Commissar

by Andy Hoare

  Vahn’s eyes flashed savagely at Flint’s oath.

  ‘You want to help?’ Flint pressed.

  The feral grin that split Vahn’s dirty features was all the answer the commissar needed.

  SEVEN

  Advance Guard

  By the time Flint had concluded his questioning of the liberated generatorium convict-workers, the sun was up and the red-brown wastes around the laager were aglow, casting everything from the regiment’s armoured vehicles to the faces of its troops an infernal, blood red hue.

  Stepping from the portal of the makeshift interrogation unit, a memory of another time and place flashed across Flint’s mind. It was his first battle against the rebels on Gethsemane, and he had sustained a vicious head wound during the initial breakthrough. Not long out of the storm trooper regiment and only a few weeks into his first appointment with the Commissariat, Flint had been given a classic junior’s job – watching over the morale of a second line support unit. A group of insurgents had infiltrated the supply depot in the early hours and launched a brutal assault against the unsuspecting Imperial Guardsmen. The young Flint had rallied the survivors and in time repelled the attack, and at some point in the battle one of the frenzied rebels had struck him a vicious blow. Flint had fought for an hour with his forehead split open and the blood blurring his vision and tinting everything red, just like sunrise on Furia Penitens.

  The unpleasant memory was dispelled in an instant by an equally unwelcome present. Through the stink of the fuel, exhaust and oil of the regiment’s numerous vehicles came a gusting taint of that abhorrent stink that had so dominated the wastes. Then it was gone, carried away on the ever present winds.

  Though bone tired, Flint dismissed his fatigue and set about formulating his plan and the pitch he would make to the regiment’s commanders. He had ordered Bukin to get a few hours sleep, for the man was practically dead on his feet. He had made the same demand of Dragoon Kohlz, but his aide was determined to perform his duty regardless of his own tiredness, further confirming Flint’s decision to keep him on.

  Flint’s aide proved himself still more able as he fended off several attempts from regimental headquarters to summon Flint to brief Aleksis on the details of the mission. The graf had received only a brief summary of events and was growing increasingly impatient. Kohlz understood that Flint needed time to formulate a proposal for the next move, and that the commissar wanted to keep politics at bay as long as possible.

  Over several cups of recaff, Flint had considered the situation and how he would overcome it. The reconnaissance mission had learned little first-hand, but in liberating the convicts had gained a useful source of local knowledge. Locked in the darkness of his personal habitent, Flint sought to block out the raucous sounds of milling Guardsmen and the to and fro of armoured vehicles. Until they knew more of the rebels’ disposition, all of those Guardsmen and all of their mighty armoured vehicles were next to useless. While the 77th could simply drive in through the massive iron doors of the gate hall, Flint knew that to do so would be tantamount to suicide and a negligent waste of resources. The rebels were on home ground and would be well able to avoid the Chimera armoured transports. The regiment could dominate the floors of the massive carceri chambers and labour halls, it could even launch sweeps of the larger vestibule tunnels, but Flint had learned from his questioning of the convicts as well as details provided by Major Herrmahn that the complex was riddled with thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of kilometres of vents, flues, pipes, access tunnels and service conduits. Ordinarily, such rat-runs would have been denied to the inmates, accessible only to the claviger-wardens as they moved from one zone of the penal generatorium to another. Since the uprising, the rebels had mastered these tunnels, and could use them to move around the entire complex at will.

  No, thought Flint as the morning had dragged on. It was too soon to launch a major assault. The enemy had to be found and fixed in place before it could be brought to battle and destroyed.

  His mind made up, Flint called Kohlz from the annex of his shelter. ‘Request a command conference,’ he ordered. ‘And get me some more recaff.’

  The regimental headquarters was crowded with officers and aides as Flint entered, Kohlz in tow. It looked like that the entire command staff had been gathered to hear Flint’s report, with tactical stations doubling as makeshift seats as the 77th’s officer cadre packed into every available space.

  The crowd parted as Flint made his way towards the throng of officers that represented the highest level of command – Graf Aleksis, Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam, the adjutant, Major Skribahn and the chief of operations, Lieutenant-Colonel Karsten. While the officers’ own personal aides scattered before the approaching commissar, the officers themselves appeared distinctly unimpressed, even haughty and arrogant as they looked up from their discussions.

  ‘Commissar Flint,’ said Aleksis. ‘We are most glad you could spare us the time.’

  So that’s how you want to play it, Flint thought as he slowed to a halt before Aleksis and his fellows. The reasonable Aleksis, the man he had spoken with in the aftermath of the meeting with Governor Kherhart, had been supplanted by the aristocrat, the noble scion of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan for whom maintaining face in front of the chevek was all. Flint recognised that moment for what it was – the tipping point on which his standing as regimental commissar would be defined.

  ‘My apologies, graf,’ said Flint, Aleksis grunting dismissively in response. ‘I seem not to have made myself clear.’

  ‘No need to apol…’ the graf began, before something in Flint’s tone brought him up short. ‘What?’

  It was almost a repeat of the scene that had played out with the goons of the logistics platoon, and then once again with Bukin out on the wastes that first night. Flint stood like some lone gunfighter facing down a mob of frontier town bullies, his coat hooked back to reveal his bolt pistol at his belt. Aleksis’s eyes narrowed as his glance flicked to the weapon, the most direct and potent symbol of a commissar’s authority, then back to Flint’s.

  ‘You mean to threaten me, in my own headquarters…?’ the graf stammered incredulously. ‘You think you can…’

  ‘Stop,’ Flint ordered, holding up a pointing hand as if to transfix the other man. ‘Say nothing more, until I have explained things to you in a manner you might understand.’

  When no one dared utter a word, Flint continued.

  ‘I have been appointed regimental commissar of this unit to ensure that the mistakes that led to its predecessor’s destruction are not repeated.’

  The gathered officers gave an almost inaudible gasp at the mention of that which none dared speak of, and Flint continued.

  ‘The 77th was destroyed fighting the Asharians at Golan Hole. It was wiped out, utterly. The glory of ten thousand years, and the eternal debt of Vostroya, was reduced to ashes.’ Anger swelled in Flint’s heart as he spoke, for his reading into the tragedy of Golan Hole had left him with a poor view indeed of the traditions of Vostroya’s so-called noble classes.

  ‘Your forebears,’ he snarled, not even trying to conceal the anger he felt as he recalled the suppressed accounts of the battle, ‘Allowed themselves to fall prey to hubris and arrogance. The Techtriarchs that rule you sent the 77th to war against a foe they had no business engaging, and entirely for their own interests. The officers of that – of this – regiment were too enslaved to their own ideals of honour to object!’

  Flint was all but shouting his denunciation of the officers of the last iteration of the 77th Firstborn, his anger and disgust twisting his features into a snarling mask of bitterness.

  ‘Does not the Tactica Imperium counsel that a commander who wastes lives for no gain risks failure? Loss is acceptable’, he quoted the holy text, ‘Failure is not! These are the words by which a thousand generations of officers have lived, fought, served and died – never for themselves, always for the Imperium! For the Emperor!’

  He took a hard breath as he look
ed from one officer to the next, none of them able to meet his steely gaze.

  None, apart from Graf Aleksis.

  ‘Your point is well made, Commissar Flint,’ said the commander, and Flint saw genuine contrition in his eyes. ‘Those… mistakes shall not be repeated. That is my word, given to you upon my honour.’

  Flint nodded slowly, then covered his bolt pistol with his black leather storm coat once more. ‘Then I accept your word, Graf Aleksis.’

  The moment passed and the tension leeched out of the air as officers began conferring with their neighbours once more, though still few dared glance in Flint’s direction. ‘Carry on with your duties,’ said the commissar.

  ‘Thank you,’ the graf said, something of his old bluster returning, though undoubtedly tempered by Flint’s words and what had passed between them. ‘Would you perhaps present your report?’

  ‘I would,’ replied Flint.

  ‘Then let us call this conference to order,’ said Aleksis. The graf’s second-in-command looked relieved as he nodded to a tacticae operator, who worked the dials of his station. A large, tripod-mounted pict screen nearby flickered to life.

  The image on the pict screen resolved into the face of Governor Kherhart, his head tipped back against the padded leather of his high-backed throne. The man’s mouth was slightly open and his eyes were shut, and it was obvious to all that he had nodded off while waiting for the conference to begin.

  What is it, Flint thought, with Imperial Governors? Was it just the aristocracy of the Vostroyan Techtriarchs, or did they all conform to such a type?

  Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam spoke softly into his vox-pickup, and a moment later the sound of a cough sounded through the pict screen’s phono-casters. Flint recognised the sound, and guessed that Claviger-Primaris Gruss was just off-screen. Kherhart came awake with a start, his periwig slipping backwards to reveal a liver-spotted, bald pate.

  ‘About time,’ the governor barked. ‘Get on with it then!’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Flint began. ‘Having thoroughly questioned the convict-workers liberated from the complex and collated all tactical debriefings, I am now in a position to recommend the next phase of our mission to Furia Penitens.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interjected Polzdam, holding up a hand as he spoke. ‘We don’t even know if there will be a next phase. The Lord Governor remains confident that he can…’

  ‘The Lord Governor has lost control,’ Flint growled back at the lieutenant-colonel.

  ‘What?’ said Kherhart, his face expanding as he leaned into the spy-lens. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘By our best estimates,’ Flint pressed on, ‘The rebels have control of more than ninety-five per cent of the Alpha Penitentia generatorium facility. Worse, they have freedom of movement between zones and we have no real idea of their numbers.’

  ‘There might be just a few hundred,’ Major Skribahn cut in.

  ‘There might be just a few hundred thousand,’ Major Herrmahn said before Flint could answer the adjutant.

  ‘Alpha Penitentia was constructed to house several hundred thousand convict-workers,’ Flint continued. ‘It’s almost as large as the smaller manufactoria on Vostroya, so you all know what that means in terms of population.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Governor Kherhart said again as he squinted right into the spy-lens.

  ‘Ordinarily, I might recommend gassing the rebels out, but that would render the entire facility unusable for some years, and as I understand it, the Munitorum’s demands for the foundation of a new Penal Legion still stand.’

  ‘They do,’ confirmed Captain Rein, the 77th’s chief liaison officer.

  ‘Then we are faced with the need to capture the installation intact, and to limit casualties.’

  ‘Limit casualties?’ said Polzdam. ‘We’re talking about rebels here, commissar, not innocent civilians.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the convict-workers we extricated from Carceri Didactio,’ Flint went on. ‘And I believe we should deal with this insurrection the same way we would any other issue of discipline and morale.’

  ‘You mean shoot it through the head,’ said Polzdam. ‘Isn’t that how the Commissariat deals with most “issues of discipline and morale”?’

  Flint glared darkly at the lieutenant-colonel. Polzdam had the truth of it in many ways, and Flint was glad to see the officers of the 77th hadn’t missed the irony. ‘As regimental commissar of this unit,’ Flint continued, ‘I do have certain… powers.’

  ‘But,’ he continued before he could be interrupted, ‘I see no reason to invoke them, not yet at least. Instead, I wish to propose a course of action.’

  ‘Go on, commissar,’ said Aleksis. Unlike his senior officers, the 77th’s regimental commander appeared unphased by Flint’s mention of his powers as commissar. While a minor point, it did confirm to Flint that the graf wasn’t beyond redemption. ‘I would hear your counsel.’

  ‘Thank you, graf,’ said Flint. ‘I propose a second mission into the complex, using the convicts’ knowledge to locate the uprising’s centre of power. We engage them, then call in the remainder of the regiment to deliver the killing blow. We bring the leaders to justice, and the Munitorum gets its fresh meat.’

  ‘I forbid it!’ barked Governor Kherhart, his overly loud voice metallic and distorted as it blurted through the phonocasters. ‘The situation is in hand, I say!’

  Flint ignored the outburst and fixed his gaze on Aleksis. ‘I am only suggesting this course of action,’ Flint growled. ‘I am not ordering it.’ Not yet at least. ‘I leave that to you as regimental commanding officer. Do I make myself clear, graf?’

  Aleksis visibly paled as he glanced from Flint to the image of Governor Kherhart on the large pict screen. Flint was well aware that he had placed the graf in a difficult position, in effect forcing the man to choose between his duty to the Emperor and his fealty to his Techtriarch clan. Should he repeat the sins of his father, Flint would step in, performing a field execution right here, in front of the entire officer cadre.

  The threat hung heavy in the air of the suddenly quiet headquarters, every officer knowing that should he decide that their commander had made the wrong decision Flint could force him out of office, and worse.

  ‘I understand, commissar,’ Aleksis said finally. ‘And I am in agreement with your plan.’

  Governor Kherhart’s face became suddenly grim as he leaned back in his throne. Flint was aware of powerful lines of influence and patronage shifting before him. He had no doubt that the graf had made an enemy of his own kinsman, and so too had Flint.

  ‘If you plan to enter my beloved generatorium,’ said Kherhart, his tone suddenly changed to one of conciliation, ‘then at least let my men participate. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘It is not,’ said Aleksis before Flint could answer. ‘It is only fitting, in fact.’

  ‘Then Claviger-Primaris Gruss and his best wardens shall accompany you,’ said the governor. ‘And this whole sorry business shall be concluded.’

  Flint was less than keen about suffering the presence of the wardens, considering them a means for the governor to interfere. He knew that Vahn and his people were unlikely to react well either, but he set the issue aside for the moment.

  ‘What do you need, commissar?’ said Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam. ‘I assume you have drawn up a plan of action?’

  ‘I have,’ replied Flint, relieved to be moving on to a more mundane topic, but aware that his next suggestion might meet with some objection from the hidebound officer cadre.

  ‘Firstly,’ he continued, ‘I want the convict-workers liberated from the complex indentured to the 77th for the duration.’

  ‘You want criminals to join the ranks of my regiment?’ spat Graf Aleksis. ‘Surely, they’re just–’

  ‘Every one of them, as far as I can ascertain, is a trained Guardsman,’ Flint cut Aleksis off. He’d known the graf would object and was prepared for it. ‘In fact, most have more combat experience than your own dragoons.’r />
  Several of the gathered officers appeared disgusted with the suggestion that convicted recidivists should join the ranks of their regiment, in particular Major Lehren, who held responsibility for the 77th’s training and indoctrination. Flint ploughed on before Lehren or any other officer could voice an objection. ‘And in addition, they have far more knowledge of the layout and the situation inside the complex.’

  ‘Gruss and his men know as much, surely,’ said Aleksis.

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ Flint conceded, ‘and their presence will no doubt be a benefit. But they can know nothing of the situation since the uprising. We need the convict-workers.’

  ‘Will they serve?’ asked Aleksis.

  ‘They aren’t being offered a choice,’ said Flint. ‘They’ll serve.’

  ‘This way, ladies!’ Bukin waved the liberated convicts into a wide area surrounded by sandbag revetments. Vahn’s first reaction was suspicion, the place looking like an ideal killing ground for a regimental firing squad. He glared at the chief provost as he led the line of convicts through the makeshift gates, seeing that it was in fact a quartermaster’s marshalling yard filled with cargo crates and busy logistics staff.

  Vahn looked around as he waited for the three-dozen convicts to file into the yard, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. The sight of so much open space was quite alien to him now, his incarceration in Alpha Penitentia having robbed him of the feeling of standing beneath an open sky for so long. The sky was the same colour as the penal generatorium’s rockcrete walls – slab grey and dirty. Distant black clouds boiled, and the strobing of internal lightning told Vahn that a storm was brewing to the east. Turning on the spot, Vahn’s eyes followed the jagged mountains that bit into the sky along the western horizon, and he judged the tallest were at least three kilometres high. The red-brown ground all around had been transformed into a sprawling Imperial encampment of the type he had seen a hundred times before on a dozen different worlds.

  With the convicts’ arrival, the logistics staff lugged over a number of crates and dumped them unceremoniously on the dusty ground before them, casting surly glances before shuffling away to the prefab habitent to one side.