Chương 267: Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty-Seven

With little to do until my fleet engages with The Wolfpack, I burrow into the command data being beamed back to Torchbearer and investigate the performance of the Light Infantry. These fellows are a mix of House Ortelius troops and Heralds armoured in undersuits and flak uniforms, rather than carapace and exoskeletons. A third of them still lack the standard implants, though most are well trained.

I tap into the pict feed of a random squad leader, Seth Gutterwier, as he steps into a vast dock beneath the feet of the Emperor's macro-statue. To Seth's right is the vast bulk of a Gothic-Class cruiser, the second most common cruiser in the Imperial Navy. Massive banks of lance batteries jut out from the side of the five kilometre vessel and the titanic lance that sticks out from the stubby prow is 800 metres long. The dock is a mess.

Machinery and crates are scattered over the wide space where macro-shells have detonated, blasting apart gantries and cranes. Rag clothed bodies are everywhere, their bodies still frozen from when the void shields protecting the docks were penetrated by The Wolfpack's long range salvos. The shield stations that Karrad Vall's strike craft destroyed cover the whole station from micro-meteorites and other debris, they're not connected to the ones keeping an atmosphere within each dock.

It's not impossible to hit a near stationary target like a space station with a macro-cannon at 150 million kilometres, just incredibly difficult. The normal effective range, where you can expect 70% of your shots to hit, is 40, 000-60, 000km or less, depending on the pattern. Mars Pattern is considerably better than Thunderstrike Cannons, for example, and Ryza Pattern Plasma Cannons somewhere in the middle.

Hecutor Pattern Plasma Cannons make every other macro-cannon look like chumps at 110, 000km, nearly rivaling God's Bane lances, and my Origami Pattern is similar to the Hecutor's performance. The maximum range for a macro-cannon is approximately double its 'effective' range, depending on the size of your target and how quickly it can alter its velocity. Looking at the damage done to the dock, I can't help but think I've overlooked something important.

These so-called absolute numbers can be improved by all sorts of devices from superior sensors to unrestrained Machine-Spirits, Navigator powers, or even a talented Tech-Priest with an archeotech implant. Perhaps The Wolfpack used a targeting beacon or demon guided shells? Macro-shells are usually dumb to keep complexity and cost down, that doesn't mean you can't build them like an oversized guided bolter round if you really wanted to, so long as you are prepared to sacrifice boom for hit rate.

No one ever does that though. We're depressingly similar to the Orks when it comes to Dakka. I relay my suspicions to Domhnall and Odhran via psyker and set combing for beacons as a post battle objective. As I stare at the wreckage through Seth's pict feed, I finally twig that these twits have built an air pressured dock of 6. 65km 3 because they, for some Machine God forsaken reason, have the capacity to build such a spectacular structure more than they do to issue void suits to every worker.

Apparently the carnage caused by explosive decompression is little more than an afterthought. I bet the reason behind this design decision was something dumb like the workers kept stealing the void suits, or some visiting dignitary didn't want to wear a void suit while he walked off his ship because it would crinkle his uniform underneath right before an important meeting. Setting aside my frustration, I re-focus on Seth as he directs his squad through the debris.

They rush from cover to cover, shooting the odd mutant who isn't quite dead yet. They also finish off an upside down chimera with a couple of krak grenades when whomever is trapped within it sticks a tarnished stubber out of one of the infantry firing ports and shoots up his squad. No deaths, just a lot of bruising and swearing. Other squads follow, combing through the massive space, followed by a pair of Leman Russ-E who push aside the debris with their dozer blades, clearing a path to the Gothic's docking collar.

The big holes in the decking force them to take a meandering route. I didn't think Domhnall had taken any tanks to clear a void station, but clearly I was wrong. As soon as the Leman Russ-Es finish clearing a path, even more troops enter the dock and jog towards the docking collar. To my horror, the odd surviving cultist and unexploded ordinance is not the only trouble lying in wait, for nine CIWS, well protected by the armoured bulwarks of the Gothic's hull, open fire on my troops.

Seth dives to the ground, then crawls over to a wrecked Taurox. He holds his lascarbine over the edge of the APC's tracks, using its inbuilt pict recorder to see what is going on. The Machine-Spirit within the gun highlights dozens of cultists, outlining them with little yellow boxes. Seth zooms in on the cultists. They're all over the hull and melded into nine of the Gothic's point defence guns like discount servitors through some unknown means.

They don't register as alive, which is likely why they weren't detected. I suspect that Karrad Vall is using demon hosts and add mandatory purifications to the list of post battle activities. More traitors make their presence known as the gravity cuts out. Debris rises from the floor, blocking lines of fire for both sides and making the approach far more challenging. Seth directs his squad across the docks in a mad sprint.

They activate the luminen barriers on the bucklers attached to their arms and leap off the edge of the main platform and jet towards the Gothic's hull. A multi-laser is turned upon them and Seth's camera is blinded by a flash of intense red light, one that splashes against the slightly yellow energy barrier before passing over him. One soldier is less lucky, knocked unconscious by a crate, then shredded by the multi-laser. Seth glances over his shoulder at the remains of a Leman Russ-E, shredded by las cannons.

The bottom panels have blown out where its batteries detonated in a ring of concussive force. The tank's crew are flying through the air, ejected from the back of the tank like bowling balls knocking even more debris into the air than the battery explosion did. I doubt that was a scenario Rósín imagined when she designed the tanks!

Seth and the surviving 13 members of his squad make it to the hull, leaping from rampart to rampart as they close in on the corrupted defences, assisted by the minor thrusters built into their hyperweave undersuits. They're a bit clumsy, and keep banging off dense slabs of ceramite and ferrocrete, clearly not quite at home with high speed zero-g manoeuvres as a proper Herald would be.

A tense 49 seconds later, Seth raises his lascarbine and fires at the amalgamation of dead flesh and cursed metals, yet the subverted turret doesn't stop firing. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Seth and his squad continue their approach, holding their bucklers before them, their luminen barriers still engaged.

The soldiers' carbines rest in a small notch on the side of the bucklers, much like the notches on their bigger cousins, the MOA shields used by Mechanised Infantry and other heavier troops. Seth pulls a melta charge from his back and hops over to the turret. The turret sticks out from the armoured hull on a thick, ferrocrete base, its twin linked autocannon overwhelming the external audio with repeated, short bursts of scything fire.

At the bottom of the platform is a charred mess of smoking meat blocking a maintenance hatch to an armoured ammunition reserve. Seth jumps and coasts upwards to the back of the turret. He reaches out to place the melta charge and the armour covering the turret ripples. A large purple eye with a slit, yellow iris manifests and stares at Seth. He freezes and clutches his head, screaming. The melta charge is dropped and drifts away.

His body shakes as multiple las rounds pierce his chest, cooking his innards and killing him. The recording continues and Seth's body rotates, its glazed eyes watching the remains of the squad all shoot each other in a fit of madness. A moment later, a heavy plasma volley slams into the turret, melting it, rendering Seth's attempted heroics and ignoble death meaningless. I sigh and swap through a few other feeds. The Light Infantry secure the docks, restore the gravity and board the Gothic.

Another recording shows my D-POTs landing within the Gothic's hangars, and taking out the internal defences with ease. They cycle through the airlock and enter only to find that in the corridor beyond, a leaking plasma conduit has rendered it unpassable and, for some reason, the automatic safety cut off hasn't worked. They are forced to find another route like they're playing some fucking noosphere game and no one aboard the Gothic had bothered to tell them before they'd landed. Ridiculous.

At least that explains why the Light Infantry were trying to seize the docks, despite there being no obvious signs of enemy reinforcements still storming the Imperial void ship. Apparently, one's allies claiming they have absolute control of their external and internal turrets, and it is safe to approach, means they have no idea what they are talking about. I bet that the Tech-Priests were hiding information, or whomever they talked to didn't understand their explanation.

I make a note of the incident and forward it to Raphael, unconcerned about the conclusion. If some fool needs to die, he will see it done. Despite the casualties, I am pleased with the performance of the Light Infantry; their prototype equipment worked as intended. I pour through the data, this time focusing on those wearing the Mark Ⅲ MOA Void Carapace Armour.

It is with great satisfaction that I observe the cultists' weapons stop dead just above my Heralds' armour, be they bullets, bolts, or even lascannons, nothing is getting through their luminen shields. The small emitters built into the armour mean that rather than an ovoid barrier that is the standard in personal protection for Imperial shields, the light yellow barrier hugs each Herald, minimising energy expenditure.

With such firm protection, Domhnall restores order to the Imperial vessels in just under two hours of vicious combat. It is not without casualties, however, for the luminen shields have two flaws. The first is that they can't protect the sole of a foot unless a person has grav skates as the shield is frictionless. You can't offset it with mag boots either as the two technologies do not work well together, nor would mag boots help you on bare earth or ceramite.

Many Heralds have taken to replacing their lower legs with True Flesh with in-built grav skates to protect their feet. It also makes them as fast as a Leman Russ-E if they sprint for all their worth. Trying not to cackle madly, I watch one of the Gothic's clearing squads run at a company of cultists blocking one of the Gothic's big cargo lifts.

The Heralds approach the enemy in rapid sliding motions, their MOA shields held before them, the new inbuilt luminen barriers reflecting incoming fire; anything they don't catch gets stopped by the luminen shields on the Mark Ⅲ Carapace. Yes, my Heralds do have two energy shields each.

In one mechadendrite, each Herald holds an arc maul that they use to bat grenades back at the cultists, desperately tossing everything they have from behind a pair of infantry barricades and empty munition crates stuffed with the Gothic's dead crew. Improvised incendiaries are caught by other mechadendrites and thrown back with far more accuracy and power. Even as they advance at near 70 kilometres per hour, the Heralds' Marwolv Pattern Lascarbines fire their signature triple bursts.

Most cultists take cover in time but plenty are hit by the deadly salvo, their scavenged armour, bone, and flesh failing in explosive bursts. Despite still outnumbering my Heralds five to one, half the cultists turn to flee, but they are far too late. They are bowled over by the heavier Heralds, their skulls bursting on the luminen barriers like overripe plums. Mechadendrites lash out severing limbs, injecting toxicants, and pulping flesh in a maelstrom of violence.

In a last ditch effort to make something of their miserable lives, nine cultists, standing in a circle around a pile of dead Humans, attempt to summon something by stabbing themselves through the heart. The bodies in the circle melt like wax and the decking starts to rust and flake. Bone and metal rolls along the floor picking up ever more detritus.

One Herald turns their Volkite Incinerator upon the dying cultists and their ritual, bathing it in blue-white lightning that turns the participants and half the ingredients to ash. The remaining bubbling flesh is protected by a sickly green glow. From the pile of blood, bone, and rust rises a bloated body upon six mechanical legs. Its intestines spill from its burst gut. The Plague Hulk chortles and gives the Heralds a jolly wave with the sword of pitted bone held in its meaty fist.

Decay spreads out in a wave from the Plague Hulk's bloated form, weapons rust, armour crumbles, and bodies desicate. A bright, blue-white light rises from the Heralds, their wards humming at full power, leaving them untouched by the entropic sorceries of the Daemon Engine. The Heralds chant a prayer to the Machine God as they draw their blessed bolt pistols. Golden fire dances at the base of the Plague Hulk's metal legs as Alpia's influence presses upon its existence within the Materium.

The boils and pustules covering the hulk wriggle and form jagged, glowing green runes.

"Not today children," says the Plague Hulk. The Heralds open fire. Fifteen Warp Bane rounds strike the Daemon and burst inside its flesh, blasting it apart in a shower of diseased gore. Flesh and blood wash off the Heralds' luminen shields and a blast from the Volkite Incinerator purifies the remains.

The Heralds recite another prayer and splash sacred oil on the rusted remains of the Daemon Engine, then tag it with red paint and the Cog Mechanicum to discourage anyone from moving the remains without proper preparation and authorisation. The Heralds step into the lift and their Luminen Barriers and Shields fade, reminding me of the technology's other weakness: power consumption.

Unlike the Imperium's standard personal protection technology, the conversion field, luminen barriers and shields draw large quantities of power constantly, rather than just when they have to reflect enemy fire. Each Herald only has three charges for their shields and barriers. The charges last for five minutes each and take an hour to recharge from MOA Carapase's potentia coil.

On the plus side, they're immune to warp based ammunition and effects that penetrate conversion fields and void shields; luminen tech is not warp based, its hardlight, or if you're feeling a bit more fancy, a particle shield. The cargo lift carries the Heralds to the lower decks and I stop the recording. Making a note of the Plague Hulk's attempt to stave off Alpia's weakening effect on daemons, I move on to the next flagged recording and curse, immediately bringing my Advanced E-War Suite to full readiness.

What does Killovie Signi want now?