by Andy Hoare
An open-topped Salamander scout transport rumbled along the line and Flint stepped aside to allow it past. The vehicle was headed for the command post, which Flint could now see up ahead. The regimental commander and his headquarters group had established themselves in a hard-shell prefab shelter at the centre of the laager with five Hydra air defence tanks forming a ring all about. Flint doubted there was any threat from the air, but then again, no one had expected the rebels to be able to launch a ground-to-orbit defence barrage either. He could hardly blame the man for taking precautions.
‘Commissar Flint?’ a voice called out as he strode into the command post. ‘Over here, sir.’
The man’s uniform insignia identified him as the regiment’s chief intelligence officer. His face was underlit green by the multiple pict-slates of the tactical cogitation array he was consulting, a three-dimensional plan of the complex’s main structures slowly revolving on the central screen.
‘Major Herrmahn,’ the officer said, proffering a hand. After a moment, the commissar shook it, weighing the officer’s character as he did so.
‘Commissar Flint, reporting for duty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the major grinned. ‘I heard you took the scenic route down.’
‘You could say that,’ Flint replied, deciding he liked the intelligence officer but not wanting to waste any time on pleasantries. ‘What’s the situation?’ said Flint, removing his peaked cap and running a hand through his dishevelled, jet-black hair in a vain attempt to maintain standards.
‘Graf Aleksis means to get the regiment moving once he’s finished talking with the installation’s governor,’ said Herrmahn, nodding towards the centre of the command post. Flint followed the gesture and saw the graf, a Vostroyan noble holding the concurrent rank of colonel, engaged in what looked like a faltering conversation over an intermittent two-way vox-link. The graf was familiar only by the files Flint had read during the long voyage to this new appointment, the two men yet to meet.
‘So the governor’s still alive? He’s still in power?’ Flint asked, wondering how the convicts had control of an orbital defence battery if that were the case.
‘The situation is still unclear,’ Herrmahn replied. ‘As best we can ascertain the governor and his wardens are holed up in the gate hall,’ he pointed to the pict-slate and a structure on the outer limits connected to the central spire by a kilometre long tunnel, ‘Here.’
‘And the rebels?’ asked Flint.
‘Unconfirmed,’ said Herrmahn. ‘As far as we know they might have the run of the entire complex.’
Even with just a cursory scan of Alpha Penitentia’s schematics, Flint knew that if the rebels had control of the whole facility the force required to oust them might be far greater than a single regiment could bring to bear. The combined power plant and prison was as large as a city and as such represented one of the most arduous and costly types of battlefield to fight across. Vostroyan regiments were considered highly capable city-fighters, but the 77th was newly reconstituted and rated suboptimal, hence Flint’s appointment to knock them into shape. Having recently been rebuilt from the ground up, the regiment was hardly more experienced than one newly elevated from a planetary defence force. Given the 77th’s current status, the regiment’s line companies would be reduced to ragged street gangs within days. Alpha Penitentia would swallow the regiment whole if the 77th was forced to fight on the rebels’ terms. Even a veteran regiment such as those Flint had served alongside at Gethsemane would be hard-pressed and the 77th was anything but veteran.
With a gnawing sense of foreboding, Flint asked, ‘So what’s the graf’s plan, major?’
The intelligence chief didn’t have the chance to answer Flint’s question, as the second-in-command, Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam, called the command post to order. Two-dozen officers and their aides stopped what they were doing and turned towards the centre of the post, the only sound that of the cogitation banks churning away in the background. Graf Aleksis had terminated his vox conversation with the governor of Alpha Penitentia and stepped up onto an ammunition crate.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Aleksis, scanning the faces of the gathered officers. If he noted Flint’s arrival he gave no sign. ‘As you have no doubt gathered, I have spoken with Governor Kherhart and now have sufficient information to proceed. The governor assures me he has control over the installation and is mustering his wardens to mount a full incursion. I have offered whatever aid he may require, and although he has no need of a full regimental deployment at this time he has agreed to meet to discuss the matter in greater depth.’
Aleksis nodded to a number of nearby officers, including Major Herrmahn. It was then that he acknowledged Flint’s presence. ‘Ah, commissar,’ said the graf. ‘Good to meet you. Finally. Are you able to join us?’
Flint’s eyes narrowed but he decided not to show any reaction to the commanding officer’s tone and the slight it implied. He slipped his peaked cap back onto his head and straightened out his black storm coat, still scuffed and dusty from the crash and subsequent trek, before replying.
‘Of course, graf,’ Flint replied through gritted teeth. ‘I would be delighted.’
Dragoon Kohlz’s shoulder was killing him, his arm nearly having been ripped from its socket by the commissar during the crash. He was alive and had survived his first planetfall operation, though only because of the intervention of an outsider, and a commissar at that. Kholz had only been told he’d be Flint’s aide-de-camp a few hours before the new commissar’s arrival on the Toil of Kossia in orbit over Furia Penitens, and the two had barely had time to exchange a word before the drop. Kholz’s first impressions were reasonably good – after all, Flint hadn’t yet put a bolt-round through anyone’s head for looking at him funny, which was pretty much all the rank and file expected of the Munitorum’s morale officers.
Rotating the painful joint to work some life back into it Kohlz pressed on along a line of idling Chimeras, the crews and passengers busy loading supplies, securing stowage and camo nets or completing last minute checks. The morning air was filled with the growling of engines and the clanking of tracks. The only sound audible over the armoured vehicles was that of Corporal Bukin’s provosts barking orders as they marshalled more carriers into line.
A Trojan support vehicle trundled along the column towing a heavily laden tracked trailer. Quickly scanning the markings stencilled on the side of the trailer Kohlz saw that it belonged to the regimental quartermaster’s section and was conveying supplies from the drop zone established the day before to a holding area at the regiment’s rear. Kohlz jumped up onto the trailer’s tailgate as it overtook him, wincing as his wounded shoulder made its displeasure known once more. Five minutes later he was at the quartermaster post and looking for the officer in charge.
The supply post was a large plot surrounded by hastily erected blast shields and crowded with row upon row of ammunition and cargo crates. Kohlz located a prefab shelter but his path was blocked as a group of soldiers ambled towards him. Their intent was all too obvious.
‘Where you going?’ growled their leader. It was ‘Slug’ Slavast, the hated regimental bully.
Glancing around the post, Kohlz saw several more men closing in on him, each having stopped what they were doing amongst the stores as Slug confronted him. This was going to hurt.
‘Drawing a new Number Four for the new commissar, Slu… Slavast,’ said Kohlz, emphasising the fact that he was on official business.
‘You provost now?’ Slug crowed as he came to a halt uncomfortably close.
‘We all have our orders, Slavast,’ said Kohlz. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’
Slug’s face twisted into a cruel leer and he cocked his head at an angle as he replied, ‘Something that I can do about it, boy.’
Slug withdrew an iron crowbar from his belt. ‘Got a little message for Bukin and your provost friends…’ he growled, pressing forwards and driving Kohlz back towards his cronies.
Flint stepped out of t
he regimental command post and took a deep breath of the exhaust-tainted air. His first impression of the 77th’s officer cadre wasn’t an especially positive one, though it confirmed the briefings he’d read in transit to Furia Penitens. With the exception of the intelligence chief Major Herrmahn, the officers were conforming to type. They were bound by common ties of blood and lineage so tight they excluded anyone from the outside. In particular, Graf Aleksis’s manner had been downright insulting, though from the officer’s file he was potentially an able commander. Flint was the outsider here – the chevek – and would have to gain the graf’s acceptance if he were to do his job as regimental commissar. Failing that, should the issues degrade the regiment’s combat performance he would be forced to relieve Graf Aleksis of command, lethally if necessary.
But Flint had rarely had to execute a senior officer and more often than not it was to punish and contain overt cowardice or incompetence. As far as Flint could tell Aleksis was neither a coward nor incompetent, though he would only know that for sure once the regiment was engaged in combat.
Waiting for Dragoon Kohlz, Flint considered the issue of the distinct lack of discipline in the ranks. It seemed there was an odd disconnect between the officers and the troops as if the two were separated by impassable gulfs of class isolation. The rankers were drawn from the workers of Vostroya’s endlessly sprawling manufactoria and the officers from the ruling ‘Techtriarch’ clans and clearly the two were unused to working together. What the 77th was lacking, Flint could see, was an effective middle-tier of sergeants and other non-commissioned ranks that could bridge the gap. Flint made a mental note to address the matter once the issue of the penal uprising was concluded.
Checking his wrist chron Flint decided his aide was long overdue. Graf Aleksis would be setting off to meet the governor in less than thirty minutes and Flint was determined to be there with him. He could go without his aide but he valued the contact with the rankers and would sooner have Kohlz at his side. Deciding he had sufficient time, Flint set off in the direction of the quartermaster’s post, expecting to encounter Kohlz at some point along the line of armoured vehicles.
Kohlz leaped sideways as Slug came at him, the crowbar passing centimetres from his head. Slug’s accomplices, each one of them a brute from the logistics platoon, well-muscled from lugging ammo crates around, came after him. Thankfully he was faster and he got clear of his attackers to win himself a few brief seconds of breathing space.
Unfortunately, Kohlz now found his back to a sandbagged revetment and Slug was advancing on him once more. ‘You taking your beating like a man?’
‘Had I asked for it, yes,’ Kohlz stalled, looking about for an escape route. ‘But not from you.’
Slug grinned cruelly and his cronies laughed out loud. Getting a beating was hardly unusual amongst the lower ranks but it was normally administered by the junior non-coms as a means of punishing minor slip-ups without involving the chain of command. Had Kohlz invoked the wrath of a sergeant he wouldn’t mind but he saw no reason to accept a beating from Slug just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Slug’s eyes narrowed. ‘Too good for us now, eh?’ The cronies chuckled mirthlessly at their leader’s jibe.
Kohlz didn’t bother answering. Instead, he started working his way along the revetment, hoping to keep his enemies occupied until he was close enough to the gate to make a dash for freedom.
‘No you don’t,’ said Slug. ‘Grab him!’
Four of Slug’s accomplices started forward with a speed that belied their size. The closest jabbed an elbow down hard towards Kohlz’s head but he ducked and dove clear. The next kicked out hard with an oversized ammo boot that caught Kohlz in the ribs and drove the air violently out of his lungs.
Winded, Kohlz fought for breath as he rolled clear of a second kick. A pair of meaty fists reached for his collar and pulled him upwards but he punched out, slamming his fist into a rock-hard abdomen. With panic rising within, Kohlz realised that his attacker hadn’t even noticed the blow.
‘Now that is not nice,’ drawled Slug as he dragged Kohlz up by the shoulders, his wound flaring in pain at the rough handling. ‘Will all be over soon…’
Kohlz sighed and screwed his eyes tight shut, resigning himself to the beating. He just prayed it would be over quickly and not rob him of too many teeth.
Seconds passed and nothing happened. Kohlz dared open an eye. Slug and his cronies had turned their backs on him and raised their arms. Beyond them, Kohlz saw Commissar Flint standing in the gate with his storm coat thrown back to focus attention on his holstered bolt pistol.
Great, thought Kohlz. Saved by a chevek twice in one day. He’d be better off just letting me take the first beating…
‘Is there a problem here, dragoons?’ said Flint, his voice low and dangerous.
‘No problem at all, commissar,’ said Slug, his words dripping sarcasm.
Flint’s eyes flicked back to his aide. ‘Kohlz, did you draw the vox-set?’ he said.
Realising he’d all but forgotten his reason for coming to the quartermaster post in the first place, Kohlz shook his head dumbly.
‘Then do so,’ said Flint. ‘And leave me with these gentlemen for a moment.’
Kohlz nodded before extricating himself from the scene as quickly as he could. A few minutes later he‘d drawn a new vox-set and hurried off through the gate. As he passed Flint the commissar was taking off his storm coat with deliberate slowness, placing it on a crate and dropping his peaked cap down on top. The last thing Kohlz saw was the commissar rolling up his sleeves as he advanced on Slug and his thugs.
Flint advanced at his own, slow and steady pace, his steely eyes fixed on Slug’s now colour-drained face. The man had made his choice, now he had to face the consequences. The busy logistics area turned suddenly quiet as the other troopers sensed imminent violence.
Slug’s eyes darted from Flint to his friends, then back again. ‘What’s your problem?’ Slug drawled. ‘I didn’t do anything you need to get involved in.’
Flint’s expression darkened still further, but he didn’t reply.
Now certain what was about to happen, Slug was faced with a stark choice. Face a beating like he had expected of Kohlz, or maintain his nigh suicidal defiance of the new commissar. Spitting at the ground in front of Flint, Slug made the wrong choice. Turning his back contemptuously, he made to walk away. He only got three steps.
In a single, fluid motion, Flint strode forward and grabbed Slug’s shoulder, spun him around and unleashed a pile-driver punch right into his face. The blow was delivered with such force that the other man’s features were split wide open in a shower of blood and teeth.
Slug hit the ground hard, the only sign of life the wet gargle of blood-flecked breathing.
Flint stood over the sprawled form of the defeated bully, daring Slug’s cronies to make a move. None did.
‘Understood?’ growled Flint, shaking out his fist as he looked around at the closest of Slug’s accomplices. Slug coughed and struggled to rise, one hand wiping the blood from his split lower lip.
Slug nodded dumbly, unwilling to meet Flint’s eye.
‘This is your first warning,’ Flint continued. ‘I’ve been unusually charitable, but let me make this absolutely clear for you. There won’t be a second chance.’
Flint turned his back on Slug before the other man could answer, and retrieved his cap and coat. As he walked away he heard the coughs and cursing of the wounded man as his lesson sunk in. Dragoon Slavast was poison. The sooner the regiment was engaged in combat operations the better. Slug and his circle could either prove themselves worthy of the uniform they wore or condemn themselves to the full sanctions of the Commissariat.
If it came to that, Flint would have no qualms about enacting a field execution on Slug and any of his gang that wanted to join in. A swift bolt-round to the head administered in front of the ringleader’s underlings was normally sufficient to impose order once and for all. It was a
fine balance though, as his training and experience told him. Many commissars, especially newly appointed ones, overstepped the mark and made themselves so many enemies within a regiment that their actions actually made things worse. Straightening his cap, Flint glanced around at the passing Firstborn dragoons as he walked out of the gate. The regiment had a proud history indeed, but these men were no elite, not yet at least. Some would need discipline beaten into them while others would need an example to follow. As commissar, it was Flint’s duty to fulfil both needs.
Shrugging on his storm coat, Flint found Kohlz waiting up ahead, the new vox-set slung over his back. The aide looked distinctly uncomfortable and Flint knew why.
‘That was nothing to do with you, dragoon, understood?’
When Kohlz failed to answer, Flint halted and turned on his aide. ‘Speak freely, dragoon,’ he said. ‘You’re my aide-de-camp and I need you fully functional if I’m to do my job.’
‘Yes, sir. I understand, but Slug holds grudges and he has support.’
Flint considered Kohlz’s words for a moment, scanning the closest of the passing troops. ‘How many?’
‘Right now, sir?’ Kohlz answered. ‘Just a few meatheads in the supply platoon, maybe a couple more here and there.’
‘But?’ said Flint, knowing there would be one.
‘But they’ll be more,’ Kohlz continued. ‘And that lot have never accepted Bukin and the rest of the provosts. Now we’re here and people aren’t happy about the mission, sir. It’s not really what they imagined.’
Them too, thought Flint. As if the officers weren’t bad enough the ranks were in on it too. Well, maybe that would give them something to agree on. If the officers and the ranks both wanted the chance to get stuck in and prove themselves Flint just had to find a way of getting both sides to play nicely together. Maybe then they’d gel and act like they deserved the regimental colours they were honoured to carry.
But to achieve it the regiment would need a common enemy. Flint looked towards the central spire of Alpha Penitentia with its ring of chimneys and cooling towers, its form dark and imposing against the morning sky. He could understand why the officers as well as the ranks were uneasy about the mission. For the officers there was little glory to be had in such a deployment, and for the rankers it simply offered a myriad of ways of getting crippled or killed. Either the penal generatorium would provide them the motivation or he would.
