Commissar

by Andy Hoare

  ‘Sir?’ Kohlz interrupted Flint’s chain of thought. The vox-horn was at his ear, a message coming in from the regimental command post. ‘The graf is ready to depart for Alpha Penitentia, sir.’

  ‘Let’s go then, dragoon,’ said Flint. Let’s see what this place has in store for us…

  Three hundred metres up the rockcrete central spire of Alpha Penitentia, Argusti Vahn stood at the edge of a rail-less ledge, the wind stinging his eyes and whipping his dreadlocks into a medusa-like halo. Despite the discomfort and the danger of falling, Vahn leaned out still further as he gripped the embrasure’s frame, thrilling to the novel sensation of the fierce gust on his face.

  But Vahn wasn’t standing there just for his health. The night before, a sentry manning the vantage point had heard the unmistakable sound of heavy transports landing on the plain outside. Vahn and his band now consisted of three-dozen or so convicts, all of whom had refused to join the anarchy that had embraced the complex. Of the first four convicts he had met as he fled Carceri Absolutio, one, whose name Vahn had never even learned, had died while more had since joined his band. Vahn, Vendell, Skane and Becka had become the core of the outcast group but Vahn had remained very much at its head.

  So much dust had been thrown up in the initial landings that the convicts had been able to see very little of the landing operation. But they’d seen the lights of the transports as they departed around midnight, the flaring jet wash visible as the huge vessels laboured back towards orbit. When the sun had risen Vahn had assumed his watch and now that the dust of the landings had cleared he was able to make out something of what was going on down below.

  ‘Guard?’ asked Vendell from behind Vahn, obviously uncomfortable approaching the ledge.

  Before Vahn could answer, Skane cut in from further back inside the chamber. ‘Who else you reckon it would be, Vendell?’ sneered the big convict. ‘Battle Sisters? Come to punish you for all those dirty thoughts?’

  Skane pushed his way through and stood at Vahn’s side looking down at the activity far below. Skane was an Elysian, late of the famous drop-trooper regiments and as such had no problem with the height.

  Shading his eyes with a raised hand, Skane said, ‘What regiment?’

  ‘Armoured infantry,’ said Vahn. ‘Mission like this, they can’t have come far.’

  ‘Vostroya?’ said Skane. ‘Firstborn?’

  ‘Most likely,’ said Vahn, the distance making it impossible for him to make out any unit insignia.

  ‘Unless they shipped a unit in from one of the subsectors north of Finial,’ said Skane, though his expression told Vahn the other man was clutching at straws.

  ‘No,’ said Vahn. ‘Firstborn, straight from Vostroya.’

  Skane looked Vahn in the eye. ‘You served with them?’

  Vahn looked away, resuming his study of the mass of armoured vehicles slowly mustering into company columns below. A pair of Chimeras, flanked by ungainly Sentinel walkers were crawling forwards towards the installation’s gate hall. He had no desire to share the details of his military service, with Skane or with anyone else.

  ‘Not recently,’ said Vahn, ‘been a little… sidetracked.’

  ‘I hear that,’ Skane grinned, evidently taking the hint. Though the burly Elysian was prone to acting the hard man with the other convicts, he seemed to have accepted Vahn as the group’s unofficial leader, a fact for which Vahn himself was grateful. He would have taken Skane on had he needed to. ‘So what now?’

  In Vahn’s opinion, the regiment deployed below was their only hope of survival but in what form he wasn’t so sure. The Firstborn might simply kill everyone in the complex, not caring who had and who hadn’t joined in the murder and chaos of the uprising. Alternately, Vahn’s group might be able to link up with the Guard, but then what? Return to incarceration? Be put on trial? The only other option Vahn could think of was to crawl into a deep, dark hole and wait the whole thing out. That option was out – Vahn had never run before, a fact that, ironically, was at least partially responsible for his incarceration in Alpha Penitentia.

  ‘Get the guys together,’ said Vahn, pushing himself back into the chamber. ‘We can get out of here, but the options might not look too attractive.’

  The Chimera Flint was riding in ground to a halt with a rumbling of gears. Flint hauled on the rear hatch release and the back of the passenger compartment swung down to slam into the dusty red ground. The commissar was the first out, Kohlz and the line infantry squad assigned to headquarters security detail tramping out behind him.

  Flint and his aide hadn’t been invited to ride along with Aleksis and the command group. Frankly, he was glad.

  ‘Spread out,’ Flint ordered the men of the security detail as the second Chimera pulled up beside the first. The escorting Sentinel walkers fanned out wide, their chin-mounted multi-lasers tracking back and forth protectively. As the troops dispersed in a wide semicircle around the two armoured vehicles, Flint looked up at the vast bulk of Alpha Penitentia.

  The complex’s massive gate hall reared fifty metres high and more, its rockcrete bulk dominated by a mighty iron portal that seemed almost large enough for a Battle Titan to walk through. The gate was surrounded by clusters of wall-mounted spy-lenses and antennae trained on the ground in front. The corroded surface of the gates was embellished with reliefs depicting various scenes from the Imperial histories. Etched in letters three metres high was part of a legend, what was visible through the corrosion reading, …and those who dwell below take vengeance on him who shall swear false oath. Flint recognised the fragment as an allusion to a pre-Imperial text, all that remained of the writings of a scribe revered on old Terra. It was grimly apposite, given the setting.

  ‘The signal,’ Aleksis ordered his vox-officer.

  The aide spoke into his vox-horn, a brief conversation passing all but unheard as the group waited. A cluster of spy-lenses mounted on the wall nearby whirred and clicked as some unseen operator zoomed in on the men waiting outside. Then the wailing of a distant klaxon started up, soon followed by a low grinding of ancient gears.

  Flint felt the ground beneath his feet tremble before a dark split appeared in the vast portal. The rumbling of huge machine systems grew almost deafening as the split widened to reveal the shadowed interior of the gate hall. It struck Flint that these gates hadn’t been opened in many years, the join marred by corrosion that crumbled to the ground in powdery rivulets as the two halves separated.

  The graf and his second-in-command waited patiently with heads raised as if the spectacle before them was nothing out of the ordinary. Though the gate hall must have had other, secondary portals, someone had decided that the delegation was of such status that the main gates should be opened like a triumphal arch awaiting the victory march of a returning army.

  With a juddering motion, the opening of the gates halted with the gap between them only five metres wide. The screaming of tortured gears filled the air then disengaged just as suddenly before falling silent. Evidently, the gates hadn’t been maintained well and opening completely had become impossible.

  ‘Security detail forward,’ Flint ordered, regardless of proper procedure. ‘Secure the portal.’

  ‘Really, Flint,’ said Aleksis. ‘I’m sure that isn’t necessary.’

  ‘With respect,’ replied the commissar, drawing his bolt pistol and racking the slide for effect. ‘This installation is all but under the control of an army of mutinous killers.’

  Aleksis looked to his second-in-command and Polzdam nodded his agreement. Feeling he’d won a small victory of sorts, Flint strode forward to join the security detail. Its members had taken position within the shadowed opening with lasguns aimed cautiously into the darkness.

  The inner edges of the gates were embedded with piston-like bars which when locked would bolt the gates against the strongest of attacks. As he passed, Flint noted that the locks were intended to protect against an impact from within as well as without. The masons had evidently planned
for all eventualities, including the need to lock an uncontrolled population of convict-workers inside. The legend engraved upon the face of the iron gates came back to Flint’s mind. He’d seen the inside of some of the most secure penal facilities the Imperium maintained, including the gulags of the Lazuli Salient and the mass correction-plants of the Delphic Bastion Worlds. While all had been constructed to repel outside assault, none had been built to resist such a heavy attack from within. No convict should have been armed with any weapon weightier than an iron bar ripped from a cell window.

  ‘Portal clear, sir,’ reported the security detail’s squad leader over his shoulder as he tracked his lasgun left and right. ‘Proceed?’

  Flint halted at the man’s side. The sergeant was wearing the Firstborn’s full battle dress – deep red, knee-length greatcoat with chainmail hauberk and gold-chased armour plating. He wore the distinctive shaggy fur headgear of the Firstborn and his face was obscured by a bulky rebreather. His goggles were raised and his eyes were all Flint could see of his face. ‘Wait,’ ordered Flint, acting on instinct.

  A scuffing sound echoed out of the darkness beyond the portal, followed by the tread of heavy boots. The sound got louder and soon Flint realised what it was.

  ‘Stow weapons,’ Flint hissed to the warriors around him as he holstered his bolt pistol. ‘Now.’

  ‘Sir?’ said the sergeant, squinting into the darkness as his lasgun tracked the sound approaching.

  ‘Do it, man!’ Flint growled through clenched teeth. When the sergeant still failed to understand the gravity of the situation, Flint reached out and forced the lasgun down towards the ground. A moment later the man stowed it by slinging it over his shoulder.

  ‘Sir,’ the squad leader started. ‘What’s…’

  ‘Halt!’ ordered a deep, flat voice from the darkness. The sound of footsteps halted with a scrape of metal on stone and was replaced by the whine of whirring servos.

  ‘Stay perfectly still,’ Flint whispered.

  A needle-thin beam of red light lanced out from the darkness and swept across Flint and the members of the security detail one by one.

  ‘Weapons detected,’ the voice intoned. ‘Threat index zero-zero-sigma. Proceed.’

  ‘Proceed where?’ the squad leader whispered.

  ‘Not us,’ Flint hissed back. ‘Just wait.’

  The metallic clang of a large switch being thrown resounded through the portal and the darkness was dispelled in an instant as blinding arc lights were activated. For a moment, Flint could see nothing but blazing white light before his eyes began to adjust and take in the scene before him.

  Flint and the security detail were standing in the entrance to the gate hall, a massive reception building rearing so high that even the powerful arc lights couldn’t illuminate the full extent of its interior. All Flint could make out of the hall’s construction was the marble flooring, which although wrought with outstanding artistry was so obscured by grit and detritus its wondrous patterns were all but unreadable. The speaker, Flint saw as his eyes adjusted to the glare, was the largest ward-servitor he had ever faced. A hulking torso so bulky it must have been that of an ogryn was enhanced with all manner of pneumatic augmetics and one arm had been surgically replaced with a vehicle-grade heavy bolter. The other arm terminated not in a meaty fist but a multi-lensed augur pod, the source of the red beam that had swept the men for weapons. The servitor’s half-metal face was expressionless, its surviving features slack-jawed and imbecilic as its single organic eye rolled back in its socket. Despite the servitor’s lack of intelligence or will, Flint knew that to show any hint of aggression would trigger a hard-wired response and cause it to unleash a torrent of explosive shells that would wipe the security detail out in a second.

  ‘Stand down order,’ a new voice came from behind the ward-servitor and beyond the glare of the arc lights. ‘Protocol helix.’

  The ward-servitor’s shoulders slumped forward with a hiss of pneumatics and its weapon turned barrel down towards the marble floor. The arm bearing the augur pod remained raised however and the single organic eye darted to and fro in its socket.

  More footsteps sounded, but these were sharp and precise where the ward-servitor’s had been heavy and solid. A silhouette appeared against the arc-light glare and a figure stepped forward. The man was slightly shorter than Flint and clad in a form-fitting hardshell of glossy black. The figure’s face was obscured by a featureless black visor plate which scanned left and right as he came to a halt.

  ‘Commissar Flint,’ the commissar said, his cold eyes boring into the figure’s black visor face. All he saw was his own reflection. ‘77th Vostroyan Dragoons.’

  The figure nodded sharply at Flint as the graf’s command group approached from behind.

  ‘I am Claviger-Primaris Averun Gruss,’ the black-clad figure stated, his deep voice resounding from phonocasters secreted in the plates of his armour. ‘Seneschal-Marshal to Lord Kherhart.’

  Gruss bowed as Aleksis stepped forward next to Flint.

  ‘Welcome to Alpha Penitentia.’

  ‘Shut the hell up and settle down,’ Skane growled as Vahn stalked into the chamber the outcast convict-workers were using as a mess hall. Most obeyed the burly Elysian without question, knowing full well the nasty streak that ran right through him. Those who didn’t get the message straight away were soon hushed by neighbours that could see that something was up.

  Vahn waited a moment as the last few stragglers sat down on the floor or one of the battered crates littering the chamber. The room had once been a medicae bay, the white tiles that had once clad its walls now cracked or shattered across the floor. Articulated gurneys were suspended from the ceiling, some bearing long-dead lumen bulbs, others the remnants of drill-head medical instruments of indeterminate purpose.

  ‘Listen up,’ said Vahn, his gaze sweeping the motley group. Every man and woman assembled before him was as scruffy as an underhive scum-blagger, their features drawn after weeks of hunger and tension. White eyes looked back at him from dirt-caked faces and each outcast wore a rough and ready assortment of ragged convict uniforms and salvaged work wear. Frankly, Vahn was grateful for the fresh breeze gusting through the open embrasure in the next chamber.

  ‘What’s happening?’ called out ‘Rotten’ Stank from the front row. ‘They coming for us again?’

  ‘Depends who “they” are, Rotten,’ Vahn replied, grinning as he answered. Despite the interruption, he liked Stank. It was hard not to like a man that had sniffed out three of Colonel Strannik’s infiltration gangs and saved the entire group each time. ‘Looks like we’ve got company out on the plains.’

  ‘Space Marines?’ said someone else and a round of nervous laughter rippled through the group. Vahn gave them a moment, despite Skane’s frown, but kept his own expression neutral.

  ‘This is serious,’ said Vahn. By the tone of his voice they could tell it was. ‘It’s the Imperial Guard.’

  The laughter cut out at that, to be replaced with a hushed murmur. ‘We’re fragged then!’ someone shouted from the back rank, drawing a chorus of agreement. At times like this Vahn was hardly surprised this lot had been booted out of their regiments and washed up in a Munitorum forced labour penal facility. Vahn saw Skane’s expression darken and decided to get a grip before the big drop-trooper busted some heads.

  ‘It’s the Imperial Guard,’ Vahn repeated, this time injecting a note of cold authority into his voice. ‘And that raises questions.’

  The crowd quietened down a bit and Vahn pressed on. ‘Way I see it, we got two choices.’

  Now the crowd fell totally silent, three-dozen dirty faces trained on Vahn. ‘We hide from them, or we join them.’

  By the darting glances that passed between many of the convicts Vahn could tell that neither option was especially attractive. There was no easy way to say it, so he pressed on. ‘If we hide, they’ll find us, or just burn the whole place down around us. If we join them, chances are we’ll end up somewhere jus
t like this place.’

  ‘But we’ll be alive,’ Vendell spoke up.

  ‘Either way,’ said Vahn, ‘It’s a gamble.’

  ‘You’ve already decided,’ said Solomon, a gangly man from the world of Jopall. Clever guy, thought Vahn.

  ‘I know which I’d prefer,’ said Vahn. ‘But we’re all in this together and we need to agree before we do anything.’ Vahn left it unsaid that the whole thing might go completely to hell and he didn’t want to cop the blame if that happened.

  ‘If we join them,’ said Rotten, ‘We get a second chance. We could leg it later on.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Vahn. ‘But getting to them without getting slotted is likely to be hard enough.’

  ‘And they’ll be going in hard on Strannik,’ added Becka, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned nonchalantly against the wall behind Vahn. ‘The crossfire’s gonna get messy.’

  ‘I say we risk it,’ said Stank. ‘Better that than wait here for them or Strannik to wheedle us out.’ Others nodded, the idea of for once taking control of their lives finding favour over the thought of hiding while it all went to hell.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ grinned Vahn, and Skane, Becka and Vendell nodded in agreement. In truth, the four of them had already agreed which option they preferred.

  ‘Which means we’ll need to fight our way out,’ he continued before he could be interrupted. ‘We hit the perimeter hard and we don’t stop moving. Even,’ he added gravely, ‘if not everyone makes it.’

  ‘So,’ said Solomon as the gravity of the situation sank in. ‘We voting?’

  Looking around the faces of the convicts, Vahn said, ‘Looks like we’re agreed.’