Commissar

by Andy Hoare

‘We don’t need him to, I got the location,’ Flint said. ‘We know where Colonel Strannik’s holed up.’

  ‘Where?’ pressed Vahn.

  ‘He said the rebels have set themselves up in a control facility in the air scrubber chamber,’ said Flint, drawing his data-slate and invoking Major Herrmahn’s tri-D map of the complex. The slate came to life and the image of Carceri Resurecti revolved slowly in its centre.

  ‘There,’ said Flint, pointing out a grid reference high atop the northern face of the chamber’s wall. ‘If I was the colonel, that’s where I’d be too.’

  Flint had already studied the map and calculated the quickest route to the atmospheric processors. A honeycomb of tunnels led through the wall face but he judged it would be costly to lead an assault through them. Too costly for the small force he was leading.

  ‘We confirm that’s definitely where they are, then we exfiltrate and call in the regiment to launch a full assault on that position.’

  ‘Fat boy said that’s where they are…’ said Becka.

  ‘I know,’ Flint held up a gloved hand to forestall Becka’s complaints. ‘But I need visual confirmation before I call in the regiment. Understood?’ Not that he needed her to understand, but Becka was one of the more competent of the penal troopers and he’d need her for the next phase of the mission.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Flint announced, loud enough for all of the troops nearby to hear. ‘Section leaders, check ammunition distributions and get everyone ready to move out.’

  ‘This is it,’ he growled. ‘This is what we get paid for.’

  ‘We get paid?’ Becka muttered to Vahn as the commissar stalked off. ‘No one told me…’

  ELEVEN

  Heart of Darkness

  Becka squinted up into the clouds staining the vaults high above. It was raining again, and not just a fine drizzle. The closer the force got to the cooling tower and its crippled scrubbers, the worse the weather. She sneered in amusement at the thought of weather inside a prison, but it was the truth. The chamber’s roof space was in effect an artificial sky, and that sky was now dominated by boiling black clouds that looked for all the world like they were about to explode in lightning.

  ‘Becka, you okay?’ said Vahn over the personal vox-net. ‘You want someone else to take point?’

  She didn’t answer straight away, but scanned the vista up ahead, cautious for the presence of more rebels. The infiltration force was approaching the northern wall of Carceri Resurecti, and that wall was now looming from the haze, pale and glistening, like the tallest cliff face rearing from an ocean. The base of the wall was still lost to almost oceanic fog, while the very top was wreathed in darkness and churning clouds. Inbetween was several hundred metres of slab-like, cyclopean rockcrete, studded with thousands of small openings, each a cell portal.

  The sight made Becka shiver, for she knew that high atop the wall was the rebels’ fortress. And inside it, Colonel Strannik, the insane butcher who had orchestrated all of the bloodshed she had witnessed over the last few weeks. And that, she knew, was where the commissar was now saying they had to go.

  ‘Becka?’ Vahn repeated, the gain on the transmission pumped up so that his voice squawked painfully loud in her ear. ‘You reading me, Becka?’

  Becka slowed as she walked, tracking her carbine slowly left to right. ‘Here, Argusti,’ she replied. ‘What’s up?’

  There was a pause, during which Becka squinted into the drifting mists as she blinked the rain out of her eyes. The downpour was definitely getting worse, the entire surface of the chamber floor looking like one huge, shallow lake. The air was darkening too, what little natural light was able to shine down through the upper levels cut-off by the steadily thickening cloud layer. Then, Vahn’s voice came back.

  ‘I don’t like this, Becka,’ he said.

  ‘Hah!’ she snorted inside her mask. ‘You don’t like it?’ I’m the one on point, she thought.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said, his irritation obvious in his voice even over the static-laced personal vox-channel. ‘Something’s up.’

  ‘Repeat last,’ said Becka as the channel burst with distorted interference. ‘You’re breaking up, Vahn.’

  ‘I said,’ Vahn repeated, ‘Something isn’t right.’

  Becka glanced back the way she’d come. All she could see was rearing machinery and massively over-scale chains hanging down from above, slick with rain and wreathed in coils of mist. She’d got too far ahead and would have to slow to allow the remainder of the force to catch up. ‘You sure this channel’s secure?’ she said.

  ‘As sure as I can be, Becka,’ he replied. ‘I can see things going very wrong, and I want us ready for it.’

  ‘By us, you mean the convicti,’ she said. ‘Not the guard, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Vahn replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but be ready, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied as she spied a figure approaching through the mists back the way she’d come. She rapid-blinked to clear the rain from her eyelashes and saw that the figure was the Claviger-Primaris, Gruss. She waited a moment, allowing him to close up the line of march, then turned to resume her progress. Just before she turned her back on the chief warden, however, Becka got the impression from his head movements that he was talking to someone, though she couldn’t be sure.

  Having closed on the base of the northern wall, Flint had decided it was time to split the force up into smaller groups. At this point, force security was less of a concern than fulfilling the mission, and they would have more chance of doing so if split into sub-units.

  The upper reaches of the wall were lost to shadow and mist, and its surface was honeycombed with portals, each leading back into a complex network of tunnels and chambers. According to the former convicts, the tunnels afforded dozens of different routes upwards and just as many dead ends. At the very top was the chamber that housed the crippled scrubbers, a chamber that, if the obese rebel leader was to be believed, housed the rogue colonel’s stronghold. Chances were those tunnels would be well guarded, certainly well enough for any lookouts to detect the approach of Flint’s force and warn their fellows to lock down their defences. By splitting into smaller groups, Flint hoped to bypass at least a few of the lookouts and increase the chances of getting a confirmed fix on Colonel Strannik.

  Flint watched as the last of the ten-man multiples tramped off towards the wall, each allocated a different route up to the air scrubber chamber. Most of the squads were made up of the newly inducted penal troopers, but Flint had assigned one of Bukin’s provosts to lead each. He doubted any of the former convict-workers would be especially keen to switch sides but he had to make sure none decided to make for some dark corner and wait the battle out. Gruss had led his squad of clavigers away, leaving Flint with Bukin, Lhor, Hannen, Kohlz and Karasinda.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ said Flint, lowering his night vision goggles.

  A chorus of affirmatives confirmed they were, and Flint led his squad through its assigned portal. Immediately, they encountered signs of the rebels’ atrocities, the walls splashed with long-dried blood. Someone had used the blood to scrawl crude graffiti along the length of the tunnel, and Flint’s lip curled in disgust as he read the first few words. The statements daubed in blood were telling, offering clues into the mental state and motivations of the rebels and their leader. Flint was alert for signs of outside influences at work in the complex, perhaps aliens, or worse, having inspired the uprising. The Dictum Commissaria warned commissars of the signs of domination by such forces, and Flint was well versed in detecting such taint. Though he doubted alien interference, he was genuinely concerned that the servants of the arch-enemy, Chaos, might be behind the uprising and that the rogue colonel might be some manner of demagogue or high priest of the Ruinous Powers. He had looked for the telltale signs of such corruption, but had yet to see any direct evidence, though there was plenty in his surroundings to disturb him. The uprising, Flint had cautiously concluded, was the result of hubris and ambiti
on and the refusal to yield to duty, and nothing more sinister.

  The floor became increasingly strewn with debris the higher the squad advanced, and it was soon an effort to avoid crunching on the litter underfoot. At one point Flint halted to examine a pile of bones scattered across the tunnel floor, deciding that a corpse had been stripped of its flesh by some manner of vermin, the gnawed remains left strewn all about. The air was musty and the temperature was rising. The humidity increased as the squad moved deeper into the tunnels and Flint’s chest stung with the taint hanging in the air that he breathed, sharp pains stabbing his chest with each breath. Soon, he was forced to don one of the Firstborn’s standard issue rebreathers, designed to be proof against the choking pollution of Vostroya’s industrial nightmare landscape. The rebreather made the going easier, though combined with the bulky night vision goggles, Flint felt encumbered and somehow more vulnerable than before.

  The tunnel corkscrewed and twisted through the rockcrete cliff face with no apparent logic until Flint all but abandoned any attempt to track progress on Major Herrmahn’s tri-D map. The purpose of the tunnels was far from clear too, for they appeared cut from the rockcrete instead of being built that way. While most of the complex’s myriad tunnels and passageways were lined with kilometre after kilometre of pipes and cabling, these were not, suggesting they’d been carved by the inmates themselves as if in an effort to create a refuge from the overwhelming weight of the vast space of the open carceri chamber beyond. If that was the case, Flint could well sympathise, for the chamber’s sheer scale was oppressive in the extreme, the unnatural weight of the void overhead thoroughly crushing.

  Ten minutes into the ascent, Flint’s squad came upon the first of many junctions. Cautious of an ambush Flint sent Lhor and Hannen forward, ready to unleash a devastating burst of heavy flamer fire should any enemy show themselves. None did, and the squad continued its climb, the going getting all the more rough as they progressed.

  After another few minutes, Kohlz started to notice odd signals reverberating through the airwaves and the short-range personal vox-net that linked each warrior was completely shut down by the tunnels. There was now no way of coordinating the actions of the different squads as they each climbed upwards through the dank darkness towards the air scrubber chamber and the rebels’ stronghold. Truly, the mission was at its most vulnerable, and its success rested entirely in the hands of the God-Emperor.

  ‘This is such a load of crap,’ Vendell moaned as Vahn’s group picked its way along a corpse-strewn length of steeply climbing, pitch black tunnel. Thankfully, the squad’s provost watchdog, a man called Katko, was either hard of hearing, concentrating on other things or he just didn’t care for any of the penal troopers’ complaints.

  Vahn was on point, leading his squad through the labyrinthine tunnel network. He’d insisted on taking the lead position, mainly as a statement of intent to show the squad, and in particular Provost Katko, who was boss. The provost didn’t seem that bothered and had barely uttered a word to the penal troopers since being given command over them.

  ‘How much further?’ muttered Solomon from behind Vahn. ‘This is getting old.’

  ‘Quit your moaning, will you?’ Vahn growled. ‘Just for once…’

  ‘It wasn’t moaning,’ Solomon whined. ‘I mean, we should be getting near the scrubber chamber, shouldn’t we?’

  Vahn slowed, examining the darkness up ahead through the grainy green vista afforded by his night vision goggles. He could see no visual clues of the squad’s location at all, but Solomon was right. They’d been climbing for some time and must be approaching the objective.

  Vahn held up a hand for quiet as he advanced along the corridor, stepping cautiously over more scattered debris. Even through the mask of his rebreather, he was aware that the air was getting warmer and heavier, and the walls glistened with moisture as if sweating.

  ‘Hear that?’ Vendell whispered from directly behind Vahn. How the Voyn’s Reacher could hear anything with a missing ear Vahn couldn’t tell, but he paused nonetheless, straining his hearing to pick up whatever Vendell had heard.

  ‘What?’ said Solomon. ‘I don’t hear…’

  ‘Shhh!’ Vahn hissed. He could hear something too, the low grumble of a generator or some other form of machinery. The sound of raw power arcing through the air crackled and seethed nearby, but Vahn couldn’t discern the source. The damp air became charged, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The other members of the squad looked at one another uncertainly, until Katko pushed forward, his shotgun raised.

  ‘Get moving,’ the provost growled.

  Resuming his advance, Vahn felt the renewed conviction that something was definitely wrong. Before, his concerns had been centred on the involvement of the clavigers and what might happen if the mission went badly awry, but now something else gnawed at his subconscious mind. He slowed again, signalling a halt with a raised hand.

  Solomon looked ready to complain, but shut his mouth when he saw Vahn was serious. He knelt, signalling the squad to do likewise, and scanned the rough-hewn, rockcrete walls. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary up ahead, Vahn panned along and past the squad.

  ‘Crap…’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ said Solomon, before Katko pushed past him and repeated the question.

  ‘Wait a second,’ said Vahn. He skimmed a hand across the damp wall, feeling the texture. The air buzzed as if charged with energy, and the sound rose in pitch as his hand swept higher.

  ‘Crap,’ he repeated.

  Provost Katko placed a hand on Vahn’s shoulder and made to pull him around.

  ‘Get your hand off my shoulder, friend,’ Vahn growled. ‘This ain’t the time to…’

  ‘You’ll tell me what’s got you spooked,’ Katko said, his unshaven face closing on Vahn’s. ‘Or I’m taking over and you’re on a charge.’

  ‘You want to know what’s up?’ said Vahn, a note of derision entering his voice. ‘Look straight up.’

  Katko swore under his breath.

  ‘What?’ Solomon repeated. ‘Can’t anyone just tell me what’s…’

  ‘We’ve just walked right through an operational power shield,’ said Vahn.

  Solomon’s face resembled a fish gasping for air as he looked to Vahn, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. ‘How…?

  ‘Must be configured for one-way passage,’ Vahn explained, though he deliberately withheld the source of his assertion. ‘We pass through the other way, we get fried.’

  ‘Crap…’ said Solomon.

  Flint’s squad was passing along a wide landing strewn with shattered bones and scraps of torn clothing when Bukin stooped down suddenly, examining the ground. Flint gestured for the squad to hold and everyone went firm.

  ‘Someone’s been through here,’ Bukin hissed, holding up a scrap of discarded food. Flint couldn’t tell what the food had been, and didn’t really want to. ‘And recently,’ Bukin added, sniffing distastefully at the morsel.

  Flint pressed forward with his bolt pistol raised, clapping Bukin on the shoulder to indicate he should continue. They were nearly there, Flint was sure of it – it certainly felt like they’d climbed several hundred metres of sloping tunnel towards the upper reaches of Carceri Resurecti. His leg muscles were burning and his lungs stung. Every now and then the tunnels had converged with others, and several times the squad had thought it had caught glimpses of others as they worked their way upwards. Each time, the point men had waited as footsteps echoed weirdly through the passageways, but aside from the occasional silhouette or darting shadow, hadn’t come close to encountering one another.

  ‘One of ours?’ Flint whispered as he and Bukin moved cautiously towards the end of the landing. He doubted it, but had to check.

  ‘No, sir,’ Bukin said as he held up the morsel of discarded food, an expression of disgust twisting his face. ‘Not even Vahn’s mob would eat this…’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Flint as he caught sight of the slimy object Bukin was holding.
‘Proceed, with caution.’

  ‘And besides,’ added Bukin. ‘Can’t you smell it? This place stinks of mutant.’

  He was right. In amongst the reek of decay and destruction was that same underlying taint that had, now Flint considered it, always been present. It was that almost familiar, but indiscernible cocktail of biological corruption and chemical pollution, permeating the very air Flint breathed.

  Flint nodded and Bukin led the squad to the end of the landing where a smaller tunnel branched off, rising steeply as it corkscrewed upwards through the rockcrete. It was too dark to see much, but Flint could certainly hear something. Voices.

  Not risking giving the squad’s presence away, Flint gestured for a cautious advance. Edging slowly forward Flint lowered his rebreather, freeing himself of its constriction and reduced airflow. Immediately, the dank, chemical-laced air rushed into his lungs and he almost gagged. The higher up the carceri chamber’s wall the squad advanced, the worse the air quality. How many of their fellow convicts must the rebels have slain in the preceding weeks to produce such a reek, he thought? What diseases must even now be swarming in the unclean air he was breathing?

  Pushing onwards, Flint felt a stirring in the rank air and sensed a wide, open space at the end of the narrow passageway just beyond the turn, dirty light oozing in from beyond. The space the passageway opened into was low and broadly circular, lit by columns of harsh daylight lancing down from directly overhead. The roof was formed by a rotor several hundred metres in diameter, its multiple blades, each the size of a heavy bomber’s wing, streaked with washes of garish corrosion. This then was the air scrubber that when operational kept the air moving through Carceri Resurecti. The light streaming downwards between the massive fan blades cast the scene in harsh shadows, but the air was stale and rank, held immobile since the scrubber had shut down. But it wasn’t the rotor that had caught Flint’s baleful eye, but the figures occupying the chamber beneath it. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, the scrofulous ranks filling the entire chamber. Rebels. An army of rebels.