Dan Abnett - Necropolis

No! You know fething triage: serious cases first! She's gut-shot! See to her!

Give him this, Gherran told Domor, handing him a gauze-packed inoculator full of high-dose painkillers. He scrambled over to the sprawled scratch soldier. She was twisted like a broken puppet, her chin forced into her chest where she lay with the back of her head against the wall. Blood oozed out of her in a wide pool. The wound itself had self-cauterised in charred, knotty lumps, but the damage had shredded her insides, and she was bleeding out rapidly.

Oh, feth! Gherran spat. Someone give me a hand here!

Kolea was beside him. Tell me how.

Pressure: here and here. Hold it tight. No, tight like you mean it!

They were both sodden with her blood. She stirred, moaning.

Vinya s'okay Stay awake Kolea murmured to her, his hands damping hard on her ruined organs.

He looked around at Gherran as he worked frantically.

She's not going to make it, is she?

Major trauma, Gherran explained as he worked. I can stabilise her, but no, it's just a matter of time.

Kolea nodded. He let go and leaned down to whisper in her ear, You fought well, Vinya Terrigo of Hab 45/jad. Vervunhive will never forget your courage. The hive loves you for your devotion.

Then he reached down with huge, gentle hands and snapped her neck.

Oh, God-Emperor! Gherran cried, recoiling in horror.

There's a man you can save, Kolea said, pointing at MkVenner with a bloody hand. I love my people, and I will fight for them with every last measure of my strength, but this would have uselessly wasted the time of a good medic when there are better causes. Her pain is over. She has found peace.

Gherran wiped his mouth.

I he began.

If you were going to tell me you couldn't begin to understand what we habbers have gone through to get here, save it. I don't want your pity.

Actually, friend, I was going to tell you I do understand. And admire your courage, to boot. Our lives are all on the line fighting for your home. Me, I don't have a home anymore. So, feth you and that oh-so-noble crap. Gherran gathered his kit-pack and moved over to MkVenner.

Kolea picked up his lasgun and strode past, rejoining the fight.

Cocoer, Neskon and Flinn had made it to the corner of the right hand side access, and they drove the gathering Zoicans backwards. Gaunt, with Genx and Maroy, crawled up behind them.

Access? asked Gaunt.

Not a fething hope, sir! sang out Cocoer. The air was flickering with las crossfire.

Bloody bastard hell! Neskon cried as his gun jammed. He shook it. Gaunt grabbed him and yanked him down into cover just as laser blasts pummelled the wall above his head.

Never forget the drill, Neskon. Gun jams: duck and cover. Don't stand there playing with it.

No, colonel-commissar.

I like you better alive.

Me me too, sir.

Rilke, reckoned to be the best sniper in the Ghosts after Larkin, and the scratch woman Nessa moved up to flank them. Rilke wasted two shots trying to hit a Zoican in cover down the tunnel. Nessa, with her standard-issue lasgun, picked him off and the Zoican behind him.

Where'd you learn to shoot like that? Rilke protested, but she didn't hear him. She couldn't hear him.

Gaunt looked across at her, waiting until she saw his face. Good, he said.

She grinned.

A ceiling panel ten metres back slammed open and Zoican stormtroops began to drop down out of it like grains of sand through the neck of an hourglass. They sprayed shots in both directions. Four Ghosts, two scratches and a Blueblood went down. Bragg wheeled and decimated the spilling Zoicans, his withering autocannon supported by Haller, Rawne, Genx and a dozen others.

The Zoican dead lay in a heap under the ceiling drop. Bragg raised his muzzle and began to fire up into the roof, his heavy rounds punching smooth-edged holes through the sheet metal. Blood began to drip down through some of them.

We're bottled in! Mkoll yelled at Gaunt.

Gaunt knew as much. Gilbear had blocked the left-hand access, but the right was still thick with Zoicans. And now they were coming down through the ceiling, for feth's sake! At this rate, his strike cadre would exhaust themselves simply maintaining a perimeter. If they were going to do anything of note, they had to focus.

Mkoll? Gaunt called.

Mkoll knew what was being asked of him. Gaunt had always valued the chief scout's unnerving ability to find the right way. It wasn't a gift, really. Somehow, sometime back in the shifting, drifting forest ways of Tanith, he had come to understand the logic of structure, the underlying sense of any environment.

Mkoll's gut said straight ahead and down.

Through the blast shields, sir, Mkoll announced.

That was good enough for Gaunt. He crawled back, under heavy fire, to the shields. Rawne! Tube charges here!

What are you doing? bellowed Gilbear, moving up. That way will lead us off into the right hand side of the structure!

Gaunt looked at Gilbear, las-shots whizzing around them. After all we've seen, Gilbear, do you trust me?

Very probably, but

If you were constructing this Spike, would you put the main command deck in the dead centre where anyone would expect it to be?

Gilbear thought for a moment and shook his head.

Then humour me. I've learned to go with Mkoll's instincts. If I'm wrong, I'll stand you a case of wine. You can choose the vintage.

If you're wrong, we'll be dead!

Why do you think I made the bet?

Gilbear laughed out loud.

Cover and clear! yelled Rawne, hastening from the bundle of tube charges he had glued to the shield hatch.

The channelled blast tore the doors inwards like paper. Whatever else you could say about him, Rawne knew explosives. There was barely a Shockwave on the Imperial side of the hatch.

For Tanith! yelled Gaunt, hurling himself through the opening.

For Volpone! bawled Gilbear, right beside him.

For Vervunhive! mouthed Nessa to herself, close on their heels.

Guild Githran Agricultural had fallen. Corbec drove his Tanith back towards the base of the Main Spine with all hell following. Milo and Baffels guided their survivor company out of the ruins, chased by Zoican tank groups. Bray's mixed units wilted in retreat as divisions of Zoican stormtroopers drove up into the inner habs.

The Shield Pylon shuddered as it took shell after shell.

At Croe Gate, Grizmund's valiant counteraction finally reached a stop. Flat crabs and spider death machines lumbered in at them, in strengths even the crusade's finest tank regiment could not withstand.

On the dock causeway, Varl and Rodyin began to pull their infantry back, facing an ochre host ten thousand strong.

Along the edge of the Commercia, where one of the war's bloodiest battles had been waged, Bulwar ordered his NorthCol and scratch companies to retreat. Overhead, the Shield flickered and waned. It would not last much longer. In the middle of a horrendous brawl in a side trench, Soric hammered his axe-rake into the foe. He was one of the last to heed Bulwar's retreat order.

Corday's Volpone unit was pincered by Zoican detachments. The Blue-bloods were slaughtered by crossfire in the rubble wastes that had once been the inner-sector habs. Corday died with his men.

In a lost pocket in the wastelands, Caffran held Tona Criid tight, Yoncy and Dalin curled between them. The sky was on fire and shells fell all around. It was just a matter of time, Caffran knew. But until then, he would hold her and the children as tight as he could.

In the baptistry, Ban Daur set aside his headset and sat back in his seat. The workers and staff servitors were still milling around, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

It was over. Daur got up and crossed to Otte at the Font. Windows blew in down the hall and the Main Spine shuddered as shells struck it.