Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第4章

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far　as　their　position；　but　there　was　no　sense　in　being　reckless。
The　lights　moved　on　and　Honsou　relaxed　a　fraction。　Routine　had　made　the　Imperial　troops　careless。　These　last　few　months　had
allowed　him　to　study　the　circuits　made　by　the　patrol　vehicles　and　plot　their　routes　and　timings。　The　warp　alone　knew　how　long
these　particular　soldiers　had　been　stationed　on　this　planet；　but　it　must　have　been　a　long　time。　It　was　only　natural　that　their　alertness
would　drop　and　patrol　patterns　would　become　predictable。　It　was　an　inevitable　price　for　long　tours　of　duty　and　it　would　soon　see
them　dead。
Satisfied　the　patrol　vehicle　had　moved　on；　he　extended　his　fist　once　again；　opening　and　shutting　it　three　times　in　rapid　succession。
They　were　too　close　to　the　spaceport　to　risk　any　form　of　vox　communication。　Honsou　heard　muffled　footfalls　behind　him　and
turned　as　a　figure　in　steeldust　armour；　chevroned　with　yellow　and　black；　crept　towards　him。　Goran　Delau；　his　second…incommand；
knelt　beside　him　and　nodded。　The　newcomer's　power　armour　was　heavily　modified　and　ornamented　with　skull…faced
rivets　and　brass　mouldings　of　writhing　faces　cunningly　worked　into　the　edging　of　his　shoulder　guards。　A　whining　servo　limb；　like
a　clawed　digger　arm；　lolled　over　Delau's　right　shoulder；　the　ribbed　grip　sighing　open　and　closed　as　though　with　breath　of　its　own。
Honsou　pointed　to　the　sky　then　clenched　his　gauntleted　fist　again；　hammering　it　into　his　palm。　Delau　nodded　and　removed　a　crude
looking　slate　from　the　side　of　his　bulky　backpack；　adjusting　a　brass　dial　on　its　front。　A　red　light　flashed　on　the　otherwise
featureless　front　panel；　flickering　for　a　second　before　becoming　a　steady；　blood…red　glow。
Delau　raised　his　hands　to　the　sky；　the　servo　arm　mimicking　his　movements。　Honsou　could　not　hear　his　words；　but　knew　that　Delau
was　offering　his　thanks　that　the　Dark　Gods　had　again　given　them　a　chance　to　strike　back　against　the　ancient　enemy。
Honsou　watched　the　red　light　on　Goran's　slate　and　marked　this　moment　in　his　memory。　The　targeting　beacons　they　had　spent　the
last　three　months　planting　around　the　spaceport　on　this　barren　rock　were　all　now　active；　shrieking　their　locations　into　space。
This　was　the　most　dangerous　part　of　their　mission。　The　Imperials　within　the　spaceport　would　now　know　that　there　were　enemies
close。
If　the　favour　of　their　Lords　deserted　them　then　they　would　all　be　dead　soon。　He　shrugged；　the　servo　muscles　in　his　armour　whining
as　they　tried　to　match　the　gesture。　If　it　was　the　will　of　the　gods　that　he　should　die　here；　then　so　be　it。　He　had　asked　nothing　of　them
and　expected　nothing　in　return。
He　just　hoped　that　if　he　was　to　die　on　this　barren　world　it　would　be　by　the　will　of　the　gods；　and　not　because　of　that　madman
Kroeger。
PIERCING　SHRIEKS　FILLED　the　command　centre　of　the　Hope　as　Honsou's　signal　locators　screamed　into　the　sky。　Technicians
wrenched　headsets　from　their　ears　at　the　din；　and　alarm　sirens　began　wailing。
Adept　Cycerin　stared；　ashen　faced；　at　the　runic　display。　Bright　dots　of　light　pulsed　on　the　map　projected　before　him。　Each　dot
indicated　one　of　the　orbital　torpedo　silos　or　air　defence　batteries；　and　operators　hurriedly　tried　to　contact　the　men　stationed　there　to
ascertain　what　was　happening。
Were　they　broadcasting？　Were　they　under　attack？　What　in　the　name　of　the　Emperor　was　going　on？
Cycerin　returned　to　his　monitoring　station；　placing　his　hands　on　the　ridged；　metal　fixtures　of　the　armrests。　Thin；　wiry　tendrils　of
silver　metal　slithered　from　beneath　his　fingernails　like　gleaming　worms　and　clicked　into　brass　sockets　on　the　ridges。　The　adept
sighed；　and　his　organic　eye　flickered　behind　a　pale　lid　as　information　relayed　from　the　multitude　of　surveyors　and　augurs
positioned　around　the　spaceport　flooded　his　senses　through　the　technology　of　his　mechadendrites。
Awareness　flooded　him；　his　mind…sense　perceiving　space　and　distance　as　vectors；　ranges　and　coverage　of　ground。　His　senses
reached　into　space；　following　the　sweeps　of　the　orbital　augurs。　Information　flowed　through　him；　processed　and　compartmentalised
in　the　synthetic　logic　stacks　of　his　augmented　brain。　Even　with　his　machine　affinity；　he　could　barely　keep　pace　with　the　barrage　of
sensory　data。
There　had　to　be　something；　this　couldn't　be　happening　without　reason。　Logic　dictated　that　there　was　a　cause　for　this　effect。
Something　must　be　out　of　place…
There；　in　the　north　sector！　He　narrowed　his　perceptions；　shutting　off　areas　of　sensory　retrieval　that　were　extraneous　to　his　search
and　closing　in　on　the　anomaly。　Where　there　should　have　been　washes　of　energy　sweeping　down　from　the　mountains；　there　was
only　black　emptiness。　The　surveyor　stations　on　the　northern　slopes　were　silent；　their　auguries　no　longer　active。　He　immediately
saw　that　this　left　an　open　corridor；　through　which　an　enemy　could　approach　undetected　to　the　very　perimeter　of　the　base。
How　had　this　not　been　seen？　Why　had　the　operators　here　not　reported　such　an　unforgivable　lapse　in　security？　The　identity　of　the
surveyor　station　flashed　up。
Sigma　IV。
He　cursed　as　he　realised　that　the　anomaly　had　been　seen；　but　that　the　surveyor　station's　failure　to　report　had　been　put　down　to
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
human　error　on　the　part　of　those　within。　He　swore　again；　uncharacteristically　letting　slip　his　emotionless　demeanour；　as　yet　more
sirens　screeched　around　the　control　room。
Startled；　Cycerin　reopened　his　mind　to　other　portions　of　his　awareness　and　his　breath　caught　in　his　throat　as　he　felt　the　presence　of
dozens　of　starships　in　orbit　above　Hydra　Cordatus。　Inconceivable！　Where　had　these　ships　come　from　and　why　had　they　not　been
detected　before　now？　Nothing　should　be　able　to　enter　even　the　outer　edges　of　the　system　without　them　being　aware　of　it…　could
it？　Or　was　this　another　example　of　human　error？　No；　the　logic　engines　would　have　screamed　the　place　down　many　days　ago　if　it
had　detected　this　size　of　fleet　approaching。　Somehow　these　starships　had　avoided　detection　by　some　of　the　rarest　and　most
precious　equipment　available　to　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus。
Briefly　he　wondered　what　technologies　these　ships　had　and　how　it　worked；　but　shook　his　head　at　such　irrelevance。　He　had　more
important　things　to　worry　about。　The　defenders　at　the　citadel　must　be　warned　that　an　invasion　was　imminent。　He　opened　the　mindlink
to　Arch　Magos　Amaethon's　Machine　Temple　in　the　citadel　and　sent　the　psychic　alert　code。　The　astropaths　stationed　there
would　detect　it　and　send　a　more　powerful　psychic　distress　call　for　aid　to　Hydra　Cordatus。
Hurriedly　he　closed　off　his　mind…link　and　withdrew　his　digital　mechadendrites　from　the　monitoring　station；　opening　his　eyes　on　a
scene　of　controlled　efficiency。　System　operators　called　to　the　torpedo　outstations；　authenticating　launch　codes　and　feeding　their
operators　firing　solutions　towards　the　collection　of　starships　in　orbit。　Time　was　of　the　essence　now　and　they　had　to　get　the
torpedoes　in　the　air。
Alert　sirens　would　be　ringing　out　in　the　pilots'　barracks　by　now　and　soon　there　would　be　a　swarm　of　aircraft　in　the　air；　ready　to
meet　whatever　threat　was　approaching；　and　soldiers　from　the　Jouran　Dragoons　were　mustering　even　now　to　repel　the　attackers。
He　had　drilled　the　operators　here　for　this　eventuality　time　and　time　again；　and　now　that　it　was　happening　for　real；　he　was　pleased
to　note　the　calmness　evinced　by　his　staff。
'Adept　Cycerin！'　shouted　one　of　the　orbital　monitoring　operators。　'We　have　multiple　signals　detaching　from　several　contacts　in
orbit。'
'Identify　them！'　barked　Cycerin。
The　operator　nodded；　bowing　his　head　to　his　station；　running　his　finger　down　the　slate　beside　his　display。
'They're　too　fast　for　landing　craft；　I　believe　they　are　inbound　orbital　munitions。'
'Plot　their　vectors！　Quickly；　man！'　hissed　Cycerin；　though　he　feared　he　knew　the　answer　already。
The　man's　hands　danced　across　his　slate；　and　green　lines　extended　from　the　rapidly　moving　blips；　reaching　out　to　the
representation　of　the　planet's　surface。　Cycerin's　vox…amp　crackled　in　sudden　fear　as　he　saw　the　approach　vectors　of　the　incoming
bombs　matched　almost　exactly　the　locator　signals　being　broadcast　from　the　torpedo　launch　silos。
'How…？'　whispered　the　operator；　his　face　ashen。
Cycerin　lift