Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

by Warhammer 40K

  He had remembered his promise to that dead man.

  He should have left the mask where it lay. It had been a mistake to carry extra weight with him, wounded as he had been. Nevertheless, carry it Costellin had. A memento mori. He was getting as bad as the Guardsmen with whom he served. Yet one more reason, he thought, why the time had come.

  ‘I hear you are leaving us.’

  Colonel 186 was in the doorway. Costellin was surprised to see him, and also a little guilty. He ought to have broken the news to his fellow officer in person. He had been putting off that ordeal, telling himself the colonel wouldn’t care anyway.

  ‘Once this campaign is over,’ he confirmed. ‘I have accepted a posting to a Royal Validian regiment.’

  ‘I will be sorry to lose you,’ said the colonel. Will you? thought Costellin uncharitably. ‘Your service with us has been long and distinguished, and in particular the mission you led into the occupied city–’

  ‘I can take no credit for that outcome,’ said Costellin. ‘It was one of your men who planned and implemented the attack on the generatorum. All I did was survive.’

  ‘I hope…’ said the colonel, with uncharacteristic reticence. ‘I trust it was nothing I said that–’

  Costellin shook his head. ‘I know we have had our differences since your appointment, but no, colonel, my leaving has nothing to do with you. You have performed your duties as you saw them, efficiently and logically, and as such you have more than lived up to the standards set by your predecessors.’

  ‘You did, however, disagree with the decision taken by my superior officers, to engage the necron force.’

  ‘I did. I felt that… I don’t know, colonel. When I look at what we have – what you have – achieved here... I couldn’t have imagined it only two months ago, but we have the necrons on the run. We are beating them, we are actually beating them!’

  ‘Then you have revised your opinion?’

  ‘I think that, if all goes well tomorrow, if that tomb is destroyed and this world saved, then the value of that to the Imperium… and yet… I keep thinking about the cost. I don’t know, colonel. I just don’t know, and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps I am simply too old. I have seen too much.’

  ‘It is likely,’ said the colonel, ‘that, after tomorrow, the Krieg 186th Infantry Regiment will no longer exist. Our losses have been such that we will probably be merged with the other regiments on this world. I would be proud to know that our sacrifice was worthwhile, that it will be remembered.’

  ‘And Krieg’s debt to the Emperor? Will it be repaid then?’

  The colonel didn’t answer that, as indeed Costellin hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he observed, ‘You have taken the sling off your arm.’

  ‘The quartermaster informs me that the nerve damage is healed,’ said Costellin. ‘My right shoulder is a little stiff, but apart from that…’

  ‘Then you will be fighting with us tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. The least I can do, before I begin my new assignment, is to see this one through to its bitter end.’

  The colonel nodded his approval, and told Costellin that, this being the case, he would see him at dawn. Then he pivoted smartly and left, and the commissar stood alone in thought for a moment before he opened the desk drawer again.

  He had pushed it shut with his leg when the colonel had appeared, unaccountably embarrassed by its contents. He steeled himself to do what he ought to have done three weeks ago. He took the mask and the rebreather unit down to the space port proper, and handed them to the first quartermaster he saw.

  ‘Find a good use for them,’ he instructed. ‘The last man who wore that facemask died a hero.’

  The colonel had one final surprise up his sleeve.

  As he briefed his troops in the pre-dawn cold, he reached into his greatcoat and produced a small, transparent cube of some yellow-tinted substance. Suspended in that cube was an off-white, irregular shape, longer than it was wide, tapering to a point like a tiny, primitive blade.

  ‘Such will be the magnitude of our actions here today, such the faith our generals have placed in this unworthy regiment, that they have obtained for us this…’ and, at this, the colonel’s voice became hushed, reverent, ‘…this fragment of bone from the skull of Colonel Jurten.’

  A collective murmur went up from the Krieg Guardsmen, the most human reaction Costellin had ever heard from them.

  ‘I can think of no man more qualified to carry this for us,’ said the colonel, ‘to direct its holy light upon our humble endeavours, than our commissar.’

  Taken by surprise, Costellin accepted the cube. He cradled it in his palms, admired it from all angles, and although a part of his heart remained hardened to it – he wondered how many more of these relics had been conveniently conjured, if the other three regiments on Hieronymous Theta had them too – he could feel how its presence touched the untouchable men before him, how it lifted their cynical spirits, and he knew that this made it a rare and precious thing indeed.

  He had no words, but everyone was waiting to hear him. So, Costellin cleared his throat, recalled his training of a lifetime ago and launched into a speech that, while halting at first, soon became more confident in tone, more passionate, and ultimately proved, in the commissar’s own opinion, to be the finest, the most inspiring speech he had made in the whole of his decades-long career.

  Then, a bloated red sun rose behind the shell of the city, and the time for words was done. Colonel 186 gave the order to move out, and the air was soon filled with the grumbling of reticent engines, thickened by exhaust fumes.

  Three great armoured Gorgons led the way forward, each with an entire platoon crammed into its open-topped hold. Weighing more than two hundred tonnes apiece, these lumbering giants pulverised the remains of fallen hab-blocks beneath their tracks, while their reinforced prows combined to shield not only themselves but the stragglers in their well-trampled wake.

  Of course, there was not enough transport for everyone, and so between the troop-carrying Centaurs and the artillery-heaving Trojans came the foot soldiers, approximately one half Death Korps of Krieg and one half Planetary Defence Force. Their colours clashed, their equipment was ragtag and many of them were injured. There were half as many of them as there had been three weeks ago, there would be fewer still tomorrow, but still they lifted their chins with pride.

  Costellin rode with the colonel and his command squad in a Centaur, his view of the outside world blocked as soon as the hatch came down. He followed the progress of their army on the vox-net, but felt distanced from it in his own cramped, noisy little bubble. They followed the most direct path towards the city centre, as indicated by the most recent tactical scans, and for a time, all was quiet.

  Then, Costellin’s Centaur was rocked by an explosion. The colonel, of course, was straight on the vox, demanding reports, which arrived instantly: ‘–road was mined, sir. It looks like the charges were buried in the rubble.’ ‘–they rolled right over–’ ‘No serious injuries, sir, the prow absorbed the brunt of it, but the engines–’ ‘No sign of any hostiles.’ ‘–appear to have been mining charges, but to have created a blast that size there must have been–’ ‘–tech-priest is inspecting the damage now, sir, but I think we’ve lost the Gorgon.’

  They proceeded more cautiously after that, and sent a squad ahead of them on foot. Of course, if more explosives were buried as deeply as the first lot had been, then the scouts were unlikely to detect them; still, they could keep an eye out for signs of life in the otherwise dead city. It wasn’t long before they found them.

  ‘Hostiles up ahead, sir. We took them by surprise, fired on them before they saw us. Four down, but the rest have separated, taken cover.’

  ‘How many, watchmaster?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘Unknown, sir. There are more hiding in the buildings. Eight, at least, but there could be ma
ny more.’

  ‘Define “hostiles”,’ Costellin voxed. ‘Necrons?’

  ‘No sir, humans.’

  ‘Then how do you know…? Have they fired on you?’

  ‘Sir, our orders were to–’

  ‘Have they threatened you in any way?’

  The colonel interceded, ‘Keep them pinned down, watchmaster, but do not advance. All units, hold your positions and await instructions.’ To Costellin, aloud, he said, ‘I don’t believe it was necrons who laid that trap back there.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the commissar. ‘That wasn’t their style. More likely, it was the work of one of these treacherous cults we keep hearing about. Even so–’

  ‘Three weeks ago,’ said the colonel, ‘the necrons purged this city of every last human soul they could hunt down. We have to assume that any survivors–’

  ‘–are probably cold, hungry and frightened,’ Costellin argued, ‘and I doubt that being shot at has done much to reassure them. You don’t have much faith in humanity, do you, colonel? Must I remind you that, without the very human members of this world’s PDF, without their loyalty–’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘I’m going out there,’ said Costellin. ‘I’m going to talk to them.’

  He clambered through the hatch and dropped to the ground, a few drifting snowflakes stinging his cheeks. The colonel disembarked from the Centaur behind him, and together they considered the line of idling vehicles stretching before them.

  ‘I’ve studied the maps,’ said Costellin. ‘The roads to the immediate north and south of this one are impassable. There are other routes through, but we would have to back up a good way to follow them.’

  ‘They’ve picked the perfect spot for an ambush,’ the colonel grumbled.

  ‘If that is indeed what this is. I still think–’

  ‘The most expedient way to deal with this is to shell those towers.’

  ‘And risk bringing them down, blocking our path? And what if you’re right, and those people up there do mean us harm? Can you guarantee that a few indiscriminately tossed shells will end their threat? We are carrying atomic bombs, colonel. A single survivor, a fortuitously placed mining charge, and this regiment will go out in its blaze of glory a few hours ahead of schedule.’

  ‘Then we send the Gorgons forward.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you. You’d risk losing another Gorgon to a potential minefield, and perhaps this time its occupants too, rather than a single life?’

  ‘The hostiles have used up a great many charges. The odds, I believe, are against their having as many remaining. Your plan may entail a lower stake than mine, but as its chances of success are negligible–’

  ‘I disagree with that assessment,’ said Costellin, ‘and as my life is the one to be staked, I believe it my right to do so. I can get through to these people, colonel. Even if they have turned to the necrons, it is only in despair. I can give them hope! At least, I can draw them out, establish the true extent of their resources.’

  The colonel considered for a moment, then nodded his assent. He voxed the waiting scouts ahead, told them the commissar was on his way and that they should keep their distance but cover him as best they could.

  Costellin marched past the watching soldiers, past the Centaurs and the Gorgons, his confidence fading as he found himself alone but for the occasional glimpse of a masked Guardsman crouching in a doorway or lying flat behind a step.

  He kept his hands raised, his gaze fixed ahead, and kept walking until his peripheral vision detected movement in a first floor window. Then he came to a halt, introduced himself in a loud, clear voice and announced that he wanted to talk.

  The echoes of his words died down before, from the window, he heard the unmistakable click of a power pack being pushed into place, then a female voice: ‘My husband has you in his sights. Lay down your weapons, all of them.’

  He did as he was bade. Then, at the voice’s urging, he took ten paces backwards and waited. A door opened, and a small, dark figure scurried out, keeping his head down. He retrieved Costellin’s plasma pistol, but struggled with the chainsword and decided to leave it. The pistol, he levelled inexpertly as he motioned to the commissar to follow him back inside. The body of a young woman lay slumped in the doorway, and Costellin took a moment to examine her, concluding to his chagrin but not to his surprise that she was long beyond helping.

  A rickety staircase led him up to a large, open floor, a scattering of flea-bitten sheets and the stink of faeces telling him that this had been a mutant flophouse. He counted six people huddled in gloomy corners.

  He was met by a middle-aged couple, the man bearded and balding, wielding a lasgun. The younger man who had brought him here took refuge behind this pair, still brandishing Costellin’s pistol.

  ‘You’re Imperium,’ said the woman, glaring at the aquila on the commissar’s cap through narrowed, suspicious eyes. ‘Why should we trust you?’

  ‘I can get you out of this city,’ said Costellin.

  ‘And off this world?’

  ‘With the Emperor’s grace, that will not be necessary. I am taking an army to fight the invaders. We believe we can–’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ the man hissed. ‘It’s just words, that’s all. Where was his Emperor when the invaders came? Why couldn’t his army save us then?’

  ‘I know it must seem that way, like you were forgotten, but–’

  ‘Sealed up in this hell,’ said the woman, ‘abandoned to the slaughter!’ She was brimming with tears. ‘We thought we would never…’

  ‘The attack took us all by surprise,’ said Costellin. ‘We did what we could. We’re fighting back now. You were never abandoned.’

  ‘It’s been so long. The priests, they told us…’

  ‘I know what they told you, but you must see now they were mistaken. You were right, you’ve been living in hell, and it must be hard sometimes to look up at the sky, but there is still a world outside of this city, and people waiting for you.’

  A report rang out, a las-beam sizzled past his ear, and a voice roared, ‘Dissembler!’ Costellin whirled around to find that a short, stocky man had stepped into the room behind him. He wore the white vestments of a priest, but they had been defaced, holy runes obliterated by a smear of paint or a touch of flame.

  ‘Marig,’ the woman gasped, ‘we thought you were... You’re…’

  The newcomer strode forward, jabbed an accusing finger in Costellin’s face. ‘This man lies to you. He promises freedom, while his soldiers are poised to destroy us.’

  ‘No,’ said Costellin, ‘that isn’t–’

  ‘Their guns have slain four of our brethren. They tried to silence me too, but my faith in the Iron Gods shielded me.’ Costellin felt his trigger finger twitching at these words. In any other circumstances, he would have executed this heretic on the spot.

  ‘There are so many of them, Marig,’ pleaded the bearded man, ‘and we have only these two weapons, these three now. Shouldn’t we…?’

  His wife completed the thought: ‘Surrender to them, throw ourselves on their mercy. They know what we have been through, they must understand.’

  ‘Their Emperor understands nothing. He has no mercy. Don’t you see? I know how they work. They will kill us to protect themselves from the truths we have learned.’

  ‘And how many have the necrons killed?’ Costellin asked quietly. His words were ostensibly directed at the priest, but he meant them for the others. Marig was beyond reason. He was no fool, however. He extended a hand towards Costellin’s erstwhile guide, took the plasma pistol from him, swapping it for his lasgun. He examined the unfamiliar weapon, and smiled in approval, then the smile hardened as Marig raised the pistol and pressed it to Costellin’s temple.

  ‘Our lord spoke clearly to us, although few chose to understand.
He warned that resistance would incur His wrath, and so it came to pass. However, by seeking out His enemies, sending them to His judgement, we can show Him that–’

  Costellin made a grab for the gun. His fingertips brushed its stock, but Marig recoiled too quickly, accidentally unleashing a plasma bolt in the process. The other refugees dived for cover as Costellin cursed his age-slowed reflexes, pushed the priest away from him and ran. He vaulted the staircase rail, landing with a bone-jarring thud that loosened a precarious step and almost pitched him the rest of the way down the stairs headfirst. As he hit the ground floor, a second bolt whooshed over his head and exploded against the wall, searing and blinding him with its backwash. Costellin could hear the heavy, running footsteps of the deranged priest in pursuit.

  His vision filled with miniature supernovae, Costellin fumbled his way through the door. He stumbled in the road, scraping his hands, and felt for his dropped chainsword. He found it even as his eyesight cleared, thumbed the activation stud in its grip, and the engine spluttered but failed to catch.

  Marig seized him from behind, choking him, twisting his wrist until the chainsword fell, the pistol barrel at Costellin’s head again. ‘Stay back,’ the priest screamed, ‘stay back!’ and Costellin saw the shapes of Death Korps Guardsmen edging forward through the shadows, saw the glints of their lasgun sights.

  ‘I saw nine of them,’ he sub-vocalised into his comm-bead, ‘but there could be more in the other buildings. The priest is their leader. Take him out, and the rest will almost certainly flee or surrender. In any case, they have only two lasguns between them, and no explosives as far as I can ascertain.’

  ‘We have your officer,’ Marig yelled. ‘One more step forward, and I will kill him, I swear to the Iron Gods I will. Turn back! Leave us be, if you value his life.’

  Obviously, he didn’t know the Death Korps of Krieg.

  Costellin hadn’t felt the las-beam that had killed him.

  He couldn’t feel much of anything. He had fallen, all the same, and couldn’t stand again for the invisible weight resting on his chest.