lord,” Gaunt said quietly.

“So do I. From the incident in the Privy Council the other day, I understand you do not agree with General Sturm’s tactical plan?”

Gaunt’s measured nod spoke for him.

“We have something in common then. I don’t agree with House Sondar’s leadership either. Sondar controls Croe and Anko is its lapdog. They will lead us to annihilation.”

“Such machinations are far above me, Lord Chass,” Gaunt pointed out diplomatically.

Chass wanded the hedge again. He was forming a perfect Imperial eagle from the blister-tendrils of light. “But we are both affected. Bad policy and bad leadership will destroy this hive. You and I will suffer then.”

Gaunt cleared his throat. “With respect, is there a point to this, Lord Chass?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I wanted to speak with you, Gaunt, get the measure of you. I wanted to understand your inner mind and see if there was any kindred flame there. I have a great responsibility to Vervunhive, greater than the leadership of this noble house. You wouldn’t understand and I’m not about to explain it. Trust me.”

Gaunt said nothing.

“I will preserve the life of this hive to my dying breath — and beyond it if necessary. I need to know who I can count on. You may go now. I will send for you again in time. Perhaps.”

Gaunt nodded and turned away. The Imperial eagle in the fractal topiary was now complete.

“Gaunt?”

He turned back. Lord Chass reached into his waist-sack and pulled out a rose. It was perfect, made of steel, just budding and faintly edged with rust. The silver stem was stiff and aluminium thorns split out of it.

Chass held it out.

“Wear this for honour.”

Gaunt took the metal rose and hooked it into the lapel of his jacket, over his heart.

He nodded. “For honour, I’ll wear anything.”

Chass stood alone as Gaunt threaded his way out of the metal garden and departed. Chass remained stationary in thought for a long time.

“Father?” Merity appeared out of the brass-orange grove.

“What did you make of him?”

“An honourable man. Slightly stiff, but not shy. He has spirit and courage.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Can we trust him?”

“What do you think?”

Merity paused, stroking the fractal blooms absently.

“It’s your choice, master of our house.”

Heymlick Chass laughed. “It is. But you like him? That’s important. You asked me to keep you informed.”

“I like him. Yes.”

Chass nodded. He took the amulet from the waist sack where it had been all the time, buried in the garden scraps.

He turned it over in his hands. It writhed and clicked.

“We’ll know soon enough,” he told his daughter.

Day thirty-one passed without major incident. Shelling whined back and forth between the wall defenders and the waiting Zoican army. At dawn on the thirty-second day, the second Zoican assault began.

“Do not ask how you may give your life for the Emperor. Ask instead how you may give your death.”

—Warmaster Slaydo, on his deathbed

It was a dismal, hollow dawn. The early daylight was diffused by cliffs of grey cloud that prolonged the night. Rain began to fall: spots at first for a half hour, then heavier, sheeting across the vastness of the hive and the wastelands beyond. Visibility dropped to a few hundred metres. The torrential downpour made the Shield crackle and short in edgy, disturbing patterns.

At the Veyveyr position, in the first hour of light, Colm Corbec walked the Tanith line, the eastern positions of the ruined railhead. His piebald camo-cloak, the distinctive garb of the Tanith, was pulled around him like a shroud, and he had acquired a wide-brimmed bowl helmet from somewhere — the NorthCol troops most likely — which made more than a few of his Ghosts chuckle at the sight of it. It was cold, but at least the Shield high above was keeping the rain off.

Corbec had surveyed the Ghost positions a dozen times and liked them less each time he did. There was a group of engine sheds and cargo halls through which sidings ran, all of them bombed-out, and then a forest of rubble and exploded fuel tanks leading down to the vast main gate, the white stone of its great mouth scorched black. Beyond the rear extremity of the railyard’s eastern border rose the burned-out smelteries. A regiment of Vervun Primary troops — called the Spoilers, Corbec had been told — held that position and watched the approach up the treacherous slag-mountain. Corbec had around two hundred Ghosts dug in through the engine sheds and the rubble beyond, with forward scout teams at the leading edge towards the gate.

Colonel Modile’s Vervun Primary units, almost five thousand strong, manned the main trenches and rubble glacis in the central sector of the wide railyard. Bulwar’s NorthCol troops, two thousand or more, were positioned along the west, towards proud and grimy rows of as yet undamaged manufactories. Fifty units of NorthCol armour waited at the north end of the railhead in access roads and marshalling yards, ready to drive forward in the event of a breakthrough.

Corbec crossed between fire-blackened, roofless engine sheds, his hefty boots crunching into the thick crust of ash and rubble that littered the place despite the pioneer teams’ clearance work.

In the shed, twenty Ghosts were standing easy, all except their spotters at blast-holes and windows, looking south. The roof was bare ribs and tangles of reinforcing metal strands poked from broken rockcrete.

Corbec crossed to where Scout MkVenner and Trooper Mochran squatted on a makeshift firestep of oil drums, gazing out through holes in the brickwork.

“You’ve a good angle here, boys,” Corbec said, pulling himself up onto the rusty drums and taking a look.

“Good for dying, sir,” MkVenner muttered dryly. He was a scout in the true mould of Scout Sergeant Mkoll, dour and terse. Mkoll had trained most of them personally. MkVenner was a tall man in his thirties with a blue, half-moon tattoo under his right eye.

“How’s that, MkVenner?”

MkVenner pointed out at the gates. “We’re square on if they make a frontal, us and the locals in the main yard.”

“And our angles have been cut and blinded since that thing fell in,” Mochran added in a tired voice.

The “thing” he referred to was the gigantic wreck of the spider siege engine which the NorthCol batteries had brought down during the First Storm three days before. Its massive bulk, slumped across the gatemouth barricades, half blocked the entrance and had proved impossible to shift, despite the efforts of pioneer teams and sappers with dozers and heavy lifters.

Corbec saw the trooper was right. Enemy infantry could come worming in around the bulk and be inside before they were visible. The war machine gave the enemy a bridge right in through the tangled, rusting hulks of the gate barricade.

Corbec told them something reassuring and light that made them both laugh.

Afterwards, though he tried, he could not recall what it was.

He sauntered southwards, skirting through a trenchline and entered the rubble scarps closer to the gate. He had eleven heavy weapon teams tied in here at intervals behind flakboards and bagging. Six heavy stubbers on tripod mounts, two autoguns on bipods with ammo feeders sprawled on their bellies next to the gunners, and three missile launchers. Between the weapon positions, Tanith troopers were spread in lines along the embrasures. Walking amongst them, Corbec sensed their vulnerability. There was nothing to their rear and east flank but the ruined smelteries and the Spoil. They had to trust the abilities of the unseen “Spoilers” to keep them from surprises.

Corbec opened his vox-link and called up three flamer-parties from the reserves behind the engine sheds. Now he was out here, with dawn upon them, he could see how raw and open the scene was, and he wanted it secured.

He found Larkin in a foxhole close to the gates. The wiry sniper was breaking down his specialised lasgun and cleaning it.

“Any movement, Larks?”

“Not a fething hint.” Larkin clacked a fresh, reinforced barrel into place and then stroked a film of gun-oil off the exchanger before sliding one of the hefty charge packs into its slot.

Corbec sat down beside Larkin and took a moment to check his own lasgun. Standard issue, with a skeleton metal stock, it was shorter and rougher than the sniper’s gun and lacked the polished nalwood grips and shoulder block.

“Gotta get myself one of those one day,” said Corbec lightly, nodding at Larkin’s precious gun.

Larkin snorted and clicked his scope gently into place on the top of the weapon. “They only give sniper-pattern M-G’s to men who can shoot. You wouldn’t know how to use it.”

Corbec had a retort ready to go when his vox-link chirped.

“Modile to all sections. Observers on the Curtain Wall have detected movement in the rain. Could be nothing, but go to standby.”

Corbec acknowledged. He looked up at the huge wall and the towering top of the gatehouse. He often forgot that they had men and positions up there, thousands of them, a hundred metres up, blessed with oversight and a commanding position of fire.

He nodded across at Larkin, who slid the long flash-suppresser onto his muzzle with a hollow clack.

“Ready?”

“Never. But that’s usual. Bring ’em on. I’m tired of waiting.”

“That’s the spirit,” Corbec said.

That was what his mouth said, anyway. The sound was utterly stolen by a marrow-pulping impact of shells and las-fire that bracketed the gatehouse and shook the wall. Billows of flame belched in over the ruined death machine and the barricade and swirled up above the railyard. Parts of the barricade, sections of rolling stock, fifty tonnes apiece, shredded and blew inwards.

Corbec dropped. Billions of zinging shards of shrapnel, many white-hot, whickered down over the Tanith lines. Already, he could hear urgent calls over his link for medics coming from the Vervun Primary positions in the centre of the yard. He swung round and saw shells falling in the Spoil behind the Tanith position, blowing up fierce spumes of rock-waste. The Second Storm had started.

Ferrozoica changed tactics for its second assault. The First Storm had been an all-out, comprehensive attack along the southern Curtain Wall. This time they began a sustained bombardment of the wall length to keep Vervunhive reeling and they focussed their invasion to three point-assaults. One, an armoured formation led by two of the fearsome “flat-crabs,” hit Sondar Gate and pummelled at it for over two hours before being driven back by the wall-guns. Another slid west along the eastern rail-lines and struck at Croe Gate and the railhead behind it with battalion-strength force. The fighting in that sector, fronted by Vervun Primary and Roane Deeper regiments, lasted until the early afternoon.