Chapter 17

  The roar of the Redeemer’s engines was a glorious, thunderous lie. Two kilometres away, Captain Fabian and the ten battle-brothers of Tactical Squad Ventris watched the pillar of fire and smoke that marked the Land Raider’s rampage. The Speed Freeks, as predicted, had swarmed it, their war cries adding to the beautiful caterwaul. It was the perfect distraction.

  “Allfather of the forge guides our path,” Brother-Sergeant Invictus, driver of the Redeemer, voxed, his voice steady despite the chaos. “The xenos are… enjoying the spectacle. No hostiles en route to your position.”

  “Hold their attention, Invictus,” Fabian replied, his voice a low rasp. “For the Emperor.”

  He turned his attention to the target: the aqueduct pumping station. It was a squat, brutalist structure of rust-red iron and weeping pipes, a carbuncle on the face of the plains. Auspex scans showed minimal life signs inside. The trap was set, but Fabian had his own counter-trap to spring.

  “Breaching formation,” he ordered.

  They moved like blue ghosts through the fire-lit gloom, their ceramite boots making no sound on the scrap-strewn ground. They reached the main entrance, a crude door of welded plates. A melta charge was placed, and with a brief, sharp hiss, the door turned to slag. They poured inside, bolters raised, sweeping every corridor and gantry.

  The station was empty. The Orks had smashed the primary machinery, huge pistons lay shattered, and the control panels were riddled with Ork graffiti and axe-marks. It was a ruin. But the secondary conduits, the ones that fed the less critical parts of the network, were still intact.

  “Brother Heston, get the main pump operational,” Fabian commanded. The squad’s Techmarine nodded and set to work, his servo-arms already communing with the battered machine-spirit of the control panel.

  Fabian moved to a grimy viewport, his bionic eye zooming in on the landscape beyond. He wasn't just here for water. He had observed the Orks for days. He had seen the supply lines, the crude Trukks that rumbled from the east towards the siege lines. They weren't carrying ammunition. They were carrying food and drink. Fungus beer, roasted squigs, and vats of brackish water for the besieging horde.

  “Captain,” Heston announced. “I can reactivate the pump. We can divert water back to the forge.”

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  “Negative, Brother,” Fabian said, turning from the window. “The Warboss expects that. He will have this station surrounded in moments. We are not here for our own supplies. We are here to destroy his.”

  He pointed out the viewport. “The main aqueduct pipeline runs parallel to their primary supply route. Heston, I want you to rig explosive charges to the pipe, here, here, and here.” He indicated three points along the massive, elevated conduit. “And I want you to divert the entire station's water pressure to that single pipeline.”

  Sergeant Chronus, ever the pragmatist, understood immediately. “The pressure will be immense. When we blow the pipe…”

  “We will create a flash flood,” Fabian finished, a cold, hard light in his eyes. “A torrent of high-pressure water aimed directly at their supply convoy and their fungus fields beyond.”

  It was a crude, brutal, and wasteful tactic. It was an Ork tactic.

  Heston’s work was swift. The charges were placed. The pump groaned to life, the pipes shuddering under the immense, contained pressure. As they worked, the vox crackled. It was Gitsmasha’s welcome party arriving. Heavy, metallic clangs echoed from the station's exterior as the ambushers sealed the exits. They were trapped. As planned.

  “Invictus,” Fabian voxed to the Redeemer. “Phase two.”

  “Acknowledged, Captain.”

  On the plains, the Land Raider suddenly changed its behaviour. It ceased its random rampage and began a direct, aggressive charge towards the pumping station, its flamers clearing a path. The Speed Freeks, caught by surprise, scattered or were incinerated.

  “Charges are set, Captain,” Heston reported.

  “The convoy is in the kill zone,” Chronus added, watching through his own scope.

  Fabian took the detonator from Heston. “For Cassian,” he whispered, and pressed the button.

  The world outside erupted. Three sections of the massive pipe blew outwards with the force of a macro-cannon shell. A tidal wave of pressurised water, thick with rust and filth, slammed down onto the plains below. It hit the Ork supply convoy with the force of a physical blow, flipping Trukks end over end, washing away Boyz and supplies in a torrent of mud and debris. The slaughter was immediate and absolute.

  “The main entrance is clear,” Chronus announced, watching the Redeemer blast the barricading Orks to pieces. “Invictus has opened our path.”

  “Move out,” Fabian ordered. “Our work here is done.”

  They ran from the station, the screams of the trapped ambushers behind them drowned out by the roar of the flood and the flames of the Redeemer. They had water for no one, but they had crippled the Ork supply line and turned their own ambush into a watery grave. They piled into the Land Raider’s assault ramp, the blessed chill of its interior a welcome relief. They were not victorious, not yet. But for the first time since landing on this rust-ball of a world, they had struck a blow that the Warboss would feel. The hunt was not over. It had just become personal.