Commissar

by Andy Hoare

  ‘What is this?’ said Vahn, growing rapidly tired of not being told what was happening around him.

  Bukin grinned widely and pulled out a lighter from a pocket on his webbing. Having lit the cigar that had hung from his mouth all the way to the yard, he drawled, ‘You are in the Guard now, son. You call me corporal, chief or lord, your choice.’

  Vahn stepped towards the provost, his fellow convicts gathering behind him. As Bukin puffed out a billowing cloud of blue cigar smoke, the other five provosts stepped up to his side. They were a nasty crew, each with the look of a thug, yet Vahn and his people had survived the worst Alpha Penitentia could throw at them and lived. He could take Bukin, if he had to.

  ‘I said,’ Bukin leered, ‘You are Guard now. You do as you are told.’

  Vahn eyed the other man suspiciously and flexed his fists. He missed the reassuring weight and mass of his iron bar, but he knew how to use his fists. ‘You’d better quit messing me around,’ Vahn growled as Bukin squared up to him. ‘Tell me what’s happening or I’ll…’

  ‘What’s happening,’ said Flint as he strode into the yard, his aide not far behind, ‘is we’re heading back into the complex.’

  ‘Told you,’ Bukin grinned. ‘You are Guard now.’

  ‘Commissar?’ said Vahn, pointedly ignoring the ugly little chief provost.

  ‘I promised you I’d bring Strannik to justice,’ said Flint. ‘And I said I’d need your help.’ Flint scanned the nearest of the cargo crates the logistics staff had set down nearby, then kicked it so the hinged lid popped up.

  Vahn’s dread at the thought of returning to the charnel house that was Alpha Penitentia warred with his desire to see Colonel Strannik and his murderous followers taken down. The latter won.

  ‘How?’ said Vahn.

  ‘Well,’ Flint replied. ‘I’m assuming you all know how to use these?’

  Flint set a foot on the lip of the crate and pushed it forwards so that its contents spilled out across the ground.

  ‘Lasguns’ said Vahn.

  ‘M40 Vostroyan-pattern carbine, Mark V,’ drawled Bukin. ‘Only the best for you, ladies.’

  Vahn looked around at the remainder of the crates, noting the markings stencilled upon each. The Mark Vs were clearly old and battered, probably excess stock, but they were functional at least. One crate contained a variety of Firstborn-issue armour consisting of chainmail hauberks and plates of metal-chased carapace. Another contained frag grenades, a third an assortment of field gear and a fourth a selection of different support weapons, each at least as old as the Mark Vs. The equipment was basic and old and apparently drawn at random, but it would do. None of it was anything like the gold-filigreed, artisan-wrought heirloom weapons carried by the dragoons of the Firstborn, but it was clearly functional, and that had to mean something.

  ‘You trust us with these?’ said Vahn.

  ‘I do,’ said Flint. ‘He’s not so nice,’ he added with a nod towards Bukin. The chief provost was carrying several side arms about his person, as were his men, but at least they weren’t pointing them at the convicts.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Vahn. ‘Not sure I would either, but I guess we’ll need them where we’re going.’

  ‘Then get to it,’ said Flint. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  The convicts, now penal troopers Vahn reminded himself, gathered around the crates. At first they were suspicious and not all were sold on the idea of returning to the hell that was their former home. Yet, all knew that there would be a price for escaping Alpha Penitentia, and for most that price was worth paying. What happened afterwards was another matter though, and a subject that Vahn was already giving thought to. If any of them survived their return to the complex, what then?

  Maybe the weapons would come in handy later, thought Vahn as his companions opened the other crates and started rifling through the contents. Lasguns were passed from hand to hand and bandoliers of power packs slung over shoulders. The weapons were definitely cast-offs, he thought, short-form carbines, not the long-form, lovingly wrought and maintained weapons carried by the Firstborn. Webbing was donned and pouches stuffed full of grenades and other items. The penal troopers strapped armoured shoulder guards, vests and shin guards over their prison rags, and some took up the tall, furred helmet and rebreather so characteristic of the Firstborn. Evidently intent on starting up some new trade venture later on when supplies started to dwindle, Rotten had stuffed his pockets with as much gear as he could carry. Becka inspected the standard-issue breath masks with obvious disdain, deciding to keep her own unit. Vahn, Becka and several others decided against the wearing of helmets and rebreathers, feeling they would reduce visibility in the already dark and cramped environs of the complex’s twisting network of pipes, vents and tunnels.

  Vahn heard Solomon give an exclamation of delight as he unwrapped a Vostroyan pattern long-las sniper rifle from its protective sheath. Solomon had always boasted he was a good shot, and by the way he cradled the rifle he was set on proving it.

  Finally, the penal troopers had all armed and armoured themselves, and Vahn looked them up and down. Short of some sanctioned merc-house, he had rarely seen such a bunch of misfits bearing arms in the name of the Emperor. Vostroyan armour was mingled with torn rags, and even though the new troopers had been allowed to wash they still managed to look dirty. Casting a glance towards the distant spire of the complex, Vahn reflected that it would take a long time indeed to wash away the stain of that place.

  ‘Don’t you ladies look a treat,’ slurred Corporal Bukin as he checked his wrist chrono. ‘Now straighten up all of you,’ he barked as Commissar Flint strode back into the yard. ‘Attention!’

  Most of the penal troopers had served in the Imperial Guard and at the sound of Bukin’s bellowed order half-forgotten training asserted itself with a vengeance. Even those who hadn’t had the training responded to the order, stamping their feet and standing ramrod straight. It was evident straightaway however that each of the ex-Guardsmen had learned a different drill, for no two worlds’ regiments held exactly the same military traditions.

  ‘You will have to learn Firstborn way, chevak,’ said Bukin, ‘But you’ll do.’

  ‘Thank you, corporal,’ said Commissar Flint as he paced the line of penal troopers. ‘Now listen up,’ he said as he came to Vahn. ‘We’ve got a mission to complete, and I mean for us all to come back in one piece.’

  High atop the gate hall block, Lord Governor Kherhart, thirteenth Imperial Commander of Furia Penitens and proud cousin of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan entered a dark chamber, the walls lined with dull lead into which was engraved an impossibly complex pattern of hexagrammic and pentagrammic wards. The chamber was a last ditch refuge from where the sole survivor of a disastrous uprising could call for outside aid, whether in-system by high-power vox or, if he had the ability and needed to communicate over greater distances, with his astropathic mind-voice.

  Kherhart stepped over the raised lip of the chamber opening, his ancient limbs protesting despite the numerous augment-procedures he had subjected himself to over the years. Once through, the Lord Governor turned and hauled on the wheel in the centre of the chamber’s armoured door, straining a moment before it yielded and swung inwards upon massive hinges.

  Having turned the locking wheel, Kherhart proceeded towards the centre of the chamber. It wasn’t a large space, for it didn’t need to be. It was designed to protect its occupant long enough for help to be called. Once the message was sent, no one really cared what happened to the sender. In all likelihood, he would be a shrivelled corpse before help arrived, but his survival wasn’t the point.

  The point, Kherhart mused, was retribution.

  The centre of the chamber was host to a large vox-caster, its machine systems housed within a column that ran from ceiling to floor and was lined with snaking cables and chased with numerous glass meters and brass dials. Kherhart knew that the caster was powerful enough to communicate with a starship in orbit, and given the ti
me for its machine-spirit to speak across the void, with one much further away. But the governor wasn’t here to talk to a starship, in orbit or anywhere else. He was here to communicate with someone much nearer by, and he needed the privacy afforded by the refuge-chamber to ensure that he wasn’t overheard.

  ‘Now then,’ Kherhart muttered to himself as he looked over the complex array of dials and levers on the vox console before him. ‘Strike the Rune of Initiation,’ he mumbled as he recalled the proper ritual for awakening the vox-caster’s slumbering machine-spirit. ‘The rune…’ he said as his rheumy eyes searched the console.

  Finally locating a small, green-lit plate marked with the sacred machine-code inscription Omega nu, Lord Kherhart gingerly reached out a liver-spotted finger and depressed it according to the ritual. Nothing happened at first, but soon Kherhart could hear a high-pitched whirring like an atmos-purger spinning at full speed. Then he jumped in alarm as a multi-tonal chime boomed forth from a phono-horn mounted halfway up the column just above his head.

  Forcing his breathing to a normal rate, Kherhart recalled the next part of the ritual. Locating a panel of brass alphanumeric keys, he entered his personal cipher seal, one key at a time, and waited. A moment later, a pict screen in the centre of the console guttered to life as the sound of machine nonsense blurted from the horn.

  ‘Are you there?’ Kherhart said with trepidation. Then he spotted a pickup shaped like the shell of some sea-dwelling crustacean, and leaned in towards it. ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘I’m here,’ a voice replied from the phonohorn, ‘cousin.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Lord Commander, ‘Good. I shall make this brief. They’re coming in. They intend to bring you to justice and ship your men out to fight some secessionist rabble. They want to make an example of you.’

  Ominous silence stretched out, punctuated by burbling machine chatter. ‘You couldn’t dissuade him?’ the voice replied, laced with threat despite the interference.

  ‘I could not,’ said Kherhart. ‘Our kinsman appears to have made a poor choice.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to settle this another way,’ the voice said. ‘I take it you’ve taken the necessary precautions.’

  ‘I have,’ said Kherhart. ‘One of my own is going in with them.’

  ‘Good,’ the voice said. ‘I shall await his signal. Out.’

  Lord Kherhart waited a long minute, ensuring the communication was done with. Then he located the Rune of Deactivation and powered down the vox-caster. As the machine-spirit entered its slumber state, Kherhart dared to imagine his precious installation would soon be his again, despite the interfering of the Imperial Guard and his treacherous kinsman.

  Yes, he thought as he shuffled back towards the armoured hatch. It was all about retribution…

  As sundown approached, the grey skies darkened to a deep, velvety purple, the sweep of the local galactic arm bisecting the entire vista. The 77th’s provost section led the newly recruited – some preferred ‘press-ganged’ – penal troopers towards the staging point, where they would take their place in the assault force Commissar Flint had assembled. The provosts cajoled and harangued the troopers as they trudged along, making sport of their rag-tag appearance and questioning their ability to shoot straight with any of the weapons they had been equipped with. Vahn glowered at the thugs as he walked, promising they’d see just how straight he could shoot if he got the chance to show them.

  The muster point was just outside the perimeter of the regimental laager, and Vahn found a small group waiting there. Flint and his aide was present, the dragoon fiddling with his over-sized vox-caster. Why the man didn’t use a Number Twelve set Vahn had no idea, for the Number Four he was using was way too cumbersome for use in the cramped confines of the conduits and sluice tunnels. The aide appeared to be listening intently to a signal while attempting to tune his set in, but by the expression on his face he wasn’t getting very far.

  Corporal Bukin was there too, his shotgun rested over his shoulder and a cigar puffing blue smoke into the cold air. Despite the chief provost’s outward brusqueness, Vahn was savvy enough to catch the tension in his eyes. The man was wary, not of the penal troopers, but of something else. His gaze was constantly on the move, panning the surrounding wastes like he was expecting trouble at any moment. Seeing the provosts arrive with the penal troopers, Bukin moved off to confer with his goons, revealing another figure that had been standing behind him.

  Vahn halted and brought his lasgun up with a fluid, instinctive movement. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Vahn demanded. As if being led by a commissar wasn’t bad enough, they expected his people to suffer the presence of a…

  ‘He’s going in with us,’ said Flint his tone the very model of diplomacy. ‘You will stand down, all of you.’

  The three-dozen penal troopers had followed Vahn’s example, every one of them levelling his or her weapon at the hard shell-clad figure of Claviger-Primaris Gruss. Further back, a full squad of armed clavigers milled around, waiting for the order to move out.

  The chief warden’s blank-faced mask scanned the penal troopers, the simple action somehow conveying as much disdain as a full sneer.

  ‘Put ‘em down,’ Vahn growled, lowering his own carbine to point at the dusty ground.

  ‘Why?’ Vahn said to Flint, his eyes not leaving the warden’s mask.

  ‘Same reason we need you,’ said Flint. ‘Inside knowledge. Now let’s…’

  ‘Wait,’ said Vahn, switching his gaze to the commissar. ‘Before we go back in there…’

  ‘Yes?’ said Flint, meeting Vahn’s gaze and holding it unblinkingly.

  ‘I want your word. We’re coming out again. No tricks.’

  ‘No tricks. If any of your people don’t come back, it’s because the Emperor had other plans for them, not because of me. Understood?’

  Vahn let the question hang for a moment. Vendell grunted while Becka nodded subtly. Skane looked away with disgust written on his face.

  ‘Okay,’ said Vahn, his mind made up. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  EIGHT

  Penitentia

  Trooper Stank, called ‘Rotten’ by his mates, didn’t trust the route the claviger boss had told Flint they should take, but he had little choice but to follow it. The Asgardian was on point, utilising his training to scout the way ahead as the assault force followed on a hundred metres behind. The force had entered through a service port carved through the sub-surface of the wastes, and having crept through the work bays infiltrated the ten kilometre-long tunnel that passed beneath the purgation chambers and joined the workings under Labour Hall 12.

  Treading lightly as he advanced, Rotten scanned the route ahead through his night vision goggles. He’d never used such devices before – because the regiment he had served in before coming to Furia Penitens recruited from a relatively primitive society its members were considered incapable of adapting to such technological marvels. Well, Rotten had adapted very well to such things. He’d developed a taste for collecting useful gear that had caused him to become something of an unofficial quartermaster in his old regiment, someone his fellow rangers could come to if they ‘mislaid’ their issued equipment and didn’t fancy their chances with the logistics staff. Rotten had earned a small fortune with his enterprise, but he had also earned a charge, and been sentenced to imprisonment in Alpha Penitentia.

  A shape appeared in the middle ground, the goggles rendering it as a roiling mass as they sought to focus on and refine the return. Rotten halted and went down on one knee, his carbine resting across his thigh. Cautiously, he strained his ears, and hearing nothing other than the ever-present dripping of liquid as condensation built up with the crippling of the air-scrubbers, he raised the goggles.

  Without the aid of the machine-magic of the goggles, the scene up ahead was a mass of shadows tinged a deep red by what remained of the overhead lumens. Rotten focused on the large shadow as his eyes adapted to the darkness and he finally worked out what it was. It was
a wrecked Admonisher, a class of armoured vehicle used by the claviger-wardens to herd large numbers of convicts from one part of the complex to another, in this particular case, between Carceri Resurecti and Labour Hall 12.

  Standing, Rotten glanced over his shoulder, looking to judge how far behind him the main force was, but he neither saw nor heard much to indicate he was anything but alone in the tunnel. He turned back towards the tank, unable to suppress the urge to take a look inside as he crept past it. You never know what might have been left behind, he told himself with a wry grin.

  Lowering the goggles again, he saw that they were still having difficulty rendering the shape of the ruined tank, though he still needed the goggles to ensure no rebel convicts were lurking in the shadows nearby. Advancing along the wide tunnel, he veered towards the centre and the ruined Admonisher, the goggles finally getting a fix on it as he approached. The Admonisher was a variant of the ubiquitous Rhino armoured transport used by many branches of the Imperium, but was open-topped to allow the wardens it carried to maintain overwatch on the convicts they herded. The huge, V-shaped man catcher mounted at the tank’s front towered over Rotten like the prow of a warship as he approached, and he slowed as he spotted debris strewn across the rockcrete ground around the tank. Tracking back to the Admonisher’s open side hatch, Rotten saw that someone else had got there first. It looked like someone had rifled through the interior of the tank, the litter scattered across the ground indicating that nothing valuable had been found.

  He was about to continue on his way when Rotten caught a whiff in the stale, damp air of the tunnel. It was meat, burned meat, and his gorge rose as he guessed its source. Penal mass-refectories rarely served high-grade grox steak – the meat in question could only be from one animal.

  Rotten swallowed hard as the stink filled his nose and oozed its way down his gullet. He felt nauseous, but the sensation still warred with curiosity. Deciding to take just a quick peak, just to be sure the tank contained nothing that might threaten the mission, Rotten approached the side hatch and hesitantly leaned in to peer into the troop bay.