Commissar

by Andy Hoare

  Flint’s entire world was swallowed up in the press of bodies, limbs thrashing in all directions as rebels sought to pull him down. Flint’s power sword burned white hot as he swept it in a great arc. Bodies were sliced open as the power field split flesh and spilled organs across the rockcrete ground. Limbs were severed and rebels fell at Flint’s feet yet still more foes came on. Flint gave himself utterly to his duty as a commissar, certain beyond any shred of doubt that the words he had spoken moments before were true. The Emperor was watching and Flint was most certainly the instrument of His will. He was divine retribution, the manifestation of the judgement that should have been visited upon the wretched denizens of Alpha Penitentia long ago. He hacked and sliced and parried instinctively those attacks the rebels launched against him. His blade cut all other weapons in two, its power field scything through the crude weapons wielded against him. His arm rose and fell what must have been a hundred times and more before he eventually became aware that the press of bodies was lessening. The tide was receding and the ever present muted roar was changing into something very different.

  It was turning into a cry of terror and woe.

  Reality came crashing back in and Flint found himself standing in the midst of dozens of bodies. The rebels were backing off towards the portal and the safety of the carceri chamber beyond and the space before the hastily erected barricades had been reclaimed. Firstborn, penal troopers and claviger-wardens alike had followed Flint’s example and vaulted the obstacle to take the battle to the surging enemy.

  Flint was about to issue the order to run the last enemy down when the sound of heavy weaponry opening fire sounded from the carceri chamber beyond. A cacophonous roar of multiple types of weapons rang out and the last of the rebels surging through the portal were cut down. The wrecked hatchway was soon clogged with ruined bodies.

  The sight of so much blood made Flint look down at his own body and only then did he realise that he’d sustained scores of small wounds in his insane battle against the rebel horde. His cuirass was scratched and dented in countless places and the tails of his heavy leather storm coat were ragged and torn. His breeches were cut open and soaked in blood, his own and that of his enemies, and his peaked cap was gone having been lost at some point in the battle.

  At the last, the blunt prow of a Chimera armoured transport ground over the bodies and halted on the far side of the portal. An officer with golden epaulettes at his shoulders stood high in the turret manning the pintle-mount. ‘Aleksis?’ Flint muttered. He could scarcely believe the regiment’s commanding officer was manning the overhead weapon of the lead vehicle.

  Flint looked sidelong at Bukin as the chief provost appeared at his side. The other man was a ragged mess and covered in as much blood as the commissar. ‘Get the force together,’ Flint ordered. ‘This is far from over.’

  As Bukin fished a fresh cigar from a webbing pouch, Flint added, ‘And get someone looking for my hat.’

  FOURTEEN

  Consolidation

  Over the next few hours the 77th Firstborn cleared the southern extent of Carceri Resurecti with ruthless efficiency, the un-blooded dragoons soon earning their first kills amongst the corroded machine edifices and along the creaking suspended gantries. But the rebel convicts were on home ground and made the Firstborn pay for every square metre they took. The bulk of the rebel horde scattered into scores of smaller bands as the Chimeras pushed outwards in a solid line of growling ceramite that secured a large area of the chamber in the first hour. While the undisciplined mass was broken up easily enough the smaller bands soon proved a lethal prospect to locate and engage amidst the twisted machinery and gantries of the chamber. A series of running battles soon developed as dismounted infantry pushed up into the spider’s web of walkways criss-crossing the air. The dragoons soon discovered the rebels were using the vast lengths of heavy chain suspended from the roof to move from one level to another, descending through the ever-present mists to launch devastating rear attacks on units passing by.

  Despite his fatigue and the grumbling of his warriors Flint insisted on leading the counter-attack to secure the lowermost of the overhead gantries. This was the first occasion he had climbed up onto the rusted walkways and he was disgusted by the number and nature of the trophies attached by hooks and chains to the guardrails. One walkway was festooned with a long line of grinning skulls, the flesh crudely flensed from the bone. Great loops of long-dried intestine hung from another like a grim version of the seasonal decorations sometimes seen at the Feast of the Emperor’s Ascension. Stealth was all but impossible for while the mists provided visual cover the tread plates and grilles underfoot were so corroded they creaked and split as troops passed, the metallic grinding echoing weirdly through the fog. On one length Flint found thousands of teeth scattered across his path. Despite his best efforts the teeth cracked horribly underfoot. Seeing movement up ahead and suspecting an ambush, he led his force on another route and the ambushers were caught in the flank and slaughtered to a man.

  Even when Flint and his small force weren’t engaging the vicious bands of rebel convicts that haunted the upper walkways the sounds of battle resounded all around. The stuttering roar of turret-mounted autocannon was an ever-present accompaniment to the action to clear the southern extent of the chamber. Sometimes the clamour was explosively loud from directly beneath the walkway along which the force advanced, at other times it sounded several kilometres distant. The mist was so dense in places it appeared that Flint was leading his force along a gantry that passed over the clouds themselves and that the ground was many kilometres beneath.

  Then it started raining harder than it ever had before. The mists were blown away in the span of minutes and a hot, tainted wind started up. The vox-channels burst into life as desperate queries flew back and forth between the different units. Yet the signals were so distorted by the installation’s structure and by the freakish weather that few got through. None of the 77th had ever experienced such a downpour for they were foundry-dwellers and everyone knew it didn’t rain inside buildings. Yet here they were, inside a generatorium complex almost the size of a hive with each of the vast carceri chambers developing its own, interrelated climate without the moderating systems of the air scrubbers and cooling towers. Some regions experienced hugely disproportionate increases in air pressure while others were subject to sudden drop offs. The juncture between each chamber became the site of a great, raging battle between unnatural elemental forces that caused howling winds and driving rains to concentrate along unbearably dense weather fronts. The longer vestibule tunnels linking each carceri chamber were hit the worst for they funnelled what felt like entire tornadoes along their lengths and soon became impassable to any unit not mounted in armoured transports with the hatches buttoned firmly down. Several of the regiment’s lighter-equipped units were cut-off as the vestibules became too dangerous for them to pass along. The reconnaissance platoon, mounted in its open-topped Salamander transports, was forced to take shelter in a sealed-off meat storage chamber that despite the lingering stench had, thankfully, been stripped of its former contents. The light walker troop, mounted in its Sentinel scout walkers, was so battered by the winds as it probed Vestibule 47 that the pilots had to abandon their machines. These were found later wrecked by rebels moving unseen through the complex’s labyrinthine tunnel systems.

  By the end of the day, if such a measure of time had any relevance by that point, Flint was forced to pull his penal unit out of the line for fear of the troopers simply collapsing from fatigue. Instructing Vahn to get the unit fed, rested and rearmed, he and Bukin made for the temporary command post Graf Aleksis had erected in the midst of a cluster of vent-sinks three kilometres into Carceri Resurecti. As the pair were about to enter the circle of grumbling command vehicles, Vahn caught up with them.

  ‘I thought I told you to get the unit down,’ Flint shouted over the driving rain.

  ‘I did, commissar,’ the trooper answered. Even over the wind an
d rain, his voice sounded as tired as Flint’s. ‘They’re down.’

  Flint halted and turned on his heel to face Vahn. ‘Then why aren’t you?’

  ‘Because, sir, like you said earlier, we’re not done here yet.’

  Flint’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the man before him. Vahn looked a mess, but then, they all did after so many hours fighting through the rank depths of Alpha Penitentia. Vahn’s battledress, a mix of his convict fatigues and Vostroyan issue armour, was encrusted with the chemical filth they had all had to wade through crossing the sluice channel and it was ripped and torn in multiple places. His waist-length dreads were matted and dirty, his general state far from acceptable, even on campaign.

  With a wry smile, it occurred to Flint that some commissars he had served alongside would have executed Vahn on the spot for presenting himself to them in such a state. The trooper must be serious, he realised.

  ‘What’s up?’ Flint asked. ‘Why are you here, Vahn?’

  The trooper glanced towards the bustling command post, then back at Flint. ‘I wanted to make sure we’re still in this, sir,’ he said.

  Flint noted a cold glint in Vahn’s eyes as he spoke. He knew what it meant.

  ‘You want this,’ he said. ‘You want… payback?’

  Vahn didn’t answer straight away, but shuffled almost nervously. He looked like a man placed on a charge despite the fact he was in the opposite situation.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Vahn eventually replied. ‘The guys and me,’ he continued. ‘We’ve got a lot of stuff to settle.’

  ‘With the rebels?’ said Flint.

  ‘With Strannik,’ Bukin interjected from beside Flint. ‘That right, son?’

  ‘Vahn?’ Flint pressed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Vahn finally replied. ‘If the regiment’s going after him, we want in.’

  ‘Who wants in?’ Flint asked. ‘You, or the rest?’

  ‘All of us, sir,’ Vahn replied, nodding back the way he had come. Flint followed the gesture and saw Vahn’s fellow penal troopers sheltering from the rain beneath a low gantry, looking on from a distance. ‘We all want it.’

  Flint nodded slowly then answered, ‘Understood. You’d better come along then.’

  The command post was a circle of Chimeras belonging to the headquarters company’s various sub-units, including specialised command, signals and service tracks. Staff officers and tacticae advisors went about their business, setting up or manning augur transponders and vox-terminals bristling with antennae masts and revolving sensor dishes. Canvas awnings extended from the rear of each Chimera to keep men and equipment from getting drenched in the stinging rain but it was impossible to keep the worst of it out. The sound of explosions and gunfire was clearly audible even over the relentless rain, the battle to push into the vast carceri chamber raging as hard as ever just a few kilometres north.

  Pulling down the rim of his peaked cap, which one of Bukin’s men had located under the body of an eviscerated rebel convict, Flint located Graf Aleksis. The commanding officer of the 77th was conducting an orders group beneath the shelter at the rear of his command track.

  ‘…echelon to laager at reference point zero-delta-nine with recovery section and three squads from 4th Company. Go,’ Aleksis was saying as Flint and his two companions arrived. The officer the graf had been speaking to saluted and dashed off and Flint stepped smartly into the vacant space leaving Bukin and Vahn to stand uncomfortably hunched in the rain beyond the awning.

  ‘This operation has now escalated from a policing and suppression mission to something far more serious,’ Aleksis continued, obviously glorying in the escalation he was describing. ‘I can no longer guarantee the Munitorum will get their Penal Legion from this place. Frankly,’ he concluded as Flint edged to the front of the gathering, ‘our objective is now to defeat these rebels, no matter the cost.’

  A dozen heads turned towards Flint and at that same moment a distant explosion rumbled through the chamber from the direction of the front line. How different the officers all looked after a few hours in the field, how their once starched uniform jackets and peaked officers hats were now drenched by the stinking rain and creased from sitting in the back of a Chimera for a while. A little humility would do them good, Flint thought as the heads turned back towards Aleksis, most pointedly ignoring the commissar.

  Flint listened as Aleksis and Polzdam issued a stream of perfectly routine orders, growing increasingly impatient as he waited to hear anything of the assault on the enemy stronghold the commissar’s force had identified what felt like days earlier. Several times the graf was forced to raise his voice over the dull crump of distant explosions. Eventually, Aleksis concluded his address and asked the assembled cadre if anyone had any further questions.

  ‘I do, graf,’ Flint spoke up over the sound of rain hammering the topside of the awning. Once again, several dozen heads turned in his direction. ‘When do we clear the rebel leadership out? We know where they are, but they may not be there long.’

  ‘A good question, commissar,’ replied Graf Aleksis. ‘And one I do not yet have a proper answer to. If you would…’

  ‘Graf,’ Flint interjected, his gorge rising. Having fought through hell and not slept for days he was in no mood for diplomacy. ‘Why not?’ he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

  ‘I am instructed to wait before the final assault is launched,’ Aleksis replied bitterly.

  ‘Instructed?’ Flint repeated incredulously. ‘Instructed by whom?’

  ‘Commissar…’ Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam interrupted, evidently uncomfortable with Flint’s tone. ‘I really must insist…’

  Aleksis held up a hand to silence his second-in-command and Polzdam shut up, though he continued to glower at the commissar bitterly. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘The commissar has every right to know, as does everyone.’

  ‘Go on,’ Flint scowled, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

  ‘This operation has certain… limitations placed upon it,’ said Aleksis, raising his voice over the growing rumble of an approaching transport track.

  ‘What limitations?’ said Flint, his eyes narrowing. Despite his ire he had an inkling that this was nothing of the graf’s doing. The question was, what would Aleksis do about it?

  ‘We are here to aid the authorities of Furia Penitens in regaining control of this installation,’ Aleksis continued, raising his voice over the growl of an armoured vehicle’s engine. ‘We have a duty to consider the wishes of those authorities.’

  It was immediately obvious which authorities Aleksis was referring to. The sound of clattering treads made him and the rest of the gathered officers turn in time to see a vehicle slow to a halt just outside the awning.

  The vehicle was a Rhino armoured transport, a smaller and boxier vehicle than the Chimeras used by the Firstborn, though its armour and many other characteristics were generally superior. The vehicle’s slab-like sides were streaked with rain and its upper surfaces were misted over completely with the back-spray from the heavy downpour. The flash of a distant explosion glinted from the rain-slicked armour and illuminated the crest of the world’s ruling body. The vehicle’s every surface was covered in complex heraldic motifs, Imperial eagles bearing keys and death’s-head skulls behind portcullis gates. Flint recognised the motifs and even as the side hatch swung down to thud into the wet rockcrete he knew who would disembark.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Graf Aleksis. ‘Due respect, please.’

  The officers moved backwards to clear a space under the awning as movement stirred inside the open hatch. The Vostroyan officers doffed their caps but Flint kept his firmly on his head. A brass rod emerged jerkily from the opening and was followed a moment later by a second, the pair feeling forward like a blind insect using its antennae to discern its surroundings. A moment later, the hideously gnarled hands holding each stick appeared, followed by the rest of Governor Kherhart.

  Lord Kherhart was attired in a ridiculously impractical robe of
office that must have been even older than him and that looked on the verge of collapsing to a ragged heap of scraps. The robe was made of the rarest black void silk and must once have glittered like the starfield after which it was named. About his shoulders Kherhart wore a cloak of silver fur, the hide of some exotic beast Flint couldn’t identify. On his head he wore a periwig at least three times the size he had worn when last Flint had seen him. His face was twisted in concentration as he manoeuvred himself down the Rhino’s hatch using the brass sticks as support. Finally, the governor stood beneath the awning and he squinted myopically. With both hands occupied gripping the walking sticks he was unable to raise his lorgnette to his eyes in order to see clearly.

  The governor lurched suddenly forward, angling his face up towards Captain Bohman, the chief signals officer. ‘Aleksis! You will tell me what is going on, right now!’

  Bohman stood rigidly to attention and stuttered, ‘Bohman, sir. This is Graf Aleksis.’

  ‘Quite,’ the governor spat before swinging his head around to face Graf Aleksis.

  ‘My lord, I…’ Aleksis began before Kherhart cut him off with a brass walking stick jabbed in the chest. If it weren’t for the graf’s body armour he might have sustained a nasty, sucking chest wound.

  ‘Look what you’ve done to my domains!’ Governor Kherhart shrieked, the sudden and unexpected outburst making several of the gathered officers flinch. ‘I approved no more than a reconnaissance and now look! The entire place is in anarchy!’

  ‘With respect, my lord,’ Flint interrupted, ‘It was like that when we got here.’

  ‘And who are you?’ Kherhart rounded on Flint. He leaned right forward, his impossibly wrinkled face pushed uncomfortably close as he looked Flint up and down. ‘Commissar is it, eh?’

  ‘Regimental commissar,’ he answered. ‘Flint.’

  ‘Well, Commissar Flint,’ Kherhart sneered. ‘You and Aleksis here and all of the rest of you can just clear out of my facility, do you understand?’