Chapter 155: The Logic of the Long-Las
The Backpack Power-Units weighed roughly fifteen kilograms apiece. They were cumbersome, but with them, a Lasgun could sustain enough fire to last an entire planetary campaign. Two thick, lead-shielded cables ran from the pack to a magazine-shaped plug.
Kian Voss didn't hesitate. He tossed his refurbished autogun aside, hauled a power-pack onto his shoulders, and slammed the connector into the well of a Heavy-Barrel Lasgun.
He turned to Lady Nightingale. "Biometric protocols? Are we going to have a 'Machine Spirit' tantrum if we pull these triggers?"
The Lady nodded, her expression regal even while being carried. "High-security suppression hardware. They require authorization."
She pointed to a glowing cogitator terminal in the center of the vault. "Place me there."
The soldier carrying her obeyed. Nightingale's fingers danced across the runic keys, her face illuminated by the green flicker of the screen. A prompt appeared in High Gothic: [Deactivate Biometric Protocol: Y/N?]
She leaned in, letting the scanner sweep her iris. Chirp-click.
Across the racks, small red runes on the rifles flickered and turned a steady, inviting green.
"The locks are cleared," Nightingale said. "You now possess the 'Light of the Spire.' Try not to burn yourselves."
Kian signaled his men. These weren't standard PDF "Flashlights." The armory contained three variants: standard Las-pistols, Infantry Las-rifles, and the heavy-hitters—Long-pattern Heavy-Barrel Las-rifles. The heavy variants featured reinforced barrels that were three times thicker than standard, allowing for massive thermal dissipation and high-intensity output.
Kian's squad went through a rapid gear-swap. They walked out with eight Heavy-Barrel units connected to backpack cells; the rest took standard rifles with a dozen spare power-packs each. Every man was now carrying twice the lethality of a standard PDF squad.
"Move out! We carve a path to the lift! Back in the Sump, the first round of Voss Reserve is on me!!"
Kian's roar was met by a chorus of determined shouts. They sprinted back to the theater foyer.
Egghead's squad was on the verge of being overrun. The four light machine guns were glowing red, and the closest Poxwalkers were within twenty meters, their wet laughter echoing off the marble. The barricade was buckling under the weight of the "Blessed" horde.
Kian arrived like a localized solar flare. He dialed his heavy Lasgun to Maximum Yield, single-fire mode.
"EXCISE THE CANCER! OPEN FIRE!!"
The squad unleashed a wall of coherent light. The sound wasn't the pop of gunpowder, but the sharp, electric snap of ionizing air.
Laser fire at maximum power didn't just pierce; it triggered thermal explosions. Each ruby beam that hit a Poxwalker caused the moisture in the monster's distended belly to flash-boil. They didn't just fall; they erupted in sprays of steam and scorched meat.
Kian worked his trigger finger with the speed of a professional gamer. Every click resulted in a beam thicker and brighter than his men's fire. He targeted the largest, most bloated horrors. A single high-power bolt to the torso was enough to bisect a two-meter mutant, the edges of the wound instantly cauterized.
Under the relentless blizzard of red light, the Pox-horde was physically pushed back. The kinetic force of a hundred beams per second acted like a solid hammer, clearing a gory corridor through the boulevard.
Kian emptied his first heavy barrel—it was literally sizzling, the water-cooling sleeve venting white steam. He slung it over his back and snatched up a standard backup rifle.
"GO! PUSH THROUGH! DON'T STOP FOR THE TRASH!!"
He led the charge into the street, firing from the hip as they sprinted. The squad followed in a tight diamond formation, burning down anything that moved in the shadows. Within three minutes, they had covered a kilometer, breaking through the primary siege-ring and vanishing into the lightless maintenance alleys.
"Haha... Hahaha!" One soldier let out a hysterical laugh as they reached the cover of the shadows. "We're alive! We actually made it!"
The squad was drenched in sweat and soot, but the adrenaline was keeping them upright. They had walked through the mouth of the Warp and come out with better gear.
Kian allowed them to rest for exactly sixty seconds in a dark alley. He looked at Lady Nightingale. "We're clear of the main horde. Where is this 'Small Lift'?"
She pointed toward a distant, reinforced perimeter wall. "Three blocks ahead. Take the left-hand transit bridge. At the end of the line is a House Nightingale Logistics Hub. The private elevator is inside the central vault."
"Move," Kian commanded. "Home is waiting."
They didn't hide anymore. They moved with the confidence of an elite kill-team. Any Poxwalkers they encountered were met with a disciplined volley that erased them before they could giggle. At this level of firepower, the zombies were just carbon-based targets.
They reached the high wall. It was topped with razor-wire and automated sensor-turrets, though the turrets were currently silent—likely out of power or jammed by the rot.
"There! The service gate!" Nightingale shouted. "Get me to the scanner!"
Kian provided the cover fire, raking the surrounding shadows with his backup Las-rifle while the heavy soldier brought the Lady to the gate. She leaned into the iris-scanner.
Beep. GRIND-CLANK.
The massive iron doors cycled open. The soldier carrying Nightingale sprinted inside, followed by the rest of the squad in a frantic scramble. Kian hopped in last, firing three final bolts at a closing pack of mutants, and slammed the 'Close' rune.
Hiss-THUD.
The locks engaged. They were in. Kian let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping as the tension left his frame. He turned to his men, a joke on the tip of his tongue.
But the words died in his throat.
The lead soldier—the one carrying the Lady—was standing perfectly still, his hands raised high in the air.
Standing in the center of the warehouse was a man in a long, black leather greatcoat and a high-peaked cap. He had a face like a vulture and eyes as cold as a void-winter. In his right hand, he held a shimmering Chainsword.
In his left, he held a massive Mars-pattern Bolt Pistol. The oversized muzzle of the hand-cannon was pressed firmly against the temple of the lead soldier's helmet.
The Commissar stared at the group, his voice a low, terrifying whisper that cut through the silence like a blade.
"Sergeant Voss, I presume? Explain why a PDF squad is deserting their post with Spire-tier hardware... before I decide to audit your souls."
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