Imperial Glory

by Richard Williams

  ‘If you wish to transport him back to Dova, I am certain that we can make arrangements,’ Stanhope ventured, trying to steer the conversation away from the precipice.

  ‘His body is a shell, major,’ Ledbetter swept on. ‘It is his spirit that is my concern. And his spirit will remain restless until it receives its proper retribution.’

  That was it then. An instinctive chill shivered up Stanhope’s spine, but he blazed it away. He was about to die, but he could still provide one last service and create such a commotion as to put his men on guard.

  ‘I do not think,’ he said, playing for time as he lowered his body a fraction, ‘that talk of retribution is particularly useful in the present circumstances.’

  They would be watching his hands; he could not put them near his weapons. If he touched the hilt of his fell-cutter or his pistol, they would shoot him where he stood. If he charged their captain, however, they might hold off for a few precious seconds for fear of hitting him as well. There would be a signal; Ledbetter would want to ensure they struck only at his command. He had to anticipate it if he was to survive even a step.

  ‘I agree,’ Ledbetter said. ‘Further talk is useless at present.’ Then he took a step closer. ‘But I want you to know now that when we return to Voorheid I will drag that Voorjer whore into the street and give her that same “justice” she gave to our commissar.’

  Stanhope froze. ‘Van Am.’

  Ledbetter noted the slight tone of disbelief in Stanhope’s voice, and inferred from it what he had expected.

  ‘You cannot protect her, major,’ he asserted. ‘I know she is close to your company, close to your lieutenant. But she has forfeited the Emperor’s mercy.’

  He held up the small, crumpled piece of metal, half the size of a little finger, that had taken his commissar’s life.

  ‘A Voorjer bullet,’ Ledbetter said. ‘We dug it from his body.’

  Stanhope took it and held it up in what little light there was. ‘This was hers?’

  ‘Of course it was, major. She either took the shot herself or gave the order to one of her men. She probably thought she could blame the orks, claim one of them fired it from those hunting rifles that the Voorjers conveniently lost from their first expedition to the rok.’

  But it wouldn’t have been one of the Voorjers, though, would it, Stanhope considered. They were outside of Reeve’s authority; they were the only ones in that battle who did not have to fear his discipline. There was one man in that battle who most definitely did have a reason and who he had seen with a Voorjer rifle. Stanhope felt his body clench again. He continued to stare at the dented bullet as though examining it whilst his thoughts whirled and caught up. ‘Could it not have been an ork?’

  ‘The wound was to his back, major,’ Ledbetter stated icily. ‘I saw the commissar when he fell. He was facing forwards. He only ever faced forwards.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do I have your word then?’

  Stanhope looked at the man squarely. He was asking for his word as an officer. Stanhope wondered at him. How does a man survive twenty years of dirt and come out so clean? And why now did Stanhope feel soiled amongst these men of honour and long instead for the company of his rogues and killers?

  ‘I cannot give my word, captain, knowing I may be ordered to break it.’

  ‘Understandable, major. So, excepting if you are ordered, do I have your word?’

  Just lie, Stanhope told himself. After what you’ve become, after the depths you’ve brought yourself down to, what is your word of honour worth?

  Something, Stanhope decided. It’s worth something.

  Then who are you protecting? Your men, or the Voorjer girl? Your old regiment is dead. The man who may have been protecting you is dead. He died waiting for you to step back up. Become an officer again. Make the choice an officer should make. Protect your men, do what you must to bring them home safe or cast their lives aside here in order to protect the guilty.

  ‘You do,’ Stanhope replied. ‘Once we reach Voorheid, I will not stand in the way of what you feel you must do.’

  ‘Thank you, major.’ Ledbetter shook his hand firmly. Stanhope responded without enthusiasm. It felt almost as an alien gesture to him now.

  Stanhope took that as his opportunity to leave and stepped out into the darkness and the rain. Another cavalryman entered and passed a quiet message over to his captain.

  ‘Major!’ Ledbetter called. Stanhope stopped and turned but did not step back inside. ‘Your corporal, Gardener, was it?’

  ‘Gardner,’ Stanhope corrected.

  ‘Gardner,’ Ledbetter affirmed. ‘I am sorry to hear he passed. When I saw that beast attacking him I struck it as hard as I could. I regret it appears I was too late. Do pass on my condolences to the rest of your men.’

  ‘Thank you, captain. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.’

  Forjaz saw Stanhope return from the tin bellies. He motioned to them that all was well and Forjaz breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his grip on his gun. Stanhope spoke briefly to Carson and left. Carson told them formally to stand down and the men around him, who had endured the devastation of their army during the day and were now rousted during the night to be ready for a savage close-quarter fight against their own, dealt with it all as only veterans could. They went back to sleep.

  Carson called him over. Apparently Stanhope wanted a word in private. Forjaz helped him out and over to the tent where Gardner’s body now lay covered.

  ‘Sorry to put you to such trouble, lieutenant,’ Stanhope said as they entered.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Carson replied quickly as Forjaz sat him down. Forjaz knew the major had every excuse to keep Carson out of command, but Carson was determined to show no further weakness in front of the man.

  Blanks was there as well, standing beside Stanhope almost as though he thought himself the equal of the rest of them. He had gambled on attaching himself to Stanhope when the major had been an outcast and that gamble was paying off. He and Stanhope sat on the ground as well, bringing them down to Carson’s level. Forjaz followed suit, while Stanhope relayed what had transpired.

  ‘So,’ Carson summarised, ‘you’ve sold her out.’

  ‘She sold herself out by shooting Reeve,’ Stanhope retorted, ‘Or are you going to claim that you fired a second, freakishly ricocheting bullet from that Voorjer rifle you borrowed.’

  Carson shut up at that and Forjaz watched the two of them consider their positions in a long moment of silence. Eventually, Carson started again.

  ‘Did Ledbetter say why he thought she did it?’

  ‘No,’ Stanhope said. ‘He only said he knew how close she was to this company. To you.’

  ‘She didn’t do it for me!’ Carson protested. Stanhope arched his eyebrow.

  ‘If I might interrupt, major, lieutenant,’ Blanks began. ‘I only ever heard Van Am speak of one thing: to keep Voor free, from the orks and from the Imperium as well. And there’s no greater symbol of the Imperium than His commissars. If she knew we were staying, then she would have seen Reeve as the greatest threat. Without him, our garrison may have just served to protect them and nothing else.’

  ‘Certainly the colonel isn’t interested in spreading the Imperial word,’ Carson agreed.

  Even the lieutenant was listening to Blanks, Forjaz noted. The Guard had a rigid hierarchy, but in such a crisis as this, officers looked to those who stepped forwards. He’d never done so. It was only natural when you were standing in the shadow of sergeants like Red and Booth. But they were gone, he was the only one left, and even now he was being outstripped by a transfer of all people! His wife would never let him hear the end of it if Blanks was promoted above him. He had to make his contribution.

  ‘More accurately,’ Carson continued. ‘Major Rosa wouldn’t have been interested. He would have been the garrison commander. Th
e colonel and Major Brooce would have headed home with the colour-guard.’

  ‘A few slots open in that now,’ Forjaz remarked, and then realised the other three were staring at him. ‘But then again,’ he thought out loud. ‘No colours, no colour-guard, I suppose.’

  Forjaz saw Stanhope look at Carson. Carson then looked at Forjaz.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ Carson told him. ‘Help me up, I want to check on the men.’

  Forjaz did not understand, but he obeyed. Stanhope and Blanks were left alone.

  ‘I should check on the men as well,’ Stanhope decided and got to his feet.

  ‘Carson is already doing that,’ Blanks told him.

  ‘I should do it as well. I need to know them and they need to know me.’

  ‘No, they don’t. They have their commander. You’re not going to change that.’

  ‘Then what should I do?’

  ‘Go to sleep, Stanhope.’

  ‘That sounded rather insubordinate, private,’ Stanhope replied.

  ‘It’s not my order, major. It’s your body’s. It’s been two days now since you last took the stuff. Two days for your system to realise you’re not giving it what it expects any more. It needs rest more than these men need another man to salute.’

  ‘I can’t… I can’t let these ones go, Blanks. I need to ensure they’re safe.’

  ‘Then sleep. I’ll wake you if the orks come, or worse, the lancers.’

  Interlude

  Execution Boards, Cawnpore – 656.M41 – Year 17 of the Ellinor Crusade

  Senior Commissars Reeve and Toklis finished their lunch as they watched the remnants of the bodies being removed from the mouths of the cannons. The rate of fire had slowed in the last few days and the tech-priests were complaining about the use to which the weapons were being put. Not for the loss of life, but rather that such firing was increasing the wear and tear on the machines.

  They were complaining, but, Reeve had noted, not too loudly. The sheer scale of the judicial executions had overawed even the dispassionate members of the Adeptus Mechanicus. No one wished to raise their head too far above the parapet at present for fear of the commissars of the Boards.

  Reeve was bored with it now. There had been a certain intellectual challenge at the beginning in devising the process by which the men would implicate one another, but now that was in operation, the interrogations, the sentencing, the executions had all become routine. There were no surprises, no shock revelations, just the inescapable grind from which, Ellinor hoped, some useful men might be salvaged.

  It was on the last point where Reeve had one last spark of interest; a major of an auxilia unit which had been destroyed during the attack on the mutineers. The Board had brought him in this morning, questioned him briefly, and were ready to release him. The only pending vote had been Reeve’s.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything more to him,’ Toklis opined, popping the last morsel of food in his mouth.

  ‘He’s been sleeping a lot since we brought him here,’ Reeve said.

  ‘Goes to support his case, then. A guilty conscience would be keeping him awake. He’s sleeping the sleep of the just.’

  ‘The just?’ Reeve questioned. ‘He was ordered to stand and watch while his men, men he led for years, were gunned down in front of him. I do not believe he considers that there was anything just about it.’

  ‘Well, then perhaps he’s sleeping so much because he’s hoping never to wake up. Either way, it’s not our concern.’

  ‘That always was the difference between us,’ Reeve said to his colleague. ‘You can only ever spot those who are a danger now; you can’t see those who might be a danger in the future.’

  Toklis adjusted the bionicle which covered his left eye. ‘I see perfectly well, thank you. I suppose if you had been on Cawnpore from the start the mutinies would never have happened.’

  ‘Of course they wouldn’t.’

  ‘And how would you have stopped them?’

  Reeve did not need to consider it, he already knew. ‘I would have shot Carmichael.’

  Toklis laughed in disbelief. ‘On what charge?’

  ‘The man could not even get his men to shoot a mutinous officer. What charge? Gross incompetence.’

  The other commissar harrumphed. ‘Well, Carmichael is no longer our concern and, if I may remind you, neither is Major Stanhope. There are a few more thousand of these to do and Ellinor’s deadline is ticking down, so put Stanhope up against a wall if you feel you must, but get back to work.’

  ‘I will be there shortly,’ Reeve said, unwavering.

  ‘Good.’ Toklis left. Reeve did not head directly back, but instead took a diversion through the medicae ward. He went up onto the gallery and looked down at Stanhope’s bed. The major had been woken, questioned and released less than half an hour earlier, and yet here he was asleep again.

  Reeve waited, deep in judgement. He noticed someone approaching him. Reeve would have normally withered anyone who dared interrupt him. However, this one he was more charitably inclined towards: it was the colonel of the storm trooper regiment who had finally crushed the mutineers.

  ‘Commissar?’ the colonel asked. ‘May I ask you a question?’

  Reeve turned to him. Here was a true soldier of the Emperor, intelligent, effortlessly capable, his fealty and faith unshakeable and unquestionable. The kind of fighting man that Reeve himself had not been for many years.

  The colonel stood calmly at attention, even though his torso was heavily bandaged from the wounds he had received. He had been respectful in his request, but Reeve made it a point of principle never to accede to another straight away. He found it encouraged undue familiarity. Reeve held the Emperor’s authority and he would discuss what he wished before any topic of theirs. This fighting man might just have the insight to help Reeve make his decision.

  ‘Do you know Major Stanhope down there at all?’ Reeve inclined his head towards the bed beneath their feet.

  The colonel looked. ‘I’m aware of his situation. We don’t typically fraternise with the regular regiments, though.’

  A sensible precaution, Reeve knew, as it was the storm troopers who were deployed to bring those very regiments back into line, typically with overwhelming force.

  ‘He, just as you, has performed a great service for the Emperor, but he has suffered a great loss as a consequence. I fear that his grief over that loss may lead him down a path of resentment and ultimately treachery. I would be interested in your thoughts on the matter.’

  The colonel did not reply at once. He was not often asked his opinion on any matters outside of tactical deployment.

  ‘It would depend on the man, commissar,’ he replied guardedly.

  ‘You should speak freely with me, colonel,’ Reeve assured him. ‘I have no doubts as to your loyalty.’

  They were interrupted by the roar of the cannons firing again. The colonel took the moment to consider the matter further.

  ‘I doubt,’ he began, ‘that any man who has been in this place and seen the consequences of mutiny could ever fall to that crime again.’

  The colonel stepped beside Reeve and looked down at Stanhope. ‘His men gave their lives to bring such abomination to an end. If he held them in any regard, he would never desecrate their memory. And if he truly loved them, then he would not blame his orders; he would only ever blame himself.’

  Reeve thought on it. ‘Perhaps, then, a bullet would be a mercy, if he is to carry such guilt.’

  Reeve saw the colonel frown, but stay silent.

  ‘I said you should speak freely,’ he reminded him. ‘What do you think of that?’

  The colonel nodded slowly. ‘It is possible. Yet… I believe, that is, I hope that the Emperor in all his Imperial Glory might sometimes deliver His mercy by other means than down the barrel of a gun.

  �
��Not for traitors,’ the colonel quickly added, ‘not for blasphemers, not for those who refuse His duty–’

  ‘But perhaps for the faithful?’ Reeve interrupted briskly. ‘Perhaps for good soldiers such as Major Stanhope? Perhaps for you?’

  The colonel felt as though he had overstepped his bounds and snapped back to attention, eyes fixed blankly over Reeve’s shoulder.

  ‘No, no, colonel,’ Reeve reassured him. ‘Do not fear. You have given me something to consider. Now, what did you wish to ask me?’

  ‘I merely wished to ask, commissar. I haven’t heard from anyone else and I know you reviewed the battle-site. Did we at least get him? Did we get Hacher?’

  ‘Colonel,’ Reeve told him, ‘there is no Hacher. There never was. He was a fiction. A construct for the mutineers to hide behind. Even the name itself, it’s the Kartha word for chopping up, cutting up into pieces. Pieces. That’s all Hacher was. Made up from bits and pieces from each one of them.’

  ‘Yes, commissar,’ the colonel said. Reeve could tell he was unconvinced.

  ‘Colonel, did you kill all the mutineers there? Did you kill every traitor? Every last man and woman?’

  ‘Yes, commissar. Those were our orders.’

  ‘Then I assure you that Hacher is dead, and he will not rise again.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ambush Site, Jungle Trail, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21

  The unexpected peace along the trail did nothing to lessen its horror to those who were travelling it. The only noise Carson could hear was the Griffons’ engines, and all he could see was the dead. Nearly seven hundred men had died on that trail in such a short time the day before, but it was not so much the number, it was the order.

  So many of them had died where they stood that their formations still held. Men had fought so close together that as they died their comrades either side had held them up until they were struck in turn. Carson could tell at what stage of the battle each man had died based on how many of his comrades’ bodies lay upon him. Sections, platoons, whole companies had been wiped out along the length of a few dozen metres. And Carson could put a name to every single grimy, pallid face he saw.