Steel Tread (Warhammer 40,000) by Andy Clark

Author:Andy Clark [Clark, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2021-12-03T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

COMING UNSTUCK

Verro could hear the growl of vehicle engines. The sound dwelled in the space where consciousness blended with dream, interspersed with a faint thump and rattle that he couldn’t place. He wondered why the repair shrines had started their labours early today. With that thought came the familiar stab of irritation that the Whiteshields were barracked closest to the source of the racket, and that disturbing the new recruits’ sleep was a quite deliberate part of their training regime.

That wasn’t right though, was it? The repair shrines had been part of his childhood. This was Kasr Haark. That din would be coming off the live-fire training ranges on the moors to the north. He groaned at the thought he’d be out there soon enough, soaked and freezing, trying to tally enough target-kills to earn his breakfast.

They’d better be proud of me, he thought, semi-coherently, and rolled over in his bunk.

A lance of pain shot through his shoulder, like someone had stuck hooks into his muscle, inflexible things that pinched cruelly and refused to move when he did. He remembered the crimson flash of a las-bolt refracting through rain, and placed the pain.

Old grief washed over him as the blessed amnesia of unconsciousness fled. The Cadian Kasrs, his squadmates… his family… Marko… All years gone. All ashes.

New memories surfaced, dumping adrenaline into his veins. Verro fought off the last tatters of sleep as though clawing his way out of a shroud.

He was propped in the corner formed by a stowage box and the depleted shell-rack. The roar he’d heard was Steel Tread’s power plant. With consciousness came the realisation that it was labouring.

Verro squinted, eyes tearing against brightness.

There came the thump-rattle again and he recognised bolt-fire.

He looked towards the commander’s seat, which was empty but limned by daylight spilling down through the hatch above. Etsul must be on the pintle, he realised.

Verro’s mouth was dust dry and his head thumped in time with his heart. Waves of nausea billowed through him, and he couldn’t tell if they were the result of pain, medication or the grav-pulses of the eclipse.

He registered that Chalenboor was hunched over her station while Moretzin occupied his.

The next thing that struck him, as the power plant revved again, was that Steel Tread wasn’t moving.

Verro took a quick self-inventory. Tender lump at his temple, which might explain why he felt so woozy. A few sore spots that experience told him were minor cuts and bruises and could be easily ignored. The main damage was in his shoulder, which he found was tightly wound in a compact of gauze-weave. Gentle prodding revealed the give of a medi-poultice underneath to pack and sterilise the wound. Chalenboor had done a good job – a thought that made him feel both guilty and grateful.

After a few steadying breaths, Verro managed to sit up straight. He could just see the backs of Trieve’s and the sergeant’s heads now, both bent over their stations.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Hopeless. Even if his voice hadn’t been a dry croak, no one would have heard him through the din.

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