Hero of the Imperium, page 56
60. Cain is, of course, joking here. Probably.
61. The identification of those responsible for the decision wasn’t difficult, but, as Cain surmised, hard evidence of conspiracy rather than an unfortunate coincidence continues to be elusive. Anyone with information which may prove helpful in resolving this matter will find an interested listener in Inquisitor Kuryakin of the Ordo Hereticus.
62. Actually there have been a few xenologists who argued precisely this, claiming their actions make perfect sense in the context of their own barbarous society, but such views are generally considered eccentric at best.
63. Probably some variation of ‘Nob’ or ‘Boss,’ which appear to be the only major signifiers of rank and status their language possesses.
64. Cain was evidently still hungry at this point, judging by the sudden flurry of culinary metaphors; hardly surprising given the amount of energy he had expended over the last couple of days.
65. Indeed not. As yet the world or worlds at the other end of the necron portal remain unidentified, despite the best efforts of the Ordo Xenos.
66. Quintus’s minutes of the meeting are singularly unhelpful in filling in this gap, concerned as they are chiefly with the way the overhead lighting struck highlights from Kasteen’s hair.
67. The system where a tyranid attack had decimated the imperial defenders, necessitating the amalgamation of the 296th and 301st to create the 597th in the first place.
68. Because the real reason for the practice is to provide properly indoctrinated foot soldiers for the Inquisition. Of course fewer than five per cent reach the exacting standards required, leaving the ones who don’t make the grade to be palmed off on the Guard.
69. Most unlikely, as at this point in her career she had yet to see either. Unless you count holopicts, of course.
70. Presumably for the same reason their harvester fleets abduct the populations of isolated colony worlds. Whatever that is.
71. Perhaps correctly. The aura of terror projected by necron pariahs appears to be at least partly a psychic phenomenon, so it’s quite reasonable to assume that a blank would repel them and mask the effect. However, since no other record exists of a blank coming into such close proximity to a group of pariahs, and they’re far too rare and valuable to risk in deliberately testing this hypothesis, it must remain conjectural.
72. A contraction of ‘ground pounders,’ a Navy term for the Imperial Guard units sometimes billeted aboard their warships. Less common among merchant crews, Durant’s use of it here implies that this wasn’t the first time the Pure of Heart had been pressed into service as a fleet auxiliary.
73. How Cain came to this conclusion he doesn’t bother to explain; it was probably something to do with his affinity for underground environments.
74. This is the last time Cain mentions the tech-priest in his account of these events. His subsequent career in the Adeptus Mechanicus can best be described as unspectacular, rising to the rank of Magos without doing anything further to draw attention to himself. His last known assignment was at the Noctis Labyrinthus mine complex on Mars.
75. Fuel/Air Explosive, a type of bomb which releases a volatile gas before detonation to magnify its power and area of effect.
76. More likely they simply waded through the flooded levels until they broke the surface.
77. Subsequent examination of the site showed no signs of an active necron presence, although if anything was left of their installation it would have been buried far too deeply to have left much trace of anything. I for one would not be at all keen to start digging holes to find out for sure.
THE BEGUILING
Night and the rain had both been falling for some time and I’d been getting steadily colder, wetter and more hacked off since the middle of the afternoon before we saw the light, glimmering faintly through the trees which bordered the road. The two gunners in the back of the Salamander with me hadn’t helped my darkening mood either; they were fresh out from Valhalla, had never seen rain before, and found the ‘liquid snow’ a fascinating novelty which they discussed at inordinate length and with increasingly inanity.
To add insult to injury they had an ice-worlder’s indifference to low temperatures, chattering about how warm it was, while I huddled into my greatcoat and shivered. The only upside to their presence was their transparent awe at being in the company of the famous Commissar Cain, whose heroism and concern for his men was fast becoming legendary.
Legendary, that is, in the literal sense of being both widely believed and completely without foundation. Since my attempt to save my own miserable skin by deserting in the face of a tyranid horde on Desolatia had backfired spectacularly, leaving me the inadvertant hero of the hour, my undeserved reputation had continued to grow like tanglevine. A couple of narrow scrapes during the subsequent campaign to cleanse Keffia of genestealers, which aren’t strictly relevant to this anecdote but were unpleasant enough at the time, had added to it; mostly I’d run for cover, kept my head down, and emerged to take the credit when the noise stopped.
So I should have had the sense to sit back and enjoy the relative peace the post I’d gone to some trouble to arrange for myself ought to have guaranteed; a rear-echelon artillery battery, a long way from the front line, with no disciplinary problems to speak of. But, true to form, I just couldn’t leave well enough alone.
We’d been campaigning on Slawkenberg for about eight months standard, or about half the local year, putting down in the southern hemisphere of the main eastern continent just as the snows of winter began to give way to a clement, sweet-scented spring. Tough luck on the Valhallans, who bore the disappointment with the stoicism I’d come to expect, but just gravy so far as I was concerned. True to form we spent the spring, and the sort of balmy summer that vacation worlds build their entire economies on, flinging shells into the distance, secure in the knowledge that we were doing the Emperor’s work without any of the unpleasantness you get when the enemy can shoot back at you.
I wasn’t even sure who the enemy was, to be honest. As usual I’d given the briefing slates only the most perfunctory of glances before turning my attention to matters of more immediate concern, like grabbing the best billets for myself and a few favoured cronies. Since my instincts in this regard remained as finely honed as ever, I managed to install myself in a high class hotel in a nearby village along with the senior command staff, most of whom still cordially detested me but who weren’t about to turn down a soft bed and a cellar full of cask-matured amasec. I had equally little time for them, but liked to be able to keep an eye on them without too much effort.
I made sure Colonel Mostrue got the best suite, of course, selecting a more modest one for myself which better fitted my undeserved reputation, and which had the added advantage of a pair of bay windows which afforded easy and unobserved access to the street through a small garden which was only overlooked by the apartment belonging to the hotel’s owner. He wasn’t about to challenge anything an Imperial commissar might do, and with the indispensible Jurgen, my faithful and malodorous aide, camped out in the anteroom, there was no chance of anyone wandering in to discover that I was entertaining company or had wandered off to amuse myself in the many houses of discreet entertainment the locality had to offer.
In short, I had it made. So, as the summer wore on, it was only a matter of time before I found myself getting bored.
‘That’s the trouble with you, Cai.’ Toren Divas, the young lieutenant who was the closest thing I had to a friend among the battery, and was certainly the only member of it who would even dream of using the familiar form of my given name, tilted his glass and let the amber liquid slide down his throat, sighing with satisfaction. ‘You’re not suited to this rear-echelon soldiering. A man like you needs more of a challenge.’ He fumbled for the bottle, found it was empty, and looked around hopefully for another.
‘Right now I’ve got enough of a challenge with that winning streak of yours,’ I said, hoping to bluff him into doubling his bet again. The best he could be holding was a pair of inquisitors, and I only needed one more Emperor to scoop the pot. But he wasn’t biting.
‘You’re going stir crazy here,’ he went on. ‘You need a bit of excitement.’
Well, that was true, but not in the way he meant. He’d been there on Desolatia and seen me take on a swarm of tyranids with just a chainsword, hacking my way through to save Jurgen’s miserable hide completely by accident, and bought the Cain the Hero legend wholesale. His idea of excitement was being in a place where people or aliens or warp-spawned monstrosities wanted to kill you as horribly as possible and doing it to them first. Mine was finding a gambling den without a house limit, or a well-endowed young lady with a thing for men in uniforms and access to her father’s credit slip. And in the last few months I’d pretty much run out of both locally, not to mention other recreational facilities of a less salubrious nature. So I nodded, mindful of the need to play up to my public persona.
‘Well, the enemy’s leagues away,‘ I said, trying to sound rueful. ‘What can you do?’
‘Go out and look for them,‘ he said. Maybe it was the amasec, maybe it was the stage of the evening when you start to talk frak just for the hell of it, but for whatever reason I found myself pursuing the topic.
‘I wish it was that easy,’ I said insincerely. ‘But then I’d have to shoot myself for desertion.’ Divas laughed at the feeble joke.
‘Not if you made it official,’ he said. There was something about his voice which sounded quite serious, despite the amasec-induced preternatural care with which he formed the words. If I’d just laughed it off at that point, it would all have turned out differently: a couple of eager young troopers wouldn’t have died, Slawkenberg might have fallen to the forces of Chaos, and I definitely wouldn’t have ended up fleeing in terror from yet another bunch of psychopaths determined to kill me. But, as usual, my curiosity got the better of me.
‘How do you mean?‘ I asked.
‘Let me get this straight.’ Colonel Mostrue looked at me narrowly, distrust clearly evident in his ice-blue eyes. He’d never fully bought my story on Desolatia, and although he generally gave me the benefit of the doubt he was never quite able to ignore the instinctive antipathy most Guard officers harboured towards members of the Commissariat. ‘You want to lead a recon mission out towards the enemy lines.’
‘Not lead, exactly,’ I said. ‘More like tag along. See how the forward observers are doing.’
‘They seem to be doing fine,’ Mostrue riposted, his breath puffing to vapour as he spoke. As usual he had the air conditioning in his office turned up high enough to preserve grox.
‘As I’d expect,’ I said smoothly. ‘But I’m sure you’ve seen the latest intelligence reports.’ Which was more than I had, until my conversation with Divas had drawn my attention to them. ‘Something peculiar seems to be happening among the enemy forces.’
‘Of course it does.’ His voice held a faint tinge of asperity. ‘They’re Chaos worshippers.’ I almost expected him to spit. ‘Nothing they do makes sense.’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But I feel I’d be shirking my duties if I didn’t take a look for myself.’ Although I didn’t have the slightest intention of going anywhere near the battlefront, I really was mildly intrigued by the reports I’d skimmed. The traitors seemed to be fighting each other in several places, even ignoring nearby Imperial forces altogether unless they intervened. I didn’t know or care why, any more than Mostrue did; the more damage they inflicted on each other the better I liked it. But it did give me the perfect excuse to comandeer some transport and check out the recreational possibilites of some of the nearby towns. Mostrue shrugged.
‘Well, please yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s your funeral.’
So I found myself later that morning in the vehicle park, watching a couple of young gunners called Grear and Mulenz stowing their kit in the back of a Salamander. Jurgen, who I’d co-opted as my driver, glanced up at the almost cloudless sky, his shirt sleeves rolled up as usual, a faint sheen of sweat trickling across his interesting collection of skin diseases. Even though we were in the open air, and he wasn’t perspiring nearly as much as he had when we first met in the baking deserts of Desolatia, I kept upwind of him through long habit.
Jurgen’s body odour was quite spectacular, and even though our time together had more or less immured me to it there was no point in taking any chances. Physically he was much less preposessing than he smelled, looking as though someone had started to mould a human figure out of clay but became bored before they finished.
Though I strongly suspected Mostrue had assigned him as my aide more as a practical joke than anything else, Jurgen had turned out to be ideally suited to the role. He wasn’t the biggest bang in the armoury by any means, but made up for his lack of intellect with a literally minded approach to following orders and an unquestioning acceptance of even the mutually contradictory parts of Imperial doctrine which would have done credit to the most devout ecclesiarch. Now he looked at a faint wisp of cloud on the horizon, and shook his head.
‘Weather’ll be changing soon.’
‘It seems fine to me,’ I said. I suppose I should have listened, but I grew up in a hive and had never quite got the hang of living in an environment you couldn’t adjust. And besides, it had been warm and dry for weeks now. Jurgen shrugged.
‘As the Emperor wills,’ he said, and started the engine.
What the Emperor willed on this particular morning was a steady increase in the cloud, which gradually began to attenuate the sunshine, and a slowly freshening breeze which stole the remaining warmth from it. The sky darkened by almost imperceptable degrees as we rattled along, making good time towards the nearest town, and I wasn’t too surprised to feel the first drops of moisture on my skin while we were still some way short of our destination.
‘How much further?’ I asked Jurgen, wishing I’d comandeered a Chimera instead. The noise in the enclosed crew bay would have been deafening, but at least it would have kept the rain off.
‘Ten or twelve leagues,’ he said, apparently unperturbed by the change in the weather. ‘Fifteen to the OP.’
I had no intention of accompanying Grear and Mulenz all the way to the forward observation post, but we were close enough to civilisation to make the quarter hour or so of mild discomfort I still had to look forward to seem bearable. ‘Good,’ I said, then turned to the gunners with an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll be there in no time.’
‘What about you, sir?’ Mulenz asked, looking up from his ranging scope. It was the first time I’d let them know I wasn’t planning on checking in on the observation post; every artillery battery needs its forward observers, but it’s a hard, thankless job, and a fire magnet for every enemy trooper in the area once they realise you’re there. I smiled again, the warm, confident smile of the hero they expected me to be.
‘I’ll just be poking around to see what the enemy’s up to,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me getting in the way.’ That was always my style, making the troops feel as though they had my full confidence. A pat on the back generally works better than a gun to the head, in my experience; and if it doesn’t you can just as easily shoot them later. Grear nodded, his chest swelling visibly.
‘You can count on us, sir,’ he said, positively radiating enthusiasm.
‘I’m sure I can,’ I said, then lifted myself up to look over the rim of the driver’s compartment again. ‘Jurgen. Why are we stopping?’
‘Roadblock,’ he said. The palms of my hands began to tingle, as they often do when something I can’t quite put my finger on doesn’t seem right. ‘Catachans, by the look of it.’
‘They can’t be,’ I said. I glanced ahead of us: a squad of troopers was fanning out across the road, lasguns at the ready. Jurgen was right, from this distance they did seem to have the heavily-muscled build which distinguishes the inhabitants of that greenhouse hell. But there was something about the way they moved which rang alarm bells in my mind. And besides... ‘They’re all assigned to the equatorial region.’
‘Then who are they?’ Jurgen asked.
‘Good question. Let’s not wait to find out.’ No other instructions were necessary: he killed the drive to the left-hand tracks, and the Salamander slewed round to face the way we’d come. Grear and Mulenz sprawled across the floor of the crew compartment, taken by surprise by the violent manoeuvre; more used to Jurgen’s robust driving style I’d grabbed the pintel mount to steady myself.
A few las-bolts shot past our heads as the ambushers realised we were getting away, followed by barely coherent curses.
‘Emperor’s blood!’ I swung the heavy bolter around and loosed off a fusilade of badly-aimed shots at our pursuers. Grear and Mulenz gaped at me, obviously stunned at seeing the heroic legend come to life, until I grabbed Grear and got him to replace me at the weapon.
‘Keep firing,’ I snapped, pleased to see that I’d got a couple at least, and dropped back behind the safety of the armour plate. That required an excuse, so I seized the voxcaster. ‘Cain to Command. We have hostiles on the forest road, co-ordinates...’ I scrabbled for the map slate, which Mulenz helpfully thrust at me, and rattled them off. ‘Estimate at no more than platoon strength...’
‘There’s more of them up ahead,’ Jurgen cut in helpfully.
‘Command. Wait one.’ I peered cautiously over the rim of the crew compartment. Another squad had emerged from the trees lining the road, then another, and another... I could estimate at least fifty men, maybe more, straggling across the highway towards concealment on the other side. ‘Make that company strength. Possibly a full advance.’
‘Confirming that, commissar.’ Mostrue’s voice, calm and collected as usual. ‘Targeting now. Firing in two.’
