The general’s adjutant, Gruber, placed himself on the old man’s right and proudly announced, “Lightly roasted auroch heart stuffed with jellied grox liver and dogwort.”
Murmurs of appreciation sounded from around the table, but Bergen studied the thing on his plate as if it were an alien life form. It sat there glistening wetly in the light from the lamps, its pungent aroma clawing at his nostrils. He hoped the expression of delight he was struggling to maintain was enough to fool the general. He looked up the table involuntarily and immediately wished he hadn’t. DeViers caught his eye. Bergen put extra effort into his artificial smile and saw the old man grin back, buying into his act.
He turned back to the food. Maybe it tastes better than it looks, he thought, but I doubt it.
Bergen considered himself a down-to-earth man for someone of his breeding and rank — it was, in fact, the thing he liked best about himself — and it required effort on his part to maintain the social niceties so important to his station in the classist upper echelons of the Imperial Guard. Whether on the battlefield or off it, he liked to live as his men did, eating standard-issue rations and sleeping on a standard-issue bedroll, washing and shaving as little or as often as his men were able to. Such things allowed him a better understanding of the condition of his troops, of how far he could push them before they would start to come undone. Such information was critical to a good commander. Some of the old-school officers, a few of the colonels and majors seated around him perhaps, also held to such practices, but they were in the minority. Bergen’s regimental commanders — Vinnemann, Marrenburg and Graves — had been allowed to abstain from attending the dinner so that they might continue their preparations for deployment, a concession that Bergen greatly envied them. DeViers hadn’t given him that option. The old man had been adamant that all his divisional commanders attend.
Lifting his cutlery, Bergen began slicing bite-sized chunks from the undercooked heart. Spearing one with his fork, he lifted it towards his mouth. Here goes nothing, he told himself, and popped it in. The texture was highly unpleasant, but he was forced to admit that it tasted a lot better than it looked.
While the general’s guests concentrated on the main course, the level of conversation dropped, stifled by the efforts of cutting and chewing, and of chasing each mouthful down with a sip of amasec. But it wasn’t long until most of the plates lay empty save a smear of sauce on each, and a flock of servants emerged from the side corridors to clear them away.
Bergen sat back in silence and watched the others interact. His stomach was threatening to rebel against him.
Bishop Augustus dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white silk napkin and said, “Exquisite, general, but quite cruel, don’t you think, to acclimatise us to such outstanding fare? I suspect Golgotha offers nothing so delicious or refined.”
General deViers faced the bishop, but gestured down the table to Tech-Magos Sennesdiar.
“The honoured magos,” he said, “tells me that most of the animal and plant life on this world is fatal if ingested. Is that not so, magos?”
The blaring voice that replied was like a vox-caster unit with the volume turned up too high. Like most of the others, Bergen winced.
“If you’ll permit me, general,” boomed the tech-magos, each word toneless and harsh, “the probability of death would depend on the amount and type of matter ingested, the body-weight and constitution of the individual in question, the availability and quality of medical assistance—”
From Bergen’s left, a few seats further down the table, the crab-faced Tech-Adept Xephous emitted a sudden burst of noise, high-pitched and raw, like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. His superior immediately replied with a similar condensed sonic burst. Bergen knew this for what it was. The tech-priests were communicating in Binary, the ancient machine-language of the Martian priesthood. When Sennesdiar reverted to speaking in Gothic a moment later, his voice was pitched just right. “My apologies, gentlemen. My adept informs me that my vocaliser settings may have caused you some discomfort. Is this setting acceptable?”
“A great improvement, magos,” said General deViers.
“Then I shall continue listing the variables relevant to the question of toxicity in—”
DeViers held up a hand and cut the tech-priest off mid-sentence. “Thank you, magos, but that will not be necessary. A simple yes or no would have sufficed.”
“It is not a simple matter,” said the tech-priest. “I shall have an acolyte-logis compile a report for you on the subject. We have significant amounts of relevant data.”
“If you must,” said deViers, winking at Bishop Augustus, “but I’d rather you just warn me if I’m about to bite down on something I shouldn’t.”
You wouldn’t want to bite off more than you could chew, thought Bergen automatically.
“Actually,” continued General deViers, turning from the tech-magos, “I’d like to hear the high commissar’s thoughts on this amasec. Commodore Galbraithe graciously donated eighteen bottles of the stuff for our little celebration. Such a pity that he wasn’t able to share it with us in person.”
“Wasn’t able?” asked Major General Rennkamp brusquely, “Or wasn’t willing? I’ve heard the old spacer hasn’t been ground-side for over twenty years. You’d need a direct order from the High Lords to get him off that Helicon Star of his.”
There was a ripple of polite laughter.
“A fine ship, that,” murmured a colonel close to Bergen. It was von Holden, one of Rennkamp’s men, commander of the 259th Mechanised Regiment. Bergen was a little surprised. He had privately admired both of the battlefleet’s heavy cruisers, but it wasn’t often one would hear a ground-pounder praising a naval vessel out loud. There were long-running tensions between the Guard and the Navy, a perpetuation of mistrusts that stretched back as far as the Age of Apostasy and beyond.
At the upper end of the table, High Commissar Morten was answering the general. “A very fine vintage, sir. The commodore is most gracious. This is very expensive stuff. It has a certain citrus quality, you agree? And the significance of his choice…”
“What significance would that be?” asked Bishop Augustus.
“Its origin, your grace,” said Morten. “This particular amasec is produced exclusively by the Jaldyne prefectural distilleries on Terrax Secundus. Quite rare outside the Ultima Segmentum.”
“Ah, clever of him,” said a glowing deViers. “Wonderful stuff.”
Bishop Augustus was frowning. “I’m afraid I still don’t see the connection.”
“Terraxian and Cadian regiments fought side-by-side on this very plateau in the last war,” answered the high commissar. “Together, they were able to buy Commissar Yarrick and his command staff the time they needed to escape the planet’s surface. The orks swarmed this very plateau just as Yarrick’s lifter ascended. I believe there were several popular books published about the battle.”
A moment of quiet descended on the table as the fighting men present muttered a quick prayer for the fallen. It was Major General Killian that broke the spell.
“I don’t suppose any of you have read Michelos?” he asked. “I’ve seen a few of my troopers with their noses in tattered copies.”
“Finally taught your lot to read, eh, Klotus?” said Bergen with a grin.
Killian laughed heartily, chasing off the last of the sombre mood that had momentarily fallen on the table. “You can talk, tread-head. Your lot still think they need to take toilet paper to the mess tent. Must be all those promethium fumes.”
The colonels seated nearby laughed out loud, prone to engage in a bit of good-natured ribbing themselves at times, but General deViers coughed sharply into his hand, and the sound cut through the laughter like a las-knife. The expression on the general’s face sent a clear message: not the time, not the place.
Fair enough, thought Bergen. It’s your show.
High Commissar Morten sat forward, ice blue eyes fixed on Killian, and said, “I’m not s
ure I approve, major general.” Seeing Killian’s face redden, he added, “Of troopers reading Michelos, I mean. His work has a very fatalistic bent. Not suitable material for front-line troops. Dreadful recruitment material, too. The way he refers to Guard service as ‘the meat grinder’. If it were up to me, I’d have the text prohibited under article six.”
Bergen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. First offences under article six meant the lash. It seemed a little harsh for reading a bit of poetry, he thought.
“Come now, commissar,” said Rennkamp. “Isn’t it quite popular with the civs?”
“Civilians?” said Morten. “I hardly think so. The last I heard, hivers still prefer their entertainment filled with sex and unstoppable heroes.”
“What have you got against unstoppable heroes?” asked Killian, smirking. “I like to think you’re dining with at least one.”
General deViers lifted his glass and said, “I’ll drink to that!”
His adjutant, Gruber, appeared again from the side-door, walked to the right side of the general’s chair and, in a deep, sonorous voice, announced the dessert — slices of candied bonifruit with hot caffeine to follow for those who wanted it.
Bergen stifled a groan. He could hardly cope with consuming more food, but there was little choice. Propriety made harsh demands. He doubted he could get away with refusing to partake of the sweetened fruit. The general had had quite a few glasses of amasec, but his eyes were missing nothing. It had crossed Bergen’s mind that the whole event might have been orchestrated to serve a double purpose. He didn’t doubt that the general wished to celebrate — deViers was voracious when it came to attention and respect — but it wouldn’t have surprised him if the old man was also using the banquet as an opportunity to gauge the mood among his officers and to root out potential troublemakers. It was hardly an original method. One of the divisional commanders would have to replace the general one day. Bergen knew that Rennkamp was only too eager to step in and take over whenever the chance came up. He wasn’t sure about Killian yet. When the amasec was flowing and the room was filled with chatter, it was easy to let one’s guard down, confident that those around you were likewise swept up in the bonhomie. Bergen had been careful to sip slowly, conscious that he would be leading his troops out before dawn. Now, he was glad of that, certain that the old general was watching all of them like a hawk.
Warp damn the old bastard, he thought. Millions of our brother Cadians dead and dying in the Third War of Armageddon, and here he is throwing dinner parties on a world infested with greenskins. What happened to him? There was a time when I looked up to him, a time when he was rock-solid. He’s not the same man, now. It’s as if some kind of panic or mania has taken over. I can’t stand what he’s become.
He stabbed his dessert fork into a slice of bonifruit and, slowly, mechanically, chewed and swallowed, hardly tasting it at all.
At least tomorrow, he would be out of the general’s shadow again.
* * *
There’s a man who understands this quest, thought General deViers. Good officer, Gerard Bergen. Look at him, limiting his drink, careful not to gorge himself, mindful of tomorrow and the pressures on him. Not like some of these others. Damn, but I like this one. I like him a lot. Reminds me of myself.
Commodore Galbraithe’s fine amasec was really working hard on the general. His head felt as light as air and there was a very pleasant numbness in his muscles. He was warm, just a little dizzy, and supremely satisfied with the way the evening had progressed.
Gruber had returned to his side to lean over and whisper the time to him. Good old Gruber. He did as he was told, no questions asked, and took care of business, even the nasty stuff.
DeViers rose unsteadily to his feet and addressed his guests for the last time that evening.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “my adjutant tells me that the hour is late and, as you know, the 10th Armoured Division is rolling out tomorrow to secure the first of our waypoints. Major General Bergen should be in his bunk, and I dare say the rest of you need more than your share of beauty sleep, but I have a few words for you before you disperse.”
His guests turned their heads towards him.
“Operation Thunderstorm is off to a fine, auspicious start. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company this evening and I thank you for helping me to mark this occasion in such a fitting manner.”
His eyes settled for a brief moment on each of them, and he nodded in agreement with his own words as he said, “We’ve dangerous business ahead. The filthy orks aren’t about to make it easy for us. There’s nothing they love more than a fight, and they’ll come in their millions once they know men have returned to this place. Soon, our Major General Bergen here will be giving them their first taste of Imperial lead in almost forty years, and there’ll be plenty more to follow, by Throne! We’ll make the bastards suffer. It’s time to remind them whose bloody galaxy this is.”
“Hear, hear!” called out one of Killian’s colonels, earning him a broad grin from the general. Some of the other officers lifted their glasses.
“Yes,” said deViers, “lift your glasses, all of you. A final toast.”
Around the table, the necks of tall decanters clinked against goblet rims. Each guest rose from his seat, some less steadily than others.
DeViers turned to Bishop Augustus. “Through the counsel of the Emperor’s most holy Ministorum, may our faith remain strong.”
The bishop nodded sincerely, as if he would personally make it so.
“Ave Imperator,” replied the men around the table.
DeViers turned next to High Commissar Morten and said, “Through the uncompromising vigilance of our tireless commissars, may our hearts never falter.”
Morten tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“Ave Imperator.”
The general gestured at each of the tech-priests in turn with his glass. “Through the wisdom and scientific mastery of the Adeptus Mechanicus, may our guns blaze fierce and our engines never stall.”
“Ave Imperator,” said the officers, but the tech-priests replied “Ave Omnissiah!” and deViers heard Bishop Augustus mutter a quiet curse under his breath.
“Throne above,” the general went on, “even the Navy is doing its part!”
Some of the colonels and majors grunted in brief disapproval.
“Come now, you men,” chided deViers, still smiling. “Commodore Galbraithe sends us his best liquor and has promised me a Vulcan close-support wing once our hangars are finished. I won’t exclude him from my toast.”
“May we not also raise our glasses to Major General Bergen?” asked High Commissar Morten. He turned to face Bergen down the length of the table and said, “The very best of luck to you, sir, in your coming assault on Karavassa. The orks will crumble before you and the might of your glorious tanks.”
“Hear, hear!” agreed the other officers noisily.
“Thank you, high commissar,” said Bergen. “I’m confident my division will more than live up to the general’s expectations.”
Bishop Augustus raised his glass in Bergen’s direction and said, “May the Light of all mankind watch over you and your men, major general, and grant you victory in His Name. You go with the blessings of His Most Holy Ministorum.”
“The Emperor protects!” said deViers sharply, irked that the high commissar had seen fit to hijack his toast.
“The Emperor protects!” chorused the guests, and together, excepting the tech-priests as always, they drained their glasses. At a sign from Gruber, the general’s servants emerged from the side corridor again to withdraw the chairs from around the table, signalling an end to the general’s soiree. As the guests started filing out of the room’s broad double-doors, each saluting him as they went, deViers heard Tech-Magos Sennesdiar addressing Major General Bergen.
“I miscalculated the probability of your attendance tonight, major general,” said the magos. “Are your preparations complete? May I assume that your enginseers are p
erforming optimally?”
“They are,” answered Bergen. “As for my attendance, the general insisted. Perhaps he sought to distract my mind. Time to think is not always a welcome commodity the day before deployment.”
“Epinephrine,” said Tech-Adept Armadron.
“I’m sorry, adept?” said Bergen.
“And norepinephrine,” said Tech-Adept Xephous. “Armadron is correct. Troopers under study showed greatly increased levels of both hormones prior to engagement with the enemy. Sections of the brain may be excised to inhibit this, major general. Our skitarii legions do not experience the problem.”
Bishop Augustus was hovering nearby. Overhearing them, he interjected acidly, “That must be a great comfort to them.”
Tech-Magos Sennesdiar turned his cowled head to face the Ministorum man. “Their comfort is irrelevant, priest. Their efficiency is not.”
General deViers saw the bishop’s face flush and moved quickly to intervene. Before the bishop could respond and escalate matters, he gripped the bishop’s hand in his. “I was greatly honoured by your attendance tonight, your grace. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Remember, if there’s anything you need from me, you may contact my adjutant, Gruber, directly. He’ll alert me to anything that requires my attention.”
Bishop Augustus gaped for a moment, and then, his tone still edged with displeasure, said, “Most kind, general. I won’t forget. And congratulations once again on such a fine banquet. I shall look forward to your next, providing the guest list is a little more… exclusive.”
Throwing a last contemptuous look at the tech-priests, the bishop lifted the hem of his robe from the floor and stalked out of the room. A string of officers moved up to salute the general and thank him. Without further discourse, the tech-priests took this opportunity to leave.
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 5
