'The dispositions of all the units we're currently aware of,' the man in blue and grey replied, apparently just as happy to dispense with the formalities as I was. 'Blue for loyalist, yellow, green and red for the different enemy factions. They've been gunning for one another as much as us, so we're happy to let them get on with it while we wait for the relief force to arrive.'
'It has arrived,' Gries reminded him, looming suddenly at my elbow and staring at the display with a thoughtful expression on his face. 'These deployments make no sense.'
I looked at the display more carefully, trying to see what he meant. The red, yellow and green icons were clustered around the blue enclaves like scum round an outfall, each encircling whichever Imperial redoubt fell in the sector of the city they controlled. One each, plus the palace, which seemed to be on the cusp of their zones of influence, and which was bordered on the south and east by red, yellow to the north, and green to the west.
'You're right,' I said after a moment. There were concentrations of colour along their mutual borders, but they weren't contiguous. This wasn't entirely unexpected, since the squabbling factions would need far more manpower to fortify an arbitrary line several kilometres long than any could conceivably bring to bear, but the positions they had dug in at didn't seem particularly strategic, and several potential weak points had been left completely undefended.
Gries reached for the control lectern, muttering the litanies the enginseers who maintained similar systems for the Guard seemed to employ while fiddling with the knobs. He must have hit on the right ones, because the three colours suddenly turned a uniform sickly purple, and the whole pattern fell into place.
'Throne on Earth,' I said, horrified. 'The whole city's a trap!'
'Clearly,' Gries said, as though it should have been obvious from the start - which, I suppose to him, it may well have been.
Only DuPanya looked confused. 'General Orten?' he asked, which at least answered the lingering question of the fellow's name. 'What does he mean?'
'He means we've been idiots,' Orten replied, looking about as happy as anyone would be after just being struck by that uncomfortable realisation. 'The internecine squabbling we've been counting on to whittle them down for us was just for show.' He sighed heavily. 'I'll remain in my quarters until you can convene the court martial.'
'You'll do no such thing,' I snapped. 'If this mess really is your fault, I'm damned if I'm going to let you weasel your way out of cleaning it up by jumping in front of a firing squad.' Orten and DuPanya gaped at me, and although the Astartes remained as impassive as ever, something about their attitude managed to convey a degree of surprise as well[13].
'Commissar Cain is correct,' Gries agreed. 'This is no time to deprive ourselves of the most senior PDF officer.'
I nodded, following up on the unexpected show of support. 'Right now, we need your local knowledge. We can determine whose fault this all is once the rebels have been brought to heel.'
'I'm at your disposal, of course,' Orten said, with something of the air of a spirejack who's just hopped casually over a vent in the hive skin, before glancing back and realising it goes down to the sump.
'I'm afraid I still don't follow,' DuPanya said, a trifle apologetically, and Gries gestured at the hololith with a yellow-gauntleted hand.
'These troop dispositions make perfect sense if the rebels are acting as a single unified force. They can defend the city from outside attack extremely effectively, and hamper the movements of any Imperial assets attempting to deploy within it.'
'An Imperial Guard landing would have to take place at the aerodrome,' I added, pointing out the landing field on the outskirts of Fidelis where, in happier times, aircraft and orbital shuttles would arrive and depart. 'It's the only open area large enough to establish a beachhead. But once they're down, they'd be sitting waterfowl for a coordinated bombardment, from these Basilisk and Manticore units.'
Orten nodded. 'Which have been targeting one another up till now, or so we've been led to believe.'
'They can be neutralised,' Gries said calmly. 'Now we're aware of the scale of the deception, the stratagem will not succeed.'
'Not while the rebels think we're still fooled, anyway,' I said, wondering how they'd managed to pull off so huge a piece of sleight-of-hand. The degree of coordination required would have been immense, taxing the skills of even an experienced high command, let alone a rabble of disaffected militia. My palms were itching again, but this time no sudden flood of insight made sense of my nagging disquiet, so I turned my mind to more immediate concerns. 'The trouble is, the moment we make a move to take out those positions, they'll realise we're on to them.'
'My assessment as well,' Gries agreed. 'Redirecting our combat squads would reveal our intention at once, as the enemy will certainly be aware of their intended destinations by now.' He studied the hololith again. 'The Manticore battery is close to the line of advance we would take to relieve the defenders of the Administratum cloister, however. If my battle-brothers and I make a third sally, the rebels should assume it to be our objective until it's too late.'
'Which only leaves the Basilisks,' I agreed, unable to fault his logic.
'Can the Thunderhawk take them out?' Orten asked, and I shook my head.
'I doubt it,' I told him. 'I've served with an artillery unit, and they're always prepared for an aerial attack. The minute it appears on their auspexes, the Basilisks will scatter. We'd get some, but there's no guarantee enough wouldn't survive to mount an effective bombardment of the aerodrome.'
'Then you'll just have to sneak up on them, won't you?' a new voice cut in, and I turned to find myself facing a young woman in an even more absurd version of the elaborate uniform most of the troopers in the bunker were wearing. The crimson fabric was festooned with silver braid, and the regimental crest was worked into her epaulettes in gold thread, which glittered under the luminators almost as brightly as the buttons on her tunic, the top couple of which had been left undone to expose a generous helping of cleavage. The whole ensemble had clearly come from a couturier rather than a quartermaster, although the laspistol holstered at her waist looked functional, even if nothing else did.
'Commissar, honoured Astartes, my daughter Mira,' DuPanya said, although the resemblance was so strong I'd already deduced that for myself. Mira DuPanya had obviously inherited her father's build, although so far the genetic tendency to chubbiness had got no further than a hint of lush ripeness around the face, and imparting a well-filled look to her tunic and trouser seat, which I would certainly have taken the time to appreciate under more relaxed circumstances. Her hair was blonde and elaborately tressed, green eyes gazing in our direction as though somehow faintly disappointed not to find us more entertaining.
'That might be a little easier said than done,' I replied, addressing her directly, in a tone which, although formally polite, managed to convey the unspoken suffix so run along and leave the soldiering to the professionals. Unfortunately, Mira, as I was soon to discover, wouldn't recognise a hint if it was presented to her gift-wrapped, with a label saying ''Hint'' around its neck.
'Only if you're stupid enough to stay on the surface, where they can see you coming,' she said dismissively, and went to stand next to her father, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. I couldn't say I blamed him either, as he obviously had a much better idea of who we were and what we represented.
To my surprise, though, Orten was nodding thoughtfully. 'You mean go underground?' he asked, and Mira echoed the gesture.
13
Quite understandably, as most of Cain's colleagues would at least have had the man arrested, pending an investigation, and many would simply have shot him on the spot without even the formality of an enquiry.