Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  In the distance, high in the sky, a flash of light amidst the orange and red bursts of plasma and high explosive caught the governor’s attention. Sunlight on metal, moving fast. He followed the object downwards, until it disappeared from view, leaving a thin trail of scorched air behind it from its white hot entry shield.

  THE DROPSHIP FELL out of the sky like a burning comet. Inside the hold, a hundred men struggled to stay upright, holding tightly onto the steel cords that held them fast against the wall. The ship rocked as anti-aircraft fire exploded like deadly orange flowers around it and servo motors struggled to keep the ship upright against the buffeting gale of explosions and shock waves.

  ‘Altitude ten thousand feet and counting.’ The voice was metallic and harsh.

  Vero stood still, his feet apart, bracing himself against the wall, willing his mind to slow, to calm down. Around him men groaned as the rapid descent caused their ears to bleed and their senses to spin. His head felt groggy and painful from the changes in pressure caused by their fall. It was dark, the only light a dirty red glow from the power room. The heat was almost tropical and the air was thick with sulphurous fumes from the badly regulated engines.

  ‘Altitude five thousand and counting.’

  An explosion thumped the outer shell of the ship with a giant’s fist and span it around violently like a cork in a whirlpool. Vero could hear bones snapping as bodies jerked against the cables holding them to the walls. The dim red lighting flickered twice, then seemed to stabilise itself.

  ‘Altitude two thousand and…’

  The ship hit the broken ground with a jolt that forced the pneumatic shock absorbers to groan and wheeze like an asthmatic old man. Vero felt as if his spine was being pushed up through the top of his skull. His muscles automatically reacted to the sudden feeling of heaviness as the planet’s gravity took over abruptly from the weightlessness of freefall.

  He moved his arm and the bindings that bound him fast to the wall automatically increased resistance around his wrist, limiting his movements. His wrists were chafed raw where the tight steel bonds had cut into his flesh, and his body ached from sitting motionless, thrown around by the violently descending craft.

  It had seemed like hours since he had woken, an eternity in the dark, hearing the engines rumble. Time in his own head had lost meaning and focus, he felt confused and disorientated. His head felt heavy, full of strange images that came unbidden in the near-darkness. His memory was restless. He couldn’t remember being captured, and he couldn’t think of any reason why he should be bound up in this manner. He struggled to remember how he had come to be here, chained up in a plummeting ship heading only Emperor knew where.

  The first thing he remembered was waking up confused, unable to even remember his own name, but he had seen a single glistening word tattooed on his forearm – Vero – and assumed that that was his name. Looking around now at the similarly tattooed men around him, he felt that his guess was correct. Some of the men seemed to know each other and as they woke up, greeted each other with rueful smiles and shaking heads. A low buzz of conversation started up in parts of the hold, others were silent. He’d questioned a couple of them, but they hadn’t known who he was. He didn’t recognise his clothes, nondescript khaki fatigues, and even his own body looked strangely unfamiliar. His thick-set hands were scarred across the knuckles, but his legs looked strong and sturdy through the rough cloth. But he did not know them as his own.

  THE FAR WALL cracked open, harsh white light spilling across the men. A shadow fell in front of the door, and a figure appeared. The newcomer was hefty and grizzled. His dull brown Imperial Guard uniform was torn and a dirty bandage covered most of his head. He pressed a button on his belt unit and the steel bonds holding the prisoners against the wall relaxed. The cuffs opened, allowing them to rub life back into their limbs. The man moved into the hold and aimed his electro-prod at the nearest captive, lying recumbent on the floor. The man’s body jerked as the electrode touched his torso, but he didn’t get up. Whatever fate awaited them on this planet, some, at least, had been mercifully spared.

  ‘Come on, you pigs, move it! Out, out, out!’ the burly man shouted at them, his accent harsh. Other guards appeared, brandishing weapons at the men. Slowly, a ragged line started to form. Vero, struggling to get up through the burning cramp in his legs, found himself beside a huge bear of a man, stripped to the waist, fluorescent tattoos glistening on his thickly muscled neck and arms. Vero stumbled as he approached the ship’s ramp, and the man caught his arm, preventing him from falling. He grinned at Vero, though much of his mouth was hidden behind a shaggy, ginger-brown beard. Almost concealed beneath the thick hairs on his arms, Vero could read the word ‘Whelan’, and he nodded his thanks.

  ‘It’s the sedatives they give you for the journey.’ Whelan muttered to him quickly. His voice was deep, almost a growl. ‘They make you a bit unsteady on your feet, and that’s also probably why you don’t remember anything. Trust me, I’ve seen it before. You can’t remember anything now, but it’ll come back.’

  Vero didn’t have time to ask where Whelan had seen it before. The big man seemed to know a lot more about what was going on than Vero himself did.

  The faint light became much brighter, causing Vero to shield his eyes from the glare. He realised that it was only weak sunlight, but it seemed strong to him after so much time locked in the darkness of the hull. The sky was a watery grey, and a light drizzle was falling, quickly wetting Vero’s dark hair through. For a moment it was quiet. A soft breeze blew, and it felt like the breath of heaven. Vero stretched, flexing his muscles where the cruel bindings had cut into his flesh. He winced as the raw weals opened again, the fresh wounds livid on his olive skin. Despite the inactivity of the trip, he still felt strong and fit. Behind him, the dropship sat on the pitted ground like a large black beetle, towering over the people standing underneath, sheltering from the rain beneath its black armoured carapace.

  Then the shelling started again.

  The men all ran from the cover of the dropship, the crashing of shells drowning out the sounds of their feet. Vero felt as if he was running in a vacuum. He could not feel his legs, cramped as they were from the journey, his ears deafened by the pounding of the incoming shells. The guards were herding them towards a low building built from crude concrete. Vero and Whelan stopped in front of it, with the rest of the prisoners, shifting their feet to try and restore circulation.

  ‘Whelan.’ Vero began, looking around him at the motley assortment of soldiers, ‘where in hell are we? And what am I doing here? Do you know me?’

  The larger man looked pointedly at the tattoo on Vero’s arm.

  ‘Vero, is it? Well, I don’t know you, but you’ve answered your own question.’ He looked grim. ‘We are in hell. It doesn’t matter a damn what planet we’re on. All you need to know is that you’re part of the Fourteenth Esine penal battalion. The “Holy Fourteenth”, they call us, but the Emperor alone knows why. Are you telling me that you really don’t remember anything at all? You don’t even remember how you came to be on the penal ship in the first place?’

  Vero shook his head. A couple of other men strode over to where they were talking. Whelan smiled, the gap-toothed grin splitting his shaggy beard in two.

  ‘Well, look who we have here! Which sorry rock did you two crawl out from under? I didn’t see you on the ship when I was cruelly shaken out of my beauty sleep.’ Whelan greeted the newcomers by knocking his knuckles against theirs.

  ‘Vero.’ Whelan continued, still smiling. ‘Let me introduce you to a couple of the dumbest dirtbags around. This here is Oban. In his time he’s been done for assaulting a senior officer, second-grade treason, heresy… Oh.’ he added at a scowl from Oban, ‘make that reformed heresy – this guy’s now one straight up, down the line catechismic fellow.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Oban affirmed, nodding his head vigorously. He was a sharp-featured man, with a broken nose that seemed almost too big for his face. Oba
n held out his clenched fist chest high to Vero, and after a second, Vero knocked his own knuckles against it. Oban smiled. He looked like he was about to say something, but Whelan interrupted him.

  ‘Me and Oban are old hands here. How many tours we done now, Oban? Six all told I think, including this one.’

  Oban sucked in his breath. ‘Let’s call it five, Whelan. We’ll make it six when we’re off this dustbowl in one piece. Emperor willing.’

  ‘And this here is Creid.’ Whelan pointed at the second man, a tall, rangy figure in battered fatigues, who grinned at Vero from behind a pair of blast goggles. ‘I don’t even know where to start with this guy. You name it, he’d done it. Law of averages says he should be dead, the amount of tours this guy’s had to do. But some people are just born lucky, I guess. Eh, Creid?’

  ‘You said it, brother.’ Creid pulled his goggles up onto his forehead to peer at Vero. Creid’s right eye had gone, and a crude bio-implant glittered coldly in the socket. Creid noticed Vero’s somewhat startled look, but did not seem to take offence. ‘Some crazy smuggler took my first eye during the battle for Sonitan VII – stray blaster shot.’ Creid volunteered. The docs said I was lucky it wasn’t my whole head that got blown away, but they patched me up good and proper. Said it was my due reward for bravery.’ He shook his head at the memory.

  ‘Silence!’

  A path suddenly appeared through the throng for the man who spoke. He swaggered through the crowd of men, a bulky plasma pistol banging against his lean thigh as he moved. A hush fell on the group as he turned to face them.

  ‘I am Commander Bartok, and I am senior officer here. I will be commanding you for this little fracas.’

  The officer was young, probably less than twenty – this was most likely his first command. Despite his strong words and careful swaggering walk, he looked inexperienced and nervous. He was tall and slim, boyish even. Neat sandy hair was brushed down smartly over a broad forehead.

  Whelan muttered something about ‘Damned rookies!’ under his breath, and Vero knew just what he was thinking.

  ‘OK, you lot, this is the end of your journey,’ Bartok continued in a voice plainly unused to being raised. ‘Where you are doesn’t matter, but I’ll tell you why you’re here. This Imperial outpost is under attack, and we’re still waiting for reinforcements. In the meantime, the Imperium has seen fit to send you lot to help us, and empty its prison ships at the same time.’ He stroked his officer’s insignia as he spoke, as if to reassure himself of his authority amongst so many men. ‘I’ll be blunt. I don’t like penal battalions – you’re all scum as far as I’m concerned – but I don’t have any choice in the matter. You’re here and you’re going to fight.’

  Vero looked around. There were more men than he could easily count. Many of them were prisoners such as himself, but still more were Imperial Guardsmen, dressed in standard grey uniforms, with the symbol of a purple glove on their armbands. A purple glove… it meant nothing to Vero; he had no idea which planet he was on, let alone which unit he was meant to be fighting with. The officer continued.

  ‘Listen up! Our job is to defend the perimeter. And don’t think of trying to escape – there’s nowhere to go. If the enemy catches you, they’ll kill you – and if I catch you, you’ll wish they had killed you. The governor’s psyker himself has foreseen victory for us, and he’s the best telepath in this system – nothing gets past him, so we have got nothing to worry about.’

  Men passed through the group, distributing lasguns and combat knives. Vero took the weapons he was given, turning the unfamiliar shapes over in his hands. The lasgun’s metal and plastic felt strange, but as he turned the butt and grasped the handle, his hands slid into position, seemingly of their own volition, and his finger caressed the trigger. It just felt right somehow. Vero shifted his weight around, rocking gently on the balls of his feet until he felt totally comfortable toting the weapon. He checked what he somehow knew was the power gauge, and flicked the safety catch on and off, noting everything. Whelan glanced at him curiously.

  ‘Used one of these before?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know… I don’t think so.’

  ‘You seem to know what to do,’ the other man said with a shrug.

  Vero looked down at his hands. He felt his muscles heave, and as he looked at his fist, he saw the tendons stretch and become hard. His knuckles, when he touched them, were like steel. He felt a surge of adrenaline pump through him and strength flood through his body. Strange thoughts filled his head. Marble corridors, skies bright with stars, the low hum of machinery. He stood stock still, trying to latch onto the thoughts, but they fluttered away from him, dark as ravens’ wings.

  ‘Right, you sorry lot, lock and load, and let’s go and get ourselves some action!’ Bartok was yelling. ‘You four.’ he finished, pointing at Whelan’s little group, ‘you’re with me. You.’ he said to Oban, ‘you’re comms. Let’s move out!’ One of the Imperial Guardsmen handed Oban a comms-unit, and he hefted it onto his back without complaint.

  Whelan scratched his beard thoughtfully, and looked at Vero. ‘Come on, we’d better shift our butts, or else we’re gonna get a bolt in the back of the neck for lack of zeal. I reckon that kid commander’s dying to take a pop at somebody, and if we’re in the way we’re as likely to get it as anyone else. These sort of people are famous for fragging their own side as often as the enemy’s. Stick with us. As I said, this is my sixth penal tour of duty. I’ve survived so far, even been commended for valour once. Stay close and you’ll get through alright.’

  Vero didn’t seem so sure, but the feel of the weapon in his hands, at least, was reassuring. They set off behind Bartok, jogging alongside the other prisoners from the dropship, heading for where the sounds of battle were loudest.

  ‘ROSARIUS, YOU FOOL, are you a telepath or are you not? Have you served me so faithfully for so long, only to have your powers fade at the moment when I need them most? What is the use of shadowy images, when what I need are facts!’ Torlin’s voice could not disguise his furious rage. He swept a pile of papers off his enormous desk, sending them fluttering around the chamber.

  ‘My lord, for a second I saw something, but then it was gone. This darkness troubles me more than I can say. For a moment, I saw the raven again, then stars, marble halls. And now nothing. I am as blind now in the ether as I am in your world.’

  ‘You fool, Rosarius, there is nothing there for my victory is certain. I don’t need for you to start getting the jitters now. You’re an old man; maybe you should leave the predictions of war to me. We go on.’

  ‘My lord, I beg you…’

  VERO’S UNIT ARRIVED at the perimeter defences to find themselves in the midst of a ferocious firefight. Hundreds of men were crammed into makeshift concrete battlements and the roofs of bunkers, and beyond these positions, Vero saw a sea of rubble where weeks of artillery bombardment had shattered the outer edges of the city. The air buzzed with laser fire and the roar of heavy weapons. The sounds of battle raged in his ears. He felt strong.

  For the first time he could see the enemy up close. As far as he could tell, they were human like him, and from the number of casualties on this side of the wall, well armed. As they moved into position, a man he didn’t know, standing right next to Oban, was hit by enemy auto-cannon fire.

  One moment he was firing into the distance, the next there was a roar and tatters of the man’s flesh covered them. Vero wiped the mess from his face, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. He followed Whelan’s example and ducked down behind the crenellated walls. The pair of them began firing out across the ruins.

  Across this nightmare landscape, Vero could see hundreds of bodies, scattered and broken, limbs cut from bodies by powerful laser fire or ripped apart by the relentless artillery. The ground shook every time another shell landed, and it seemed as if the corpses were dancing on the ground, their arms and legs jerking in time to the exploding shells.

  The stones before them shook. Lo
oking down, Vero saw gloved fingers clutch the stone of the parapet in front of him, and before he could react, the largest man he had ever seen swung over the wall. Dressed from head to toe in dull grey battle armour, he swung a huge chain-axe at Vero’s unprotected head. Vero heard the rasping of the axe’s teeth chewing the air as it swung towards him. Acting from pure instinct, he jumped backwards and sideways, putting space between himself and his assailant. The axe missed Vero’s head, but the whirring blade shattered the barrel of his lasgun. Splinters of hot metal flew in all directions. One hit Vero’s forehead, and blood welled into his eye, making him blink. Vero dropped his useless weapon, and pulled his combat knife from its boot sheath. He dropped into a crouch, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. Somewhere deep inside his own mind, Vero found he was watching himself with a mixture of admiration and alarm.

  Trying to concentrate, he ducked under the next swing and threw himself at the enemy, inside the arc of the chain-axe. He could smell stale sweat and blood, but as his opponent staggered back, Vero forced the steel point of his knife in towards the man’s chest and pushed hard, shattering ribs and severing muscle.

  As he plunged the ice-tempered blade deep into his opponent’s chest, Vero felt something take him over. Some savage spirit possessed him and he twisted the blade, feeling it bite into soft tissue, then brought his knee up to push himself away from the falling body, pulling the knife with him. The man gasped and died in front of him on the broken ground, his madly staring eyes clouding over as blood gouted from the wound in his shattered ribcage.

  Vero staggered back as sensations flooded through him. He didn’t remember ever having learnt to use a combat knife, yet at the precise moment the crazed man had leapt at him, he had felt something take him over, some instinct, some training, that had enabled him to pull the knife from his boot, twist it in his hand and plunge it fatally into the chest of his opponent.