Chapter 35
As her senses began to return, Junior Commissar Carstensen felt like she was suspended in midair. It was difficult to open her eyes; her eyelids felt heavier than ceramite. When she tried to move, pain shot throughout her lower back. Gritting her teeth and grunting, she instinctively tried to place her hand on her on the spot that hurt the most. Instead, she found that she was laying on a pile of jagged rockcrete.
Finally able to open her eyes, she sat up slowly. Her vision was still fuzzy and was clearing slowly. She felt around her; on her right she found her Bolt Pistol and on her left she found her high-peaked cap. The cap was in tatters; when she made her dash away from the collapsing building she felt hundreds of rockcrete pellets striking her so hard she thought they would pierce her flak armour. They must have shredded her cap. She cast it aside but from what she could tell, her Bolt Pistol was still functioning and she slid her weapon back into its holster. Around her, she could make out dark, crumbling piles of debris and rockcrete walls. Orange lights were dancing on the surface. For a few moments, she merely looked at the eerie, pale light. Slowly but surely, the light began to grow brother and more intense. As it did, she felt an encroaching heat. At first, it was warm and comfortable. It was a welcome reprieve from the chilly sea air and the toxic stench of Kasr Fortis. Were it not for the dire state she was in and the urgency of the mission weighing upon her, she imagined she could fall asleep if she readjusted on her bed of rubble. However, it soon became hotter and she began to sweat underneath her gas mask.
Carstensen looked ahead and saw a larger, burning fire approaching her. In the same instant, her vision finally began to clear. Gasping, she began to slide backwards as quickly as she could. Beneath her, the rubble shifted in different directions and more than once she slipped. The fire roared and began to spread. Shifting onto her hands and knees, she scrambled towards the back of the building she was in. Every window and entryway she came across was blocked either by fire or wreckage. She didn't dare look over her shoulder as the fire continued to approach.
Struggling onto her feet, she stumbled through a passageway and spotted a hole in the far wall. It looked just big enough for a person to climb through. Although her left knee was in terrible pain, she picked up the pace and staggered towards it. She grabbed the edge and vaulted over. Carstensen expected to land on her feet but was jerked backwards. For a moment, she thought a hidden heretic was attempting to hold her back. But when she looked on either side, she found a series of sharp, rusty rebar jutting from the edge of the wall had caught her crimson coat. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the flames streaming towards her. Gritting her teeth, she slid her arms out of the coat and rolled away from the exit. Just as she did, the fire roared and burst through.
Left in her black service shirt underneath her flak armour, Carstensen recovered, stood back up, and gazed at the burning building. Catching her breath, she then drew her Bolt Pistol and surveyed the environment. All the alleyways and neighboring buildings were blocked by flames or fallen debris. All of the blockages were far too high or dangerous to try climbing over. There was no way to get back to the forked road or to the buildings the majority of the First and Second Companies were stationed in. Not all of the alleys were blocked, however, and seemed to lead to another street. Feeling exposed, she slowly drifted into the closest one and knelt in the shadows. With the roar of the fire subdued, she tried to listen to her surroundings.
She hoped to hear the voices of Bloody Platoon or least one of the other platoons from the main companies. On the other hand, if she heard the insane garblings of the surviving heretics at least she had some targets to shoot on. A firefight could attract any survivors as well as more enemies. But she was confident she could handle a few small groups and the piecemeal stragglers in between them. They would provide a trail to a point of interest or perhaps the objective. Even if she was not able to gather up any of the men, she would need to see it through. Still, she hoped she was not the only one left. Bloody Platoon was made up of good Guardsmen.
Casting her gaze skywards, she tried to gauge how much time had passed. There was still no moon and none of the stars were breaking through the cloud barrier. For all she knew, it had only been a few minutes since the impact or it could have been as long as an hour. She checked her watch and found the class cracked and the hands immobile. It was sometime after midnight, but she already knew that before they engaged in the firefight.
Taking one last look around, she put her finger to her micro-bead earpiece.
"This is Carstensen. Any First Platoon stations on this channel, please respond." There was only static. Inputting another frequency, she tried again. "Any First Company stations, this is Carstensen. Come in, over." Again, there was static. She changed the frequency. "Any Second Company stations, this is Carstensen, from First Platoon, station One-One-Three. Respond." There was static. Carstensen shook her head and was about to drop her finger.
"...reading you...One-One-Three. Weak signal, hold up..." came a voice unfamiliar to her. "One-Three, this is Second Company station Two-Zero-Two." It was Second Company's executive officer.
"Report, Two-Zero-Two."
"Moderate casualties. Two dozen dead, double for wounded. We lost Commissar Ghent."
A chill ran down her spine.
"Commissar Ghent is dead?"
"Negative, One-One-Three. We can't find him, Captain Murga, or Inquisitor Barlocke. Status on One-Zero-Two: killed in action."
"What about First Platoon? Lieutenant Hyram? Staff Sergeant Cross?"
There was a brief pause.
"Who's that?"
Carstensen rolled her eyes.
"Marsh Silas."
"Negative on all, One-One-Three."
She took a few breaths and checked her surroundings again, just to make sure there were no heretics attempting to approach her position. Then, she pulled out her personal data slate in the hopes of reconfiguring a new route. Instead, she found both the screen and the casing were cracked. Any attempt to activate it resulted in a few flickers and a few electrical snaps from within before the screen turned black. Aggravated, she tucked it back into the pouch on her cartridge belt. It might have been broken but she wasn't going to leave it for the heretics.
Taking a breath and checking her location again, she hunched back down.
"Two-Zero-Two, I'm somewhere on the opposite side of the buildings lining the fork. Is there any way you can proceed to that general vicinity?"
"Negative, ma'am. We can't even get onto the road or the alleys from my location. I'm trying to plot a new route and we'll have to do a lot of backtracking. It'll be some time and we've already lost about twenty minutes collecting our casualties and trying to force our way through."
Carstensen brushed some of her orange locks from her forehead.
"Negative, Two-Zero-Two. Take your men back to the lodgement, evacuate the casualties, and wait for further orders. I'm going to search for survivors and then proceed to the objective. May the Emperor be with you."
"And with you, One-One-Three."
Checking her Bolt Pistol, she found the weapon was still in operable condition. Turning around, she proceeded down the dark alley towards the opposite street. Slowly approaching the end, she did her best to remain in cover. Leaning out, she let her eyes adjust as best they could. Although she could make out the outlines of some of the objects on the street and the opposite buildings, everything lacked detail. Just as she was about to dart across, she heard someone approaching quickly. She ducked back into the alley as several figures ran past. None were speaking in the Gothic tongue; they were gibbering incoherently to one another.
Going to the opposite corner, she listened and watched them go. When they were another twenty or thirty meters down the road, they stopped and tried to speak to one another. While she couldn't make out what they were saying, their tones sounded frenzied. At a crouch, she slowly made her way out of the alley and moved as quietly as she could to a fallen statue in the center of the lane. From there, she made her way between chunks of rockcrete, piles of metal, rusting vehicle hulks, and shell craters. As she approached, their voices seemed to grow louder.
When she was about ten meters away from them, she heard a metallic clang on her left flank. Her breath caught in her throat and she pressed herself as low as she could. The heretics stopped talking and began walking towards the sound.
Carstensen peeked around the corner. She could barely make them out. Taking a shallow breath, she reached into the bouch on the left side of her cartridge belt and pulled out her flashlight. It was a slimmer version of a traditional lampback, a variant that could be attached on a lasgun lug or rail. She rose to a crouch, held her Bolt Pistol in her right hand and the light in her left, and counted down from five. When she hit one, she turned it on. Illuminated in the bright white light were four heretics. All wore sack hoods and carried pieced together autoguns. They froze where they stood and turned to face her.
She brought her Bolt Pistol to bear and squeezed the trigger as fast as she could. The shells tore into them; stomachs popped and intestines spilled out, chests were torn open and rib cages were broken. Legs were ripped off, arms burst from their sockets, and heads exploded. One by one, the heretics crumpled over in a bloody, fleshy mess. Carstensen didn't stop until she expended half the magazine.
Quickly, she dimmed the flashlight and scanned the environment. She knew there were more heretics around but she wasn't going to let them slip away; targets would lead to the objective. After pausing for a few minutes, she judged the area to be clear and she stood up. Still, she half expected an enemy combatant to take a shot at her. It was surprising when no one did. Keeping the flashlight dimmed, she approached the bodies and ensured all were dead. Blood ran in rivers from their broken bodies. A finger twitched here and there, but there was no true life left in them.
Kicking their weapons away, she turned towards the left flank of buildings and amplified the light. She settled it on the mouth of an alley filled with refuse and wreckage. After regarding it briefly, she lowered her light slightly.
"If your one true god is the Emperor, sound off," she hissed into the darkness.
"Yoxall!" came the reply. From behind a hunk of rockcrete, the demolitions expert stood up with his left hand raised and his Meltagun in his right hand. With the beam of light focused on his face, she could see through the dusty visor of his gas mask. Both of his violet eyes were very wide. Carstensen dimmed the light and joined him behind the rockcrete. They crouched down facing each other. "By the Emperor, I'm most happy ta see ya, Junior Commissar."
"Have you seen any more of your comrades?"
He shook his head. Carstensen sighed. "Neither have I, and we're cut off from the rest of the unit. Have you tried raising them on your micro-bead?"
"Been having a lot o' trouble gettin' it functioning right. Took a bad knock on my ol' helm here." He tapped the side of his helmet for emphasis.
"I wasn't able to raise any of Bloody Platoon's stations on my micro-bead either, but I was able to get in contact with Second Company's executive officer. We're on our own, for now." Carstensen took a quick look around to see the vast amount of towers and spires looming overhead.
Yoxall rested his free hand on the front of his helmet briefly.
"By the Emperor, I'm dying for a drink."
"You'll have to wait for it," Carstensen said as she turned her flashlight off. "Take off your mask and you'll be taking your last breath. Swap for your autopistol, it'll serve you better in close quarters. With me."
Together, they approached the edge of the street, scanned the environment with their weapons, and then darted across. There was no proper alley save for a slim crevice between two buildings. Confronted with blockages on the main road, they turned and slid through the space. It was difficult as their flak armour chestplates barely fit; the metal was grinding against the rockcrete walls. When they reached the exit, they nearly practically fell out. Carstensen turned left, checking the alley with her Bolt Pistol. "Clear." She looked over her shoulder to see Yoxall crouching low as he swept his pistol back and forth. This alley was clear of larger objects but the ground was littered with rockcrete rubble and other rubbish.
The demolitions expert turned around and swept his arm horizontally to the left; an, 'all clear,' signal. "This way," Carstensen whispered, taking the lead down the left path. "Bloody Platoon can't be too far from one another, it's only been twenty minutes."
"Aye, Junior Commissar, but everyone went a-runnin' every which way to avoid that building. With all these blocks and turns, they're probably all over the place." He drew a shaky breath. "I pray the Emperor is watching over them."
"With His aid, we shall find them."
"Good, I don't fancy fightin' a rogue psyker on our lonesome."
"Like Commissar Ghent says, the platoon cannot be beat," she replied.
They transitioned from the main alley to another road which they followed for three hundred meters by Carstensen's estimation. Even if it was daylight, she would have struggled with navigation. Traversing Kasr Fortis was made all the more difficult by the dark and the vast amounts of debris in its streets, but also from the lack of distinguishable landmarks. For millennia, no loyal Cadian stepped foot on the island so there was nobody to provide accurate information regarding how to travel through it. Without a functioning data slate, and thus access to the bare outline of roadways the map feature provided, for all she knew one turn could set them on a course that would take them all the way back to the beach. But she had faith in the Emperor and she knew His hand would guide her to the dead Kasr's inner recesses. What's more, she knew He would reunite her with the men of Bloody Platoon.
As Carstensen murmured such a prayer for that very reunification, she and Yoxall heard movement on their right. Both halted in their tracks, crouched, and brought their weapons to bear. The city block they trained their weapons on was marked with the mouths of three alleyways. Sweeping her Bolt Pistol back and forth, Carstensen waited for a group of heretics to spill out. Not waiting for them to attack, she holstered her Bolt Pistol and unclipped one of her hand grenades from her harness. Instead of pulling the pin, her fingers hovered right beside it. She looked back up at the alleys warily. If there were heretics waiting within, they must not have noticed yet or were waiting for them to pass by. But knowing there were men of Bloody Platoon around, she grew hesitant to lob the fragmentation grenade.
Narrowing her gaze, Carstensen decided to risk it. She slowly moved next to Yoxall and tapped his shoulder to get his attention. When he looked over, she raised her hand in front of her gas mask tube and opened her fingers, indicating she wanted him to sound off. While Yoxall nodded, Carstensen raised the grenade and looped her thumb through the pin. With her other hand, she drew her Bolt Pistol and raised it. Yoxall cupped a hand around his gas mask, more from habit rather than practicality.
"It's Yoxall," he hissed into the night. "Sounds off if ye be Shock Troopers."
A brief moment passed. Carstensen narrowed her gaze and made ready to throw the grenade.
"Holmwood," came a voice.
"Monty Peck," came another.
"Logue."
"Fleming."
"Walmsley Minor."
Carstensen tapped Yoxall and hurried forward.
"To them, quickly now!"
They darted into the alley from which the voices came from. A series of hands reached out and pulled them in. Such a jostling sensation could have unnerved any soldier, but Carstensen could feel these rough hands were of comrades guiding them into cover rather than those of the enemy trying to bring them down.
Dull red, dim yellow, and pale white helmet lamps flickered on and faces covered by gas masks appeared.
"Praise the Emperor," Monty Peck, the platoon's best singer, breathed happily. "I'm glad you're well, Yoxall."
"Aye, comrade, aye."
"Have you seen my brother?" Walmsley Minor asked quickly as he set the Heavy Bolter tripod down beside him.
"Not yet," Yoxall replied gravely.
"Sergeant Holmwood, have you seen anymore of our men, alive or dead?" Carstensen asked. "Can you raise anyone?"
"Nay, ma'am. But, we was just on the trail o' some movement up ahead of us. We stopped when we heard you two on the streets. Could be the heretics, but it could be some more o'er men." He pointed back down the alley. "They can't be too far yet, we can catch up!"
"And so we shall. Lead on, Sergeant."
The piecemeal squad formed up behind the squad leader. Holmwood raised his M36 and began walking at a swift pace. Carstensen chose Yoxall as the rearguard as he was dependable enough to both keep the others in line. Making their way down the alley, the squad kept a decent pace. When they came to an intersection, they would pause, check their corners, and move on. They kept to the alleys, as these were less cluttered than the streets as well as providing better concealment.
Carstensen took a brief look over her shoulder to make sure the rest of the team was keeping up with her and Holmwood. Just as she turned around, she barely stopped herself from colliding with the Sergeant. He was standing still and had his fist raised in the air. She did not need to ask why he issued the stop order; up ahead they could hear a series of frenzied shouting. Some of it consisted of bizarre, inane growls and shrieks while the rest was the familiar, rough, soldiery Gothic of Cadians. Taking point, Carstensen led the team slowly down the alley until they came to a larger connection. The space between the two buildings in front of them maintained the shape of a rectangle and was much wider than the average routes they were following. On the left side was a flat wall but the right was collapsed and open. From it emanate dim, flickering lights that illuminated over a dozen Guardsmen in the center of the space. In turn, they had amplified their own lamp packs and helmet lights to highlight a pack of ragged heretics. Both sides were brandishing their weapons at one another and screaming.
Crouching at the corner of the alleyway, Carstensen surveyed the situation. Although most of the heretics' chatter was indecipherable to her, she could make out some feeble Gothic; 'give up', 'surrender,' 'throw down your weapons.' Meanwhile, the Caidans adamantly refused and threatened to open fire. Bayonets glinted and plasma guns glowed blue.
The Junior Commissar knew neither side dared to open fire on one another from that range. Even the heretics, with their addled minds, knew that it would be a slaughter and no side would be victorious. But there was no way to signal the Guardsmen in the fray their comrades were present without distracting them or giving away her team's advantageous position.
She turned around and pointed at the grenadier. "Fleming," she hissed, "up front." The Shock Trooper approached, staying in a half-crouch as he did. When he was beside her, Carstensen pointed the flat of her hand at the enemy position. "One round, high explosive, fire when ready."
Fleming deftly adjusted the trajectory of his grenade launcher, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Thwump! The round smashed into the open ruins, resulting in a brief, bright flash and a cloud of rockcrete dust. All the heretics disappeared. All the Guardsmen in the center immediately dove into cover before unleashing a volley of lasgun and plasma fire into the opening. Besides a few, momentary autogun muzzle flashes, there was no tangible defense. Carstensen turned halfway and signalled for Holmwood to move forward with the men. The Sergeant stood up and moved out with his M36 raised.
"Bloody Platoon, coming in!" he called. He pressed into the dust cloud with the other Guardsmen. Carstensen heard their boots thumping and thudding on the rubble. An lasgun fired, followed by another, and then a third. "Clear!"
The two teams met, shook hands, embraced, and gave thanks to the Emperor. Carstensen was glad to find Lieutenant Eastoft, Sergeant Stainthorpe, a field chirurgeon, and the majority of the Special Weapons Squad among the survivors, who numbered fifteen. Also with them was Bancroft, Second Squad's Voxman. Carstensen conferred with him and the assistant intelligence officer.
"We've made contact with Captain Giles," Eastoft said. "By the Emperor's blessing, he was able to find First Squad's Voxman and has rallied a number of survivors at a defensible position about a kilometer and half from where we are." The intelligence officer showed the Junior Commissar the rally point on her functioning data slate. "During our last conversation, he said more survivors were arriving but the heretics were assaulting the position. We've been making haste to reinforce the rally point."
"What of our communications? Micro-beads seem to have limited use or no function at all," Carstensen asked Bancroft, who was fiddling with his equipment.
"Our Vox-casters seem to be runnin' well enough that we can have brief relays between sets," he answered. "Bead to Vox can work if ya can establish a connection, so long as you're in a reasonable difference o' it. Bead to bead'll be more difficult; we're spread out, there's a lot of high buildings, and there seems to be some interference. I think it has something to do with all them toxins in the air the Inquisitor mentioned at our briefing," he said and pointed at the sky.
"Not to mention we all took some bad knocks to our helms," Sergeant Stainthorpe muttered. A few others, who were kneeling or sitting, nodded and murmured their agreement. Even in the dark and with their gas masks obscuring their expressions, Carstensen knew they were tired and in poor spirits.
"We still have a mission to accomplish," Carstensen said sternly, turning to the majority of the men. She placed her hands on her hips and stood as straight and commanding as she could. "The Emperor has need not just of Cadian arms, but of Cadian hearts. Fill yours with love for thy Emperor, and for your comrades as well, for they need you, and you need them." She stepped closer to the majority of the men, who were starting to stand up. A few remained seated and she crouched in front of them. "Have you fought many battles? How many times have your comrades fought for you? If it were not for them, you would not be here this night. You would be among the honored dead, would you not? Is that where you want to see your brothers? In their graves?"
Everyone stood up straighter.
"No, ma'am," they said together, firmly and soldierly.
"Then change your filters, check your weapons, and follow me. There are heretics who require slaying and Cadians who need our aid." She motioned for Eastoft to join her. They went to the front of the column of troops and began proceeding up the alley. The Guardsmen followed close behind, moving with renewed vigor.
Eastoft navigated for the column and led them from the alley onto a boulevard. After checking to make sure there was no hostile movement, the column flooded onto the road and began moving towards the rally point. At first, it was quiet save for the heavy thudding of booted feet on the cracked pavement, the leather and canvas rustle of rucksacks and webbing upon flak armour, and the metallic clinking of weapons in their slings. The troops moved at a steady pace, maintaining a moderate trot. Everyone scanned the environment around them through their weapons sights and the Guardsmen in the rearguard occasionally turned to ensure they were not followed.
But when Eastoft raised her fist and halted the column, the mood changed. In the distance, they could hear the report of lasguns, grenade launchers, autoguns, and heavy weapons. Down the long, long boulevard, the Junior Commissar could just make out streaks of laser fire. Occasionally, an orange or yellow glow would emulate slowly above the black rooftops over the lasers, then would fade away. Moments later came the report of an explosion.
Carstensen waved her hand. "Double-time, Guardsmen!"
Running down the boulevard, leaping over pits and crags, vaulting over chunks of rockcrete, scrambling over crushed vehicles, and weaving in between the wreckage, the Guardsmen advanced towards the firefight. As they drew nearer, the sounds of battle began to intensify. Ahead, the flashes grew brighter and the environment began to take shape in the darkness. The boulevard was punctuated by a larger, circular roadway which fed into three similar avenues. On the map appearing on Eastoft's data slat, it appeared like the crosshairs of a long-las scope. In the very center of the circle there was the base of what was once a tower, but the spire snapped millennia ago. All the ruins were scattered over the road across from the one the team currently ran on. The base was still roofed by a series of twisted metal timbers and was filled with rockcrete, but was still highly defensible. As she approached, it looked like the severed stem of one of Army's Meadow's yellow flowers, with the flower itself laying on the ground while the green base poked out of the soil.
Red, blue, and golden lasers and Heavy Bolter tracers streamed out of the fallen structure's base. Grenade detonations threw up bits of rockcrete and dust. Autogun rounds hammered into the stone around the Cadian position. Almost all the fire they were receiving was coming from the right flank. Among the flashes, there were heretics attempting to overrun them. Seeing a series of fallen marble pillars, which were now in large, broken chunks, adjacent to Captain Giles's position, Carstensen spread out her troops along it. Once the firing line was formed, she gave the order and they began pouring tremendous volleys of fire upon the advancing enemies.
Surprised by the second wave of troops, the heretics who managed to survive the onslaught began to retreat. Those caught in the carnage were torn to pieces; lasbolts blasted off limbs and blue-white plasma bolts blew bodies apart. Squeezing the trigger as fast as she could, Carstensen traced a line of fleeing heretics with her weapon. Some kept running while others fell or were blown apart by the bolt shells. Blood, organs, flesh, body parts, and dropped weapons littered the rubble-strewn pavement.
She ducked down and grabbed the handset from Bancroft's Vox-caster. "Captain Giles, this is Junior Commissar Carstensen, are you receiving, over!?"
At first, all she could hear was the weapons fire through the handset. Then, she heard a few gruff words and a shifting sound.
"I hear you, Junior Commissar! Thank the Emperor you've come! I've got heretics in front of me and Bullard sees more trying to flank through the ruins to the left of my position—" Suddenly, a large red lasbolt streaked downwards at the position, sizzling against a piece of rockcrete. Carstensen briefly raised her head, trying to spot where the shot came from, but autogun rounds began peppering her position and she quickly withdrew behind cover. "—and there's that fucking sniper taking shots at us! Bullard can't locate the damnable heretic, he's suppressing heavy weapons teams. We are pinned to this position until that sniper is dealt with!"
"Understood, Captain. Have you any words on the rest of the platoon?"
"I have a handful with me. Inquisitor Barlocke made contact and he's on his way with some more survivors."
"And Staff Sergeant Cross?"
"Marsh Silas? Yes, he's with him." A peculiar feeling of relief briefly resonated in Carstensen's chest. "No word on Hyram, though." The relief dissipated immediately. "If we can hold on until Barlocke and Marsh Silas get here, we'll be able to take the fight to the enemy and clear out this location entirely. Over."
"If I know the platoon sergeant, he wouldn't want us to wait," Carstensen said, peeking just above her cover. Again, the sniper fired and she saw a red lasbolt fly from the fifth floor of a spire on the southern road. She turned and tapped Eastoft on the shoulder. "Take the men, find a way into these ruins, and clear out the heretics' base of fire. If you can't find a passage, have Fleming make one." She put the handset back to her ear. "Sir, devote half your men to engage the flanking heretics and have the remainder provide suppressive fire against the entrenched enemy position. I'm going for the sniper."
"Deliver unto him the Emperor's fury," the intelligence officer growled.
As Eastoft set off with her party, Carstensen took a breath and sprinted for the tower. Swerving and darting between rubble and rusted vehicle hulks, she raced through autogun fire. She could feel bullets flying through her dark trousers. Pounding hard, she vaulted over a slab of rockcrete, slid across the hood of some ancient civilian vehicle, and leaped over a collapsed section of roadway. Just as she did, a red lasbolt descended and struck where she was just running. Quickly, she searched for an entrance into the dilapidated building. The door was blocked but the larger storefront window was wide open. Carstensen dove through, rolled, and sprang into a crouch position with her Bolt Pistol raised. Her eyesight was dazzled from the muzzle flashes and lasbolts she had been gazing out, so it took a minute's blinking for her vision to clear and minutes more for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Standing up, she carefully picked her way through the blown out building. Most of the walls had collapsed but the base infrastructure was surprisingly still intact. Still, with each gust of wind the metal beams moaned mournfully and the building seemed to tremble.
Eventually, she found a staircase in the center of the building. Some of the steps were broken by debris but there were enough that she could squeeze by. Although the sniper was on the fifth floor, she moved deliberately, checking her corners and what few rooms were accessible or weren't hollowed out. She knew the sniper spotted her during her sprint and the heretic was no doubt waiting for her. If he had a mind at all, she thought, he would relocate to another room and was waiting to ambush her. As well, he may have planted traps.
Keeping at a crouch, she felt in front of her with her free hand. Although the power glove was inelegant, she received enough feedback on the armored fingertips that she could find a tripwire. The ascension was arduously slow and with each passing moment Carstensen continued to feel mounting pressure to eliminate the sniper. Below, she could hear the fire below shifting as Giles's men began engaging the flanking forces. In turn, autoguns began rattling away at them. Fragmentation grenades began detonating again; she could only assume it was Eastoft's small division clearing the ruins house by house and room by room. But the report of the enemy's captured long-las had ceased—it was another sign the combatant was waiting for her.
Eventually, she reached the fifth floor. After checking the top of the stairwell and the hallway door for tripwires, and finding none, she approached the first doorway on her left. She darted in, her Bolt Pistol raised, but found the room empty. Her examination of the room and the next two on the left side of the hall were cursory, as there were few places for the sniper to hide. Each room consisted of rubble, some rotten, wooden furniture, and various refuse from heretics who encamped there for however many nights over the years. If it wasn't for her gas mask, she imagined the stench within the building would be revolting. When she approached the fourth room, she peeked around the edge first and immediately darted back.
The wall overlooking the Cadian position was blown away, leaving the remaining floor a jagged edge. At the far corner, a form was lying under a blanket and the barrel of a long-las was poking out from underneath.
Carstensen turned the corner, advanced briskly, and squeezed the trigger three times. The long-las was broken into several pieces from the shells' sheer concussion and the blanket was ripped to shreds. As it fluttered away, it revealed nothing but a pile of stones. The Junior Commissar's eyes widened as she heard someone running to her from the right side of the room. Bringing her Bolt Pistol to bear, a shadow tackled her to the floor. She landed on her back, the heretic straddled her, and she felt its gloved hand on her wrist, pinning her gun hand to the floor. Another hand closed around her throat.
Eyes bulging and teeth clenched, Carstensen raised her arm, charged her power fist, and prepared to hit him. Instead, the hooded heretic let go of her throat and hit her across the face. The impact was so strong it momentarily dazed her and she felt her Bolt Pistol slip from her fingers. When she heard a knife being unsheathed, she came to her senses and was able to jerk legs upwards. This threw the heretic off balance, giving her the time to free her hand and knock him over. With her teeth bared, she attempted to bring her glowing power fist down upon his skull. But he was able to roll out of the way and her glove drove into the rockcrete floor.
Breaking free, she backed up a few steps. The heretic did the same, backing up towards the ledge and brandishing his knife in front of him. Carstensen looked around but could not see her Bolt Pistol among the rockcrete chunks and bricks on the floor. Resolving to fight without it, she unleashed a war cry and charged at the heretic. She swung with her power fist but the heretic nimbly leaped to the side. It attempted to slash her with his blade but she ducked back just in time. Flinging herself at the enemy again, she began to swing with both fists. The heretic was quick but was losing ground, backing up towards the wall. When he finally bumped it, she swung with all her mist. Her power fist was crackled with blue-white energy. But the heretic ducked, allowing her fist to collide with the wall. When he came back up, he jabbed at her with the knife. A hot, piercing pain shot through her shoulder and Carstensen cried out. Before the heretic was able to withdraw the blade, she was able to hit him with her opposite hand. She then grabbed him by the face and slammed his head against the rockcrete wall. She repeated this several times, grabbed him by his ragged shirt, and threw him towards the ledge. The heretic rolled but was able to stop just short of the edge. Carstensen darted at him and kicked him in the side. Just as he was rolling over, his hand swiped her ankle and she fell as well.
Carstensen reached out with both arms, even though her shoulder was still in immense pain with the knife embedded into it. She felt rebar scraping against her flak armour and was able to snag one of the rusty metal stakes with her right hand. As she came to an abrupt stop, she watched as the heretic fell to its death. Hanging from the rebar, Carstensen attempted to pull herself up by the weight of her flak armour and her wounded shoulder made it difficult. She could hardly grasp the ledge or another piece of rebar with her other hand.
Her grip was beginning to slip; the more she tried to raise herself, the more her hand began to slide off. Carstensen squeezed her eyes shut and gave one last great effort to pull herself up. Suddenly, she felt a hand clutch her wrist. She opened her eyes and saw a Guardsmen standing over her. The helmet-mounted lamp back glowed warmly, illuminating his broad frame.
"I've got you!" came Marsh Silas's familiar voice, filtered through his gas mask. He reached down and grabbed her webbing while she clutched the bandolier across his chestplate. The platoon sergeant grunted as he pulled her up, turning as he did. When he finally succeeded in bringing her back onto the floor, he collapsed backwards into a sitting position. Half-turned, Carstensen fell into his chest. The pair remained seated on the floor, catching her breath. The Junior Commissar's hand rested on his chestplate and both of his arms remained around her. Below, the firefight abated and silence returned to the dead Kasr.
After gazing at the edge for a few moments, Carstensen turned her attention to Marsh Silas. He let out a nervous breath. "I've got you," he repeated in a calmer tone.
"Thank you, Staff Sergeant," she breathed. "I...thank you."
"I give thanks to the Emperor that he led me to you," he said. "That and Captain Giles said you went up here alone; thought I'd come help."
"The sniper is eliminated," Carstensen replied firmly. She glanced at the knife in her shoulder, then at Marsh Silas, and finally at his arms, still wrapped around her. "Shall we rejoin the men and see about extracting this blade, then?" she asked, her tone pleasant.
"Oh, yes ma'am, let's get ya on your feet."
The pair stood up and began trudging to the door. Before they exited the room, Carstensen stooped over, searched for, and found her Bolt Pistol. After holstering it, she put her hand over the blood seeping from her wound and followed Marsh. As they tramped down the stairs, they did not exchange any more words. But when they finally came out onto the street, she stopped in the doorway. Marsh Silas stopped a few paces ahead of her and turned back.
"Has Hyram shown up yet?" she asked.
"No ma'am, I was hoping you could answer that."
Carstensen shook her head.
"He's still out there," she murmured. When she looked up, Marsh Silas was already walking away and loading one his M36.
"I'll find him," he said."
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