Ciaphas Cain: Choose Your Enemies

‘And the Guard are already here,’ I tried to reassure any of his compatriots in a fit state to listen, but that seemed to be precious few of them. I tapped the comm-bead in my ear. ‘Incoming. Sounds like jetbikes.’ I turned back to face the slowly encroaching fog bank.

‘On our way, commissar,’ the welcome voice of Lieutenant Grifen responded, ‘ETA three minutes. Can you hold that long?’

‘Looks like we’ll have to,’ I said, as the squad of troopers with me disembarked, levelling their lasguns, and the Chimera’s gunner rotated the turret.

‘How about you?’ Amberley voxed her entourage.

‘Five minutes at least.’ Pelton sounded faintly breathless. ‘We’re on foot.’

‘They’re not,’ Amberley said, and opened fire with her bolt pistol. A trio of green-and-purple jetbikes burst from the fog bank, looping around the ceiling, firing as they came. Everyone else still in the area reacted in the usual manner of civilians suddenly finding themselves in mortal danger, screaming and milling around for a moment before cowering in whatever bolt-holes they could find, where they began swearing, weeping, or whining to the Emperor for protection depending on their temperament.

The troopers with me reacted rather more positively, opening fire with their lasguns and the Chimera’s heavy bolter, with the usual lack of effect given the speed and agility of their targets.

‘Look out!’ I yelled, as the lead jetbike turned lazily and began a strafing run across the width of the cargo bay. The troopers needed no urging, having seen enough of their comrades chewed to pieces by the fast-moving flyers’ heavy shuriken cannon on Drechia, and hunkered down, returning fire doggedly from behind whatever cover came to hand. I lost no time in seeking refuge behind a handy servitor, which went on stacking crates with single-minded diligence until a hail of the lethal spinning discs severed a power line and a couple of major muscle groups, whereupon it began to twitch uselessly, leaking blood and lubricants all over my greatcoat. Amberley, however, was not so lucky, being caught in the open while the razor-edged projectiles lacerated the air around her.

Before I could react she vanished abruptly, with a crack of imploding air, and I breathed a faint sigh of relief, recognising the activation of her displacer field.

‘Frakking warp, I hate that!’ a voice said behind me, and a vengeful flurry of pistol bolts emerged from a waste disposal area which smelled almost as unpleasant as it looked.

The lead jetbike touched down, its occupant vaulting lithely from the saddle and sprinting in my direction. I sent a couple of laspistol bolts towards it, but the eldar leapt gracefully aside, progressing in a series of leaps and bounds which kept throwing my aim off. Before I knew it the creature was within striking distance, lashing out at me with its chainsword.

Rolling aside I drew my own, blocking frantically, and the blades clashed, throwing out sparks as two sets of whirling teeth met; then, to my surprise, the eldar drew away, vaulting lithely over the still twitching servitor, and out of reach of my weapon.

‘Second wave incoming, sir!’ Jurgen warned, his voice in my ear attenuated by the vox-bead, an instant before a blinding flash confirmed that Yanbel’s reconsecration of his precious melta had been successfully carried out. Blinking my eyes clear, I found a second trio of the whining jetbikes now whirling above my head. One was trailing smoke, I was pleased to see, but whether that was the result of my aide’s intervention or the Chimera’s heavy bolter I couldn’t have said. Two more of the eldar flyers were grounding now, their riders disembarking to follow the first, and aware that I was right in their path I lost no time in scrambling aside, seeking the cover of a stack of waste drums close to where Amberley had apparently ended up.

‘What in the warp are they doing?’ I asked, more rhetorically than because I expected an answer. The three eldar were searching through the pile of crates the servitor had been sorting, while their circling brethren kept up a withering suppressive fire, apparently unconcerned by the las-bolts the troopers of the 597th persisted in sending their way every time an opportunity presented itself to pop up and shoot.

‘Stealing stuff. They’re pirates, remember?’ Amberley said, a faint air of testiness colouring her voice. She scrambled into my refuge, the front of her jacket stained with something I neither wanted to look at or smell too closely.

‘Seems like they got what they came for,’ I said, sending a couple of laspistol bolts in their general direction. It was true; picking up a crate each they sprinted for their downed flyers, attached them in some fashion I failed to apprehend, and leapt into their saddles.