Cover by Ryan Barry (@9monkeys)
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Games Workshop. This is fan-produced media.
This story is being written in chunks. Chapters will be uploaded as they are produced and changes will be made throughout the process. Enjoy.
13
Firstborn minders were required to report on those in leadership roles. Every week candidates would cycle to a new position, replacing their ranks with another. Reports were sent to the field office where their fate would be determined. Fresh lieutenants and captains from tour in command of exiles underwent their own evaluations. With the shortage of officers, appointees from the staff corps and Host Masters were sent to fill vacant roles in the opposition. Dyatlov and Konstantyn used the opportunity to subject them to their own scrutiny.
The field office was situated along the border of the final training sector. It was closest to the core of the hive, the habs rising high enough for observers to take in the full scope of the battlefield. It was the largest of the sectors, a blighted expanse of old trenches, debris, and stunted hills of snow, surrounded by vast skeletal urban ruins that half as tall as they once were. At the northern end stood the exile fortification, a toppled spire split in three portions across the breath of the sector. The bottom portion rose the tallest, its roof spotted with dormant AA guns and a landing pad. On the left flank the top portion lay on its side, split by wide cracks bridged by gangways on the inside. On the right flank the middle portion sat crumbled. Its top end faced far to the right, walled off long ago with a gate large enough for armor to pass two abreast.
The battle was scheduled to take place in a matter of days and last a week. Exiles toiled away, setting up guns and sighting them accordingly along with ambush points throughout the ruins. Armor was repaired behind the gate before final inspections and loaded with training rounds.
The Marshals made the field office home at the start of the month. Young Dmytro was always enamored when he sat in with them between tutoring with their aides, Junior Lieutenants Bolkonsky and Rostova. He sat on a lounge chair at the window wall, a pair binoculars practically bolted to his face. The room was quiet as his parents pored over reports sandwiched and stacked in dull yellow folders, their desks beside one another at the back of the room. Their field jackets were off, hanging on the backs of their chairs.
The silence was broken when the exile secretary knocked softly and stepped through. “Lord Commissar Jakoby to see you, Marshal Dyatlov.”
They looked up. “Is there a woman with him?” asked Konstantyn.
“No, Aer Marshal.”
The Marshals looked at each other then the secretary. “We’ll buzz when we are ready,” said Dyatlov.
The exile nodded and closed the door. Taking off the reading glasses, they stood to make themselves presentable, pulling on their suspender straps and replacing their jackets.
Dmytro looked between his parents. “What should I do, Mother? Father?”
“Stand at attention until he sits down-” said Dyatlov.
“But pay attention until I introduce you-” added Konstantyn.
“Bow once he acknowledges you-”
“And only speak when spoken to.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am.”
He put down the binoculars and pulled the ends of his kurtka before straightening his belt. With their uniforms corrected, Dyatlov pressed a button under the desk. The secretary opened the door for Jakoby, the massive service cap under one arm. Dmytro snapped to attention as he crossed the room to stand centered on the desks.
“Lord Commissar Aethlwyn Jakoby reporting,” he said with a palm-out salute.
The Marshals saluted back. “At ease, Commissar,” said Dyatlov. “Take a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once he was down Dyatlov sat up. “Unless my ears are not mistaken, I hear no trace of that Cadian posh.”
“Sylva’s continued counsel has helped me to embarrass myself less with every day.”
The Marshal smiled. “Excellent. I pray writing in Cyrillic will not prove too ardueous an education. Our written language is as bold and obvious as our tongue.”
The Lord Commissar nodded.
Konstantyn cleared her throat. “Our son, Dmytro, is present, Lord Commissar. Would you like him to leave?”
Jakoby saw the boy quickly bow, looking as though he was holding his breath. “The matter is of no great import. I shall leave shortly.”
She nodded to Dmytro, taking up his binoculars once more.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Dyatlov.
“I wish to take part in the final exercise. I have no preference for my position and will defer to whom ever you recommend. I have chosen a surrogate in my absence. I mean to make him my designated replacement and ask that you apprise me of his performance. Do I have your leave, Marshal?”
His mouth hung a second before the words came to him. “I’m surprised you are asking for permission, considering the latitude of your office.”
“It is the courteous course of action.”
“For what reason?” asked Konstantyn.
“I wish to see for myself the conduct of my subordinates. Simulated though it may be, it is necessary that I bear witness to their acumen.”
Dyatlov chuckled and sat back. “It goes without saying that an exercise is hardly an ideal substitute for the real thing. ‘Tis a shame you’ll have to wait another three months before we’re shooting with real ammunition. I’ve also had the need for a true battle since coming home, as it were.”
“My own hands ache to grip a control stick,” added Konstantyn, drawing the Commissar’s purple eye. “Instead of a cockpit, I ride a desk.” She sat back with a sigh. “Such is life in the rear echelon.”
Jakoby shifted in his seat. He did not expect them to see right him or perhaps they were already informed. “I confess that my position has put a damper on my mood. While it has not affected the execution of my duties, I believe a short period in the field will suffice in staving off fatigue until we return to active service.”
“Would you prefer a permanent field assignment?” asked Dyatlov. “It would be no trouble.”
“Firstborn officers have a propensity to police their own rather well,” added Konstantyn. “Our commissars, few as my branch needs, often find themselves warming seats before they are needed on the ground. They work best as spare leaders.”
The rasp was distant, standing in the far corner. “A tempting offer I must decline-“
“For now,” said Dyatlov with a smirk.
“Indeed… For now. The Commissariat assigned me to this role and I shall see to it until I am needed elsewhere.”
The Marshal smiled and stood. “Very well. I’ll find you a place in the final push and inform you by runner.”
Jakoby shook his hand, “Gratitude, sir,” before saluting.
Both Marshals returned the gestured and sat down as he left the room. They waited another moment before making themselves comfortable once more.
“Guinevere wasn’t too far off,” said Dyatlov. “At least he’s aware.”
“At least,” said Konstantyn with emphasis. “It’s a miracle she saw it before he truly cracked. The way she described him made it seem as though he was on the very edge.”
“A commissar breaking down.” He grunted. “Now, that is rare.”
*
Every single cadet of the 356th was brought to bear for the final exercise. Shadowed by minders carrying vox-caster, the entirety of the assault would be theirs alone. Two marshals were chosen out of the cadet leaders that devised a strategy days before the exercise began, disseminating down the chain of command to the platoon level. Armor, artillery, aircraft, heavy weapons, and infantry from both sides would be put to use in the Battle of the Toppled Spire.
The camp sat along the southern flank of the sector, hugging the perforated husks of hab blocks. Noise and light discipline was relaxed with barrel fires placed regularly between the tents. Cadets warmed their hands or walked in groups, chatting openly until they passed an officer to salute. Final preparations were made on armor in the rear. Basilisks, Lemans, and Chimeras were covered by tarps as their crews worked underneath. Along the northern perimeter camouflaged watch teams were posted in the ruins.
Peppered throughout the Cadet Host commissars occupied individual platoons. When they were present, cadets moved and spoke more curtly and efficiently, afraid to joke or interact in ways counter their duty. It made the job easy for Jakoby, but once they turned in for the night, he was forced to counsel his platoon leader.
“Think of me as a shadow. I am always there, but as an impression of a man. Whether I am anything otherwise depends entirely on the performance of your men and they cannot perform to the best of their abilities if they are afraid of shadows, can they, Cadet?”
Anatoly slowly swallowed. “No, Commissar.”
“Then I advise you see that they exercise calm. If I inspire such anxious behavior by proximity, then a protracted engagement will reveal far worse.”
“I will, Commissar.” Jakoby pulled over the cowl and made for the tent flap with cap in hand when Anatoly added, “Would you prefer if the platoon switched languages, Commissar?” He turned about. “We are taught Imperial Gothic at voyshkola. On collaborative campaigns with foreign regiments, we-“
“I am aware and you may not. Conduct yourselves as you would if I were another Vostroyan.”
“Yes, Commissar.”
“Out of curiosity, do you people also speak the language of the Tech Priests?”
“No, sir. One must be ordained.”
“Then how is worship conducted?”
“Through translation by a Tech-Deacon, Commissar.”
Jakoby stared a moment and passed through the flap into the quiet night.
*
Last minute preparations were made in a small tent where the heavy weapons were stowed. Squads disassembled and cleaned them on the tarp floor, the parts arranged on stained drop clothes. The mortar team used a bore brush at the end of a long rod to clean out the tube, spraying and wiping de-carbonite with a rag. The rocket launcher was deceptively simple with the team cleaning and testing the trigger mechanism before helping others. Considering its nature, not even a training version of the las gun was available, replaced by either a heavy bolter or autocannon.
The two weapons were similarly broken down and tended, each internal piece sprayed, brushed, sprayed again, and wiped clean before reassembly. Everyone was eager to go to bed, but Aleks insisted upon taking his time. While Aleksandr greased and eased the spring in the half-drums he would be carrying, his teammate took special care with each piece of the autocannon. Using a small brush he scrubbed out the deep grooves and recesses a simple once over would not clear. He could not disassemble the weapon as far as he wanted, the barrel disconnected, dustcover hinged upward, and feed pawl mechanism removed.
Aleksandr watched him dig into the frame, his brow slumped and lips slightly parted. “I hope you do not plan to take apart the entire breach assmebly.”
Aleks did not look at him. “I wish I could. The inner and outer cranks are stiff.”
“Then spray it and leave it overnight.”
“I intend to. And I need to grease the cylinder and recuperator. The compression is rough.”
Aleksandr looked around the floor and passed him the grease gun. He watched him continue the surgery without picking it up.
“So much pocking. It is as though they leave them out to rust then dunk them in a chelating bath before giving them to us. ”
“You know these things are older than our grandparents. Cheaply made compared to what we get on tour. They are bound to fall apart.”
“Maybe, but that is no excuse for allowing equipment to fall to decay. What would the Omnissiah say of such wanton neglect? The Laitech at our church back home would flog the caretakers and make them walk a gauntlet before they could be allowed to confess. What if these guns are needed in the event of an invasion?”
Aleksandr snickered. “Who in their right mind would invade Vostroya? Too far out of the way and too cold with nothing worth looting besides fur and wood. We are impenetrable in our impracticality.”
Aleks tired to think of a logical retort, only to realize his teammate was partly correct. He shrugged and went back to brushing. “Perhaps they would invade to simply kill us all.”
*
The final push began with an artillery exchange from the camp and southern end of the field. Throughout the urban ruins airburst rounds exploded in green and blue. Vultures crossed the field dropping bombs and strafed the Toppled Spire. Exiles in the trenches kept themselves hidden through the bombardment. The cadets wasted no time and charged into the ruins, bounding between buildings. It was not long before they encountered the enemy.
Aleks and Aleksandr carried their burdens up a gutted stairwell to the roof of one hab block. Other teams in the squad took positions on the neighboring blocks to their left and right. The fighting persisted above and below, stray rounds missing them by centimeters. In the distance, small groups of exiles were perched, popping in and out of cover.
When they reached the top Aleksandr quickly reached over his shoulders and slammed down the tripod as he squatted. Aleks came up to the side with the gun to connect it to the tirpod. In single motion they had practiced several times, Aleks yanked free a half-drum stacked on his teammate’s back before Aleksandr stood to pull the barrel strapped to Aleks’s back. They attached the pieces before taking position behind the gun.
“Gun ready,” they barked with Aleksandr taking a fresh half-drum in hand and Aleks pulling the charging crank.
Leaning to the left he rested the crosshairs of the scope on the enemy. The recoil shook the snow clear around the tripod, the spent aluminum shells dropping between Aleks’s legs. The muzzle was not pointed all the way over the roof, each shot blowing heat wash backward. It did not bother the boys, ducking from incoming fire.
When the infantry traversed deep enough, the artillery closed in, striking exile Basilisks on the field until they retreated north. The ruins were also safe for Lemans to push through in a solid line, providing limited assistence given the safety restrictions. When a tank was hit, the vehicle was stopped and a smoke generator on the back of the turret sprayed green, the crew declared out of play.
Inside one Leman Russ, Slava sat at the starboard sponson. Without armor or a bearskin he would have been comfortable were it not for the constant noise and stink of the engine. The leather tanker cowl marginally muffled the droning as he watched the monitor, turning his bolter in searched for enemies.
The driver was a minder and the crew made up of cadets, but he spoke to them with the same casual tone he would friends. “Way too soon to commit,” he said through the intercom. “Still have two kilometers of open ground to cross, surrounded by another two kilometers of ambush terrain. I hope your marshal knows what he’s doing, boys.”
“I knew him at Bragation,” said the cadet commander sitting under the closed copula. “He stayed among the popular groups. Never interacted with him.”
“That means he’s either trying to prove something or he actually knows what he’s doing. What do you think, Dyatlov? You graduated from Kutuzov, right? Decent head on your shoulders and you’re from a good family. How do you think this’ll go?”
Slava did not care either way, but he put together an answer. “I think the Cadet Marshal means to take the ruins before the field. The enemy will not risk armor to flush us out and we can use the field to rush the spire with our own.”
“But then our armor is exposed.”
“Theirs will be too, sir.”
“Aw. Then we could use the kossaks to slag them. You sure you’re not supposed to be an officer? Seems you take after your uncle rather well.”
Slava did not want to say more. “I have not the patience for it, sir. Not at all.”
*
The infantry pushed to the edge of the field by nightfall. The armor line parked and concealed themselves between the ruins. Chimeras brought fresh squads to the left and right flanks where the fighting continued. Aleks and Aleksandr remained in the center, sleeping in shifts under a white tarp closer to the field. Mortar teams launched flares, allowing gunners to catch exiles in the open.
Fighting on the flanks were sporadic exchanges in virtual darkness. The Chimeras proved essential in expediting the process, but not without falling victim to AT. Throughout the next day and night the fighting would go on until the center, left, and right lines were equalized.
A setback presented itself on the third day when a full company in Chimeras tried to cross the field before infantry could clear the way. Exile heavy weapons made quick work of them half a kilometer into their deployment. They were taken out of play so fast a ceasefire was called where minders designated half to be left alive with the carriers remaining as derelicts.
Jakoby and the Tallarn Commissar were the only officers available with three Medicae to service eight squads and two cadet vox-operators. He waited for the ceasefire to end before speaking, the cadets gathered in the trench around him. It was hardly deep enough to be Primer compliant. “Get our front covered,” he said to the Tallarn in Gothic once the shooting resumed.
“Yes, Lord,” she said before moving up the trench, giving orders on the move.
Jakoby stood just enough (he assumed) to stay in cover when he addressed the cadets in Vos. “For all intents and purposes, the enemy is all around us. We have them precisely where we need them. Where is the vox-“
The cadets dropped lower when a round knocked his service cap off. It hit close to the peak, the green plume bursting upward. He barely reacted, ducking slightly. The cap landed in the hands one cadet who quickly held it out to Jakoby, eager to be rid of it.
“Where is the vox operator?” he asked replacing it to his head.
After voxing their losses and situation, incoming from the flanks increased. Jakoby ordered the cadets to hold their positions and took two squads to the front line. Crouch walking, he brought along one of the operators for the Tallarn, leaving the other behind with a cadet sergeant in charge of the rear. She ducked low to trade magazines when he came to her side.
“We’ll be overwhelmed sooner than later,” she said. “There’s a turn that connects us to the enemy trench,“ she said pointing to the left side.
Jakoby peaked over the top. Fifty meters ahead he saw black shakos bobbing up and down. “Then I shall pay them a visit. Call in a three minute barrage and increase your volume of fire once complete,” he said pulling the vox operator closer by the strap of his pack. “Send a portion of yours our way another three minutes after we leave.”
“Yes, Lord.”
As she spoke into the mic Jakoby led the squad to the left. At the end of the trench a team watched the corner. He drew his sword and pulled one of the cadets to the front. “Shoot blind, then move. Understand?”
“Yes, Commissar.”
Once the barrage ended he ordered them forward at a fast walk, pointing his pistol over the shoulder to the cadet he made pointman. Two minders stepped over the top to observe, following their route. At a right turn the boy did as he was ordered and shot before pivoting in. Another cadet tossed a grenade over the top, far enough that there would be no risk of walking into the blast. They came upon a junction where Jakoby left three to keep watch before moving on. At another turn they encountered a group of exiles on the move that did not notice their approach until it was too late.
The Tallarn’s reinforcements arrived in time for Jakoby to storm the enemy trench. They were taking cover as rounds peppered their frontline, intiating a fighting retreat. The pointman was downed before Jakoby took his place, joined by another cadet at his side, pressing forward as rounds whizzed past his head. When they reached the end a pair of exiles stepped from around a corner. The Lord Commissar slashed the first and came down on the second with his saber. Even as a training weapon the men were not please to be struck.
“Bastard!” shouted one of them. “It’s just a game, you-“
Upon seeing his black coat and tall cap, the exiles prostrated themselves in the dirty snow, hands on their head.
“Leave your weapons, grenades, and ammo. You two are out of play.”
“Yes, Commissar! Apologies, Commissar!”
They scrambled out of the trench as Jakoby waved his cap to the rear before the Tallarn waved back.
A cadet sergeant came closer and crouched. “Shall we press ahead?”
“We shan’t. There aren’t nearly enough of us to cover the area. The further we stretch, the easier we tear. Send a runner back to Commissar Tayi. We hold what we have and update command on our status. Request relief.”
“Yes, Commissar.”
When the boy jogged away Jakoby holstered and sheathed his weapons to take up a rifle.
*
Thanks to friendly artillery and heavy weapons, the company maintained their small gains without losing many into the night. Jakoby cycled between the front and back line where Tayi remained. In the ruins to the left and right the fighting went on, the echo between the ruins making the distant gunfire sound closer. More than once cadets suggested scouting one of the closest buildings before Jakoby denied them.
He elected not to sleep against the trench wall, his cap removed to reduce his profile. His view was just over the top, the Toppled Spire marked by lights that dotted the windows and roof. On the ground he could see nothing, even after his eye adjusted to define the contours and convexes of the terrain. Besides the fighting, he was thankful he could hear nothing but wind until a spurt of static in his earbead made him flinch.
“Coming in at your six, Lord Commissar,” said a voice in Gothic. “Do not shoot me.”
He recognized it, but could not imagine the face. Down the trench cadets at rest stood enough to look to the rear. Jakoby assumed they heard something entirely different and turned to the darkness at his back.
Slowly a pair of white caped men crawled into view. Goggles with three scopes protruded from their masked faces. One of them carried a white box on his back connected to a headset. Together they turned about at the edge and crawled backwards into the trench. Down the line, similarly dressed men arrived in similar fashion. Jakoby stayed at his position when one of them pulled up his goggles and balaclava.
“Well done, sir,” said Master Ivan Puzikas in Gothic. “We’re your relief. Apologies for the delay.”
“I am surprised to find you out here, Master.”
“Likewise. All gromy must oversee training of the next generation.” He lightly slapped the chest of the man beside him with the back of his hand. “This is my nephew, Saulius. He’s done the family proud. All that’s left is to find him a mate.”
Saul nodded. “Lord,” he said in Gothic.
Jakoby leaned off the wall to crouch with them. “I assume there is a plan?”
“A battalion of foot is to move up the center,” said Ivan. “Our job is to give them a head start. I have it on good authority you’re quite adept at trench fighting.”
He stared for less than a moment. “I would have to agree, Master.”
“Me and mine will go over the top on our guts. You and yours will snake around. How far up is the enemy?”
“Fifty meters if these trenches follow a standardized lay out.”
“Then start moving after ten minutes. Go loud. By the time you get to their line, it shall be ours. Try not to shoot us.”
“The flanks are not clear, Master.”
“They are, Lord Commissar. At this moment, we control half of the ruins, left and right.”
Jakoby’s mouth hung open before he nodded. “I shall prepare the cadets to move.”
*
For the next three days the flanks and center gained ground toward the Toppled Spire in a single line. It was seventy-two hours on constant battle with platoons rotating out to ensure everyone took time to rest.
Despite remaining in reserve, Slava and the tankers could not go far from their vehicles other than to relieve themselves. Wrapped in blankets beneath a tarp, sleeping outside on top of the Leman Russ was far more ideal compared to the cramped stinking interior. Aer Crew flew in shifts with Polina’s team working the day. For a time, Maks and the pilots hardly left the cockpit between sorties as they rearmed and refueled. Casualties gathered at camp were tasked with bringing supplies to the front line. They would remain out of play until the seventh day.
Above the field office an observation gallery gave Dyatlov and Konstantyn complete dominion over the field. Through vox and visual capture, every part of the battle was available to the Marshals. Left over officers stood with them at the wall of windows overlooking the sector. Behind them subordinates tended vox casters, writing notes to bring to their superiors who would give an order or say nothing. A holoboard in the middle of the room redered the sector in green vectors, friend and enemy units marked blue and red.
The board showed the cadet line at the foot of the Topple Spire, the exiles completely cleared out of the field and ruins. Infantry took fire and returned it from where cover and defilade was ideal. The ground leading to the Spire was an open fifty-meter stretch of flat land, the inner edge bordered by a tall embankment before rows of dragon’s teeth. The gate at the middle portion on the right was a direct route inside, but remained shuttered since the exile artillery moved off the field days ago.
Dmytro stood between his parents, peering through his binoculars in unintentional mimicry. Both adults lowered theirs at the same time and produced a pocket chronometer. After reading the time, they looked at each other, mouths twisted.
“Bolkonsky,” said Dyatlov looking over his shoulder.
A young man rushed from the holoboard to stand stiffly, one arm replaced with polished steel bionics. A woman close in age joined him, both wide-eyed. “Sir?”
“Vox the cadet XO to remind his marshal of the time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do the same, Rostova,” added Konstantyn.
“Aye-aye, ma’am.”
The Marshals turned back, looking down on the sector with their naked eyes.
“Could’ve finished this last night,” said Dyatlov. “Six days he dragged his feet.”
“I also blame yours for all the complaints my girls have been making,” said Konstantyn. “So many pointless sorties, I had to tell my cadet to ground them until the infantry pushed closer. Apparently, she was sending them out just to keep busy.”
Dyatlov grunted. “Apologies, dear.” With a shrug he added, “He’s done well enough.”
She sighed. “As did mine, I suppose. Can’t expect them to be experts.”
After a moment, Dmytro was the first to notice friendly Basilisks roll halfway up the field. There they would sit in widely spaced rows until the boy’s eyes panned left. “Look, Father! The tanks! The tanks!”
Dyatlov and Konstantyn glassed the Lemans funneling between the ruins across the breath of the field at speed. A moment later, Chimera’s emerged in their wake at a slow pace as the Basilisks intiated a bombardment on the Toppled Spire.
The Marshal made a toothy smile. “Seems I sold the boy too short too soon.”
“Indeed,” added the Aer Marshal. “The timing’s ideal,” she said lowering the binoculars and making for the holoboard.
Dyatlov knelt beside Dmytro. “Pay close attention, son. What you’re about to see is combined arms in action.”
“What about air support? Mother says we cannot win without it.”
“That will be here soon. Watch the sky.”
Konstantyn found Master Artur leaning over the holoboard as armor icons moved up the center. He pulled one end of his long mustache as he watched a cluster of icons slowly drift north on the right flank. He pointed at it when she came closer. “Look at that. Near had me thinking he was another dumb city-boy. He’s holding us back until enemy armor reveals itself to meet ours in the open. When they get closer, we’ll rush in,” he said clasping his hands together with a laugh. “Are we sure that cadet marshal was not born a kossak?” he asked Konstantyn.
“Piotr will know,” she said. “I must contact Ivan.”
“Right.” Artur looked about the desks and snapped his fingers into a pointing gesture. “That one. Denisov.”
“Thank you, Artur.” The man was clearly not a grom, another young lieutenant that stood when Konstantyn approached. “As you were. Get me Master Puzikas.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Denisov adjusted the tuner and spoke into the mic before passing the headset. She held it by one of the earmuffs with the mic at her lips. “Do you read me, Ivan?”
“I do, Aer Marshal. Enjoying the view?”
“Always. If you haven’t already, will you impress upon my cadet equivalent your group’s skill in airborne infiltration? The enemy’s roof is too green.”
“I shall.”
*
It was Aleks’s turn to carry the half-drums with Aleksandr hauling the barrel and gun. They were attached to a squad, waiting in the forwardmost trench on the left flank. They could see just over the top at the tanks rolling towards them, the vibration in the ground growing with every meter. So much armor gathered in one place, they watched in awe and did not fear being crushed if the drivers veered off course.
The Lemans cut their speed and traversed over the trenches in between the cadets, giving them time to climb over the top and crouch-walk in their shadows, two squads for each tank heading toward the top and bottom portions of the Spire across the flats. The right wing of the armored line, free of infantry, slowly pushed toward the middle portion. The Basilisks ceased bombardment for the Lemans to open with their main guns, badgering the structure while the right wing crept silently in a perpendicular line.
Slava’s tank rolled toward the top portion, eyes on the monitor as sought movement in the windows. His angle was limited with another Leman Russ to the side. A ringing rattled between his ears since the main gun started going off regularly. The loader worked in perfect choreography, pulling a shell from the rack, loading, turning away for the gun to eject before grabbing another.
The cadet commander’s head was halfway out of the copula, elbows resting on the rim with the intercom mic close to his mouth. “That berm looks steep, Serzyhat.”
“They’re supposed to be steep, kid.”
“Too steep for us. Maybe so for the guys on our ass.”
“Watch and learn, boys. When you run up a hill, hike your knees.”
Changing gears the driver shoved the throttle and the engine roared louder. Heat wash flooded the interior with the stink of burning steel and exhaust. Slava and the crew lerched and braced in their places. Outside, the Leman Russ sped forth, followed by the rest of the line. The squads quickened their pace to a run. Behind Aleksandr, Aleks helped him carry the back of the gun with one hand. When the tanks hit the embankment the engines roared as they slowly crawled up.
The infantry knelt below and engaged the windows until the Lemans were all the way up. Rather than charge in a bunch, squad leaders sent groups of two or four, prioritizing the weapons teams. Aleks and Aleksandr followed in the deep grooves of the treads to get a foothold, leaning with the slope. Grabbing a hold of the Leman’s tread, Aleksandr pulled himself up before reaching a spare hand out to Aleks.
Green powder burst at their feet and the tank as they skittered in the snow beneath the barking sponson. Aleks tried to ignore that his precious gun was being dragged behind as they reached the front end, crouching to avoid the bow gun. Not even a few meters from the line of dragon’s teeth, Aleksandr was hit across the back and collapsed.
“Damn-it!” Aleks quickly grabbed the gun before the barrel, shoving them toward the closest tooth. “Good luck,” said Aleksandr, lying in the snow with his hands on his head.
Aleks was thinking too fast to reply and threw himself into cover behind the tooth. Throwing off his pack to the side, he put his back against the tooth and secured the gun between his knees. With a growl he shoved the barrel in before rolling over to lean it against the baracade. Aleks slotted a half-drum and lifted the cannon onto the flat top of the tooth. Infantry rushed in from behind as he fired on the windows.
*
The acceleration was so fast Polina held a hanging strap above the door with her other hand on the heavy bolter, leaning against the push. Outside she saw flak burst in clouds of green before the vox barked.
“All guns, front-face,” said Aunt Sasha. “Fire at will.”
“Aknowledged,” she and the other girls replied.
The safety line pulled tight around her waist when Polina leaned out of the door, turning the weapon forward. She could not see enough of the enemy roof to pick targets, but she knew the bolter was pointed where it was supposed to be. Flying in a spear formation, the Valkyries saturated the roof of the bottom portion in blue. Exiles abandoned the AA guns and ran for a small square structure in the center, crowding the one accessible door. Being in the front of the formation, Polina’s Valkyrie was the first to land.
Like before, the cadet sergeant sat on the floor behind the heavy stubber. On either side of her were two coils of thick rope with one end attached to railings in the ceiling. In the hold cadet grom were dressed like any other infantryman, the one outlier being Master Ivan in full field dress and armor. A brass respirator hid his face with round red lenses. As customary, his bionic legs were openly displayed.
“Crew, cease-fire. Cease-fire. Prepare for passenger drop-off. Cover descent.”
“Aknowledged,” said Polina pulling her weapon and self back in.
Ivan stood up when the ramp began to open, the Valkyrie decelerating into a hover. He walked as if unaffected by the motion to wait behind one of the rope coils. When the ramp was down, the cadet sergeant flinched at the Master grabbing one coil to toss it over, pulling the railing. She threw the other coil just as the male cadets rose to their feet.
Ivan stepped down the ramp to grip the rope and looked back with his red eyes. “A true leader is the first on and the last off,” he said through a vox-emitter before stepping over.
*
For a kilometer Roman and the cadet kossaks slowly trotted through the ruins, lying on their saddles. Very few infantry remained throughout the ruins, held back to meet any enemy trying to slip through. The kossaks were armed with lances tipped with training warheads, the spares on a small rack hanging behind one leg. On the other side a rifle sat snug in a leather scabbard. By the pommel a pair of archeo-revolvers were holstered, joined by a training saber that Roman felt disgusted at the thought of holding.
Boredom wreaked worse havoc than the awkward position in which he had been ordered to assume, aggrivating the scar across his liver. At the largest of all the exercises, he and his fellows were held back six days before deployment. Myrat made his disatifaction known, swinging his neck once with a metallic nicker.
Roman petted his steel mane. “You and me both,” he whispered. “Somehow I had more fun on that one reconessance mission. What’re they thinking keeping us in reserve?”
The koba snorted.
“I hope so. I can hear the engines… When I met her in riding class, she did better than I expected for a northern. You would’ve been proud… Even if it were it allowed, I would forbid her. You know the saying, ‘A kossak not dead by thirty is good-for-nothing,’ and you barely made it to twenty-three.” He sighed. “Forgive me, but I wish to last long enough to hear my firstborn speak.”
Myrat stayed silent when his head cocked up with the spurt of static in Roman’s earbead.
“All squads forward,” said his company commder. “Double-time. Prepare for armored engagement. Noise Discipline.”
A wide smiled formed across his face.
The kossaks did not move all at once, the company stretching forward. Through the ruins they galloped at a fast conservative gate. Roman girpped the reins in one hand, the other holding the lance pointed to the sky. He resisted the urge to heel Myrat harder, ready to run head long into whatever was waiting. Another kilometer later the company slowed as they neared a hill on the otherside of the ruins. It was a slumped pile of debris and snow cut with several paths wide enough to accommodate a koba. Black exhaust rose above the summit as guns boomed from the other side, the ground trembling.
Roman’s heart raced and Myrat shook its neck, whickering loudly with a blow of steam from his nostrils. He adjusted his grip in the lance, looking up to the blue warhead. Turning to the summit he clenched his jaw. One narrow path between old rockcrete shown like a threshold that Roman was desperate to bolt through. The other boys and their steeds waited anxiously to move, digging their hooves in the snow.
“Watch me, Father,” he whispered, struggling to resist bearing his teeth. “Watch me, Mother.”
So transfixed in his vision, he did not see the company commander trot to the summit and draw his saber. With a blow of a whistle he called for a charge. Roman joined in the hooting and howling as the company heeled forth. His lance lowered with his descent, flat with the horizon once on the other side.
Across the flats exile Lemans streamed from the gate of the middle portion, painted in a bright green with a grey stripe. They engaged cadet armor to the left as they gave ground. By the time the kossaks were committed, the exiles were halfway in front of the bottom portion of the Toppled Spire.
Normally they would aim for treads, seams between articulating components or even flat-facing armor, but for any hits to count, the kossaks stabbed their lances into the bow, sponsons or turret for the crew to see. Just as they had been taught they jabbed their warheads at full speed, darting past. Some dropped their lances, but those that did not let their kobas ride freely to replace warheads.
Roman sat up in his stirrups, holding the lance tucked under his arm as Myrat turned wide to the right. By the time the lance was ready and in his grip, Roman saw that he was going full speed toward another Leman Russ. He leveled the warhead across his saddle before Myrat suddenly hopped and stepped across the bow. Roman slammed down with a gasp when he landed, the lance slipping from his fingers. He looked back it lying in the dirty snow before it was trampled.
“You’re going to get us killed!” he laughed. He could not stop as he drew the revolers and took aim at the tanks’ viewports and any commander sticking their head out too far. “Watch me, Father!” he shouted after one shot, Myrat letting out a loud metallic neigh. “Watch me, Mother!”
Many kossaks flooded through the gate to the interior as the fighting continued. The Chimeras had waited on the field before enough armor was knocked out to push, parking beneath the embankment to offload their troops. The fighting became concentrated within the Topple Spire, each floor a battle. Above and below the cadets fought to reach the center. Before dusk they were leaning out of the windows cheering toward the field office. There, Dyatlov and Konstantyn clapped with their officers, Dmytro cheering between them.
Glossary of Terms
Apparatek -the political body of Vostroya
apparatik (plural ‘appartiki’) -a member of the Apparatek
grom (plural ‘gromy’) -grenadier
kobarda (plural ‘kobardas’/abbreviated ‘koba(s)’) -mechanical horses
kossak (plural ‘kossaks’) -cavalry branch of the Firstborn
Obnovlenye -time of renewal
otvergat (plural ‘otvergati’) -reject, nameless
polkovnik (plural ‘polkovniki’) -clan leader
serzhyat (plural ‘serzhyata’) -trainer
sich (plural ‘sichi’) -clan village
sotnik (plural ‘sotnika’) -work chief
streltsy -retired serving firstborn
volot (plural ‘voloti’) -folklore giant
Vostnovit -when diminished Hosts are folded into others
voyshkola (plural ‘voyshkoli’) -war school’
Recommended Viewing/Reading
Union of Salvation, directed by Andrey Kravchuk
The Admiral, directed by Andrey Kravchuk
War and Peace, directed by Sergei Bondarchuk
Waterloo, directed by Sergei Bondarchuk
Mongol, directed by Sergei Bodrov
Enemy at the Gates, directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud
Come and See, directed by Elem Klimov
The Duelists, directed by Ridley Scott
The Wind and the Lion, directed by John Milius
Always with Honor, written by Pyotr Wrangel
My Dress-Up Darling, written by Shinichi Fukuda
With the Old Breed, written by E.B. Sledge
Fury, directed by David Ayer
CT's Work 