13th Legion

by Gav Thorpe

  Yeah/ Franx says with a curled lip, 'but it ain't exacdy bloody freedom, is it?'

  'And what would you call freedom?' Gappo asks, lying back onto his elbows, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  'Not sure/ the sergeant says with a shrug. 'Guess I like to choose what I eat, where I go, who I know/

  'I've never been able to do that/ I tell them. 'In the hive fac­tories it's just as much a matter of survival as it is here. Kill or be killed, win the trade wars or starve, it's that simple/

  'None of us knows what freedom is/ Gappo says, rocking his head from side to side to work out a stiff muscle. ^Vhen I was a preacher, all I knew were the holy scriptures and the dogma of the Ecclesiarchy They told me exactly how I was supposed to act and feel in any kind of situation. They told me who was right and who was wrong. I realise now that I didn't really have any freedom/

  You know, I'm from an agri-world/ Franx says. 'Just a farmer, wasn't much hardship. Had lots of machines, single man could tend fifteen hundred hectares. Was always plenty to eat, women were young and healthy, nothing more a man could want/

  'So why the bloody hell did you join the Guard?' Gappo blurts out, sitting bolt upright.

  'Didn't get any fragging choice, did I?' Franx says bitterly, a sour look on his face. 'Got listed for the Departmento Munitoram tithe when orks invaded Alris Colvin. I was mus­tered. That was it, no choice/

  "Yeah/ I butt in, Ъш you must've settled in all right, you made major after all/

  'Being in the Guard turned out fine/ the sergeant says, leaning forward to stack his dish on top of Gappo's. Tell the truth, I liked the discipline. As a trooper, I didn't have to worry about anything except orders. Got foddered and watered, had the comfort that whatever I was told to do would be the right thing/ 'But as you got promoted, that must have changed/ Gappo interjects, leaning back again.

  'Did, that was the problem/ Franx continues, raffling his curly hair with a hand. 'Higher up the chain of command I got, less I liked it. Soon making decisions that get men killed and maimed. All of a sudden it seemed like it was all my responsi­bility. Colonel was a born officer, one of the gentry, didn't give a second thought to troopers, was just making sure he could sneak his way up the greasy pole of the upper ranks, hoping to make commander-general or warmaster/

  That's why you went over the edge?' I ask, knowing that Franx was in the Last Chancers for inciting subordination and disobeying orders.

  'Right/ he says, face grim with the memory, voice deep and embittered. 'Stuck in the middle of an ice plain on Fortuna II, been on half rations for a month because the rebels kept shoot­ing down our supply shuttles. Got the order to attack a keep called Lanskar's Citadel, two dozen leagues across bare ice. Officers were dining on stewed horndeer and braised black ox, drinking Chanalain brandy; my men were eating dried food substitutes and making water from snow. Led my two compa­nies into the officers' camp and demanded supplies for the march. Departmento bastards turned us down flat and the men went on the rampage, looting everything. Didn't try to stop

  mem, theY were c°ld and starving. What was I supposed to do? Order diem back into the ice wastes to attack an enemy-held fort with empty stomachs?'

  That's kinda what happened to you, Gappo/ I say to the ex-preacher, making a pillow out of my thin blanket and lying down with my hands behind my head.

  The haves and have-nots?' he asks, not expecting an answer. 'I can see why Franx here did what he did, but to this day I have not the faintest clue what made me denounce a cardinal in front of half a dozen Imperial Guard officers/

  Think you were right/ Franx says. 'Cardinal shouldn't have executed men who were laying down their lives for the defence of his palaces/

  'But you had to go and accuse the whole Ecclesiarchy of being corrupt/ I add with a grin. 'Questioning whether there really was an Emperor. How stupid are you?'

  'I cannot believe that such suffering could happen if there were such a divine influence looking over humanity/ Gappo replies emphatically. 'If there is an Emperor, which I doubt, the cardinal and odiers like him representing such a figure is patently ridiculous/

  'Can't imagine being able to carry on if there wasn't an Emperor/ Franx says, shaking his head, trying to comprehend the idea. "Would've killed myself as soon as I was hauled in by the Colonel if that was the case/

  "You really believe that you have a soul to save?' Gappo asks with obvious contempt. You believe this magnificent Emperor cares one bit whether you die serving the Imperium or as a dis­obedient looter?'

  'Hey!' I snap at both of them. 'Let's drop this topic, shall we?'

  It's at mat point that Poal walks over, face scrunched up into a vicious snarl.

  'He's done it again/ he says through gritted teeth.

  'Rollis?' I ask, already knowing the answer, pushing myself to my feet. Poal nods and I follow him towards the far end of the prison chamber, where he and what's left of Kronin's old pla­toon usually eat now. Kronin is sitting there looking dejected.

  'I shall steal from the plate of decadence to feed the mouths of the powerless/ the mad lieutenant says.

  That's the sermons of Sebastian Thor. I know that one/ puts in Poal, standing just behind my right shoulder.

  "Where's Rollis?' I demand.

  One of the men lounging on the ground nods his head to the right and I see the traitor sat with his back to the cell wall about ten metres away. Trust them to leave it up to me. Most of them hate Rollis, just like I do. They're just scared the treacherous bastard is going to do something to them if they stand up to him, and the Colonel's wrath is another factor. Well, I won't stand for it, having to breathe the same air as him makes me want to rip his lungs out. I march up to stand in front of the scumbag. He's got a half-full bowl in his lap.

  I stand there with my hands on my hips. I'm shaking with anger, I detest this man so much.

  'Slow eater, aren't you?' I hiss at Rollis. He looks slowly up at me with his tiny black eyes.

  'lust because I'm more civilised than you animals, I don't have to put up with these insults/ he says languidly, putting the dish to one side.

  *You took Kronin's food again.' A statement, not a question.

  'I asked him if he would share his ration with me/ he says with a sly smile. 'He didn't say no/

  'He said: "And the bounties of the Emperor shall go to those who have worked hard in his service"/ Poal interjects from behind me. 'Sounds like a big "frag off" if you ask me/

  'I warned you last time, Rollis/ I say heavily, sickened at the sight of his blubbery face. 'One warning is all you get/

  His eyes fill with fear and he opens his mouth to speak, but my boot fills it before he can say anything, knocking bloodied teeth across his lap. He clamps his hands to his jaw, whimper­ing with pain. As I turn away I hear him move behind me and I look back over my shoulder.

  'Bashtard!' he spits at me, halfway to his feet, blood and spit­tle dribbling down his chin. Til fragging get you back for thish, you shanctimonioush shon-of-an-ork!'

  'Keep going and you'll need to ask for soup in future/1 laugh back at him. I'd pity the piece of grox crap if he wasn't such a scumbag piece of sumpfloat. He slumps back down again, probing at a tooth with a finger, eyes filled with pure venom. If looks really could kill, they'd be tagging my toes already.

  'If he tries it again/ I tell Poal, 'break the fingers of his left hand. He'll find it even harder to eat then, but he'll still be able to pull a trigger. I'll back you up/

  Poal glances back at the traitor, obviously relishing the though.

  'I just hope he tries it again,' he says darkly, glaring at Rollis.

  'I just hope he does...'

  In the dim ruddy glow of an old star, the tyranid hive fleet drifted remorselessly onwards. The smaller drone ships huddled under the massive, crater-pocked carapaces of the hive ships, the larger vessels slowly coiling in upon themselves to enter a dor­mant state that allowed them to traverse the vast distances between stars. The clouds of spores were
dispersing, scattering slowly on the stellar winds. One hive ship was still awake, feeder tentacles wrapped around the shattered hull of an Imperial war­ship, digesting the mineral content, the flesh of the dead crew, leeching off the air contained within to sustain itself.

  Across the heavens the flotilla of bio-ships stretched out, impelled by instinct to hibernate again until they found new prey and new resources to plunder. In their wake, a bare rock orbited the star, scoured of every organic particle, stripped of all but the most basic elements. Nothing was left of the fanning world of Langosta III. There were no testaments to the humans who had once lived there. Now all that was left was an airless asteroid, the unmarked dying place of three million people. All that remained of them was raw genetic material, stored within the great hive ships, ready to be turned into more hunters, more killing machines.

  TWO

  FALSE HOPE

  +++ Operation New Sun in place, ready for your arrival. +++

  +++ Operation Harvest preparing to progress to next stage. +++

  +++ Only the Insane can truly Prosper. +++

  You could say that dropping out of warpspace feels like having your body turned inside out by some giant invisible hand. You could say it's like you've been scattered into fragments and then reassembled in the real universe. You could say that your mind buzzes with images of birth and death, each flashing into your brain and then disappearing in an instant. I've heard it described like this, and many other fanciful ways, by other sol­diers and travellers. You could say it was like these things, but you'd be lying, because it isn't like any of them. In fact, you hardly notice that you've dropped out of warpspace at all. There's a slight pressure at the back of your mind, and then a kind of release of tension, like you've just had a stimm-shot or something. You relax a little, breathe just a little more easily. Well, that's how it's always been for me, and nobody else seems to have come up with a more accurate description that I know of. Then again, maybe you don't even actually get that; perhaps it's all in your mind. I know that I'm damned well relieved every time we drop back into realspace, because it's a whole lot less dangerous than on the Otherside. Considering the outfit I'm in these days, that's saying a hell of a lot, because each drop is just a prelude to the next blood-soaked batde.

  I'm standing in the upper starboard gallery, along with another two dozen Last Chancers. The row of windows to our right continues for several hundred metres. The wood-panelled wall of the inner bulkhead stretches unbroken on the other side, leaving a massive corridor thirty metres wide where we can run back and forth along its length, but without any nooks or crannies in the featureless room to hide behind. There's only one door at each end of the gallery, each protected by a squad of armsmen with loaded shotcannons. Sealed, sterile, con­tained. Just like the Colonel wanted it. We're fortunate that

  we're on exercise when the drop happens. The shutters on the massive viewing ports grind out of sight, revealing a distant blue star. We're too far away to see any worlds yet, we've still got to go in-system under ordinary plasma drives.

  Poal strides up to me, sweat dripping off him from his phys­ical exertions.

  'Where are we?' he asks, wiping his forehead with the back of his good hand.

  'Haven't got a fraggin' due/ I tell him with a deep shrug. I catch the eye of the naval officer watching over us from the near end of the gallery. He walks over with a half-confident, half-nervous look. Don't ask me how he manages it but he seems to convey a sense of superiority, but the look in his eyes doesn't match it. He glances quickly to check that the armsmen are still close at hand as he stops in front of me.

  What do you want?' he demands, his lip curled as if he was talking to a pool of sick.

  'Just wondering where we are/ I say to him with a pleasant smile. I'm in a good mood for some reason, most likely because we're out of warpspace, as I said before, and so I'm not up for any Navy-baiting today.

  'System XV/10 8, that's where we are/ he replies with a smirk.

  'Oh right/ says Poal, lounging an arm across my shoulder and leaning towards the naval officer. 'XV/108? That's right next to XV/109.1 heard of it/

  'Have you?' the lieutenant asks, jerking himself up straight, clearly startled.

  'Oh yeah/ says Poal, his voice totally deadpan, his face radi­ating sincerity. 'I hear that this place is Grox-country. Nothing but Grox farms as far as the eye can see. They say that folks around here are so keen on Grox they live with 'em, sleep with 'em, even have kids by 'em/

  'Really?' the lieutenant asks, his pudgy little face screwed up with genuine repulsion now.

  That's right/ Poal continues, casting a mischievous glance at me that the Navy man doesn't notice. 'In fact, looking at you, are you sure your mother wasn't a Grox and your father a lonely farmer?'

  'Certainly not, my father was a-' he starts back before he actually realises what Poal's been saying. 'Damn you, penal scum! Schaeffer will hear about this insult!'

  That's Colonel Schaeffer to you, Grox-baby/ Poal says, sud­denly serious, staring intendy at the lieutenant. "You Navy men would do well to remember it/

  'Is that right, trooper?' the lieutenant spits back, taking a step towards us. 'When the lash is taking strips off your back you would do well to remember that it's a naval rating doing it to you!'

  With that, he spins on the spot and marches off, the thick heels of his naval boots thudding loudly on the wood-panelled floor. Poal and I just burst out laughing, and I can see his shoulders tense even more. It's a couple of minutes before we can control ourselves - each time I look at Poal I can see his innocent face and the lieutenant's enraged look.

  'Hasn't even got a damned name/ Poal says when he's calmed down a little, standing looking out of the nearest viewport, looking pale against the blackness of the high-arched window that stretches up at least another ten metres above his head.

  That's worrying/ I agree, stepping up beside him. 'Even the newest explored system usually gets a name, even if it's just the same as the ship or the man who found it/

  'No name, no name...' Poal mutters to himself for a moment, before turning to look at me, his hand and hook clasped behind his back like an officer or something. 'I've just had a thought. No name probably means it's a dead system, no life-bearing worlds, right?'

  'Could be/ I say, though I wouldn't really know. Unlike Poal who was brought up by the Schola Progenium, my education consisted more of how to work a las-lafhe and parry an axe-blow with a crowbar.

  'And a dead system is just the place you'd put a penal colony...' he suggests, looking back out of die window, more interested this rime.

  'You think they're going to offload us?' I ask him with an incredulous look.

  'Course not/ he says, still staring out of the viewport. 'But we could be getting some more men in, mat'd make sense/

  'I see your point/ I say, turning and leaning back against the thick armoured glass of the port. 'It's been two and half years, and we've not had a single new member/

  'And maybe he's organising us into one big platoon to make room for the fresh faces/ Poal says, his face showing a thought­ful impression.

  'Hang on, though/ I say, a sudden thought crossing my mind. "Wouldn't it be better to have the old-timers in charge of the squads and platoons?'

  "What? Have us teaching them all the tricks we've learned?' he says with a laugh. 'The Colonel knows better than that.'

  We lounge around and jaw a bit more, strolling back and forth along the gallery after one of the armsmen prompts us to carry on exercising instead of loafing. We're talking about what we'd do if we ever get out of the Last Chancers when there's an interruption.

  'Lieutenant Kage!' a voice barks out from behind me and I automatically stand to attention, the parade drills banged into me so hard I still can't stop myself responding to a voice with that much authority.

  'Emperor damn me it's the Colonel/ hisses Poal, standing-to on my left. That bloody naval bastard has fragged us/

  The Colonel walks up behind
us. I can hear his slow, certain steps thudding on the floor.

  'Face front, guardsmen/ he says and we both spin on the spot in perfect unison, moving with instinct rather than thought.

  'If it's about that naval lieutenant, sir-' I begin to excuse myself, but he cuts me off with a short, chopping motion with his hand, his gold epaulettes swaying with the motion.

  'Between you and me/ he says quietly, leaning forward to look at us face-to-face, 'I do not care what the Imperial Navy thinks of you. It could not be any worse than what I think of you/

  We stand there in silence for a moment as he glances sharply at both of us. Clearing his throat with a short cough he stands up straight again.

  'Kage/ he tells me, looking past at the other Last Chancers in the gallery, 'you will be escorted to my chambers after exercise to receive briefing about our next mission/

  "Yes, sir!' I snap back, keeping my face neutral, even though inside I feel like dropping to the deck and beating my head against the wooden planks. The relaxation I've felt in the past hour after dropping from the warp disappears totally and ten­sion seeps into my muscles and bones again. So we're here to fight again. No new recruits, no fresh blood. Just here to fight in some other bloody war. To die, perhaps. Well, that's the life of a Last Chancer. It's all there is left for us.

  * * *

  The armsman taps politely at the panelled and lacquered door, before opening it inwards and waving me inside with the muz­zle of his shotcannon. I step inside, as I've done a dozen times before, and stand to attention, my polished boots sinking into the thick carpet. Behind me I hear the door close and the ring of the armsman's boots standing to attention on the corridor decking.

  The Colonel glances up from behind his massive desk and then looks back at the data-slate before him, immediately seeming to forget my presence. He presses his thumb to an identification slate on the side of the data-slate and it makes a whirring noise, which I recognise as the 'erase' function oper­ating. He places the device carefully on the desk in front of him, lying it parallel to the edge closest to me, before looking in my direction again.