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Anarchy’s End – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Anarchy’s End

By Rob J. Hayes

Those who serve the machine-spirit are, in turn, served by the machine-spirit.

Magos Domina Saleesa Vain

The engine of Anarchy’s End gave a rattle, a hiss, and then fell silent. The tank rumbled to a halt, its massive treads caked in weeks’ worth of stinking mud. It was not quiet inside the Mars-pattern Baneblade. With the constant percussion of heavy bolter fire, the scratching of quill on parchment as dozens of servo-skulls reeled off data no one but the enginseer could read, and the muted thuds of spines and bioplasma impacting ineffectively against the tank’s armour, it was never quiet. But with the engine silent, there was an odd sort of detached peace, though the atmosphere within the close confines of the interior quickly became unbearably hot and stale.

Vi stepped over the lifeless body of Jacob Waynee. It looked like a pressure build-up had caused a panel to tear free at head height, cracking the loader’s skull like an egg. One moment he was assisting the enginseer, spreading the holy oils and blessing the machine-spirit, and the next he was face down on the metal floor, blood pooling beneath him and running off to seep into the nearby consoles. Anarchy’s End was a thirsty one, always had been. Vi couldn’t remember how many Guardsmen she had seen die down in the sweltering heat of the Baneblade’s innards. Enginseer Verman was hunched over in the cramped corridor, tapping at a panel while her wasted servo-arm idly welded the hole in the plating that had killed Waynee. She wore a mask over her face, covering everything but her left eye, and Vi wondered what the woman looked like under all her augmetics. She was blocking the passageway, and Vi needed to get past. The demolisher cannon needed more ammo, and Hershen Mould wouldn’t hesitate to report Vi if she took too long fetching it. He was an arsehole like that, but he knew his job better than any gunner Vi had ever seen.

The voxcaster next to Vi crackled to life. ‘Adept,’ shouted Lieutenant Hamad, his voice tinny and distorted. ‘Get my tank moving! The swarm won’t wait for your incompetence, and we’re the only ones with the firepower to break their lines and kill that accursed tyrant. The weight of the war is upon my shoulders, and I will die before I fail our brothers and sisters of the 612th!’ The lieutenant was a taskmaster and no mistake, but then all good commanders were, though Vi had to admit he was a little obsessed with his own legacy. Some people wanted to be heroes, needed it more than they needed life itself. Vi just wanted to survive long enough to see the next drink and the next bunk.

Enginseer Verman glanced up at Vi, her servo-arm still working away at the damaged panel. The red light of her bionic eye flared for just a moment, accompanied by a frown. ‘Where is the damage?’ the enginseer asked, her voice hoarse and crackling through her personal voxcaster.

‘Lower level,’ Vi said, stifling a grin at the thought she knew more about the tank than its enginseer. ‘Fourth quadrant. She took a bad hit a few weeks back, and the wound keeps opening up, leaking coolant she needs to keep her heart running.’

Again the enginseer’s eye flared brighter. ‘Your connection to the machine-spirit is worrisome, Loader Madine. It borders on heresy.’

Vi placed a hand on a nearby panel, between two whirring servo-skulls. ‘There’s a difference between heresy and experience, adept,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been here long enough to know her quirks.’

The enginseer stood up as straight as she could in the close confines, her servo-arm finishing its idle repairs and going dormant at her side.

‘Praise the Emperor,’ Vi said quickly, removing her hand from the plating and snapping off a crisp salute.

The voxcaster next to Vi crackled to life once more. The voice of the tactical officer, Frist Makin, came through loudly. ‘Brace!’

Both Vi and the enginseer wasted no time in thrusting hands out to nearby panels to steady themselves. A moment later, the tank’s main cannon roared to life with a thunderclap that nearly deafened Vi and shook the Baneblade with its recoil. Some tanks weathered the firing of their main cannons better, but Anarchy’s End was old and her stabilisers were shot through. Each time the cannon fired, panels tore loose and gun housings groaned with the pressure. Behind Vi, there was a loud pop followed by the sound of an old bolt shooting free and clanging about the passageway. A hiss of steam rushed out, adding oil-tainted moisture to the sweltering heat.

‘Out of the way,’ the enginseer said, barging past Vi and quickly setting to work cutting off the venting steam and welding the panel back into place.

The vox opened up again. ‘Emperor’s teeth, Raffi,’ said Sabatha Tre, the driver. ‘Do you think you could hit something next time? Or do you need a bigger gun?’

Vi heard Primary Gunner Rafael Beadle laugh. ‘Might be I need a bigger target than this swarm, Tre. Why don’t you climb out and I’ll see if I can hit your ego.’

‘Quiet, both of you,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Adept. Fix. My. Tank.’

Vi turned and crossed to the vertical hatch. She clambered down onto the ladder and slid five feet to the bottom. If anything the lower level of Anarchy’s End was even more oppressive. The atmosphere was thick and cloying. Her faded green uniform, already dank with stale sweat, clung to her body and rode up in all the wrong places. The smell of grease mixed with the fumes of the enginseer’s sanctified oils. Some Guardsmen found the smell abhorrent, some even choked on it. Not Vi. She breathed in deep and the air tasted sweet. Vi loved the lower levels. Despite the cramped confines, it felt as if she were closer to Anarchy’s End down in the bowels. It felt as though the mighty Baneblade had deemed her worthy of sharing her inner sanctum.

Nearby, Vi heard twin heavy bolters roar, cutting through the general din of the tank’s interior. Barnabus Gee, the tertiary gunner, was in his sponson, dealing out death to the tyranid swarm, no doubt. He hadn’t been with Anarchy’s End for long, and Vi wasn’t sure she liked him much. Nervous as a new recruit and far too proud of his beard, was Gunner Gee.

Shell casings littered the floor and made the footing treacherous. With Jacob dead above, it would fall to Vi to clean up the spent shells. One more job to add to her ever-increasing list. One more job no one but Anarchy’s End would ever thank her for. She crouch-walked along the passageway, unable to stand and unwilling to crawl, to the forefront of the tank. The loading mechanism for the demolisher cannon sat open, the rack of shells, each more than three feet long, secured against the closest wall. A nearby servo-skull, embedded into the outer bulkhead, blinked red lights.

Vi slapped open the holding catch on the first cannon shell, and it tumbled free of its housing. She fell to her knees and grabbed at it, catching the munition before it hit the floor. Its weight was an oppressive thing and Vi felt a sharp crack of pain as it crushed one of her fingers to the metal grille below. She screamed, and the depths of Anarchy’s End swallowed her pain. Vi cursed herself for a fool. She was rushing and hadn’t performed the Rite of Release properly, and now she was paying the price. Anarchy’s End was a cantankerous old devil, her machine-spirit demanding that rites and rituals were performed with appropriate zeal. Even Vi was not exempt from such duties. She dragged the shell over to the loading mechanism and shoved it inside, then pulled the lever to slot it into the cannon’s chamber. Only then did she allow herself to look at her finger.

There wasn’t much blood, only a few spots where the flesh had been scraped away. It throbbed with a pain like fire running through her veins, but she could move it. Only bruised, not broken. Vi knelt in front of the rack of shells and whispered the Rite of Release while her hands worked at the straps.

‘Blessed be the machine-spirit, grant me this ammunition that we might use it to break your foes.’ This time the munition stayed in place after Vi had released the catch. She gathered the shell into her arms and carried it over to the loader, then repeated the process twice more.

Vi pressed the button on a nearby voxcaster; the devices were everywhere within the bowels of the tank, placed so that the entire crew could hear their orders no matter where they were. ‘Demolisher cannon reloaded,’ she said. ‘Maximum load.’

A moment later, Hershen Mould replied. ‘It’s about time.’ As brusque as always. Gunner Mould had no time for anyone who wasn’t a higher rank than himself.

The engine was still silent, the only noise coming from the clatter of shells hitting the ground, the impotent impact of the swarm’s weaponry against the tank’s hull, and the whirring of servo-skulls as they performed their countless tasks. They were, perhaps, the only inhabitants of the tank with even more duties than Vi herself. She crouch-walked aft, stopping by the Wall of Glory, where countless litanies were pinned detailing Anarchy’s End’s most glorious accomplishments.

Vi lifted a scrap of parchment that detailed the Baneblade’s involvement in the Third War for Armageddon. It had almost disintegrated due to its extreme age. Underneath, where the enginseer would never think to look, she kept a count of all the lives spent in the service of Anarchy’s End. Vi was the battle tank’s longest surviving crew member, and she needed the reminder of how many she had seen come and never leave. Besides, Anarchy’s End didn’t mind a few more scratches on a bit of plating; she, too, wanted the reminder of how many souls had died in her service. Twenty-one scratches in the plating, each one carved by Vi’s own hand. She pulled an old, rusted bolt from her pocket, the same tool she had used to carve all the scratches, and added a new line to the tally for Loader Waynee.

The vox in a nearby panel crackled, Tactical Officer Makin’s voice coming through, frantic. ‘Impact port side. Brace!’

Something hit the tank so hard it rocked, throwing Vi against the Wall of Glory. She crumpled to a heap on the oil-stained grating and then scrambled back to her feet and reached for the vox. ‘What in the Emperor’s name was that?’ she shouted.

‘Get off the channel, loader,’ Lieutenant Hamad shouted. ‘Gunner Beadle, shoot that carnifex before it tips us.’

The tank shifted again, the port side lifting slightly. The noise coming from the hull was terrifying, the scraping of a thousand claws tearing away at the armour, a horrifying sizzle that sounded like acid trying to eat its way in. Vi braced her hands against the walls of the corridor and scrambled aft. Carnifexes were huge monsters, as big as a Leman Russ tank and just as armoured, with four clawed arms and the sort of mutations one usually only saw in a nightmare.

From somewhere above came a grinding noise as motors screamed to life. The vox crackled again, this time Gunner Beadle. ‘Baneblade cannon is stuck. This bloated spawn of a freak has the barrel pinned.’

‘Gunner Gee,’ the lieutenant’s voice again, ‘use the lascannons and beat it back.’

No reply.

‘Gunner Gee, respond!’

The tank shifted again as the carnifex outside struggled for footing, pushing and lifting. Judging by the tilt, the port tracks had to be off the ground. Vi could almost feel Anarchy’s End panicking as thrums of power surged through nearby consoles.

The vox crackled open. ‘Aye, sir!’ said Tertiary Gunner Barnabus Gee. ‘Firing.’

Vi heard the whine of a lascannon powering, and then a crack as it discharged. A scream of fury ripped from the carnifex and echoed around the tank’s interior so loudly Vi clapped her hands over her ears. The port side of the tank dropped, throwing her to the oily grating once again. On hands and knees scraped raw, Vi crawled aft until she could see the open hatch into the sponson, and Gunner Gee grimacing, an expression of anger mashed together with fear.

‘Again, gunner!’ the lieutenant roared.

The whine and crack of the lascannon sounded again, followed by a roar and something scraping against the hull of Anarchy’s End.

‘Barrel is free,’ Gunner Beadle said over the vox. ‘Targeting. Acquired.’

‘Fire!’ the lieutenant screamed.

Vi grabbed hold of the sponson hatch just before the Baneblade cannon roared, rocking the tank on its treads. The explosion was so close it enveloped the tank, the thunder of raging flames all around them. The tank settled back onto its treads, and the noise died down.

The vox crackled. ‘Target eliminated,’ said Gunner Beadle. Vi was about to let out a cheer, but Beadle continued. ‘I’m getting an error. It looks like the impact was too close. The barrel is damaged.’

‘We’re all going to die,’ said a quiet voice, not coming through the vox. Tertiary Gunner Gee was staring at his shaking hands, tears falling like Adeptus Astartes drop pods, breaking apart on the armoured plating of Anarchy’s End.

The vox-channel opened again, this time with the tinny voice of the enginseer. ‘I will determine the cause and extent of the damage to the main cannon, gunner,’ she said. ‘You have neither the expertise, nor the faith.’ The lieutenant said something else, but Vi had stopped listening. She was straining her ears to hear Gunner Gee over the din.

‘I saw it!’ hissed Gunner Gee. ‘Like a nightmare wrapped in claws and armour. I saw into its maw and there was nothing but death there. We’re all going to die! Those things will eat us all.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Adam Tooby.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-684-5

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