A Forge Divided

The sound of gunfire was coming closer. Merrick reckoned the main assault was underway. Sirens on every street wailed into the night. From atop a large manufactorum complex, 226 Commando could only watch as the legions of Magos Dolthem marched out of the forge's depths. Ranks of Skitarii advanced alongside squadrons of armoured vehicles in perfect unison, creating an unnatural rhythm too precise for any human army. The Rogal Dorn tanks trundled onwards with their cannons raised in salute. THe Mechanicus had supplied hundreds of the tanks to the Guard during the Golgotha Campaign, but it seemed to Merrick that they had kept the majority for themselves.

Rain drizzled through holes in the shield grid. The broken void shield hissed and crackled above them, a red and white spider web slowly collapsing as the overworked generators failed. Shelling from the far off Imperial batteries fell through the patchwork, setting off a firestorm that was sweeping through the workers' habs. Above the carnage, a lone valkyrie gunship was making a beeline for the primary manufactorum.

"Double time, men," Merrick said, watching the ship soar past, "That would be our competition that just flew by." He hefted his gun and set off as the rest of 226 Commando fell in line behind Sarthis.

On point, Hurst and Kippler guided the commandos over the rooftops. Below, untamed fires from the shelling raged throughout the streets. There were no emergency crews to tend to the flames. It was as though Dolthem's hereteks didn't care that their world burned around them. It's the Mechanicus's problem, not mine, Merrick thought. The loyalist Mechanicus may have been their allies, but there was no love lost between the sergeant and the cogboys. Encountering no resistance, the team made for their entry point.

As they neared the exhaust vents, the air warmed considerably. Rainwater turned to steam as it touched hot metal. Sweat beaded on the inside of Merrick's breath mask quicker than the internal fans could handle. The primary manufactorum may have dominated the skyline, but Merrick knew from his previous visit that the bulk of the facility was underground. There were dozens of similar exhaust vents and stacks dotting the forge, all stemming from the primary facility's assembly lines like the veins of a body. Using handheld chainblades, 226 Commando swiftly cut through the exhaust grates and attached their rappel lines. One after the other, they descended into the depths of the steam vent.

Goldemar hit the bottom first, anchoring the line for the rest of the guardsmen. They landed in a puddle of oily water that pooled in the chamber's center. Large insects sucking at the puddle scuttled away as they dropped in. The vent then twisted at a right angle, forming a passage for them. Remer and Lannik aimed their weapons downrange. "Any of this look familiar, boss?" Remer asked.

"Somewhat," Merrick said quietly, "These vents run along the underside of the factory's surface crust. The main forge is below, so we'll drop down onto the walkways and go from there."

More large bugs fled at the sight of the commandos as they moved through the tunnel, their feet skittering across the metal surface. Remer stepped on one by accident, and the creature crunched under his boot. A series of glares ensured he would be more careful moving forward. The heat was becoming unbearable. Merrick's suit clung to his skin; he was almost swimming in his own sweat. But despite his discomfort, he felt more confident now than he ever had within the Forge. Now, he had backup, and proper field intelligence, rather than the secrets and half truths of an obsessed lawman with a vendetta. He found himself wondering what had happened to Arbiter Talros. What had Logis Corsis done with him after deeming his usefulness exceeded?

Beneath their feet, the manufactorum rumbled. After twenty minutes, the Vendolanders stopped at a vent opening over a walkway. Quietly, they unscrewed the panel, and one by one, they dropped onto the catwalk. Far below them, underneath the web of crisscrossing catwalks and cable bundles, the factory floor stretched out as far as they eye could see. Gigantic support pillars held up the surface crust of the manufactorums, arrayed in a hexagonal pattern that made Merrick feel as though he was inside a massive insect hive. Talros's infiltration point had been elsewhere, and the area seemed alien to him. Sarthis tapped his shoulder.

"Recognize anything?" Sarthis asked.

Merrick looked around, searching for any familiar points of interest. "There," he said, pointing towards a large sphere that was half sunken into the floor. "That's the data core, the heart of the forge. Our target will be there."

"You are confident of that?" pressed the lieutenant.

"Yeah, the Forgemaster is in there, sure as the Emperor lights the Astronomicon," emphasised Merrick. "They strap hundreds of servitors up to him each day to parse all the data the Forgemaster collects. Security is tight. Real tight."

"Merrick and I barely got out of there," Hurst said. "And that was with inside help from loyalist members Magos Dolthem's cult."

"Any chance we might make contact with these loyalists? They could help."

Merrick and Hurst both shook their heads. "I wouldn't count on it, sir," Merrick said, "I don't even know if they're still alive."

"So we're on our own, then," Sarthis surmised. He put his hands on his hips. "Well, at least we're used to that by now, eh lads? Lead the way, sergeant major."

"Hey, hey! He's awake!"

The voice sounded muffled, but familiar. Vornas couldn't move without his chest flaring up with pain. He grimaced, gasping for air.

"It's me, remember?"

His vision started to return, indistinct blobs coming into focus.

Another voice spoke. "Back in line trooper!"

"But this one is still alive, sir," the first voice protested. He did sound familiar. Vornas heard a series of thuds in a steady cadence. Marching feet. He tried to crane his neck up to see, but pain dragged him back down. Somebody grabbed his head, pulled at his eyelids. He winced as a light shone in each pupil.

"He's still conscious," said the second voice, the person inspecting him. "Get the medic, take him back to the aid station."

It was dark. Still night, he realized, or early morning. More troopers appeared around him, looping their arms under his body and hauling him onto a stretcher. The first voice returned, this time accompanied by a face. Vornas had been right.

"Hey, it's me, remember?" It was the Maveron he had shared a smoke with, weeks earlier. The boy loomed over him while the stretcher swayed and bumped as he was carried off. "Linkstrom, that's my name. Remember?"

"Keep talking to him," a third voice said firmly, "Don't let him pass out."

"Yes sir," Linkstrom said. "Hear that, Vendolander? You're going to be alright, just hang in there."

Vornas's head lolled to one side. Soldiers, marching back the way he'd come, back towards the breach. There were far more corpses littering the ground than before, but the sound of guns was a distant thunder. "Did we take the walls?" he muttered. His head was spinning.

"Yeah," said Linkstrom, shaken. "Yeah, we took them. Army's moving into the forge."

"Mhmm," said Vornas. Probably cost them hundreds, maybe thousands, of men. The air was dry, thick with the smell of ozone and oily smoke. The Maverons carried him back across the moonscape of shell craters, pooling with rainwater. He saw corpses bobbing in the slurry. Those that couldn't be saved were left where they fell as the Guard advanced into the forge's streets.

Soon, Vornas could hear the cries of wounded men. They were nearing the aid station. Vornas hated aid stations, and he tried to ignore the cries by clenching his jaw shut.

The pain in his chest was unbearable. He pulled his right hand up and onto his body. It was wet, and warm.

He was afraid.

"Contact, contact!" yelled Merrick.

Three skitarii came sprinting along the catwalk, autoguns spattering. Merrick's fired his hellgun; one, two, three dropped. Pings of autogun and lasfire seared past him, smacking into troopers behind as more skitarii guns opened up. Below the catwalk, tech-guard forces were massing on the assembly floor, pouring more fire up against the bottlenecked Vendolanders. Several men were hit before the commandos realized they had walked into an ambush.

"Move, move, move!" yelled Sarthis, "Get to the support column, we're too exposed!" Garrett and Serrt frantically tried to fire off some bursts from their stubber while Kippler lay down covering fire with his long las. The guardsmen, doubled over, ran headlong for the column at the far end of the walkway. Once the last trooper was away, Kippler, Garrett, and Serrt peeled back and followed them.

The skitarii had come out of nowhere. The moment one skitarii knew where they were, dozens more came out of the passageways, converging on the guardsmen. Merrick had been lucky to spot the first group before their cohorts had caught them in a crossfire. Goldemar tried to go back and pull one of the wounded men into cover, but the fire from below was too intense, and he was dragged back by the others.

The walkway broadened as it circled the column, providing some measure of cover from the enemy beneath. Pinned down, the commandos took stock. "How many down?" Duschesne shouted.

Hurst glanced down the catwalk. "We're down five," he said. Then, the colour drained from his face. "Shit, we've got incoming." Hurst's gaze fell beyond the rim of the platform. Beneath the column, hundreds of skitarii were heading their way, red robes trailing behind them. The intensity of the gunfire from below began piercing through the metal platform, forcing the guardsmen back to the pillar itself.

Sarthis was banging on the access hatch to the pillar. "Help me get this open!" he barked at Alek. Alek put his weight into the doorframe, digging his metal fingers into the seal to try and pry it open. Tech-guard were now pouring out from far side of the catwalk, the way the guardsmen had come in, cutting off their exit route. More Vendolanders fell, cut down by lethally accurate shots. 226 Commando gave as much as they received, dropping a half dozen skitarii in return.

Merrick signaled to Remer for grenades. Remer raised his launcher and lobbed a spread along the gantry. The bridge buckled and disintegrated, taking the skitarii tumbling down with it. That took care of one group, but the main force below was still advancing inexorably towards 226's position.

"Fuck this," Sarthis kicked the door. "Det tape on the frame, blow the damn thing off!"

"Wait," Kippler called. He was peering through his scope just over the lip of the walkway. "Sir, something's going on down there."

"Well, what?" demanded Sarthis, "This is no time to be vague."

"There's a fight going on down there. Tech-on-tech violence." Sarthis looked over the edge. Kippler was right. Skitarii were laying into each other in a savage melee, tearing robes, metal and flesh asunder. It was as though their programming had gone haywire, and the newly arrived skitarii ripped their fellow soldiers to pieces. As suddenly as the violence had broken out, the tech-guard ceased fire and became still, with the sounds of battle fading into nothingness.

A single skitarius stepped forward, left arm raised. His right was replaced entirely by a mounted bolter turret. The entrance in the column opened, and a hunchbacked servitor rolled out onto the platform where the guardsmen lay. The servitor's dim, dead eyes scanned over the Vendolanders. The vox box in the cyborg's mouth gargled static for a moment, before a clear metallic voice spoke. "Imperial soldiers, we mean to assist you. I am Skitarius Navitan Kex, Alpha of this company."

Sarthis looked past the servitor, "Merrick, is this name familiar?"

"No, sir," Merrick shook his head. "Never heard of him."

The servitor's head rotated to stare at Merrick. "Merrick, first name Gerard. Sergeant major, 85th Vendoland, 4th Company. Squad designation: Daredevil."

"How the hell do you know that, tin man?" growled Merrick.

Kex's proxy replied, "We represent forces loyal to the Omnissiah, and to the Imperium of Man. Logis Corsis ordered our units to resist the traitor Magos, Dolthem, and assist any Imperial forces in eliminating traitor units."

"Corsis is dead, though," said Hurst. "How did you survive this long?"

The proxy turned to Hurst. "Hurst, Wadden. Daredevil Squad. Corsis laid contingency plants in our neural network before his termination. We withdrew to unmarked areas of the forge, and have been conducting raids since our leader's end. We are ready to assist you."

"I don't believe him, sergeant major," said Sarthis. "Kex, if you have any proof you are actually loyal to the Imperium, prove it. Otherwise I see no reason to listen to you further."

"That would be unwise," said Kex, "However, your suspicions are not unfounded. We had anticipated this reaction. Allow us to prove our loyalty."

"Words won't get you anywhere, cogboy,"

"Then we will show you." Below, a second skitarius stepped forward and walked past Kex towards the column. After a short elevator ride, the tech-guard stepped out onto the platform. The servitor rolled out of the way to let him pass. "This should be adequate evidence to support our claim."

The skitarius pulled his hood down. Merrick let out a long breath. "Rest easy, lieutenant," he said in a low voice. "They're telling the truth."

Under layers of mechanical augments and wired flesh, was the barely recognizable face of the former arbitor, Talros.