"The Devil's Wall" | Fan Fiction
In 996.M41 the First Kherian Infantry, the first Imperial Guard regiment raised from the planet Kheria in the Orpheus sub-sector, saw action for the first time. This is the story of the regiment's blooding, and their introduction to the space marines of the Justice Hammers, the Fourth Battle Company of the Violet Avatars. It isn't done, but there's enough here for people to enjoy, I hope. We've had several threads recently that touch on the different tones you can take in 40K, in terms of how much "realism" the fiction incorporates, how space marines are portrayed, and so forth. This is my take on 40K tone in a number of areas, including technology-as-religion and what space marines can and cannot do militarily.
Purely literary comments are welcome if you have them, but I'd enjoy more hearing your reactions to the overall tone of the piece as one person's version of 40K.
Part 1 - Prelude
The space marine was huge. That was General Tomas Gherlin’s first thought. Tomas had thought he was prepared for that. It was one thing to know that the space marine had a good 60 centimeters on him, though, and another to appreciate the sheer bulk that went with all that height.
Tomas’ second thought was annoyance that the marine was in armor. Kherian custom demanded that foreign allies be greeted in full dress uniform even on the battlefield, a legacy of the Endless War. A society that had been on a war footing for eight generations acquired a certain indifference to the exigencies of any given battle. Not that that makes it any easier to scratch together an honor guard in the middle of a field camp. He could have at least returned the favor.
The marine wore deep purple full body armor trimmed in green and gray. The suit was decorated with streamers of parchment, affixed with what appeared to be crimson wax. An iron starburst device rose above his head. A golden aiguillette was draped across his plastron. He carried a full-face helmet under one arm, sufficiently sculpted to give the vague impression of a snarling heraldic beast, and an elaborately tooled warhammer rested on the opposite shoulder. He should have looked like a heraldic clown in a farce about bygone chivalry—but he was built like a brick sh*thouse, and moved like he knew it. The general’s amusement faded. Absurd as full-body armor seemed on a modern battlefield, this was no costume to the space marine. In fact, on second thought, the obvious pageantry was distinctly at odds with no-nonsense way that the giant carried himself. Realization struck him in time to keep his annoyance from showing on his face. The space marine was wearing full dress. The seals, the warhammer, the iron starburst—they were all decorations of some sort. Tomas wished he could remember what they signified, but there had been time for only a cursory look at the dataslate, and he had not had time to absorb the details of foreign military honors.
Tomas saluted. “Captain Phyrius,” he said. “Welcome, on behalf of the First Kherian Infantry.”
Phyrius touched two fingers to the Imperial eagle on his chestplate, which Tomas took as a returned salute. “My brothers and I have been made most welcome, General,” he replied. “Allow me to introduce Brother-Chaplain Crucis and Brother-Sergeant Justus, my first sergeant.”
Justus wore the same green-on-purple armor as the captain, his face hidden behind a white helmet. Chaplain Crucis was an altogether more startling figure, dressed in stern black armor adorned with skulls, wearing a death’s-head helmet and carrying a mace whose head was fashioned into an Imperial eagle. Tomas found himself grateful that Captain Phyrius carried his helmet. His plain, battered features were a relief next to the grinning avatar of death who stood at his flank.
The chaplain of the Violet Avatars’ Fourth Company stood still as a statue, behind and to the left of his captain. Padrig Crucis was not a man known for stillness, but cultivating the habit of standing unmoving in power armor had its advantages when one was helmeted—as were one’s brothers.
“Poor jumped-up b*stard looks like he’s trying not to piss himself,” Sergeant Justus remarked over the vox link. To an outsider he and Padrig would appear to be standing at attention, mutely observing the goings-on.
“You did the same the first time you saw a space marine, as I recall,” Padrig replied.
“I was five.”
Padrig chuckled. Not for the first time he reflected that Blessed Guilliman had shown great wisdom in decreeing that a company’s chaplain should be present when recruits were selected. It was much easier to look after the spiritual health of a man like Valerius Justus when one could remember him not only as the hero of the Sublicius Bridge but also as a wide-eyed boy with a dark stain spreading on his trousers.
General Gherlin was introducing the other members of his delegation. Confessor Cornelius San-Rhys, the head of the regiment’s attached Ministorum priests, bowed and smiled beatifically but said nothing. Padrig liked that. There was a time for a pastor to preach fire and brimstone and a time to let the troops get on with it, and as one professional to another he approved of one who knew the difference. Magos Balan Abscientus, the regiment’s senior tech-priest, greeted the space marines with a stony silence.
“Abscientus,” Padrig said. “Sh*t.”
“Sh*t,” Justus agreed. “I don’t suppose he’s forgiven us for—”
“No, I don’t suppose he has.”
“And this is Commissar-General Moira Grey,” Gherlin finished. The commissar-general had gray hair and a deeply lined face, but she stood strongly erect. Commissar-General Grey looked not so much like an old woman as a punch in the mouth waiting to happen.
“Commissar-General, eh?” Padrig murmured. “Pulled out the big guns, didn’t they?”
Captain Phyrius greeted the heads of the First’s attached detachments cordially. “I understand time is short, General,” he said. “I had hoped to discuss the best ways to deploy my battle-brothers to assist your men.”
Gherlin smiled. “Good man,” he said. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
The general turned to a wooden table spread with a large paper map. The table was not a folding design and looked both heavy and well-used, no doubt a favorite item of the general’s. Padrig wondered briefly how many battlefields it had seen.
The map was a copy of a standard Administratum survey, a hundred and fifty years out of date according to the stamp. Somebody had made topographical additions and corrections in grease pencil.
“These Kherians have conducted their own recon,” Padrig said.
Justus caught the surprise in his voice. “I’ve always been inspired by your faith in your fellow men, Brother-Chaplain,” he said.
Padrig grunted, the invisible power-armored equivalent of a shrug. “Maybe,” he said. “But these particular fellow men are the first of their kind off-world, let alone serving in the Guard. Guardsmen sh*t themselves enough even when they aren’t in diapers.”
“Whereas space marines know no fear,” Justus said sardonically.
“We can be right thick b*stards that way,” Padrig agreed, deadpan.
Justus laughed. “Still,” he said. “All of Kheria’s major nations have been at war in their primitive way for over two hundred years. These men may be barbarians, but they’re not raw recruits.”
Padrig grunted.
The First’s bivouac was carefully marked. To the north, the ground gave way to heavily wooded foothills strewn with boulders, the legacy of some ancient volcanic eruption on its way to the sea. To the south ran the River Parr, cold and fast and deep. The Parr’s annual floods had worn smooth a plain that ran east-west over the eons, a natural corridor of easy terrain upon which the First was camped. Sixteen kilometers to the west, a long ridge that ran north-south rose sharply out of the surrounding plain. It was the perfect position from which to bottle up a force traveling the Parr floodplain. But it wasn’t supposed to be there. The entire ridge had been added in grease pencil by a Kherian cartographer.
“We’re calling this the Devil’s Wall,” Gherlin said, pointing to the ridge. “As you’ll know, Captain, the First has been ordered to take and fortify it in the next thirty-six hours.”
Phyrius nodded without taking his eyes off the map. “We were briefed on your mission objective when we arrived in orbit. What we were not told was why.”
Gherlin grunted and tugged at his short mustache. “Why us, you mean,” he said. His mouth twitched sideways. He paused, then spoke again. He had a curious rapid fire speech pattern, which seemed at odds with the gentle lilt of his accent. “The First is an untested regiment,” he said. “This was supposed to be a rear area—no action was anticipated, as the main enemy force was known to be east of us.”
Padrig noted the use of the dispassionate term “enemy.” There was no indication in the general’s voice that he was speaking of traitors and heretics who had knowingly forsaken the Emperor’s light to pollute themselves before the Ruinous Powers.
“Marshal Kharim and the rest of Twelfth Corps were to engage the heretics,” Commissar-General Grey added. “If the Emperor was with them, it was expected that the Chaos scum would attempt to flee south, towards their major supply dump at Arlinghast.”
General Gherlin resumed the narrative. “Expected, that is, until we discovered the Devil’s Wall shortly after arriving. Its value as a defensive position is obvious, to us as well as to the foe. Unfortunately, the enemy was already heavily entrenched upon the ridge when our scouts discovered it.”
“A fall-back position for the main army,” Justus said. His voice was distorted by his helmet’s vox, and Confessor San-Rhys started at the noise.
“Indeed, Sergeant,” Gherlin said. He picked up a brass-framed magnifier and held it over the precisely drawn pencil lines of the Devil’s Wall so they could see the detail. Working at a miniscule scale, the cartographer had even marked the enemy’s trenches and strong points.
“The enemy has three trench lines on the eastern slopes, facing us, with two more on the reverse. We estimate his numbers at five thousand men, and they appear to be well supplied with trench artillery, crew-served support weapons, and supplies.”
“So far we have avoided pitched battle,” Gherlin went on, “but Marshal Kharim’s victory at Gestonburg leaves us no choice.”
Phyrius stood up from studying the map and tapped his thunder hammer thoughtfully against his free hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t had an opportunity to become familiar with recent events in the campaign, General,” he said. “I take it that Twelfth Corps accomplished its mission, though?”
“Not entirely.” Commissar-General Grey stepped forward. “Gestonburg effectively halted the rebel advance in this theater,” she said. “The rebels dispersed their force into several columns to ease their supply lines. It seems they intended to concentrate at Gestonburg before launching their attack, which makes their probable target the rail hub at Soukkerol.” She pointed to the cities on the map, east of the Kherian position. Soukkerol lay just twenty kilometers from Gestonburg.
Gherlin smiled humorlessly. “Of course, coordinating the timing of four different columns is no easy matter. Twelfth Corps under Marshal Kharim engaged the first enemy force to arrive, and over the past three days has engaged and defeated the entire enemy host.
“Twelfth Corps is in pursuit, but they are weary from the battle and disordered. So far they have managed to keep up the pressure, but the enemy must not be given an opportunity to regroup. Several fresh regiments of Brimlock mechanized cavalry are en route from Seventh Corps to finish the job, but they will not arrive for another four days. And in the meantime, virtually every enemy trooper in this theater is fleeing westward toward the Devil’s Wall, where they undoubtedly intend to reform and turn the tables on their pursuers.”
The general fixed the space marines with his humorless smile. “We must be on that ridge when they arrive, gentlemen.”
Tomas watched Captain Phyrius’ face closely. Despite possessing strong numerical superiority, the attackers would have to approach the Wall over the featureless floodplain and then face a sustained close-quarters fight through multiple trenches—uphill. It would be the sort of bloodbath he abhorred, and every professional instinct cried out to do anything but attack the ridge directly. But it had to be taken, and fast, or his men would be overrun on the plain by the retreating rebel army.
The captain’s face betrayed no dismay at the task before them. He merely leaned closer to the map, studying its merciless topography. “The Fourth Company will assist,” he said. “We will take the ridge in the Emperor’s name.”
“The Emperor protects,” intoned Confessor San-Rhys.
“Yes, he does,” Phyrius said. “We are here.”
An awkward silence ensued while Phyrius continued to study the map. Then he straightened. “The terrain is unfavorable, but time is of the essence. My company is at full strength. We will land eight squads and force a breach by mechanized assault that your Kherians, General, can exploit.”
Grey nodded thoughtfully. “A generous offer, Captain. As always we are grateful for the assistance of the Astartes.”
Tomas did a quick mental calculation. “You cannot seriously intend to assault the Devil’s Wall with eighty men,” he said. “You’ll never reach the first trench.”
Phyrius did not meet Tomas’ eyes. “We go where the chapter wills,” he said. “As I said, we will be mechanized. Our mechanical brothers are very fast, General, and I intend to use our Thunderhawk transporters to land the attack force in the enemy’s very teeth. When forced to fight on unfavorable terms, the Codex Astartes dictates the maximum use of shock. Correct me if I am wrong, but you have never seen an armored assault—still less one by space marines.”
That was a low blow, but he was right. As Tomas was constantly being reminded, Kheria was a primitive world by wider Imperial standards. Most of his men had never even fired a las-lock before basic training. None had fought a real battle with automatic weapons, let alone tanks.
“I know war,” Gherlin insisted. “What you propose is foolhardy, a waste of men.”
“And sacrilege,” squealed an electronic voice. Magos Abscientus, so heavily augmented he looked like a machine himself, was shaking with fury. A mechadendrite stabbed itself accusingly over his shoulder at Phyrius.
“What the Captain is not telling you is that the machines who serve his company are lightly armored.” The scorn Abscientus heaped on the word serve came through even his electronic voicebox. “They are built for speed, yes—but above all, surprise. To throw such machines into the teeth of heretic guns, even by holy Thunderhawk, is to throw them away!” Gherlin had never heard such emotion from the tech-priest before—equal parts screeching rage and visceral horror.
“Yes, the risks are great,” Phyrius shot back. “That is why my Justice Hammers will bear the greatest share.
“Do with your space marines as you will,” Abscientus replied. “I will not countenance the wanton destruction of war machines from Astor IV—”
“—whose machine spirits have chosen to serve the chapter—” Phyrius broke in.
“Enslaved!” Abscientus screeched. “Coerced! You callous, overbearing—”
“Gentlemen!”
Moira Grey slapped an open hand against the campaign table. “We are all servants of the Emperor,” the commissar said. “We dishonor his trust by bickering in the face of the enemy.”
“The disposition of the Emperor’s war machines is a matter of the gravest—” Abscientus began.
“My lord magos,” Tomas interrupted with a raised hand. His voice was level, but the tech-priest stopped talking. Tomas turned to Phyrius. “Captain,” he said, “the gallantry of your offer is not lost on me, but it is one I cannot accept.”
Phyrius’ nostrils flared. “I am stating our plan of attack,” he said. “We are space marines. No offer is involved.”
There was a tense moment of silence. Chaplain Crucis was the first to speak, the first time Tomas had heard him. His voice was surprisingly mild behind the grinning skull helmet. “Our charge is to support the First Kherian Infantry however they may require it,” the chaplain observed.
Captain Phyrius nodded almost imperceptibly. “I take it you have a plan, General?”
Tomas went back to the map, tracing the length of Devil’s Wall. The ridge stretched nearly a full kilometer north to south. “The enemy’s fortifications are too broad, and too extensive, for an attack against any single point to succeed. The trench lines will be connected; it will be too easy for reinforcements to counter the point of attack. We must engage the enemy along a broad front to pin him in place before attempting a breakthrough.”
“Casualties will be high in the open,” Sergeant Justus observed.
“Speed and coordination will be of the utmost importance,” Gherlin conceded. “But we Kherians have done this before, gentlemen.” Not against modern weapons, of course. Dear God-Emperor, let the men hold.
Phyrius frowned. “We had been told that your regiment included a company of Leman Russ,” he said. “I suggest that you employ them to support the infantry attack at close range.”
There was another uncomfortable silence. “Captain Stuart’s armored cavalry is … unavailable,” the general said.
“Unavailable?” Chaplain Crucis echoed.
“The First is composed of the best warriors Kheria had to offer,” Moira said in a voice that made it clear she disagreed with that assessment as to some of those warriors. “Of the seventy-two men in Captain Stuart’s ‘armored cavalry’ there are no less than two former chiefs of staff, four former generals, fifty-three regimental commanders, and one deputy secretary of war. These worthies have so far found the transition from horse to armored warfare beyond their skills, and I refused to certify the unit as combat-ready when we deployed.”
“Quite a change from the war department to Leman Russ commander, I take it?” Crucis asked dryly.
“Left sponson gunner,” Moira replied, but could not entirely keep the smile from her face.
Phyrius cleared his throat with a look over his shoulder at the chaplain. “In that case, my battle-brothers and I will take their place. Some armor is better than none.”
“Again, Captain, I must disagree.” Tomas throttled his temper. Sweet Emperor, are they all like this? “We must preserve your force as much as possible. Once the enemy is firmly engaged, your space marines must use your armored personnel carriers to hit the first trench line and establish a breach.”
“We will not entirely lack support,” Moira added before the captain could object again. “We believe the traitors are lacking in true long-range weaponry. Our own artillery battalion should be able to bombard the ridge and suppress them while the general’s men come to grips with the foe.”
Tomas was less sanguine about the suppressive effects of Major Baldwell’s big guns, but he understood that Moira was backing him up, and kept his peace. Eight years ago he had seen over two hundred artillery pieces fail to suppress earthworks much like these at the Second Battle of Union. The new Earthshaker cannon supplied by the Departmento Munitorum were impressive, but the entire artillery battalion had only eighty-four of them. Still, it’s what we’ve got, God-Emperor help us.
Moira was still speaking. “Captain … you arrived by strike cruiser, did you not? A full-scale planetary bombardment would go a long way toward keeping the heretics’ heads down.”
Phyrius shook his head. “You are not a naval officer, Commissar,” he said. When confused silence greeted him, he elaborated, “All planetary bombardment must be carried out from low orbit. Achieving a firing solution with the requisite accuracy is simply impractical otherwise. In low orbit, War Angel will be traveling at eight kilometers per second, and orbit the planet roughly every hour and a half. The window for bombardment is extremely small, which further degrades the accuracy possible.”
Tomas frowned. “I was given to understand by the commissar, Captain, that the Imperium’s ships could level even the greatest fortresses from orbit.”
The space marine looked at him as if he were a small child. “War Angel does command that kind of firepower, General. Were she to use it, however, traveling at orbital speeds, she could well obliterate us as well as the enemy. After all, we are only sixteen kilometers distant from the theoretical target point. Besides, as you have pointed out, we must occupy the ridge, not level it.”
“I see,” Tomas said. “Well—the Emperor provides. We will attack without your ship’s guns, then.”
“I did not say that,” Phyrius said. Tomas’ jaw tightened. God, but the man was infuriating.
“A full-scale orbital bombardment is impractical,” the captain continued. “However, War Angel can conduct a pass with her small guns as the infantry approach. It will be little more effective than conventional artillery, but it will add to the overall weight of fire.”
Tomas forced his voice to stay level. “Thank you, Captain. That will do.”
Angels of Death indeed. I hope they make better soldiers than planners.
“Commissar … may I have a moment?”
Padrig stopped Grey from returning to her tent with a hand on her shoulder. He felt her muscles tighten for an instant and laughed aloud within the privacy of his helmet. She had been about to throw him! Well, that told him plenty about this overly-senior commissar. No mere political officer she.
She turned and favored Padrig with a smile. “Of course, Chaplain,” she said. “The Imperial Guard always has time for the Emperor’s space marines.”
“The commissariat is not part of the Imperial Guard,” Padrig pointed out. “And right now General Gherlin seems like he has more time for a hole in the head than for us.”
That got her. Grey’s mouth opened, then closed. The smile turned quizzical.
Padrig removed his helmet, freeing a bushy mustache and sideburns, and roared with laughter again. “Come, Commissar! I am neither blind nor deaf. The dear general is afraid that we’re a bunch of oversold muscle-bound cretins who are going to f uck his battle plan and his men in our thirst for glory.”
“Something of the sort,” Grey said dryly. “You must appreciate that the general has never served with Astartes before.”
Padrig dismissed this with a wave. “First Founding regiment fresh from boot, how could he? But that means he doesn’t understand what he just heard, either.”
“Oh, he understands. Kheria’s battle rolls are full of units who volunteered for the ‘honor’ of leading the charge against an impregnable position.”
Padrig’s tone became serious and his smile vanished. “No, Commissar, he doesn’t. Left to his own devices, Captain Phyrius would pull out the company and leave you to your fate. The captain knows better than to throw away his company on a minor action such as this.”
She bristled at that, he could see, but kept her temper. “And yet,” Grey pointed out, “he seemed quite determined to do just that.”
“Yes, he did. And why is that?”
“There is no need to lecture, Chaplain. Unlike the general, I have served alongside space marines before, and I fully understand that you go where your wish. Is it not because you have chosen this as the site where you can most make your presence felt?”
Padrig snorted. “I assure you, commissar, there are other targets on this world much better suited to my company’s brand of armored warfare. As I said in the headquarters tent, we have specific orders to support your regiment. Captain Phyrius felt that cowering behind the First while they absorbed heavy casualties was incompatible with the spirit of those orders.”
Grey’s hard face softened a little at that. “I shall make that clear to the general,” she said. “I cannot imagine your company would be able to shield many Kherians from harm, though.”
“Perhaps not, but the captain felt that the effort must be made.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because, as you say, you have served with space marines before.” Padrig toyed with the skull-shaped rosarius around his neck. “Our offices are much alike, Commissar-General. In a few moments you will turn to bolstering the morale of the First, to steel them against the coming bloodbath. You will tell them to take heart that the Emperor’s space marines fight alongside them—but you will wonder, though you will say nothing, whether we will complete our part of the battle plan and withdraw. When you speak to your regiment, I want you to understand that the Violet Avatars have offered to die for you and your men. The Emperor protects: we are here.”
The battalion foundry was sanctuary to the most peculiar smells. Oils, unguents, and incense mixed with the bitter tang of brass, smoky-hot iron, and other metals no son of Kheria had ever had to name before.
Private Aloysius Carver breathed in this heady mixture with a smile. Despite the bewildering array of cogs, glass tubes, and doodads on display, if he closed his eyes his nose told him that he was on sacred ground. Some of the smells were foreign, true, but that was only to be expected out here. Among the stars.
He found Father Excoris—that is, Enginseer Binaspid Excoris, the battalion’s senior tech-priest—bent over a workbench in another part of the foundry. Two of his acolytes were chanting in the squealing language they called the techna-lingua, while the father himself manipulated something on the workbench with the delicate waldoes that replaced his fingers. Aloysius stood to one side while the father worked, burning with curiosity but with no desire to interfere with the ritual.
At length the priest straightened and flexed his metal digits in satisfaction. He squealed something to his acolytes, who ceased their chanting and stood to one side. Only one of them had human eyes, but Aloysius realized that the junior tech-priest was staring at him. Doubtless Excoris was too, through the photoreceptor in the back of his head.
Excoris turned, though, and switched to Gothic. “Ah, Young Carver!” he exclaimed. Despite his considerable augmetics, Aloysius had always found Excoris to be an approachable, almost fatherly figure. He smiled with genuine warmth and returned the tech-priest’s greeting.
“I … have a problem, Father,” he said when the formalities were over. Excoris stood expectantly. “It’s my lasgun,” Aloysius said in a rush. “I’m afraid it won’t fire.”
“Indeed?” Excoris said with the faintest trace of skepticism. “And do you know why that might be?”
Aloysius blushed furiously. “I … I’m not sure. It was working fine yesterday.”
“Mmmm. Attend,” Excoris said to the acolytes. “Let us begin the Catechism of Repair.”
Had he performed the Ritual of Reloading? With a power cell known to work? The Shorter and Longer Cleaning Services? The Anointing with Gun Oil? The Liturgies of Fixing, Re-Seating, Barrel Replacement, and/or Disassembly? Had this latter been performed in the prescribed thirty seconds or less?
“Yes, yes, twice!” Aloysius cried.
“Of course. Otherwise you would not be here.” Excoris’ voice was still faintly skeptical. “You are a good lad, Young Carver, so I am going to initiate you into one of the further mysteries of the machine. Prepare yourself for the Catechism of Diagnosis.”
He wasn’t sure how to prepare himself for something so formidable sounding, but Aloysius braced to attention. “I am ready, Father,” he said.
“Good. Answer me truthfully, lad. The life of your weapon—indeed, your life—may depend upon it. Now:
“When did you last fire your weapon?”
“Yesterday evening, at the target range.”
“Did you perform a Cleaning Service afterward?”
“Yes—the Shorter.”
“Did you anoint your weapon with oil?”
“Yes.”
“Did you deviate from these liturgies in any respect while performing them?”
“No, of course not.”
“After you had performed these liturgies, did your weapon’s diagnostic light burn green when you pressed the Rune of Approbation?”
“Yes.”
“When did you first notice your weapon would not fire?”
“Half an hour ago, at the target range.”
“Did you attempt to fire your weapon?”
“No. I pressed the Rune of Approbation, and the diagnostic light burned red.”
“Had you touched your weapon since last evening, other than to carry it?”
“Er … yes.”
“In what way did you touch it?”
Aloysius blushed furiously again, feeling trapped. “I … er … buried it in mud,” he mumbled.
“You buried it in mud.” Excoris did not raise his voice, which made Aloysius feel worse. “Why would you do that?”
“I—er … well, at morning orders, Father Sivan said that a lasgun could be buried in mud and it would still fire when dug out. I wanted to see if that was true.”
“I see. Sit down, Young Carver.” Aloysius did so on a nearby stool. Excoris pulled up another stool, and when he spoke again his tone was kindly.
“Young Carver, how long have you been a soldier?”
“I—why, since I was fourteen, Father. Near ten years. That was why I buried my gun, you see—it’s new, and I needed to be sure I could trust it.”
Excoris actually smiled. “There may be a place in the priesthood for a mind like yours,” he said. “Tell me, lad, as a soldier of ten years: if you were told to run fifty kilometers before mess, could you do so?”
Aloysius considered before answering, which made Excoris smile again. “I suppose that would depend on why I had to do so,” he said.
“Precisely! Now, attend: suppose your sergeant ordered to do so for no reason at all?”
“Why … I’d give it my best shot, Father.”
“And how would you feel towards Sergeant Blaskowicz?”
Aloysius chuckled. “I’d curse him like to rot his dick off.”
“Very concise,” Excoris said dryly. “What you have just done, Young Carver, is ask your lasgun to run fifty kilometers before mess for no reason at all.”
“But I did have a reason!” Aloysius protested. “A soldier’s got to trust his gun, doesn’t he? Suppose it is covered in mud—I’ve got to know whether I can trust it to keep firing, don’t I?”
The tech-priest laughed at that. “Ah, Carver, you missed your calling! Yes, you had a reason. And did you explain this to your weapon’s gun-spirit before you conducted your impromptu experiment?”
“Ah … well, no, Father,” Aloysius admitted.
“I thought not. As you say, you and your weapon are but newly acquainted. Perhaps you did have a purpose in burying it in mud—but it did not understand, because you treated it like a thing, Young Carver, instead of a machine, with a machine-spirit to be respected and partnered with.”
“I see,” Aloysius said, shamefaced. “I performed all the cleaning rituals, though, and it still won’t fire? What should I do?”
“Penance,” the priest said briskly. “Take your weapon, Young Carver, and hit it against your head.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hit your lasgun against your head, lad,” Excoris said. “Five times should do.”
Feeling somewhat foolish, Aloysius hit his weapon against his head five times, then depressed the Rune of Approbation. The diagnostic light burned green, and he gaped.
“I—I’ll remember that,” he said. “Thank you, Father!”
“Omnissiah bless you, lad,” Excoris said with another fond smile. “Now, why don’t you take your partner there to the firing range to get better acquainted”
Aloysius smiled. “I’ll do that, Father. I saw some space marines there earlier.” He hesitated, then decided he might as well ask. “Father? When I fire my lasgun, it kicks in the shoulder, just like my old musket used to do back home. But the space marines’ weapons hardly seem to kick at all. Why is that?”
Excoris’ mouth tightened. “Space marines,” he said to himself. “Tread carefully around the Emperor’s Angels of Death, Young Carver. Their motives are their own—Captain Phyrius’ men may turn on you when you least expect it.
“But to answer your question. You recall that the firing of a weapon is the manifestation of its gun-spirit’s rage, do you? Good. Different gun-spirits give voice to their fury in different ways. A lasgun’s is silent, but manifests as recoil. A boltgun’s gun-spirit howls, but does not physically agitate the weapon. Does this make sense?”
Aloysius felt foolish. “Oh,” he said. “Of course. Thank you Father. And—I’ll be careful.”
Night was falling, but Tomas felt no stirrings of fatigue. Neither was he agitated, though Throne knew that would be justified, on the eve of his regiment’s first action. He had passed into a calm, detached state of mind, focused on the mission.
The First Kherian Infantry was divided into three battalions, each containing over 6,000 troopers. Back home, this single regiment would have constituted a small army group. Out here amongst the stars, it was less than a third of Twelfth Corps’ fighting strength.
His three battalion colonels were gathered now in his command tent, together with their aides-de-camp. The First had been recruited from across Kheria, and many of the men in the tent had been bitter enemies a year ago. Tomas hoped that would not be a liability in tomorrow’s battle. He and his officers—together with Moira’s commissars—had trained the men hard to foster regimental spirit, but one never could tell for sure until blood had been spilt. Still, he had a good feeling about his unit. New though they were to the Imperial Guard, they were the best fighting men that Kheria had to offer, and eager to show their fellow Guardsmen what they could do. And here, amongst the stars, national differences seemed to fade into the vastness of space. Here, they were no Amalandians, Juysczians, Rellikans—only sons of Kheria.
Tomas had shed his dress uniform for more comfortable working rig, though he kept his uniform frock coat buttoned against the coming night chill. Many of the officers cupped their hands around steaming mugs of bacca-leaf tea. He was among friends here, he could sense it.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “thank you for coming. We have a lot of work to do, so I’ll be brief. As you no doubt know, we have been ordered to take and fortify the Devil’s Wall with all possible speed. In approximately thirty-six hours, Marshal Kharim expects the rebel remnant, under General Redstone, to arrive at our present location.”
Moira Grey, ever present, stiffened at that. Tomas’ aversion to the more excessive Imperial polemic was a warning sign in her eyes, he knew. “General Redstone” was not how most Imperial officers referred to the Arch-Traitor Henriek Redstone the Red-Handed, the Butcher of Arliel. Well, the commissar would have to deal for now. This was no time to be changing a lifetime’s habit of clinging to civility on the battlefield.
“Given that at least sixty thousand rebels are estimated to have survived Gestonburg, I need not add that I agree wholeheartedly with our orders,” he added. “Unfortunately.”
“Well damn me for a witch’s b*stard,” Colonel Lewis said mildly. “They drag us all the way out here in their fancy-*ss starships, give us all death rays, and then tell us to take a fortified ridge over open ground with an infantry assault? Talk about ironic.”
The table laughed at that, and Tomas smiled. Bobby Lewis had been his right-hand man back in Amaland. He was also A Character, with a fulsome beard, genial manner, and a hard-charging tactical style that didn’t flinch at casualties to accomplish a mission. The newspapers called him a butcher, but Tomas knew better. Bobby didn’t throw his men away needlessly, but that didn’t mean he was afraid to spend them. Sometimes even Kherians had trouble accepting the difference.
“That’s about the size of it,” Tomas said. “At least they picked a regiment that knows what it’s doing in that regard.” Another chuckle. “Needless to say, we are going to get hurt, and we only get one shot at this. Everything will depend upon timing. Jeff—you’re first to go in.”
Colonel Jeffrey Andreson nodded. “How far in?” he asked.
“Not all the way. Fix the enemy, make them commit their reserves. Your job is to make sure Bobby’s boys make it to the trenches intact.”
Tomas had just ordered most of Andreson’s Gold Battalion to their deaths, but Andreson simply nodded and whispered something to his aide. Good man.
“Once Jeff’s boys are in place, our space marine allies will hit the trenches. Bobby, you’ll need to be right on their heels. The space marines will open a foothold for you in the first trench, but it’s your boys who will have to clear it—and the next ones. Jeff’s battalion will give you what cover it can as you advance up the slope.”
Lewis chewed contemplatively on a lho-stick—a new addition to his persona, courtesy of the Departmento Munitorum’s standard-issue ration packs. To judge by the quantities the Munitorum shipped them in, most Guardsmen swore by the foul-tasting things. Most Kherians preferred a hot cup of bacca, but you couldn’t stick a hot cup of bacca between your teeth at a jaunty angle.
“Will do, Tom. Any idea how big a foothold we can expect from the boys in purple?”
“They’ll do what they can. For the benefit of those in this room, though, I think it wisest to proceed on the assumption that they’ll be able to open a space for no more than a platoon or two.
“That leaves Green Battalion in reserve, Julius,” Tomas said, turning to Colonel vul Singt. “I want you drawn up no more than a kilometer from the base of the ridge. If you have to go in, you’ll have to go in fast.”
“Understood, General.” Julius vul Singt was a thin, dark-skinned man from Volscio, on the other side of the world from Amaland. Tomas had neither served with nor fought him before, which made him less confident of what his battalion could do. Still, there was a practical reason to hope that vul Singt’s Green Battalion could be kept out of the fighting. After all, somebody had to man the trenches once they were taken. Tomas was grimly certain that Gold and Red Battalions would be in no shape to do so.
“That’s the outline,” Tomas said. “I’ll turn things over to Captain Rosciuk to go over the details. Captain?”
Continued in Part 2
