Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  Glasses. Streck hadn’t realised until now. Every soldier drank, bar one. Lieutenant Lownes just stared into the table, into darkness. Streck considered the man. He had disgraced so many by leading them in a retreat from the battle. Perhaps he had realised the truth of his actions, felt the guilt of a coward. Streck considered the value of a court martial again. It would set a precedent, of course, but men bearing ranks as high as Lownes’s were not exempt from execution.

  Lownes stood, bade farewell to his men and left the saloon. Drifting after him, Streck wove through the crowded room, all eyes turned away uncomfortably moments before he passed. Streck knew this behaviour as shame, for those who serve the Emperor well know their actions are true and will only receive praise.

  A TROPICAL HEAT washed over Olstar Prime, sucking fluid from every pore. Streck stalked Lownes through the compound: Lownes striding forward, a giant powerhouse riding the waves of combat drugs that still tingled along his limbs; Streck lean, tall, keeping pace. Lownes returned to the steady flow of the dead through the colony gates. He walked amongst them, pulling back each sheet.

  Streck hung back and watched, trying to pierce the motivations of this man. His reports described him as a loose cannon, but honoured him numerous times with no less than thirty successful engagements to his name. He himself had seen how the Jungle Fighter had led his men and those thrown in with him by fate. He spoke the words of the faithful and did not show any signs of heresy – but he had challenged a superior officer and refused the command of a commissar. Offences punishable by death, yet Streck remained undecided.

  Lownes walked along the ‘Road of the Dead’, as the colonists called it, for it led to the installation’s mortuarium. A house that might contain his body one day, and if not this one, definitely some other mortuary in another dark place of the galaxy. Streck had noticed long before that Imperial Guard drop pods often contained morgues, as though death was just another element of battle that needed to be taken care of. Lownes entered and approached the line of bodies gradually being pushed towards the furnace.

  Streck watched as Lownes continued his dismal search. The end result: five shrouded figures, red bandannas draped across them. Lownes stood over them in the damp chill of the vault. Drawing out his combat knife, Lownes held out his left forearm; steely muscles twitched as he scored five long gashes across it. Placing each body bag into the crematorium, Lownes ignited them. Once they were consumed he rubbed some of the combined ashes produced by the furnace into the wounds. Ritual scarification. Crude but not without honour, Streck mused.

  A steel stretcher-bed in the barrack block was Lownes’s next port of call. The Catachan end of the barracks was covered in an array of war trophies and coloured banners. It was far short of the Spartan neatness that Streck called for in his own thorough examinations of the Imperial Guard quarters. Streck’s aversion to the Catachan Fighters had never led him past this part of the barrack compound. Now he peered in through a window like a thief.

  In the still of nightfall, Lownes produced his lasgun and began stripping it down with rapid, staccato movements, each hand operating on its own task. Streck watched Lownes go through this ritual again and again, mesmerised by the symphony of assembly and disassembly. The soldier’s wounds still wept, yet he ignored the pain.

  Streck considered for long moments. He knew that a mould must be flexible enough to create versatility in what it cast. In those days of judgement, the Emperor cast and recast his actions, each one different, each one enough to hold back the traitors and heretics that threatened the purity of mankind. Had he not done so, the pattern of his thinking would have been revealed, he considered, and his battle strategies useless. Skills Streck still believed he must hone. Maybe he should teach himself a little more flexibility in both strategy and judgement. Let Lownes be the man he must, Streck thought; let him be cast from the mould a little rough around the edges. Perhaps it was a test set by the Emperor, a test of his ability to reason with the faith to have the courage to engage fully with the scriptures, not just the Lore of Punishment and Retribution alone. After all, had not Lownes served the Emperor well? Maybe the Catachan should not be condemned so harshly for his actions.

  Streck had learnt long ago never to let down his guard. Two years ago, three Imperial Guardsmen had attempted a mutiny whilst he was engaged in combat with a renegade Space Marine. Their escape was forever burnt upon his mind.

  The rustle in the bushes beside the barracks was entirely noticeable. Streck caught sight of a figure darting into the barracks. A surprise attack? Bolt pistol at the ready, he peered into the room again. In the darkness he saw two figures – Lownes and a second, a woman. Streck peered harder but could only make out silhouettes. A flare of light from within and for an instant Streck saw all. Lownes’s torso, exposed, deep cuts and wounds wet with blood. The deep orange flashes emanated from a cauterising device the woman was applying.

  When his wounds were treated, Lownes leaned to pull a pack from beneath his bed. He had carried it with him throughout the battle. Streck had paid it no heed, figuring it for rations or repair equipment – he knew the tales of the Catachan’s self-sufficiency.

  The Jungle Fighter opened the bag and held it open for the woman. Streck could see her properly now as she looked appraisingly over the contents of the bag. She was striking, hair cut short in the style of a native Catachan, a long scar running down one cheek to the point of her sharp chin. Her jump-suit and flak jacket showed she was not a soldier; a merchant guild badge hanging from her chest was all that identified her.

  The woman reached into the bag and began to examine its contents, Lownes’s solid form obscuring them from Streck’s view. The commissar hurried quietly around to the half-open door and found he could see completely into the room.

  ‘You will help me get my men off this place?’ Lownes was asking.

  ‘Lownes, how long have you known me for?’ the merchant replied, sifting through the bag.

  ‘A long time… since we were young. But I know this will just be business. This will make up the final payment?’

  ‘Given that I don’t have enough time to barter you down, I’ll agree – but that’s only because I know you, Lownes.’

  ‘And that’s passage for all of them.’

  ‘We’ve got just enough room.’ The merchant turned.

  At last Streck saw what Lownes was trading: eldar weapons!

  ‘Lieutenant!’ the commissar burst into the room, bolt pistol drawn.

  ‘Streck!’ The half-assembled lasgun lay on the bed beside Lownes. He reached for it but its parts clattered onto the steel floor, lost amongst the mesh grating.

  ‘Lieutenant Lownes, you are charged with attempted desertion and possession of heretical weapons!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This subterfuge, these plans to flee are not warrior’s work. You have defamed your body as a machine of the Emperor. The Emperor gives you life and you, in turn, give him yours. This is a warzone and you have sullied yourself with this illicit transaction.’ Streck spat the words out in a frenzied babble. ‘As a champion of the Emperor you betray us all.’

  Lownes put himself between Streck and the merchant. ‘I am doing what is best for my men, as always.’

  ‘Your men are servants of the Emperor. You are a servant of the Emperor. To possess such weapons is heresy and punishable by death – but to seek to flee a righteous war is to have all honour stripped from your name after death. Your spirit is marred. You can not be remade. Trust in the Emperor, not the embraces of a woman!’ Streck raised his pistol.

  ‘Save it, Streck.’ Lownes said, somehow calmer now. ‘It’s not loaded. I removed the clip earlier, when you were unconscious.’

  Streck pulled the trigger anyway. Nothing happened.

  The two men jumped as one. Streck ejected the empty clip from his pistol onto the ground, grabbing a fresh one from his belt and slamming it into the gun. Simultaneously, Lownes flung the contents of the bag out onto the bed and grabbed an
eldar pistol, pointing it at the commissar.

  ‘This is lunacy!’ the merchant cried, struggling to push herself between the pair, Lownes’s arm holding her at bay. ‘Look, commissar, I can fit you on board, no charge. I’ll get you out of here before the whole place goes down. It’s the deal of a lifetime.’

  ‘Let my men leave, Streck. You’ll never hear from us again.’ Lownes pleaded.

  ‘You will be sentenced to death.’ Streck said through gritted teeth.

  ‘My finger is on the trigger. I will fire as soon as you do.’

  ‘My aim is good.’ The commissar steadied his gun.

  ‘So is mine. Look, this is madness. We can both live.’

  ‘And for each who has turned their back on battle there will be death. For they are dead already—’

  ‘Incoming!’ screamed a voice from outside. Metal plating ripped and the ground cracked open as a massive explosion rocked the compound. In the barrack room, however, neither man moved despite the shaking ground.

  ‘Eldar! Here they come!’ cried a different voice from out by the gate.

  Streck paused for a moment. Lownes stared him straight in the eyes, the merchant woman looking on in terror.

  Suddenly one of Lownes’s men was at the door. ‘Sir, it’s the big one. They’ve breached the- Lieutenant?’

  Other Jungle Fighters arrived behind him, weaponless and bloodied. Neither Streck nor Lownes moved.

  ‘For they are dead already—’ Streck began.

  ‘We have enough time to escape. We’re not going to win, commissar!’ Lownes insisted. ‘This planet is lost, but we can live – criminals, perhaps, but alive! Come on!’

  Streck paused in his litany and regarded Lownes with eyes of steel. ‘Oh yes. We could run.’ he snarled. ‘Then another planet will fall, overrun by alien degenerates intent upon the destruction of humanity. Creatures driven by such a desperate vengeance that they will fight on until every last one of us is destroyed. Unless we remain defiant, fighting on despite this madness. Face the task in hand and make the difference. For each enemy dead in this last stand, it will be one less enemy to be fought in the future. Each man can make a difference: “As weapons for the Emperor and lost to his halls of glory!” ‘ Streck finished, his voice level with unshakeable faith.

  Lownes stared at the commissar’s set expression, his mind racing in confusion.

  There was a deafening roar and a pressure wave slammed against the barracks, sending men and fittings flying. Plaster and bricks blew into the room, leaving several holes in the wall.

  ‘They’re inside the—’ someone screamed, their voice cut off as a line of shells sliced through the room like a scythe. The merchant woman was thrown backwards into a corner. Picking himself up off the floor, Lownes started to move towards her, but he knew already that she was dead.

  He looked at Streck, who had somehow remained standing throughout the bombardment, then down at the eldar weapon in his hands. He dropped it as if it was diseased, then looked back at the commissar, face set. ‘Very well. Let’s do it. Let’s make a difference. Give me a lasgun.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant Lownes.’ Streck said calmly, handing over a weapon. ‘For the Emperor!’

  ‘For the Emperor!’

  Moments later, the ragged, lit-up doorway to the barracks was filled with the contrasting silhouettes of the Catachan lieutenant and the commissar. Then the pair of them dove, guns blazing, into the metal-filled air of the white hot night.

  ACCEPTABLE LOSSES

  Gav Thorpe

  ‘CAPTAIN ON THE flight deck!’

  The assembled aircraft crews of the Imperial cruiser Divine Justice moved as one. Captain Kauri strolled into the vast hangar to the resounding clang of one hundred boots stamping in near-perfect unison on the steel-mesh decking. Walking two strides behind the stocky flag captain, Flight Commander Jaeger looked over his new comrades.

  Most were dressed in regulation fatigues, standing smartly where they had been working or lounging before their commander’s arrival. Jaeger’s eye was drawn towards a particular crowd off to one side, towards the rear of the aircraft bay. There was something surly about their bearing: their uniforms were not quite so smart, their posture not so rigid as the other flight crews; their attention not totally focused on the newly arrived captain. Instinctively, Jaeger knew that they were Raptor Squadron, his new command.

  That explained a couple of things, at least: Kauri’s slightly amused look when he had greeted Jaeger earlier, and the glances from the other flight commanders during his initial introduction. So, the Raptors were in need of some discipline? Well, Jaeger would soon knock them into shape.

  Jaeger realised that Captain Kauri was addressing the flight crews and tuned his wandering mind into what his new commander was saying.

  ‘…and I expect every one of you to accord Flight Commander Jaeger the same amount of respect and co-operation you gave to his predecessor, Commander Glade. Proceed with your duties; we break from dock at 0500 hours.’

  With a nod, the captain sent the gathered men back to work and turned to Jaeger.

  ‘I see from your look that you’ve already spotted Raptor Squadron.’ he said plainly.

  Jaeger nodded slightly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible.

  ‘They’re not as bad as they might seem at first.’ Kauri continued. ‘There are some damn fine pilots there, and with the right man in charge they’ll make a fine showing. I think you’re that man, Jaeger, and I’ll be watching your progress with interest.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Jaeger replied, pleased the captain had confidence in him. ‘I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about from Raptor Squadron.’

  ‘Go and meet your men then, I’ll see you later. Give them a chance and they’ll prove themselves worthy of the Emperor’s Navy.’

  The two officers exchanged respectful bows before Kauri turned on his heel and strode from the flight deck. Jaeger took in all the sights, sounds and smells of his new home. Although most flight decks had similarities, each always had a unique odour, a different edge on the lighting, variations in layout and a hundred other small details that made it special. The flight deck of the Divine Justice had space to carry, prepare and launch ten of the massive Marauder bombers, along with a complement of ten Thunderbolt fighters. All of the aircraft were currently in their docking bays, each nestling in its own arched alcove along the sides of the flight deck. Above the flight commander’s head, a labyrinthine criss-cross of gantries and steps hung in the distant shadows, centred around a pair of enormous cranes capable of picking up and transferring the planes to the launching bays. The chatter of the flight crews filled the cavernous chamber with a constant murmuring, and the fragrances of the tech-priests’ unguents and incense hung heavy in the air, mixed with the more mundane smell of oiled metal and human sweat. Taking a deep breath, Jaeger started towards his new flight crews.

  AS HE STRODE across the flight deck, Jaeger quickly inspected his new men more closely. Despite Kauri’s parting words, he was not impressed with what he saw. They slouched amidst a scattering of crates, idly passing the time arguing heatedly, playing with dice or just sprawling around relaxing. All but a few wore loose-fitting, light grey fatigues, presenting a drab, uninspiring sight. Some of them turned to look at the flight commander as he strode briskly over, and a couple managed to get to their feet. One of them, a gunner from Jaeger’s own plane judging by his insignia, pulled himself upright and snapped off a sharp salute.

  ‘Fine day!’ proclaimed the gaunt-looking gunner. ‘May I welcome you to the auspicious role that is flight commander of Raptor Squadron.’

  One of the others, a burly-looking bombardier, shot a murderous glance at the man.

  ‘Shut it, Saile. The new commander don’t want to hear your creeping!’ the bombardier warned, his sweat-beaded brow knitted in a glowering scowl.

  ‘That’s enough from both of you!’ Jaeger snapped, irritated by their indiscipline. ‘Let’s get someth
ing straight right from the start: I don’t like you, any of you.’ Jaeger made a point of looking them over slowly. ‘From what I’ve already seen, you are a bunch of shoddy, undisciplined, no-hope slackers. Well, not any more!

  ‘You will address me as Commander Jaeger. Unless directly addressed by me, in non-combat situations you will only talk to me by first receiving permission, in the manner of “Permission to speak, Commander Jaeger?”. Are those two simple facts absolutely clear?’

  The men looked at Jaeger in stunned disbelief.

  ‘I believe the words you are looking for are, “Yes, Commander Jaeger”.’ he prompted, eyebrows raised.

  Their reply was quiet and faltering, but it was a start.

  ‘Ahm, permission to speak, Commander Jaeger?’ came a quiet voice from one of the men around them.

  Jaeger looked at the flyer who was stepping lightly between the others to stand in front of him. He was swathed in the voluminous robes that marked him out as one of the tech-adepts, responsible for the mechanical and spiritual wellbeing of the planes, as well as the 0 itself. The man’s neck was criss-crossed with wires and scar tissue, and an interface plug dangled from the back of his right hand. In battle, the tech-adept would literally wire himself into the Marauder bomber, monitoring any damage and prompting the plane’s repair mechanisms into action.

  ‘Granted.’ Jaeger said with a nod.

  ‘As I am principally a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and only aligned to the efforts of the Imperial Navy by secondary venture, I consider your treatment of myself and the other tech-adepts as subordinates in a very serious light.’ the tech-adept said, his chin raised proudly to look the tall flight commander full in the face.

  Jaeger grabbed the man’s robe, pulling him up until he was on the tips of his toes. The adept’s hood fell back, exposing more bio-wiring. The coils of thin cable sprung from his shaven head like metallic hair, attached to his scalp through a hundred scabrous incisions in the skin. Some of the others stepped forward but were stopped in their tracks by a murderous glance from their new commander.