[Imperial Guard 02] - Death World Read online

  It didn’t surprise him that the two groups had self-segregated. The Catachans were Jungle Fighters—elite deathworld veterans. The best the Imperium had to offer, they believed. The rank-and-file Guardsmen regarded them with a mixture of curiosity, admiration and, here more than in many places, outright resentment.

  Lorenzo’s squad picked up their meals and took over a table. Greiss joined them presently, he’d had the rookie, Landon, fetch his food for him while he’d pumped the other platoons for what they’d learned so far.

  He threw a folded sheet of paper onto the table. Lorenzo saw the crudely printed header Eagle & Bolter, and needed to look no closer. Another propaganda broadsheet, doubtless full of consoling “news” about how the war here was being won. “Looks like we hit the jack pot this time,” said the sergeant happily. “We got killer plants, man-eating slugs, poison insects, acid swamps, all the usual. On top of that, there’s talk of invisible monsters—and ghosts, would you believe!” He saw that a couple of Validians were eavesdropping from the next table but one, and he added slyly, “Course we only got the word of a few rookie Guardsmen for that. Probably jumping at their own shadows.”

  “Ghosts?” echoed Donovits, interested.

  “Yes: ghosts, lights, whatever. Supposed to appear at night, lure men into the jungle—and those crazy enough to follow them don’t come back.”

  “Speaking of which, sergeant,” said Armstrong, “any news on B Platoon?” The one-eyed trooper made the question sound nonchalant, but Lorenzo knew Armstrong had belonged to the missing platoon before his recent transfer.

  “Not yet,” said Greiss. “They had the same trouble we did on the way in, but it looks like they set down further away. They’re out there somewhere.”

  “Lucky for them,” said Woods. “They don’t have to put up with Commissar Jug-Handles throwing his not considerable weight around.”

  “It must’ve been some storm,” remarked Donovits.

  “Blew up out of nowhere,” said Greiss, “by all accounts. One second, the sky was clear, the next, our drop ships were drawing strikes like lightning rods. Then clear blue again.”

  “Still think Naval Command were exaggerating, sergeant,” asked Woods with his characteristic cheeky grin, “about this place turning into a deathworld?”

  “Can’t see this place ever having been anything but,” commented Bullseye Myers. “I don’t know why it took ’em so long to admit it.”

  “Maybe it was Mackenzie,” considered Dougan. “You heard what the man said. He doesn’t want us here.”

  “Yeah,” said Woods—and in a passable impression of the commissar’s nasal whine, he continued, “‘I don’t like deathworlders. I’m making it my mission to whip you lot into shape. You hear me, Greiss? On your knees and lick my shiny black boots. And when you’re done with that, you can kiss my—’”

  “If I were you,” snarled a voice from behind him, “I’d be careful what you say about an officer of the Imperium.”

  Woods didn’t even glance back to see who was talking, though Lorenzo could see that it was a broad-shouldered, square-headed Validian sergeant.

  “Don’t care what his rank is,” said Woods offhandedly, “he’s still a damn idiot.”

  “You want to repeat that to my face?”

  Greiss’ eyes narrowed. “Stand down, sergeant,” he growled. “I’m in command of these men. You have a problem with them, you bring it to me.”

  “Mackenzie was right about you deathworlders,” the Validian sneered. “You’ve no discipline, no respect.”

  “Where we come from,” murmured Muldoon, idly sharpening his night reaper blade on a piece of flint, “respect is earned, not given.”

  “You come charging in here, all gung-ho, bad-mouthing our people, thinking you can just take over.”

  “And here I thought you begged us to come,” said Woods, “because your lot couldn’t do your jobs properly. What’s the problem—sun too hot for you?”

  “We’ve been here eighteen months,” snapped the Validian, “and we’re winning this war. We’ve driven the orks right back, there hasn’t been an attack on this encampment or any other in three weeks. If you wanted to help, you should have been here when we were cleansing areas, holding the line, facing ambushes day and night. But no, true to form, you glory hounds show up in time for the mopping up and claim all me credit.”

  Greiss was on his feet, his lip curling into a dangerous snarl. “Have you quite finished, sergeant?”

  Woods stood now, too, on the pretext of clearing away his half-empty bowl. “It’s okay, sergeant,” he said, “just a bitter old man letting off some steam—and can you blame him? Can’t be many Imperial Guard regiments have had to go crying for reinforcements against a few trees and flowers.”

  The Validian’s eyes bulged and his face reddened. He pulled back his fist, but Woods had anticipated the move. He sidestepped the sergeant’s blow, and simultaneously took hold of his attacker, using his own weight to flip him onto his back on the table.

  The move had the effect of bringing the rest of Lorenzo’s squad to their feet, as they leapt to avoid flying cups and bowls. Two tables away, the Validian’s fellows were also pushing back their chairs and standing. Their downed sergeant tried to right himself, but Woods was keeping him off-balance. The sergeant kicked out, and Woods danced out of the way of his boot. As the sergeant swung his legs over the side of the table and made to stand at last, Woods head-butted him—the fabled “Catachan Kiss”—and his nose splintered in a fountain of blood.

  The first two Validians came at Woods, but Armstrong and Dougan intercepted them. It looked like Steel Toe was just trying to calm things down, even at this stage, but his efforts were futile: as a Validian took a swing at him, he responded with a punch to the jaw that laid him right out. Another six Guardsmen surged forward as one, and Myers and Storm leapt onto the table and stood back to back, lashing out with fists and feet.

  In just seconds, an all-out brawl had broken out. No guns or knives were drawn, but nor were any punches pulled. Even Landon joined in with gusto, pummelling away at the stomach of a man two heads taller than himself until he staggered and passed out through sheer inability to draw breath.

  A pug-nosed, unshaven sergeant came at Lorenzo with a chair raised over his head. Lorenzo ducked under the makeshift weapon, and threw himself at its wielder. His head impacted with the soft tissue of the sergeant’s stomach, and they went rolling end over end on the dirt-streaked floor.

  The violence was spreading like unchecked fire. Other squads were pulled into the fray, taking sides according to regimental loyalty. Validian reinforced Validian, Catachan reinforced Catachan, until the entire hall had erupted into a cacophonic mass of screams and yells and crashes and the dull smacks of fists and feet against flesh. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorenzo saw two ogryns ploughing into the melee, picking up men by the throat two at a time and knocking their heads together.

  He had managed to get on top of his opponent, surprising the sergeant with his litheness. He pinned him with a knee to his chest, and drove his knuckles repeatedly into the sergeant’s face—until two Guardsmen seized him from behind, and tore him away. Lorenzo had seen them coming, but in the midst of such chaos it was impossible to avoid all the possible threats. Still, he was prepared for this one. He thrust his elbows back, catching his would-be captors off-guard, and threw himself into a forward roll, wrenching their hands from his shoulders. He dropped into an alert stance, expecting the Validians to come at him again, but they had other problems. Greiss had just waded into them.

  The sergeant planted his hand in one man’s face, and pushed him back with enough force to send him sprawling. Then he concentrated his efforts on the other, his expression feral, a zealous gleam in his eyes as he laid into his victim with a barrage of punches so fast and furious that their sheer force kept him upright for a second after he was knocked cold.

  Dougan was in trouble. He was surrounded, and it looked like his artificial l
eg was playing up again, slowing him down. Lorenzo flew to the older man’s assistance, but two more Validians rose up in his path. He transferred his momentum to his fist, and drove it into the first man’s skull. The second made a grab for Lorenzo’s throat, and simultaneously knocked his legs out from under him. For an instant, he was suspended in midair, choking. He managed to plant his hands on his attacker’s shoulders, and bring up his feet, kicking at the Validian’s chest. They both fell, but Lorenzo spun and hit the ground on his feet, and was ready for the first Validian as he came at him again.

  In the meantime, Muldoon had come to Dougan’s aid, letting out a war cry as he bowled into the men surrounding his comrade and scattered them. Dougan got his second wind, hoisted one foe by the scruff of his flak jacket and hurled him, arms and legs thrashing furiously, into another. The ogryns were still cracking skulls, the Validians now realising what they had taken on, almost trampling each other to get away from the misshapen creatures.

  One particularly hapless specimen backed into Lorenzo, eyes wide with fear, just as the Catachan finished putting down his own two opponents. In the heat of a terrified moment, the Validian broke the unspoken rule, by drawing his lasgun.

  Lorenzo was on him before he could aim it. The gun dropped from the Guardsman’s grasp as Lorenzo seized his arm and twisted it until the bone snapped. The Validian let out a yelp and fell to his knees, but he had foregone any right to sympathy or mercy, and Lorenzo knocked him cold with a spinning kick to the head.

  His keen ears caught the sound of a whining voice, straining to be heard across the tumult. Commissar Mackenzie had just strode into the hall, and he was demanding calm, to no avail. At his heels, however, was Graves—and when the colonel spoke, Catachans and Validians alike fell still.

  “Just what the hell is going on here?” Graves roared, his voice resonating in the sudden guilty hush.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I said, what the hell is going on? What do you think you’re doing?”

  Colonel Graves strode deeper into the mess hall, his blazing eyes darting from Catachan to Validian to Catachan, sharing around the force of his scorn. “I’ve seen acid grubs behave with more dignity. You’re meant to be on the same side!”

  Mackenzie scuttled after him. “Do you see?” he fumed. “This is why I was opposed to bringing Jungle Fighters into this campaign.” He raised his voice to address the hall. “I want—no, I demand—to know who the ringleaders were behind this disgraceful display. Names and ranks!”

  A few eyes were cast down, a few feet shuffled, but the Validians were no more willing than the Catachans were to tell on their own. In the face of their intransigence, the commissar’s face grew steadily redder.

  “Sergeant Wallace!”

  The unlucky Validian who the commissar had singled out snapped to attention, and reported, “My apologies, sir, I didn’t see how the incident started. My men and I only acted to calm the situation when it seemed to be getting out of hand.”

  Mackenzie got the same story, almost verbatim, from his next two sergeants.

  Lorenzo sensed a surreptitious movement behind him, and he turned to see that the sergeant whose nose Woods had broken was being helped to his feet, a piece of cloth clasped to his bloodied face. He was glaring venomously at the cause of his woes, but Woods returned his gaze with a smug grin and cracked his knuckles into his palm.

  It was this look that Commissar Mackenzie caught, and he bustled over to the pair, his nostrils flaring with self-righteous zeal. “Enright?”

  The bloodied sergeant shrugged helplessly, using his cloth as a shield from interrogation. Mackenzie clicked his tongue in impatience, then dismissed Enright and the two Guardsmen who were supporting him with an impatient hand movement. The trio made their way to the door, and no doubt to whatever medical facility this camp offered.

  Mackenzie fixed Woods with a shrivelling glare, which he then turned upon the Catachans around him until he saw the sergeant’s stripes on Greiss’ arm. “Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter, sergeant?”

  “Greiss, sir.”

  “Sergeant Greiss. You seem to have had a ringside seat for the worst of it.”

  “My apologies, sir,” said Greiss in a faintly mocking tone, “I didn’t see how the incident started. My men and I only acted to calm the situation when it seemed to be getting out of hand.”

  One of the Catachans let out a harsh laugh, but Mackenzie wasn’t amused. He cast another distasteful look at Woods, and snapped, “It seems clear to me, Sergeant Greiss, that you and your squad were responsible for this outrage, and I intend to make sure you regret it. How would you feel, Greiss, about sleeping out in the jungle tonight?”

  Greiss’ eyes lit up. “Delighted to, sir.”

  That wasn’t the answer Mackenzie had been expecting, and he seethed impotently. “Let me tell you, Sergeant Greiss, what happens to Guardsmen who disrespect their senior officers.”

  “I’m all ears, sir,” growled Greiss.

  Mackenzie flushed. “We bury them. Let me tell you what it’s like, Greiss. It’s too small for you to stand, too narrow for you to sit down. You’ll spend the night—as many nights as I choose—in the most uncomfortable position you can imagine, until you think your spine will crack. You’ll feel spiders gnawing at your feet, you’ll be at the mercy of the jungle lizards. And during the day—in the daytime, when the sun’s beating down on you and you don’t have the room to lift an arm to shade your eyes—in the daytime, Greiss, let me tell you, you’ll start to wish you were dead.”

  Graves had moved silently to the young commissar’s side. He cleared his throat now, and murmured, “May I remind you, sir, that we need these men fresh and active for duty in the morning? I don’t see much point in pursuing this matter. Especially—” and he laboured this point particularly heavily “—with no evidence to lay charges against any individual. No harm done, I’d say. In fact, it’s probably best for all sides they got it out of their systems.”

  Mackenzie said nothing for a moment—and Lorenzo expected him to snap at the colonel the way he had at Lieutenant Vines. Instead, he seemed to accept the quiet wisdom in Graves’ words. He turned and marched stiffly out of the door, the tension in the hall diffusing in his wake. People began to pick themselves up, to collect scattered bowls, chairs and tables and to tend to their wounded, Catachans and Validians working together to restore order.

  “For any of you girls who were fretting,” announced Colonel Graves, “B Platoon have voxed in. They’ve had some casualties—lost eight men—but most of them are still standing, and they’re making their way to us, ETA 11.00. In view of this delay, Commissar Mackenzie has decided not to wait. All Jungle Fighters are to assemble in the briefing hut in twenty minutes.”

  Lorenzo slept under the stars that night, on a bed of leaves picked from the edge of the jungle and carefully tested for hidden spines and poison sap. Basic quarters had been provided for the Catachans, but there weren’t enough bunks for all of them—and most would have chosen to sleep outdoors anyway. It had been too long.

  The sounds of the jungle at night brought a feeling of calm to Lorenzo. The rustle of a breeze in its leaves, the caws and cackles of nocturnal predators, the gurgle of water—or some other liquid—carried from far away. He wished he could be deeper inside it. The area cleared out by the Validians had an acrid burnt scent to it. Lorenzo was used to having a canopy of green above him—but tonight it was black, and freckled with the white points of distant suns. The night sky was crystal clear, the air warm. It was as if Rogar III was showing him its good points, its aesthetic qualities. As if it wanted to lull him into a sense of security by hiding its true, savage beauty from him. Lorenzo wasn’t fooled. He looked forward to the morning, to testing this world’s mettle.

  He thought back to Mackenzie’s briefing, and suppressed a thrill. The commissar had been furnished with a list of the Catachan squads, and had assigned them to various missions. B Platoon had drawn the short straw in thei
r absence, they would arrive at the encampment to find that their comrades had moved out and left them to reinforce the security details here. If they were lucky, the orks would provide a distraction or two to break up the monotony.

  The rest of the Catachans were to do what the Validians could not: take the fight to the orks themselves. Which meant, of course, fighting the jungle too.

  “I know what you’re all thinking.” Colonel Graves had added to Mackenzie’s speech. “It’s a jungle world, maybe even a deathworld, nothing you haven’t seen before. Well, believe me, Rogar III is different. The commissar here tells me that, a year ago, this place was a little green corner of paradise. Well, I don’t know what’s happened, and to tell the truth I don’t much care—but as you ladies can see, this isn’t paradise anymore.”

  Later, Donovits had tossed around a lot of phrases like “climate change” and “axis shifts”—but Lorenzo hadn’t cared much.

  He’d been more interested in hearing how the Imperium’s attempts to expand its encampments had met with failure. It was a full-time job for a squad of Guardsmen to maintain this one, small though it was. For every jungle creeper they burnt away, two more seemed to replace it—and their rate of growth was prodigious.

  “When the Explorators came to Rogar.” Graves had said, “they recorded some weird energy signature.” Of course, Lorenzo had already known that, thanks to Donovits. “Now, I’m not saying there’s anything in that—just warning you hotheads not to get too cocky. We don’t know what this deathworld has to throw at us, but we do know a couple of hundred Guardsmen have died trying to find out.”