The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

XVI: Practical Prudence

Even with feet of duracrete, durasteel rebar and half a formerly-furnished house between them and the open road, the chug chug chug of an autocannon did not cease. Dust and grit whipped into the air, matching each crack and thud of a shell striking and detonating. Zalthis raised an eyebrow to his partner who did his level best to shrug in half-plate.

‘It must be a droid,’ Solidian argued. ‘Any fool with eyes could see they will run dry long before punching through these walls.’

‘Are not the thinking machines supposed to be intelligent?’ Zalthis countered, leaning to the side to peer back through a torn gash in the hab’s wall. Inside, in the light filtering through dozens of gaps in the wartorn ceiling, he could see broken remnants of plastek furniture, rags that had once been cushions and sundry implements of a normal life covered in dirt and debris. The middle wall of the hab bore small holes, each shining with shafts of light in the drifting dust and as he watched another appeared as still more shells smacked into the residence. Zalthis settled back next to Solidian, hefting his boltpistol in one hand.

‘Intelligence does not mean competence in tactics, I think. They are not even suppressing us here.’

Solidian slowly nodded in agreement. ‘Brakeran’s team is north and circling closer. All they’re doing is helping him find them.’

‘So, droids,’ Zalthis repeated.

‘Droids, yes,’ Solidian confirmed. ‘Bolts, then.’ The other neophyte stowed the still unfamiliar rifle at his side, drawing his own boltpistol to match Zalthis’. Zalthis held up a hand, five fingers extended, slowly dropping them one by one. As each digit curled, he felt hormones flood his system, felt heat spread through his still-aching muscles. At one, both neophytes surged to their feet, launching out to either side of the hab.

Sprinting, ceramite tread crunching fragments of glass and wood beneath them, Zalthis cleared the side of the hab in only moments. In the air, crossing the avenue, he could see an autocannon round, delicately whirling, moving swiftly enough but he marveled he could see it at all, rather than just a flat streak of motion. Across the avenue climbed a four-story mercantile building. An exterior assemblage of a kind once spread happily about the waist of it, but now the gaily colored umbrellas and awnings were torn and stained, tables upended, wrought-metal fencing twisted and snarled.

Muzzle flash came from the third story, fourth window from the left. Zalthis set his sights over the window, accounting for the probable length of the autocannon barrel and delicately depressed the trigger. For a moment he thought his pistol coughed twice - the distinctive bark of a mass-reactive firing was doubled and he realized Solidian had matched him near-exactly.

Overpressure and shrapnel blew out the lintels of the window and the autocannon silenced.

Shards of metal rained down as well and Solidian snatched one from the air, smirking and then tossing it to Zalthis.

The curved shape, scorched at the edges, still held a bronze sheen.

‘Droids it was,’ Solidian laughed.

The two neophytes picked along a narrow alley. In the future, such confines might constrict them to move single-file, but for the moment, in their stripped down scout’s harness, both youths jogged side-by-side. Solidian was Prandian, with dark eyes, dark hair and a tanned complexion barely touched by the geneseed. Prandium never contributed many to the ranks of the Legiones, never able to match the far larger populations of anchor worlds like Iax, Konor, Calth, Occluda, Saramanth or, of course, Macragge. Still, sons of that garden world still passed through the trials of Parmenio along with all the rest and Solidian was proof that the Legiones were the Five Hundred Worlds as much as the Five Hundred Worlds were the Legiones. Zalthis once had curly hair as dark as Solidian’s, long since reduced to the barest fuzz on his scalp, but aside from that, he was clearly a son of Macragge, no different to their august father. Blue eyes, pale skin and with the same aquiline nose now enlarged along with all of his other features, swollen out of proportion by the gene-science of Mars and Terra.

But they wore the Ultima, the same rich blue of the Legion. So many other of the Legiones Astartes pulled from but one world, one culture and Zalthis knew, as he had been taught, that it was to their detriment. Zalthis came from Macragge and Solidian from Prandium, but both leant perspective the other had not considered, outside as it was to their upbringing. Solidian, used to broad expanses of vineyards and olive groves, had none of the context for dense urban navigation that Zalthis did, as he had spent his but recently departed youth in the ancient mazes of southern Magna Macragge Civitas, where the dense warrens sprawled out to the shining gulf and dockyards besides.

In return, Solidian had a greater sense for vagaries of weather and soil, laughing once at their training cadre’s struggle with a Rhino fouled by knee-deep mud, until he’d used the Sergeant’s chainsword to bring down a young tree, wedging it beneath the tracks. Hypnomat conveyed many things: Zalthis knew precisely where to shoot an ork to sever its redundant nerve-clusters, but it seemed something so simple as forging through quagmires was deemed unimportant.

He’d said as much to the Sergeant, who had struck the back of his head gently - it only made him stumble forward a pace - and told him that was what training was for.

It was like Qario, who was from Konor, who everyone called the Little Magos, for how well he could field-strip any weapon, any tool they forced on him. They all brought their strengths from across the Five Hundred Worlds and then on Parmenio forged them all into the alloyed adamantium of the Legion.

Parmenio, which was far and farther away, as distant as Macragge and everything Zalthis and Solidian and Qario and all the others knew.

Zalthis caught movement across the alley, too slow to be posthuman, too fluid to be droid, and brought up his secondary armament, firing off an azure crack of energy without thinking. The figure slumped into a heels-over-head slide, boneless, out of sight. Solidian darted forward, hauling Zalthis’ target out of a doorway and rolling them over.

‘Ouch,’ the neophyte observed neutrally, peering down at blood leaking from a mashed and clearly broken nose. Zalthis took a knee, rifling through pockets of the unconscious man’s uniform. A handful of power cells, matching the rifle on a sling around the man’s shoulder. A datapad, deactivated, some papers. Nothing important or useful, but Zalthis did slip the power cells into a pouch, along with ejecting the one from the rifle and taking that too. The man would be unconscious for hours and unlikely to be found until the exercise was over, but leaving an armed combatant was anathema to their training.

Leaving a living combatant had been as well, once upon a time.

‘Bind him?’ Solidian asked. Zalthis considered it.

‘Too much time.’ He stood, considered, then pumped another shot into the man, making his body seize momentarily. They’d been instructed on the operation of the local weaponry, these ‘stun’ blasters. A human could withstand several without permanent damage, at least that is what the Magos believed.

Now Zalthis and his compatriots carried two pistols: one bolt and one stun. The bolt was for droids, the word this world draped over abominable intelligences, and the stun was for biologicals. Humans. Xenos. He wasn’t sure he would be able to make the choice when it came to it. For these men and woman though, here and now, they could make no mistake.

This exercise was not just to instruct the neophytes of the XIIIth - it was to introduce the nascent 1st Eboracum Auxilia to the ways of war of the Imperium and the Legiones Astartes. These men and women were those that volunteered to leave their old lives behind, to serve the future of Mankind, in the name of the Emperor, and Zalthis had only the deepest respect for each of them, opposing force foes in this moment or not. Before the neophytes departed, he made sure to elevate the man’s head, so that the trickle of blood from his nose might not choke him in his slumber.

Then Zalthis and Solidian continued on, toward the heart of the settlement.

The 1st Eboracum Auxilia wanted to keep their own weapons. From what Zalthis heard, when presented with proper Illuminator-VI rifles, hot pressed and the last from the forges of Veridia, the auxilia soldiers had turned up their noses, much to the insult of the magi and Army. They argued that ‘blasters’ were better and that besides, it was what they knew anyway. Why spend time adapting to new weapons when they had rifles whose parts and ammunition could be found at any decently sized settlement in the known galaxy.

General Caraen allowed for the 1St Eboracum to use both in this exercise and Zalthis grimaced at the dynamism of incoming fire. Hot snaps of light, like bars bright enough to see even under midday sun, slapped him in the chest and shoulders, spalling ceramite and filling his nose with the scent of burnt metal. Conversely, slower blasts punched small craters here and there, but imparted kinetic force in a way lasguns did not. More than once, used to the ablative nature of his armor, the thermal properties of las, Zalthis found his aim thrown astray as blasters punched into his shoulder and arm, sending shocks up his limb and checking his momentum.

Solidian, in position with a purloined autocannon, opened up from behind Zalthis, stitching fist-sized explosions along the distant barricade and forcing down the shapes of men and women in thick flak armor. Against mortals, an autocannon spelled as gruesome a death as mass reactives, designed to throw indiscriminate carnage across a wide area, but in the hands of a Space Marine, Solidian was careful to keep it depressed, cratering out the duracrate of the improvised barricade, never creeping high enough to risk serious injury. Hopefully the Sergeant would not disprove.

Zalthis palmed a flash grenade, rolling it in his palm as he judged trajectories, and then snapped his arm like a cannon. High it arced, soaring a hundred meters on a parabolic trajectory. He squinted, waiting one, two - candlepower screamed and with it men and women. But that checked only part of the defensive line and a shriek had Zalthis roll aside, krak round detonating where he’d just lain, clattering masonry and brick off his scout carapace.

He was fighting with both hands tied behind his back, scowling as he picked out the missile launcher drop back out of sight, no doubt reloading. A direct hit from a krak missile would kill him or any neophyte, but that was the price to be paid for being such a fool as to be struck by one. A near detonation might maim, but that too was the price of learning.

Zalthis would be far more sanguine if he could impart similar violence on his foes.

Solidian hefted his autocannon, rising from his defilade perch, bracing the cannon on his hip and continuing to fire. Immediately, las beams and blasters sought him out, sparking from ceramite and burning into fiberwoven bodysuit.

But the focus on his partner freed Zalthis and he would waste not a moment. Surging to his feet, blaster in one fist, boltpistol in the other, he sprinted for a series of craters carved out by artillery all around the central flagpole. A dozen, two dozen meters to cross. A hiss and Zalthis dodged leftward, contrail of a missile whipping under his arm. Sighting the one responsible, he picked out wide eyes, sweat, skin, and fired his blaster. Blue light crackled and down they went, launcher tumbling from nerveless hands. A hitching metallic shape appeared, reaching for it and this time Zalthis’ lips curled in violent pleasure. A bolt found the droid, puffing out its chest before flame curled and it crumpled, limbs loose.

Mixing droids and soldiery together made him doubt every shot, made him second-guess every pull of the trigger. He missed the clarity of training on Parmenio, against only other neophytes, where he could flex his transhuman abilities without fear, without censure.

Skidding and sliding down onto one thigh, like a strikeball player scoring a point, Zalthis tumbled down into a shell crater, las and blasts whipping overhead. Solidian wasn’t the only one covering him - five other teams of neophytes had arrived as they scouted the plaza. Qario had made it, though his partner was lost, overwhelmed by massed stunners and as the Konorite said, ‘quite insensate’. Zalthis had always been the fastest and they’d not bothered to drawn lots for this task: the only practical was his speed.

Altraedar, bearing a unique sniper variant of the local blasters, overwatched from a sixth story balcony. Lyros, like Solidian, laid down suppressive fire, this time from a rotary-barreled blaster, six barrels of lightning-crackling stunners flung downrange. He’d claimed half a platoon of the 1st Eboracum when he first opened up, raking along the barricade and catching them unawares. Petran, Sydaris and Evidur took opportunistic shots, darting from storefront to storefront, alternating bolts and stun blasts when they could. Tolon and Isidran were out of communication, working their way around the perimeter, hoping to encircle and strike the 1st Eboracum position from the rear.

Zalthis checked his chrono, eyes narrowing. The latter two should have begun their flanking assault forty seconds ago. Daring to chance, he poked his head above the rim of the crater, ducking back in moments as las clipped pavement. There had to be at least another two platoons in there, not just behind the primary barricade but woven up and into the buildings nearby.

A few krak charges, a melta bomb, perhaps a heavy flamer and such a position would be left as steaming corpses.

Zalthis grit his teeth.

Theoretical, the usage of nonlethal force encouraged sophisticated planning, quick reaction decision making and trained prudence.

Practical: it was infuriating.

‘Sol,’ he voxed, leaning his head closer to the cowl of his scout carapace.

‘Zalthis,’ his friend replied cheerfully, backdropped by the nonstop chug of his autocannon.

‘Flanking failed,’ Zalthis groused.

‘It seems that way,’ Solidian agreed. ‘Frontal it is, then. Paint my armor white and call me a son of Angron, I’ll buy you your moment! Lyros, with me. The rest - if I’ve claimed more than you, I’ll strangle you in your sleep. For Macragge!’

‘For Macragge!’ Zalthis echoed, the cry taken up around the square. The other neophytes broke cover, surging into the plaza, drawing attention to themselves as they raked fire along barricade and tattered wall. Glass, what little remained, burst and shattered from already jagged frames. Solidian surged past Zalthis’ crater and he looked up at his friend in surprise. The other neophyte held a door in front of him, braced to his shoulder and took withering fire on it like a breacher’s adamantium shield. His boltpistol was clamped to his thigh and instead he fired off stun blasts without pause, ejecting power cells and reloading one-handed.

Zalthis whipped cloth from his pouch, leaping out of the crater as Solidian interposed between the 1st Eboracum’s position and the flagpole. Another krak missile whirled past and then another flash of light and ear-ringing bang heralded a second flash grenade delivered behind the barricade.

‘Run it up!’ Solidian hissed, grimacing as las punched through weakened steel and dug into his hip and thigh.

It took only seconds to clip into the flagpole’s twisted metal line and then Zalthis was hauling, hauling like a fisher on the Gulf of Lycum, hauling until the line jerked and burned his palms through his bodyglove, when the flag struck the apex and the great white Ultima rippled over shouts and screams and gunfire.

‘Terminus!’

‘Terminus!’

‘Terminus!’

Gunfire slackened off and Zalthis peered owlishly around as Solidian exhaled and let his ruined ‘shield’ slide to the ground with a clatter. It cracked in half as it landed, eroded through almost completely. He offered his hand and Zalthis took it, the two embracing, forearm to forearm, and he clapped Solidian’s back.

‘Thanks, Sol.’ The other neophyte was scorched and battered but his smile was wild and open.

‘I had to find a way to stay awake,’ the Prandian observed. He stuck a finger into a blackened hole in his carapace plate, deep as the second knuckle and grimaced. ‘Stings a little.’

Zalthis watched Lyros jog over to the 1st Eboracum, rotary cannon discarded, pulling medicae supply from his own packs. His preliminary apothecary training came now to the fore, as a neophyte’s training was never done. The Sergeant stumped into the square, emerging from wherever he had been hidden, watching it all. Zalthis shook his head - even in full battleplate, crisply painted and gilt, none of them had once seen the Sergeant, but he had no doubt the never-sleeping eyes of the Sergeant had seen every single one of them and each of their actions.

‘Neophyte Zalthis, Neophyte Solidian.’

‘Sergeant,’ he replied, coming to attention and making the sign of the aquila.

‘Sergeant Ascratus,’ Solidian echoed.

Burning lenses bored into the both of them for a long moment of quiet.

‘Well fought,’ Ascratus spoke with the buzz-burr of vox, but the Sergeant’s praise was warm. Solidian seemed to stand even straighter, shedding discomfort from his myriad burns. Zalthis’ chest tightened at the praise and unconsciously he ran his fingers over the Ultima painted on his chest.

‘Qario, Lyros, Altraedar, Petran, Sydaris and Evidur are counted as battle-capable, as are you both. Neophytes Tolon and Isidiran are casualties.’

Solidian hissed through his teeth, shaking his head.

‘They were caught, sir?’

‘The ambushers ambushed,’ Sergeant Ascratus confirmed. ‘Practical?’

Zalthis considered it as Solidian frowned.

‘None of us are trained in covert operations, sir. Tolon and Isidiran were chosen by lot, as we considered all our skills equal. Against a hostile with better knowledge of the locale, they were at a disadvantage.’

Solidian nodded, adding his own thoughts after Zalthis finished his summary.

‘The 1st Eboracum’s numbers were unknown as well. We estimated four platoons at initial contact, but it may have been more. We sent two of our number without sufficient intelligence.’

Ascratus studied them both, arms folded across his broad plaston.

‘Correct. I would also append that in operation with a handicap, such as without armor support or heavy weaponry, the impact Neophytes Tolon and Isidiran could have had was minimal. Given your performance here, an additional two Marines would have allowed you to push to objective with less injury-’ Ascratus nodded toward Solidian, who winced as he slowly rotated his left shoulder. ‘-and in less time. The theoretical was sound, but incomplete. Your skills in covert operation as well are not equal. Your task, Neophyte Zalthis and Neophyte Solidian, is to prepare draft on all applicable skills and experience among those present today. You will describe and examine which are most suited to flanking and stealth operations. I expect it by midday tomorrow.’

Ascratus looked over the battered plaza one more time, pausing to look over at the grumbling auxilia as they helped fellows up and broke out rations of water to pass around.

‘There will be a debrief with the commanding Lieutenant of the Auxilia in three hours. Neophyte Solidian, find an apothecary. Zalthis, as you had assumed momentary command, you will speak for the XIIIth. Dismissed.’ Ascratus spun on armored heel and strode away, cape rippling behind him.

It was hard not to watch the Sergeant stride away, the most perfect icon of everything Zalthis wished to be. Though already as tall as his father and broader, stronger still, he knew he still looked half-made. The Sergeant, in his wargear, stood a head and more above him and Zalthis ached to wear the humming, purring Maximus plate. Glancing down at his own scarred and seared half-plate it seemed to small and insignificant, so fragile. Without his black carapace, no matter how he aped the heroes of the XIIIth, he was no Space Marine.

Clapping Solidian on the shoulder, chuckling as his friend winced, Zalthis took one last look at the departing Astartes.

That will be me, he swore. Yet none of the neophytes that survived Calth had yet been implanted with their carapace, none had been granted the last and final ascension. What more was there to prove?

Biting back a feeling of inadequacy, buffing it away as he looked up at the proud banner of Ultramar flying above, where he had delivered it, Zalthis savored the moment for just a bit longer. Still running his fingertips across his plastron, he imagined a cloak of command just like the Sergeant’s billowing out behind him, stitched in gold thread like the banner above. Battle Brother Zalthis of the XIIIth, he mouthed.

‘Come on then,’ Solidian called back. ‘I’ll need someone to cut me out of this damned armor. Shot to bits, it is.’

‘Practical,’ Zalthis loped to catch up to his friend, counting craters in the other neophyte’s wargear. ‘Don’t get shot.’

‘Theoretical: stop your gloryhounding.’

They traded lighthearted barbs as Thunderhawks growled overhead, coming to pick them all up from the ruined town. Depopulated by order of the Primarch, with residents relocated to larger centers on Eboracum, its proximity to the Pharisan Redoubt led Captain Argant to claim it for training, bringing in local munitions, vehicles and even droids, under the watchful eyes of Mechanicum magi to instruct the neophytes on this new galaxy. There were thirty-six, all told, and Zalthis still worried for those left behind on Calth, those who had escaped aboard other warships in other ragged flotilla. He, along with so many others, had been meant to earn their carapace in the campaign against the ork.

The Ghaslakh xenohold, what a lie that was.

He could not help but think of what it might mean to earn his carapace here, in ways that no other in the XIIIth ever had. To be the first Astartes welcomed into the ranks by service against strange new xenoforms, far from the light of the Astronomican and the reach of Terra and Ultramar. Perhaps there was still glory to be claimed, even here. And when they returned to Ultramar, as the Primarch promised, what stories they could tell their comrades.