The squad emerged into a vaulted and spacious thoroughfare. The hall arced away in either direction, column-studded walls reaching up to a vaulted ceiling. All around were the discolored marks of hastily removed furnishings, telling of the repurposing of the star port into a field garrison. Tidy arrangements of armored containers lined the walls and awninged barrack-bunks, muster points, and quartermaster stations marked the areas in between. Perjed's landing had been home to a massive operation, and yet this major thoroughfare was conspicuously empty. Girard was suddenly plucked from his thoughts as Lt. Maksachova called out:
"The freight lift is just a few hundred meters 'round to our left, this way," she said, consulting her dataslate before jogging off toward their objective.
At once, 2nd Squad resumed their rapid advance. Ahead, lined with armored firing steps and sandbag barriers, were the viewing galleries. Glittering fragments of glass still twinkled in the afternoon sun as it crept into the space, and through the glassless windows the all-too-familiar pops of distant gunfire echoed across the empty runways. The squad slowed pace, searching for the source of the sound.
"Celestine's holy tits, they got here fast," Postigo cursed, scanning the private shuttle hangars far ahead, at the northern reaches of the star port. The squad hurried forward, eyes open and alert for advancing retaliatory strikes from further down the corridor.
"Ha, lookit – on the far fence, behind the hangars." Johannsen put a hand on Wulfie's shoulder and pointed out one of the viewing galleries, failing to suppress a wince.
Clusters of grey puffs burst along the façades of the distant buildings as a combination of las-bolts and solid munitions erupted from somewhere below their position and barely visible las-bolts stabbed back toward them in response. The air assault platoons' return fire slowed the traitors' guns long enough for a trio of explosions to rip through the concourse. The sound of grenade launchers' payloads hitting home echoed back across the field, and the battle was joined. Wulfie glanced down at Johannsen, who shifted weight to one leg a bit too much.
"Stretch, ya frakkin' moron, you're hit. Medicae!" Wulfie cried out, taking hold of Johannsen's arm and leading him aside. Stark was already racing forward, unbuckling his emergency aid kid.
"S'no worry, hardly felt it," Johannsen grimaced, leaning back to a dusty bench set against the outer wall. Stark shook his head, reaching for his tools as the rest of the squad assumed a defensive posture. A deep red stain was spreading on Johannsen's thigh and blood-slick flesh glistened through a hole in his trousers, torn by an autogun round.
"There's a fine line between hard and just plain stupid, Vennor. You know better." Stark muttered, drawing a silver tube of counter-septic, rapid-bonding foam from his kit and teasing the fabric tear wider.
"Ah-yeah, here comes," Johannsen muttered as he braced himself.
He gripped the bench, his entire body going taut as Stark applied the bonding foam to his wound. A faint fizzling sound issued from the wound, the sound of cauterizing flesh and disinfecting foam activating and spreading and congealing to create a seal against infection. He gritted his teeth, mouth squeezing into a pain-induced rictus. Stark dressed the wound and tested its tightness with a speed that spoke of long years of trauma care, and gave Johannsen a slap on his good leg.
"Right, enough lying about," Stark stood, re-secured his kit, and hauled Johannsen to his feet with a free hand.
Johannsen blew out a long breath that had been pent up in his chest, and brought his weapon to the ready. As he stood, more gunfire sounded from just around the bend. The squad scattered, dipping behind cover or throwing themselves prone to avoid harm. Girard found cover behind a stack of hard cases, taking aim at the new foe. Across the way, Johannsen dropped to a knee, unleashing a torrent of profanity as he accidentally put his wounded leg forward.
"These are new - the frak are we looking at, here?" Solly voxed, pointing toward the advancing enemy.
Rifle squads advanced on the stormtroopers in uniforms of charcoal black, laden with heavy-duty combat webbing and protected behind battered flak plates. Black eye sockets punctuated ballistic masks of white and porcelain-smooth construction, forming an eerie abstract facsimile of a human skull. Squat, modular autoguns and a variety of mixed weaponry lit up the concourse, mingled with grainy gouts of smoke. Tight formations of the black-suited soldiers now came thundering toward his squad, surprisingly nimble under their heavy combat loads.
"The Legios Saevos," Girard replied, drawing first blood by shooting one soldier's leg out from under him.
"The what?" several of the stormtroopers asked together.
"PDF commander mentioned the name back at the observatorium – and was happy they hadn't shown up this morning." Girard explained. Behind a filth-encrusted dumpster, he watched the lieutenant's brow furrow again at the mention of the name.
"Better stock than the 'regulars, that's for sure," Solly said before flinching and dropping back behind his cover, clutching at his chest. "Frak me, I'm hit," He said, more from a sense of frustration than alarm.
"Pass-through, or no?" Stark shouted back, firing through one soldier's pelvis and dumping out a welter of blood and looping entrails. Stern took the spare moment to reload his magazine, gingerly feeling at his armor. The carapace plate inside still held.
"Negative," He snarled, spinning up to the lip of his cover and returning fire.
With the opening seconds of the firefight ticking by, Girard and Wulfie hurled grenades into the mass of approaching enemies. Their position was becoming increasingly precarious the longer they lingered, even with the air assault platoons joining the fray. Johannsen and Veidt followed suit, hurling grenades at the approaching enemy. Staggered detonations rocked their portion of the concourse, and the stormtroopers used the moment to change tack.
They surged out from behind their cover and took the cautious, organized troops by surprise. They raced forward, fast and low, firing quick and focused volleys into the reeling enemy force, slicing through the soupy fog of dust and smoke. Girard sensed, rather than saw, a squirming body at his feet as he pressed the attack. With a quick downward pivot of his carbine, he fired a single shot through the white facemask and carried on.
A pair of Saevos troops materialized out of the smoke, staggering back to their feet. Garbled shouts and commands sounded from vox units mounted in their webbing, all unintelligible and gurgling speech. One soldier raised his autogun, sling straining against his shoulder as he aimed in Girard's direction. They fired on one another in unison and Girard felt the shot whiz past his ear, an angry buzzing like a full-grown cazadon wasp. He didn't wait to see whether his aim was true – he simply knew that it was. As the first soldier fell, he perforated the next man's chest before knocking a bloody chunk from his neck and dropping him to the floor.
Shockwaves shuddered through the concourse from above, heralded by several pairs of contrail from out on the flight lines. Strutting across the open space in serpentine patterns, teams of Drop Sentinels painted in the deep greens of the 88th's home world colors raced toward the concourse. They juked expertly away from raking volleys of fire from the control spire outside, lending their heavier weapons to the assault. One sentinel, its undercarriage mounted with twin-linked rocket pods, spat two more missiles into a lower floor of the concourse, throwing up a smoky veil across a stretch of window galleries. As soon as the rockets were in flight, the Sentinel's pilot brought his vehicle into a feline crouch, scuttling away from a cone of tracer-laden gunfire that stabbed down from Girard's level of the concourse.
All around him, the sounds of close conflict formed a deafening cacophony. Raging battle cries carried through the cloud, each stormtrooper emerging from the haze in a trailing cloak of dust and smoke. Not to be undone by the furious combat, the black-suited traitors were falling back around the bend in the concourse. They darted from one scrap of cover to the next, all pre-planned fallback points in the event of an overwhelming assault. The stormtroopers' pace slowed as they faced the trained resistance, slowly picking the troops from their hiding spots one by one. Another fireteam fell to the stormtroopers' fire and the traitors began a multi-stage retreating maneuver. The survivors rapidly quit their cover, each man unleashing a torrent of growling autogun fire and forcing the stormtroopers down as the rest ran to safety. As one autogun went silent, another opened up with the same suppressing volley as the last, creating a never-ending stream of bullets.
"Damn but these bastards actually know what they're doing," Veidt hissed, flinching as a flurry of rounds struck his upturned utility cart. He edged around his cover to take aim at their foe.
"That may be, but we have them against the wall – the lift we need is just around this bend," Maksachova yelled, tucking a small tablet into her kit.
"How far?" Girard shouted, drawing up to a kneeling position and snapping off potshots during a brief lull.
"Hundred meters. Less, actually."
"Lots of munitions on the short-scan," Wulfie shouted. Girard glanced across the hall to his position; the big stormtrooper raised his auspex a fraction, indicating his findings. Presently, the retreating volleys slowed and stopped, leaving 2nd Squad free to advance.
"Keep up the pressure," said Girard, taking point and leading the charge.
The main corridor of the concourse followed a horseshoe configuration, each end straightening toward its terminus. They hustled toward the straightaway, bound for the bulk freight elevator that would lead them closer to their prize. Outside, fierce gun battles spread along the flight lines as the air assault platoons advanced through the exposed ground. The forces occupying the star port had the advantage of elevation; the thumping booms of Hydra flak turrets echoed across the landscape, the gunners attempting to stamp out the threat from below. Through the open windows to their right, green and black specks raced in small groups across the flight lines, exchanging fire with other defenders within the colossal structure behind their Sentinel vanguard. Beside him, Solly waved Girard to a stop.
"Hold up – let's get a look at what this scum has lined up for us," He whispered, dipping into a crouch. Girard mirrored Solly's stance, his men falling into a cautious advancing patrol column and covering their sectors of fire. They flinched as a single las-bolt, a stray round from the raging battle outside, impacted on the ceiling. Girard and Solly crawled forward, concealed behind a battle-scarred armorer's counter built against the inner wall of the concourse. They strained to get a shaky view of the obstacles ahead.
The enemy forces had set up a fortified checkpoint at the edge of the thoroughfare. Sandbag barriers ringed sloping, portable ballistic barriers fitted with firing slits. The remainder of the Saevos platoon waited, heavy bolter teams already spooled up. A rockcrete security bunker squatted beside an immense, automated garage door that led to the bulk freight lift. Cleverly arranged kill zones and interlocking fields of fire made this position formidable indeed. All in a day's work for a heavy infantry company, fitted with bunker-busting munitions and plasma weapons – for Girard's small squad however, heavy losses were assured.
"Wulfie, got a task for you," Girard voxed from behind cover. Across the way, he watched Wulfie's head bob and heard his disembodied voice in his headset.
"What do you need?"
"Break out the vox-scanner, and get us a line to the 88th. We call in a barrage on their hard-point, clear the survivors, and move on." Girard gestured out to the flight lines, then back to the enemy forces ahead of them.
Wulfie nodded, slung his pack 'round and unfastened the straps along the bottom of his gear. He muttered the Rites of Activation quickly, pressed the corresponding rune, and sent out a hailing ping on sanctioned frequencies. He pulled the handset from its housing, teasing out the coiled cord that linked it to the device.
"All callsigns, this is Broadsword 2, come in." he said into the receiver. He shifted his weight to the other knee, flinching as the Saevos troops began a cautious counterattack. The rest of the squad sprang back into action, and Wulfie scooped up the 'caster before rolling swiftly behind an upturned container. He gingerly laid the device back down, deftly keeping his hellgun's power cable from tangling with the handset cord. After multiple attempts, a thin voice replied.
"Well met, Broadsword 2. Gladius is receiving." A clipped, nasal voice replied.
"Gladius, we are engaged with entrenched forces inside the central concourse; 5th level, northeast quadrant. Requesting fire support mission on fortified hard-point, over." Wulfhausen released the transmit rune, whispering the Litany of Signal Resilience to ward off the interference and signal loss. After a moment, the voice returned.
"Received, Broadsword. We have your location; rounds on target in short order, single salvo. Best you lads stay clear." the voice said. Wulfie cursed as an autogun round tore a furrow through the top of his cover, whizzing away into the distance.
"Affirmative, Gladius – Emperor guide your aim. Broadsword out." He secured the caster, and returned to the fight.
"Right, they're bringing the fury - duck and cover," he shouted across to Girard, who nodded and addressed 2nd Squad.
"Brace for danger-proximity munitions, then we move in with everything we've got. Streeter, give us frag saturation before the smoke clears." He shouted over the mounting gunfire.
A flurry of smoke trails leapt from the sun-baked fields outside, on a path to the concourse. In their final moments of flight, the missiles' mischievous machine spirits sent them on a corkscrewing path to befuddle enemy countermeasures. The concourse shook with the detonations, and set the stormtroopers' ears ringing. Gouts of masonry and smoke vented from 'round the bend as the missiles slammed home, and the checkpoint was awash in smoke-wreathed flame. The screams of the wounded rose above through the crumbling rubble.
The squad hit the fortified checkpoint like a thunderbolt. A masterfully spaced trio of grenades whizzed through the smoke as they charged. A fireteam, staggering through the missile strike, vanished in the ensuing explosions. Hellguns rounds raked the barricades, cutting down one surviving heavy bolter team before any could react. The rapid-attack specialists were in their element here, despite how comparatively well-trained these masked traitors may have been. As Girard barreled toward the barrier emplacements, Maksachova matched his pace and vaulted over a crumbling sandbag wall.
The enemy fought with the ferocity of cornered animals. As one traitor materialized out of the smoke, Veidt ducked a swing from a screaming chainsword that nearly freed his head from his shoulders. He delivered a swift muzzle-thump to his facemask, splintering the white material. He aimed to fire at the reeling soldier, but was tackled to the floor by another. As they toppled over, Veidt's carbine was pinned between him and his assailant; he drew his combat knife and dug a wide gouge up and under the man's chestplate. A panicked growl burst from the mask, hot blood splashed down his arm and across his midriff, and he drew his sidearm with his other hand. The first man was staggering back to his feet and clutching his facemask, and Veidt blew out his abdominal trunk with a flurry of frantic las-bolts. He hauled the dying traitor off him with a sneer, placing two shots through his chest for good measure, and rejoined the fight.
Girard and Streeter closed on the remaining troops at the checkpoint. The final two traitors scrabbled back, reaching for their sidearms as their weapons clacked empty. In perfect, official range-approved form, Streeter snapped his weapon up and delivered two rounds to the enemy's chest, and one to the head. He crumpled like a dropped sack of produce. Girard shot the last man through the belly, and as the wounded man staggered away, took a step too far and tumbled from the open window behind him. After several seconds, a horrid crunch echoed across the ground outside.
The squad threaded through the bodies, las fire echoing through the gallery as they eliminated the wounded survivors. The checkpoint fell silent, replaced with the heaving breaths of the victors. With the veil of adrenaline ebbing by degrees, Girard turned back to his men: Stark was already dressing a glancing wound on Veidt's shoulder, Johannsen was easing onto an upturned ballistic shield to take weight off his wounded leg, while the rest of the men ensured the security of their position.
"So much for the feared legions of traitors, bunch of frakking poncy weaklings," Wulfhausen wheezed, catching his breath.
"Report?" Girard voxed.
"All set, all clear." Solly answered first.
"Veidt?"
"A scrape, nothing more." he replied, testing the range of motion as the squad rallied.
Girard reloaded his weapon, stepping over the body of one of his slain foes. Across the way, Postigo was already taking stock of the squad. The short stormtrooper hurried from man to man, mentally tallying their remaining ammo and assessing more minor injuries.
"We're clear – no more damage." He called back. A tingly release of tension sheared down Girard's spine: so far, he and his men had been extremely lucky. They knew their craft, and applied it with a precision that did their leadership proud. Having a few extra guns in the fight, even if they were just Navy men, was a great help.
"Let's keep moving. Ma'am, guidance?" He turned to face the lieutenant, who was conversing with her Armsmen. She pulled a boxy handheld device from her webbing, fitting a thick rubberized cable to its top.
"We continue down the freight lift, and into the sublevels. It is our most direct route to the data stacks. Our path will take us through the generarium complex, and into the deepest reaches of the star port." She explained, helping armsman Mesh to his feet. The non-conversational third sailor thumbed the bolt release of his stubgun and chambered another round before returning to formation beside his fellows.
"You heard the lady, get security on the lift doors in case more of these bastards come looking for a fight. How's that leg, Venn?" Girard slapped Johannsen's shoulder as he passed.
"Oh, it's just grand – these grot-fondlers tag me again, then I'll really be mad." He smiled through the pain, deflecting the issue with humor as was his custom. "See that they don't." Girard said as his men formed up at the lift door. Girard indulged himself a moment and squatted at the masked corpse of a Novum Tempestus soldier. Let's get a look at you now, He mused.
Girard gripped the sprawled body by the underside of the chin, wrenching the ballistic mask upward and out. The material had little give, but after a vicious follow-up tug, the buckles securing the mask snapped away. He scoffed, upon seeing the face of his enemy: with his head covered by a black form-fitting hood, a pair of glassy and half-lidded eyes stared back. Smeared down the stubbled face of this fair-skinned man, a chunky smear of blood coated his mouth, chin, and neck. The ragged patches of las-holes in his chest had scored away large portions of his lungs and ruptured the surrounding organs, leaving him to drown in the clotted hunks of his own cauterizing blood. This man's death must have been exceedingly painful.
Only human, after all.
The faintest pang of humanity stirred in his chest, but vanished as Lt. Maksachova's voice called out to him:
"Door's open, Sergeant. Shall we?" She asked.
The space was dark, illuminated with guttering glow globes from high above. The lieutenant hauled down on a lever set in a curved track, stopping at a faded "SD3" stenciled on the aperture. After several moments of surprised consideration by the dormant machine spirit, the lift rumbled to life. The garage shutter slammed shut behind them, rolling on greasy runners, and yellow caution lamps flared to life as the machine descended. The lieutenant cleared her throat.
"Anything to share, from your examination?" She raised an eyebrow, shouting over the lurching descent of the lift car. Girard paused, then shook his head
"Just another corpse."