by Andy Hoare
‘Time to look lively then, people,’ growled Skane. ‘We got work to do.’
FOUR
Complication
Claviger-Primaris Gruss stepped aside as the regimental command group entered the audience chamber of Governor Kherhart, lord of Furia Penitens. Flint allowed the graf to enter first, having decided to hang back and observe for a while and only intervene should he deem it truly necessary. He had a feeling there was more at play here than the briefings had communicated and he wanted to gauge just what sort of an officer Graf Aleksis really was. Short of standing at his side in battle, that was a difficult judgement to make, even for a commissar as experienced as Flint.
The chamber appeared part office and part throne room. A stone plinth three metres high dominated the room. On it was set a huge bureau made of ancient wood. Behind the bureau was a high-backed seat padded with worn leather and on that seat sat the robed and periwigged Governor Kherhart, a parchment held up to his face obscuring his features. The chamber itself was lined in panels of the same wood used in the construction of the bureau and faded, gilt-framed paintings showing portraits of stern-faced past governors looked down at the visitors. Every flat surface in the chamber was strewn with scrolls, tomes and parchments and the scent of spilled ink hung heavy in the dusty air.
‘My lord,’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss, his armour’s phonocasters projecting his voice louder than before. ‘Our visitors.’
There was an awkward silence during which Flint and the officers of the 77th studied the back of the parchment obscuring the governor’s face. A moment later the parchment was discarded to a pile on the bureau and the governor’s face was looking down at his visitors, blinking in mild surprise.
‘What?’ Governor Kherhart barked, his voice almost as loud as Gruss’s.
‘Our visitors, my lord,’ said Gruss, his phono-casters turned up even louder.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the governor loudly before groping about the chaotic surface before him. At length he found a bulky, brass-rimmed optical lorgnette that he held up by its long handle before his eyes. Suddenly, Kherhart’s formerly myopic eyes appeared huge and threatening as he glowered down at the officers. Switching his gaze towards Gruss, the governor said, ‘Proceed, then.’
‘My lord Callistus Kherhart,’ Gruss announced formally, his machine-enhanced voice almost painfully loud. ‘Master of the Alpha Penitentia facility and Imperial Commander of the world of Furia Penitens and her associated system domains. Lord High Designate of the Departmento Munitorum,’ he continued, ‘Scion of Vostroya, third Heir-Presumptive to the seat of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan.’
Flint’s eyes snapped across to Aleksis, who he knew from his briefings to be a member of the same noble line. The graf stepped forward to the base of the plinth and bowed deeply to the governor, who glowered down at him, his eyes appearing huge and threatening through the lenses of the lorgnette. ‘Graf Klass Aleksis, also of the Anhalz, my lord.’
‘Ah!’ said Kherhart again, pulling a sheet of parchment from a pile before him and holding it at arm’s length as he scanned the lines of spidery text inscribed upon its surface. ‘Cousin?’
‘Third cousin, I believe, my lord,’ demurred Aleksis. ‘Once removed, at least.’
‘What?’ said Kherhart. ‘Speak up, man!’
‘Third cousin, sir!’ Aleksis repeated twice as loud.
‘Hmm,’ said Kherhart. ‘The Dzerzhinsky Anhalz, I take it?’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ shouted Aleksis, bowing slightly as he answered.
‘Good,’ said Kherhart, turning his gaze from the graf as if noticing the presence of the rest of the delegation for the first time. His grotesquely exaggerated eyes scanned the officers, settling on Flint with a scowl. ‘And you bring companions?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Aleksis as loud as he dared. ‘As you know, we must speak of reclaiming your generatorium.’
‘Ah,’ said Kherhart. ‘Yes, that.’
Flint’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘All under control now, thank you, cousin.’
Aleksis blinked rapidly but did a sterling job of masking his confusion. Meanwhile, the governor returned his attention to the parchments before him, lifting one at arm’s length as he started to read.
Aleksis coughed with obvious intent. ‘My lord?’
Governor Kherhart lowered the mechanical lorgnette and brought the parchment he was reading right up to his face as he squinted at the text.
‘My lord?’ Aleksis repeated.
‘What?’ Governor Kherhart exclaimed, raising the lorgnette to his eyes once more. ‘Ah, yes,’ he shouted.
‘Dismissed!’
The door to the governor’s audience chamber closed with a resounding boom and Flint turned on Aleksis. ‘What the hell just happened, colonel?’ he demanded.
‘Graf,’ interjected Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam. ‘You may not address…’
‘Yes, I may,’ said Flint through gritted teeth. ‘And I will. That’s why I’m here. Graf?’
Aleksis raised his chin to look down his nose at Flint before shaking his head in obvious frustration. ‘It’s fine,’ the graf said to his second-in-command. ‘The commissar has every right to know.’
‘Know what, graf?’ said Flint, softening his tone slightly.
Aleksis glanced around the panel-lined antechamber, his eyes lingering on a number of faded portraits hung in nooks along its walls. ‘Lord Kherhart outranks me,’ he said.
Flint blinked in confusion before realising that the graf wasn’t talking about the military chain of command. ‘Go on.’
‘He’s Techtriarch,’ said Aleksis. ‘Anhalz, like me.’
‘And?’ said Flint.
‘You have much to learn of this region of the Imperium, commissar,’ said Aleksis. ‘We’re of the same Techtriarch clan,’ he continued. ‘And, by the dictates of familial quartering, he is my senior and I am bound to obey him.’
‘I see,’ said Flint. ‘Even above the Munitorum chain of command?’
Aleksis smiled indulgently at the question, though the expression was devoid of malice. ‘The line of ascendancy and the chain of command in this region are one and the same, commissar.’
Military rank allotted according to aristocratic rank, just like the files had warned. There were feudal worlds across the Imperium that utilised such systems but it was generally limited to local forces. Some of the most ancient families of the Imperial Navy bought their commissions, and of course the rogue trader clans purchased status with the writ granted to them by the High Lords of Terra. But to see the system in place across the administration of an entire region consisting of scores of systems was unheard of in Flint’s experience. He sighed inwardly, knowing things had just got a lot more complicated. ‘So what now, graf?’
‘That remains to be determined,’ said Aleksis. Flint could see the man’s hands were tied by the very binds of nobility that had elevated him to his rank. ‘An appeal to a higher tier, perhaps.’
‘That’ll take time, graf,’ said Flint. ‘I need not remind you that we have a mission to complete. The longer we delay the pacification of the rebel population of this complex the harder it will become.’
Aleksis nodded as his expression darkened. The officer was confronted with a dilemma he hadn’t had to face before. His loyalties were split between his familial line and his duty as a senior commander of the Imperial Guard. As a commissar, one of Flint’s responsibilities was to ensure that such tensions didn’t interfere with the regiment’s ability to fulfil its task. Whatever obstacle he found, from brawling troops to incompetent commanding officers, Flint was sanctioned to enact whatever course of action he deemed necessary to maintain discipline, doctrinal purity, morale and combat effectiveness.
Flint turned at the approach of Claviger-Primaris Gruss as the chief warden caught up with the command group. ‘Might I suggest, graf,’ said Gruss, ‘A limited perimeter deployment, for now at least?’
Flint studied the man’s fea
tureless black visor, unable to read anything of his intentions.
‘Perhaps,’ said Aleksis.
‘My men are capable of containing the uprising and retaking the complex,’ pressed Gruss. Flint had seen little evidence of that being the case but he saw a chance to move things forward.
‘I concur,’ said Flint. ‘For now at least.’
‘Agreed, then,’ said Aleksis. ‘Until further arrangements can be made.’
Flint lingered a moment to watch the officers as they strode away. He would allow Aleksis time to settle the matter according to the traditions of the Vostroyan nobility, but if that wasn’t possible he would have no choice but to intervene, however the regiment’s command cadre took it.
The perimeter of the convicts’ sanctuary was a maze of debris-strewn passageways that Vahn had ordered patrolled every minute of every day. Colonel Strannik had sent repeated infiltration gangs through the wall into the central spire in an effort to flush them out, but thanks to Trooper ‘Rotten’ Stank’s tracking skills not one had made it through the third barricade. The corpses of each enemy gang had been flung down the central cooling flue as a warning to others attempting the climb, not that it had deterred them. The rebel convicts were more afraid of their leader than they were of Vahn’s group and willing to risk even death over the colonel’s vengeance.
The battles had been vicious and brutal with very few on either side equipped with firearms. Those few who were had either scavenged them from the bodies of slain clavigers or, like Skane, fabricated crude weapons themselves. In both cases ammunition was scarce and husbanded against the need to make a last, desperate defence. The most bloody and bitter of the fights had been fought with the convicts’ bare hands, improvised clubs and shivs and, when necessary, teeth.
A no-man’s-land had come into being beyond the last barricade, consisting of a corpse-strewn void between the spire’s outer shell and the geotherm towers, vestibules and chambers. Vahn had to lead his convicts through that dead zone, penetrating as deep as possible before they were discovered. If he could, Vahn would lead his followers out without confrontation, but they all knew how unlikely that was. Vahn had split the three-dozen convicts into three groups in the hope of minimising the chances of contact and each was currently picking its way through the labyrinth of service conduits and pipes that ran through the spire and into the no-man’s-land beyond.
‘Down,’ hissed Vahn, shrinking into the shadows as he detected a faint shift in the flow of stale air passing along the conduit. The geotherm venting scrubbers had stopped functioning soon after the uprising and all the conduits were achieving was the circulation of the stink of rotting corpses drawn from the carceri-chambers below.
Becka melted out of sight an instant before Vahn hissed his warning. Being from the world of Savlar she was well accustomed to such dangerous places. The other ten convicts in Vahn’s group followed the example and quite suddenly the conduit appeared empty of all but debris and sump-rat crap. Vahn looked across the conduit to make eye contact with the chem-dog, who was kneeling pressed against the metal wall with her legs drawn up tight to minimise any silhouette she might present to an enemy. Her eyes, just visible above the mask of her rebreather were narrowed as she studied the darkness up ahead. Vahn followed her gaze and there in the shadows he saw another, deeper patch of darkness.
Becka looked across to Vahn and he subtly nodded, hefting his improvised metal club and moving forwards as quietly as he could.
The conduit was circular in cross section and lit only intermittently by the guttering lumen bulbs overhead. Every twenty metres or so a side passage led off towards another zone of the spire, while the main tunnel continued towards the outer shell. One of those side passages was only ten metres ahead and Vahn had little doubt that an enemy convict was lurking in its dark mouth. It was one of the forward sentinels the rebels had seeded throughout the network of conduits, lookouts set to guard against the very sort of intrusion Vahn was undertaking right now.
Nothing for it, Vahn thought to himself. Rising as swiftly and as stealthily as he could Vahn dashed forward along the conduit wall. By keeping to the edge he avoided kicking up the debris that had collected along the centre of the pipe. His target had no idea he was even there until he was bearing right down on him.
The man’s eyes widened in horror as he realised he’d been looking the wrong way as death closed from behind. Vahn dove forwards as the enemy grabbed for a chunky stub gun tucked into his belt but his hands never reached its pistol grip. They both went down in a mass of sprawling limbs as Vahn’s hands closed around the other’s throat and he squeezed with all his strength.
The enemy convict tried to cry out but Vahn’s grip was so tight nothing more than a hoarse croak emerged. Then it struck Vahn that if his enemy was trying to shout a warning there must be someone else nearby to be warned.
Vahn’s only warning was a glint of light reflected from a soot-dulled blade, but it was enough to save his life. A cleaver as long as an arm scythed in from overhead and Vahn yanked the convict he was struggling with upwards in response. The cleaver missed Vahn’s head and came down with a meaty thunk, embedding itself in the head of his opponent. Vahn’s eyes were instantly filled with the convict’s blood and he flung himself backwards to avoid the next attack, which he knew he would never see.
As he rolled he heard a dull thud and a grunt, followed by a splash as something or someone toppled into the water pooled around the passageway mouth. Blinking the blood from his eyes he found himself looking right at a pair of thick-soled, iron-studded high boots.
‘You just gonna lie there?’ said Becka. The Savlar proffered a hand and in a moment Vahn was upright. Behind Becka sprawled the broken form of the second attacker, a stiletto blade Vahn hadn’t even known Becka owned lodged hilt-deep in one eye.
‘Get the others forward,’ Vahn ordered as Becka pulled the blade from the rebel’s eye socket with an audible slurp. Then she was gone.
Vahn studied the darkness in the passageway the lookout had been hiding in. He’d intended to take his group along the main conduit towards the breach in the spire’s outer skin but now he was reconsidering. Strannik’s men were well aware of the breach and it was likely that way was guarded. He knew he’d have to face the enemy in strength at some point but perhaps this side passage offered another route. He took a few steps along the passage, his eyes adjusting to the scant illumination provided by only a handful of overhead lumens.
‘Hey!’ Becka hissed from the mouth of the passage. ‘Where you headed, Argusti?’
‘Change of plan,’ Vahn whispered back. ‘We’re taking a detour.’
‘I don’t like detours,’ said Becka. ‘And neither will Skane or Vendell.’
Good point, Vahn conceded. The other two groups would have no way of knowing that Vahn had led his a different way and if either other group got into more trouble than it could handle there’d be nothing Vahn could do to intervene. Nevertheless, every one of Vahn’s combat instincts were telling him this was the way to go.
‘Neither do I,’ said Vahn. ‘But trust me. This is the way.’
Becka cocked her head for a moment as she gazed quizzically at Vahn. Then she nodded and said, ‘Fine. Have it your way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘A moment please, graf,’ Flint said to Aleksis as the command group disembarked the Chimera at the regimental laager. Polzdam made to object but Aleksis indicated with a curt gesture that the lieutenant-colonel should leave him and the commissar alone for a moment.
‘Very well,’ said the graf, pneumatics hissing as he pulled the lever to close the hatch. ‘Speak, commissar.’
Flint folded his arms across his chest and said, ‘Governor Kherhart.’
‘What of him?’
‘Your cousin,’ said Flint.
‘What of him?’ Aleksis repeated.
‘If he won’t allow this regiment to complete its mission, he can be removed,’ said Flint, his voice low and threatening.
Anger flashed in the graf’s eyes but he held his tongue. ‘He cannot. He holds the rank of Imperial Commander. And besides…’
‘No,’ Flint interrupted, holding up a hand. ‘That rank is honorary and subject to the mandate of the Munitorum. This world is not a sovereign realm and neither is it his personal fiefdom. He can be removed or recalled to other duties. As a commissar, I can make this happen.’
‘That may be the case in other sectors, Flint, in other war zones. But in this region, the Techtriarch clans of Vostroya have a long reach. As I have said, things are handled differently here.’
Flint was getting sick of hearing that, but he gestured for the graf to continue.
‘Every commission in this region, from second lieutenant in a planetary militia to logister-general is made according to the rules of ascendancy of the Techtriarch clans, don’t you see? There is no authority you could appeal to that would approve your request, Flint. Not one, do you understand?’
Flint sighed. ‘I am a commissar, graf. A regimental commissar. It is my Emperor-given duty to ensure that missions such as this one are carried out according to orders and free of let or hindrance. If I have to, Aleksis, I’ll remove your third-cousin-once-removed from office myself. Do you understand?’
Flint left another threat that he could very easily remove Aleksis from command too hanging. It would in fact be easier to do so than to remove Governor Kherhart from his position, but ultimately less conducive to the mission. Doing so would just make Flint the enemy when really he needed Kherhart in that role. If the officers of the 77th could see that the governor was standing in the way of the glory Aleksis had promised them, the mission might have some chance of success and the morale and integrity of the regiment itself would benefit.
Not for nothing were commissars sometimes referred to as political officers.
‘Do what you must, Commissar Flint,’ Aleksis replied, a note of weary resignation in his voice. ‘Do what you believe is right to get this mission underway, but do not take the rules of ascendancy lightly. If you cross the Techtriarchs, I assure you, you’ll regret it. We all will.’
