Chapter the First
Torres grabbed a vox-trooper, easily distinguishable by his bulky transmission unit and wretched the mic out of his hand. The whip antennas were attached to the rear wall and connected by cables to boost the signal.
"All units, this is Torres. There is a strong enemy presence to the north, by the rail-line. Prepare yourselves! May the Emperor watch over you, you miserable bastards!'
"Another fantastic speech, Torres,' Culla snorted, 'why don't you pull out a pistol and kill them yourself. It'll save the enemy time."
"Some other time, Sergeant Bitch, right now I have to keep my company from dying. Now get off your ass and say something inspiring to your squad, 'cause I won't!" Torres bellowed, as he bolted down the stairs to check out the rest of the building. He took the gap in the stairs running and almost fell. Cursing darkly again, he checked on third squad, who had taken a beating from a sniper team. One of his closest friends had been killed. Now he was just another statistic.
"What's up, Chief?" It was Vox-Trooper Sinon, his set disassembled in front of him, a cleaning rag in his hands.
"Big fight comin', lads. Get your asses ready." Torres spit. The wiry Sergeant stopped to peer out the sandbagged windows again, trying to get some sense of where the worst of the storm was coming. He still couldn't see anything, the fog was refusing to burn off, but the rumble of tank engines and the sound of chanting were just at the edge of his hearing. They were closing in.
Torres was about to vault down the stairs again when a series of dull crumps caught his ear. Several dozen, actually, not that it mattered
"Mortars! Hit the deck!" Torres screamed as he dove down, cracking his shin on a discarded rations carton.
His world, normally gray and lifeless, suddenly exploded into a riot of color, sound and movement. Everything went red as he was thrown violently into the air, smashing into a low-hanging rafter with a rib-cracking jolt. He could hear explosions and screaming, but it seemed like they were underwater or coming from far-away. This continued, so long Torres thought he was going to die, in some run-down apartment, unable to save himself.
Finally, it stopped, leaving his sprawled across the floor, head and ears ringing. His rifle was digging painfully into his back and he felt like he was moving underwater, body moving ridiculous slow as he tried to stand and fight. A strong hand grabbed a-hold of him and hauled him up by his armpits.
"Sergeant, they're coming! Get up!' It was someone he couldn't recognize; his vision was hazy and strange. 'Snap out of it!"
Torres fought out of the mans grasp and pulled his rifle off his back, unfolded the stock and sprayed outside on full auto. The zipp and whine of the las-gun jolted him awake and the sounds of battle rushed back. He could hear screaming and chanting in some dark language, and the sounds of gunfire and explosions.
The Sergeant dropped down and propped himself up near the window and re-evaluated the situation. He did not like it one bit. In fact, it made him realize, he was, in fact, going to die.
The Traitor Tenth was advancing in four ragged lines, as far as he could see in length. Dozens of APCs and heavy tanks supported them, laying down a heavy base of fire that the infantry advanced behind. The nearest infantry were just crossing the road and had a hundred meters left to advance. They already had firebases set up across the street, with heavy auto-guns and stubbers set up, pouring thick lines of fire into his men.
Torres quickly recounted the enemy numbers, revising his estimate to around three brigades, at least eight thousand men and their supporting tanks, attacking what looked to be a thirty block area. It would be quite a fight, something he would remember if he survived it, which he began to doubt as more rounds whistled and shrieked past his shoulders and head, leaving bullet holes and las-burns on the walls and roof behind him.
"Damn it! Open fire! Target the tanks and infantry with extreme prejudice! For the Emperor, I won't be the only one dying today!'Torres turned and screamed down the staircase, hoping his voice would be heard over the maelstrom of fire. 'Trooper Sinon, get that unit up and running! Patch me a line to Captain Morgan!"
The young vox-operator scrambled to get his bulky unit back together, but his efforts were hindered by the fact that every near-miss caused him to duck, wince and look around, before returning to his work.
Torres went back to his window, blistered by fire and spraying his carbine on full auto outside, emptying a whole power-pack without even looking outside. He couldn't even bear to look outside right now.
"Sometime this century, trooper! We need support or something right this…" Torres's words were cut short when a tank round slammed into the second floor right below him, shredding two squads of men instantly and taking out most of the third floor's floor.
Torres fell, a dozen feet, and slammed into a huge chunk of masonry, his rifle falling from his numb hands. He was passed out. His company was on their own for good while.
On the fourth floor, Sergeant Culla heard and felt the impact. The building was going to collapse. Too many key beams and buttresses had been taken out and far too much of the building was damaged. A las-bolt hissed past her face.
"Sons-of-orks!" Culla screamed, her pent-up rage boiling out as she picked up one of her troopers weapons, a plasma gun, and stood, brazenly, at a shell-hole and began to fire. Swarms of infantry were pouring towards them, in seemingly endless waves. The gun screamed in her hands, and a dozen men screamed as they were immolated by a ball of plasma. Culla screamed, the gun burning her hands as it heated up, and fire again, aiming at an open-top Salamander-type tank, washing the compartment in screaming death.
Culla was using up her luck. Before she could fire again, a hard-round punched through the plasma-coils. The ancient weapon explosively malfunctioned, permanently blinding three members of her squad, killing two, opening a gapping hole in the wall and leaving Sergeant Culla a burning mass of ash.
The Traitor 10th were pushing hard up the streets, dozens of platoons fighting hard to take a string of apartments that the Imperials were refusing to give up. The few remaining Imperial tanks were battered and bruised, each having taken a dozen near-fatal impacts. One, the Fellblade, a Vanquisher-pattern, made distinctive by its long-barrel and recoil-dampeners, lost one of its side-sponsons, had its search-light blown out, and sported numerous dents and holes in its mighty frame. She had accounted for almost two dozen enemy vehicles.
But the Traitors were gaining footholds, taking the lower floor of one building by sheer grace of numbers. Savage close-range firefights erupted in stair-wells and ramps, leaving dozens dead on each side. The Jourans knew they were doomed, but they also knew that each minute they held out gave the other Jouran regiments time to rescue them. If they were to be rescued at all that is.
And Sergeant Torres had still not woken up.
The situation on the ground was grim at best. In orbit, things were starting to turn. A pair of Strike Cruisers, whose insignia marked them as belonging to the Silver Specters Third Company, were going to turn the tide.