‘The campaign hasn’t even begun, private. When did it go missing?’
‘Sir, on a pathfinder flight yesterday, sir.’ In fact, he had hurled it out into the undergrowth as soon as his feet had touched down in the jungle. Ducky, thankfully, did not share that detail.
‘And you have requested a replacement?’ Stanhope readied to move on.
‘Sir, no, sir.’
The reply brought Stanhope up short. ‘You’ve not?’
‘Sir, no, sir.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Sir, I don’t intend to use it, sir.’
Carson swore in his head, cursing Ducky and his damn misguided principles. The man had earned five separate decorations for tending to and retrieving wounded men under horrendous fire, and he had been stripped of them all, one by one, because he refused to kill and refused to lie about it.
The whole company was focused now on Stanhope.
‘What’s your name, trooper?’
‘Sir, Private Drake, sir,’ Ducky replied with the cool, slight smile that Carson knew he would still be wearing when they put him up against a wall.
‘Private Drake,’ Stanhope considered, ‘I do believe you may be the only sane man here.’ And with that, he turned on his heel and carried on down the line. Carson was shocked still for a moment and then followed after. He checked on Reeve, but the commissar was looking off at another unit marching past. Ducky had got away with it. How could one man be so damn lucky?
Stanhope’s review of Booth and his third platoon passed with as few incidents. By the time Stanhope finished the inspection and dismissed the men, Carson had grown more suspicious. Perhaps the major had not wished to condemn a popular man in front of his comrades. If he truly was a coward, then he would just send the notification to Reeve and he would do the rest. But in that instance, Carson might be able to placate him. He walked with him back to his room.
‘I’ll have a new weapon issued to Private Drake and ensure he holds onto it.’
‘Do not bother on my account,’ Stanhope replied indifferently. ‘I meant what I said.’
Carson was surprised; perhaps Stanhope would not be a disappointment as a commanding officer after all.
‘I only hope the commissar feels the same way as you do, major.’
Stanhope passed through the wide portal back into the barracks. ‘I wouldn’t concern myself with Reeve. He wasn’t there to stand judgement over your men. He was there to stand judgement over me.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Stanhope gave a thin smile. ‘Because he’s following me.’
Carson could not hide his look of disbelief.
‘It’s true,’ Stanhope continued. ‘Every time I’m transferred to a new regiment, there he is. For four years now, from the 99th to the 263rd to the 371st to here.’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why would he being doing that?’
‘Honestly, lieutenant, I don’t know. We’ve never so much as exchanged pleasantries. I can only imagine that he has some hook into me and is waiting to reel me in.’
Carson regarded Stanhope. He knew of his record; he knew he had been a hero once, but his best days were years past. No amount of official gratitude, no goodwill for such endeavours, no matter how glorious, would hold a commissar back from his duty.
‘So Reeve was there to judge you,’ Carson said sceptically. ‘Do you think you passed?’
‘You mean was I acquitted? Well, I suppose we will see. By tomorrow dawn, if I’m up against a wall, then we’ll assume not,’ he turned to Carson. ‘By the way, I’ll be engaged much of the day. If orders come through, just carry them out. Don’t worry about getting my say so. I’ll check in with you before the evening.’
‘Shall I assign one of the men as your steward or would you prefer to pick one yourself?’
Stanhope opened the door, revealing little of the dark room beyond. He stepped in, making it clear that he did not wish Carson to follow. ‘That won’t be necessary, lieutenant. You can keep your fighting men in the fighting line. I can shine my own boots and button my own jacket.’
Carson was surprised again. Having a personal steward or batman was not simply a commander’s perk, it was the only practical thing. Even the most fastidious procedural directives acknowledged it was better to have commanders spend their time commanding their men, rather than buffing their gear.
‘You are a major.’ Again, the ‘sir’ stuck on the tip of his tongue and travelled no further.
‘Yes, lieutenant, but a major what?’
‘What?’ Carson said, confused.
Stanhope raised his eyebrows, but did not continue the thought.
‘Very well,’ he concluded as the door closed. ‘You can have one man bring me any messages or orders first thing in the morning. That is all.’
They were getting close, Arbulaster felt. They were getting very close. The crew of the Brydon were making their final preparations to release the DOV. The landing site was ready, he had approved the schedule to ferry the troops and armour across afterwards in order of priority to complete the deployment of the DOV and ensure its security. The pathfinders had not seen any orks in the vicinity, but if there were any his advance guard would be in position long before they could pull together a force of any size. He just needed a few more hours without interruption from that hectoring governor and they would be done.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Major Brooce interrupted him. ‘Commissar Reeve would like to speak with you.’
The commissar’s name poured ice-water on Arbulaster’s irritation. ‘The commissar?’ he said. ‘Very well. Very well.’
‘Shall I send him in, sir?’
Arbulaster glanced around at the mess in the control centre caused by days of feverish activity and at the number of men nearby who would doubtless overhear every word.
‘No. No need. Take over here, Brooce, and send someone to tell him I’ll meet him outside my study,’ Arbulaster decided. ‘Do emphasise outside, will you Brooce?’
‘I will, sir.’
Brooce sent off one of the troopers and Arbulaster strode off to his study. As he went he took the opportunity to straighten his uniform surreptitiously. You didn’t give these fanatical black-coat bastards any excuse if you could avoid it. You never knew what they were going to choose to care about from one day to the next.
Arbulaster fastened the clip on his high collar just as he arrived at his door. Reeve wasn’t there yet, so he would have a few moments to ensure that he left nothing out that might catch the commissar’s interest. He walked in.
‘Thank you for seeing me, colonel,’ Commissar Reeve greeted him from beside his desk.
Arbulaster swore silently in his head. ‘Of course, commissar.’
The commissar did not walk to meet him, he merely stood where he was. He had obviously been a big man in his youth, but that had clearly been decades ago. He was old and, as he had aged, his body had shrivelled back in on itself.
Arbulaster walked up to the desk, but Reeve’s position prevented him from going around and sitting in his chair. It was yet another of the petty power-plays that were so endemic amongst the Emperor’s political officers.
Arbulaster refused to be thrown off-guard, or to sit down in the visitor’s chair, which would allow Reeve to sit in his position behind the desk. Instead, he stayed on his feet. He stopped in front of Reeve, but did not salute. Brimlocks did not salute commissars unless they had assumed the responsibility of a line officer.
‘You wished to speak with me?’
Reeve did not respond at once. He merely stared at the colonel as though with a single glance he could see every lapse in judgement Arbulaster had ever made. But Arbulaster was not unnerved by it. If Reeve thought that he could be intimidated by a look, he was sorely mistaken. Arbulaster had survived five different commissars in the c
ourse of the crusade; he knew they bled red just like any other man.
At length, Reeve finally opened his mouth. Each time he did so, Arbulaster half-expected to hear a death-rattle, but Reeve’s voice was clear and smooth.
‘I was observing the inspections this morning and I happened to see your Valkyrie flyers. One flyer in particular.’
Arbulaster had no doubt which one he was referring to.
‘Tell me, colonel,’ Reeve continued, ‘who is responsible for the condition of those craft?’
The Valkyries were the Navy’s craft, and each one was the pilot’s responsibility. Arbulaster knew that, and he knew that Reeve knew that as well. He knew that neither was the right answer.
‘I am responsible for the condition of that craft,’ Arbulaster replied; he had played this game before.
‘Then you are responsible for that vandalism to it?’
This was the reason that Reeve had pulled him away from their imminent deployment on Tswaing? He lowered his opinion of the man another notch.
‘They’re devotional images, commissar. The pilot, you understand, is most devout.’ Devout, yes, Arbulaster thought to himself, it was simply that his devotion was to the flyer rather than the saints.
‘They are obscene, colonel. A single devotional image is all that is allowed. We cannot have the Emperor’s blessed fighting craft appearing like some tattooed merchant crewman. They will be removed.’
So this was the kind of commissar that Reeve was, Arbulaster considered. A petty obsessive who would commend a man for taking a breach, then have him flogged for having his boots dirty. Or perhaps it was simply another power-play to enforce his will over his line officer from the start. Either way, Reeve would have to learn that he was not dealing with some wan subaltern; even commissars had their place, and their place was not to impede the fighting effectiveness of his regiment with their righteous whimsy.
‘I will see to the necessary arrangements, commissar,’ Arbulaster replied, ‘as soon as it is possible. At present, you appreciate, we are approaching a critical juncture.’
‘I appreciate it entirely, colonel. You are a busy man, I understand.’ Arbulaster hoped for a moment that that might have been it. Of course, it wasn’t. ‘So I have made my contribution to sharing your workload and have attended to this matter personally. I have given orders for the crew to be issued with the necessary equipment, the pilot especially. I think it rather fitting that he should remedy the damage he has caused. Unless,’ Reeve paused and fixed Arbulaster with his sunken gaze, ‘you have any objection?’
He didn’t. Zdzisław would have a fit, but if he was going to fire off and snap Reeve’s withered old neck then so much the better.
‘No objection. Do as you see fit.’
‘Excellent. The colonel of my last regiment often had objections. I am glad it will not be the case with us,’ Reeve said. Arbulaster noticed that, at the mention of the old colonel, the commissar’s hand had gone to one of the skulls upon his coat and he was stroking it a fraction.
‘Nine hundred and eighty-nine, colonel. In case you were counting.’
Arbulaster snapped his eyes up. In that instant he felt a touch of chill. ‘An impressive record,’ he managed to say. Reeve merely nodded and then took his leave, leaving Arbulaster alone. The man had killed nearly a thousand men, nearly as many men as he had left in his whole regiment. He’d killed more Imperial troopers than probably any single individual foe they had faced. In the Emperor’s name, what kind of madman was he?
As much as Arbulaster regretted it, Zdzisław would have to be on his own. Arbulaster had permitted such customisation in the past. The regiment was a thousand strong, but those thousand were what was left of a million Brimlock troopers, across fifty regiments, who had begun the Ellinor Crusade. He knew that to survive such a journey took its toll upon the mind as well as the body. He understood his men, and where it did not disrupt the regiment he had made allowances. He allowed for the totems, the trophies, the lucky bullet cases, the dubious relics; he allowed for Captain Drum, his bizarre garb and the vox-amplifiers he had fitted on his tank to blast out battle anthems; he allowed for Captain Gomery and Mister Emmett; he even allowed for Lancer Diver and his immodest post-battle displays. Arbulaster would tut and shake his head, but after all this time, he didn’t care what a man wore, or didn’t wear, so long as he was back in his uniform and ready to march before sun-up the next day.
He had seen other officers try to fight such things in their regiments, try to enforce uniformity in the face of the inevitable insanity that gripped any man after a lifetime of war. Those officers who attempted to keep the appearance of complete normality in their regiments were driven mad themselves. Mad, or up against a wall before the black-coats or their own men. Well, Arbulaster was not going to let either of those happen to him. He was not going to fall now, and certainly not at the hands of Commissar Reeve.
He returned to the control centre and released his fear as frustration over the vox with the Brydon. The Navymen there picked up their pace and, an hour later, four days after the 11th paraded through the streets of Voorheid, the Brydon launched the DOV, the giant outpost vehicle, with its drop-cradle towards the chosen site.
The DOV left a burning streak through the sky as it entered the atmosphere. Then, as it approached the surface, the drop-cradle’s thrusters ignited and the staggering force they generated slowed the DOV’s descent, vaporising the vegetation beneath it and allowing the vehicle to settle in place. Only a few minutes later, the first Valkyries swooped in, delivering their cargo of men to defend the DOV and deploy it into a Brimlock outpost, a full base of operations for their expedition on Tswaing. The campaign proper had begun.
Chapter Six
Brimlock outpost DOV-A, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 7
Carson caught sight of the ork war-party as it crashed through the jungle. The orks had the scent of their quarry in their nostrils now and were chasing it hard to run it to ground. Their prize was still a dozen paces ahead of them. It was big, bigger even than the orks, though its own skin was pale. It ran like a bull, head down, arms pumping, smashing the smaller branches in its path into splinters. But it was slowing, tiring, and the orks pressed after it all the harder.
It managed to reach the base of one of the giant trees and collapsed there a second, chest heaving. It glanced to either side, but then it heard the war-cries behind. It turned and stood at bay. It reached down onto the ground, like a wrestler preparing to charge, and roared its defiance at its pursuers.
The orks paused a moment, catching their own breath, relishing the imminent kill. They readied the clubs, stones and spears they carried. The ork in the lead, wearing a headdress of teeth and fur, raised a bone sharpened into a pick and led his warriors in a mighty bellow of their own in reply.
Got you, Carson thought, and he pulled his trigger. The las-bolt from the heavy pistol struck the ork right in its gaping maw. Its eyes bulged wide as the back of its mouth and the top of its spine were incinerated in a flash. It dropped its bone and clutched feebly at its throat as it fell, not a mark on it.
The jungle trail erupted with light as a volley of las-fire burst from the undergrowth. The fire was focused, with three or more shots hitting the closest orks, incinerating their faces, throats and the side of their heads. An autocannon opened up, its shots whipping through the foliage like angry insects. Those struck tumbled to the ground; the rest of the orks, caught by surprise, wavered a moment, unsure which way to face. There was a second volley, and a half-dozen more ork bodies hit the dirt. Inexperienced troops, caught so completely off-guard, would break. They would dash for cover directly away from the fire and thus expose themselves to the second line of ambushers placed to strafe fire down the length of the other side of the trail. Veterans would never have allowed themselves to clump together so, they would strike back along the route they had come, even while their comr
ades behind them would strike forwards looking to flank their attackers.
Orks, being orks, just charged straight down your throat. Even as the third volley lashed out, the orks were ploughing into the jungle towards their unseen adversaries. Ahead of them, shapes in grey uniforms, stained brown with dirt, started to rise from the ground to run. The orks bellowed again, hacking and slashing at the undergrowth as their attackers ran from their charge. For an instant it looked as though they had broken out through the ambush, and it was at that instant that the second line, stationed behind the first and not on the other side of the trail, opened fire.
The Brimlocks of the first line ran, one hand on their hot lasguns, the other holding down their tanna-stained helmets. No one needed to remind them to keep low as the las-fire flashed over their heads at the orks running after them. The second line shot twice more, as those of the first line dove into their firing positions and whirled around, ready to add their fire. But the orks’ charge had been shattered and the few of them that reached the second line were impaled by a half-dozen bayonets even as they raised their clubs to strike.
‘Hold your fire!’ The order echoed across the line.
The last ork stumbled away. Even orks could sometimes be made to see the sense of living to fight another day. There, in front of it, however, stood the great white bull-monster that the war-party had chased into the killing ground. The monster swung a huge branch and smacked the ork off its feet.
The ork crumpled, unconscious, and fell into the leafy undergrowth. Across the rest of the jungle there was a moment of silence as the survivors drew breath, waiting to see if it truly was the end, or whether another threat was to emerge.
‘Good job, Frn’k,’ Carson called. The bull-monster, an ogryn with a corporal stripe tattooed on his arm, nodded and picked up the ork at its feet. He slung it over his shoulder, then turned and gave Carson a crude salute.
‘Now keep it safe,’ Carson continued. ‘That one’s for the colonel, special delivery!’
Imperial Glory Page 7
