13th Legion

by Gav Thorpe

  I shuffle to my left to get a better view and can see a high desk inside the small room, in front of a tall bookshelf filled with tomes and rolled parchments. I can hear something scraping on the floor, perhaps something trying to keep out of sight behind the desk. I gesture with my thumb towards the archway and Fredricks gives a nod and begins to slink very slowly towards it, lasgun cradled across his chest. My breath is coming in shallow gasps at the moment, my whole body tensed and ready for action. I can hear my heart beating, the blood cours­ing through my ears like the rash of a waterfall. It seems like an eternity is passing as Fredricks makes his way crabwise towards the other room.

  There's movement in there again and we all react at the same time, a sudden torrent of las-fire flashing through the archway into the room. The air is filled with the crackling of energy. My heart is hammering in my chest, glad for the sudden release, and I can hear myself growling between gritted teeth. There's a shrill screech from the room and we fire another volley, Donalson spitting incomprehensible curses between gritted teeth as he fires, an incoherent yell bursting from my own lips as I pull repeatedly on the trigger of my laspistol.

  'Stop shooting, Emperor damn you!' I hear a high-pitched, strained voice cry out from the ante-chamber. The three of us exchange startled glances.

  'Who are you?' I shout back, aiming my pistol into the far room in case a target should present itself.

  'I'm Lieutenant Hopkins/ the voice calls back and he shuffles into view, hands held high above his head. He's a litde older than me, scrawny-looking with lank hair and a straggly beard on his cheeks and chin. He's wearing a crumpled uniform of some sort: dress jacket a deep red with white breeches and knee-high black boots. He has a slightly tarnished epaulette on one shoulder, the hogging hanging from it frayed and lacklus­tre. I relax only a little and stand up, still pointing the laspistol at him. He grins when he sees our uniforms, lowers his hands and takes a step forward.

  'Stay where you fraggin' are!' I shout, taking a step towards him, laspistol now levelled at his head.

  'Are you Imperial Guard? Which regiment are you from?' he asks, voice trembling. I can see his whole body shaking with nerves, obviously distressed mat the people he thought were his saviours might still turn out to be his killers.

  'It's okay/ I tell him, lowering my laspistol, although I leave the safety catch off and don't holster it. We're from the 13th Penal Legion. Colonel Schaeffer's Last Chancers/

  'Penal legion?' he says vaguely, lifting his peaked cap and scratching at his head. ^Vhat the hell are you doing here?'

  'I think that's a question you should be answering/1 tell him.

  Donalson brings Lieutenant Hopkins from where he's been guarding him in the administration room. I'm sat with the Colonel and Sergeants Broker and Roiseland in the command centre. He looks around curiously, seeing the terminals we've managed to reactivate. It's pitch dark outside; all I can see through the small slit windows are reflections of the interior of the command room. Even through the thick walls I can hear the constant chirruping of insects and the occasional screech of some nocturnal bird or whatever.

  'You are Lieutenant Hopkins, of the False Hope garrison company/ the Colonel says. 'I am Colonel Schaeffer, com­manding the 13th Penal Legion. I would like an explanation of what has happened to False Hope Station/

  Hopkins gives a quick salute, fingers of his right hand hover­ing by the peak of his cap for a moment, before his arm drops limply back by his side.

  'I wish I could offer one, colonel/ he says apologetically, dart­ing a longing look at an empty chair next to Broker. He seems all but dead on his feet, there's darkness around his eyes and his skin hangs loosely from his cheeks. The Colonel nods towards the seat and Hopkins sits down gratefully, slouching against the high back of the chair with visible relief. I wave Donalson away, and turn my attention to the Colonel. His ice-blue eyes are still fixed on Hopkins, looking right inside him, trying to work out who the man is.

  'Records show that at the last count there were seventy-five Guardsmen and one hundred and forty-eight civilians in False Hope Station/ the Colonel says, glancing at a datasheet in his hands. 'Now there is only you. I think you would agree that this situation demands investigation/

  Hopkins looks helplessly back at the Colonel and gives a weak shrug.

  'I don't know what happened to the others/ he says miser­ably. 'I've been stuck here on my own for thirty-five days now, trying to work out how to get the communications assembly working/

  Tell me what you remember before then/ the Colonel says sternly, handing the datasheet to Roiseland.

  'I was ill in the infirmary/ Hopkins tells us, looking through the doorway towards the ward, where Franx and the others are now safely tucked in. We broke into the medicine chest to get more bandages and stimm-needles. None of us is a medico, so it's down to the Emperor whether they live or die. 'I'd come down with blood poisoning, a local plague we call jungle flu. I'd been leading an expedition through to the sulphur marshes about twenty kays west of here and I caught a dose. The men brought me back, I remember Physician Murrays giving me one of his elixirs and then I must have fallen unconscious. When I woke up, the place was as you find it now/

  'Before the expedition/ the Colonel asks him, gaze never wandering for a second, 'was there anything untoward hap­pening? Was there any sign of danger to the settlement?'

  'Our commander, Captain Nepetine, had been acting a bit strangely/ Hopkins admits with a frown. 'He'd been doing some exploration towards the Heart of the Jungle with twenty of the men, and came back alone. He said he'd found a better location for a settlement, one that wasn't as hostile as the area we're in/

  The Heart of the Jungle?' I ask before I can stop myself, earn­ing myself a scowl from the Colonel.

  'Yes/ Hopkins says, not noticing the Colonel's annoyance. 'It's the thickest part of the jungle on the whole planet, about three days march further up the equatorial ridge. It was stupid, because there's nowhere near there at all that could be any more hospitable than where we are. I mean, the whole planet is virtually one big jungle, right up to the poles. Every acre is solid with trees and plants, horrible insects, giant predators and coundess hideous diseases. I said so, and the other officers, Lieutenants Korl and Paximan, agreed with me.'

  'Do you think that Captain Nepetine may have persuaded the others to leave while you were comatose?' the Colonel asks, absent-mindedly tapping a finger on his knee.

  'It's unlikely, sir/ Hopkins says with a doubtful look. They were both in vehement agreement with me the last time we spoke about it/

  The Colonel gestures to Sergeant Broker, who pulls one of the empty pod things from a sack under his chair and passes it to Hopkins.

  'What is this?' the Colonel asks, pointing towards the object in Hopkins's hands.

  'I haven't seen anything like it before/ the lieutenant says. 'I'm no bio-magus, but it looks similar to the seed pods that some of the trees around here use for reproducing. I'm afraid that Lieutenant Paximan was liaison to our Adeptus Mechanicus comrades, I had little to do with the study itself. It's a lot bigger than anything I've seen though, I'm sure I would remember a specimen of this size. If it really is a seed pod, the tree or bush it came from must be enormous. Even the pods from trees over thirty metres tall are only the size of my hand, a quarter of the size of this one/

  'Could it be offworld in origin?' the Colonel asks, his face as neutral as ever. I look at him sharply, realising that he thinks it might be some kind of tyranid organism. I feel the urge to glance over my shoulder, wondering what else is lurking in the jungles out there, as well as all the native killers of False Hope.

  'I suppose it could be, but I can't say for sure one way or the other/ Hopkins tells us with a sorrowful look. 'I'm not a specialist in plants or anything, I just run, I mean ran, the camp/

  'Can you take us to the Heart of the Jungle?' Schaeffer asks, finally standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. I won­dered how long it would take him befo
re being confined to a chair made him too fidgety. He's obviously concocting some kind of plan, otherwise he'd be content just to sit and ask questions.

  'I could lead the way/ Hopkins admits with a shallow nod of the head.

  'But?' the Colonel adds.

  'All the heavy-duty exploration equipment has gone/ he says with a grimace. 'I checked before, thinking the same thing you do, that I could go after them. But without that sort of gear, one man on his own won't last the first night out in the trees/

  Well/ the Colonel says, looking at each of us in turn. My heart sinks, knowing what he's going to say next. We are more than one man, so I am sure we will survive/

  'Sir?' I interject. What about the wounded? They won't be able to make another trip into the jungle/

  'If they can march by tomorrow morning, they come with us/ he says meeting my anxious gaze without a hint of compassion in his eyes. 'If not, we leave them here/

  I've been asleep only a short while when sounds of footsteps padding across the rockcrete floor wake me up. Someone's coughing violently from the furthest beds, near the chamber where we found Hopkins. I'm bedded down in the control room with Kronin and a couple of the sergeants, ready to act if any communication comes down from our transport in orbit. In the pale glimmer of the moonlight streaming through the narrow windows of the infirmary I can see a shadow gingerly stepping towards me. Thinking it may be Rollis out for some revenge, I put my hand under the pillow, my fingers closing around the grip of my knife. As the figure gets closer, I can see it's too tall to be Rollis and I relax. 'Kage!' I hear Gappo's terse whisper. 'Franx has woken up/ I sling my blanket to one side and get up. I see Gappo, bare­foot and wearing only his fatigues, leaning on the doorframe and peering into the gloom of the control centre. It's sultry inside the command centre, the rockcrete trapping the humid­ity and heat of the False Hope day, and I'm covered in a light sheen of sweat. I follow Gappo along the row of beds, towards the intense coughing.

  'Kill 'im now/ I hear someone murmur from the darkness. That coughin's kept me awake for ages/

  'Drop dead yourself!' I snap back, wishing I could identify the culprit, but it's too dark.

  Franx looks a state, his face doused in perspiration, his curls plastered across the tight skin of his forehead, his cheeks hol­low. Even the gleam of the moonlight cannot hide the yellowish tinge to his features. His breathing comes in wheezes through his cracked lips. Every few seconds he erupts into a spasm of coughing, blood flecks appearing on his lips. But his eyes are brighter than before, with an intelligent look in them that I haven't seen during the past day.

  'You look rougher than a flatulent ork's arse/ I tell him, sit­ting on the end of the bed. He grins at me, and I can see the reddish stains on his teeth from the blood he's been coughing up.

  'Nobody's going to paint portraits of you either, scarface!' he manages to retort before his body convulses with more racking coughs.

  'Do you think you'll be able to walk, come the morning?' Gappo asks, concern on his face.

  'Fresh air will do me good. Hate infirmaries; always full of sick people/ the sergeant jokes.

  Gappo looks at me, his expression one of worry. He's a car­ing soul at heart, I'm amazed he's managed to survive this long, but in battle he's just as steady as the next man.

  'Course you can march in the morning/ I say to Franx. 'And if you need a little help, there are those who'll give you a hand/

  He nods without saying anything and settles back into the bed, closing his eyes, his breathing still ragged.

  'What about the other two?' I ask Gappo, who appointed himself chief medico as soon as he heard about the Colonel's decree to leave behind anyone who couldn't make the march.

  'Oklar's got one leg left. How do you think he's doing?' the former preacher snaps bitterly. 'Jereminus will be fine, he's just badly concussed/

  'Can we pump Oklar full of stimms before we leave, set him up on some kind of crutch?' I ask, trying to figure a way to deny the Colonel another corpse.

  'It might work, providing we can take a bagful of stimm-nee-dles with us to keep him and Jereminus going/ Gappo agrees, looking slightly dubious.

  ЛУе11, sort it out/ I tell him. 'I'm going back to bed/

  Oklar saved Gappo the ttouble: stabbed himself through the eye with a stimm-needle left by his bed. The point drove into his brain and killed him instantly. We set out just after dawn yesterday, following Hopkins and the Colonel. Turning west­ward as soon as we left False Hope station, we climbed up onto a high ridge that Hopkins tells us runs the whole length of the planet's equator. We're marching at the front - me, Kronin, Gappo, Linskrug and Frame's squad, taking it in turns to give Franx a shoulder to lean on. He's stopped coughing blood, but is continuously short of breath. Broker's squad is looking after Jereminus, the sergeant taking custody of a dozen stimms smuggled out of the infirmary by Gappo.

  The jungle hasn't been too thick, finding it harder to grow on the dense rock of the volcanic ridge. The air gets even hotter, more choked with sulphur and ashes, as we progress. We can't see them through the jungle canopy, but Hopkins tells us that there's two massive volcanoes a few kilometres away to the south, called Khorne's Twins by the False Hope settlers, named by the original ship's crew after some unholy and violent god. Heresy and blasphemy, but I guess they were getting pretty low on faith at the time. The lieutenant assures us they've been dor­mant recently, but knowing our luck they'll both blow any moment, just so things don't get too easy for us. My head filled with these gloomy thoughts, I sense somebody falling in beside me and glance right to see Hopkins walking alongside.

  'He's Sergeant Franx, is that right?' he asks, glancing towards where the sergeant's stumbling along hanging on to Poal. I nod.

  'He must have the constitution of a grox/ Hopkins adds, still looking at the half-crippled Franx.

  'He used to/ I say, not being able to stop myself. 'But this sodding sump of a planet of yours might kill him yet/

  'It may yet/ agrees Hopkins with a disconsolate look. 'He's got lungrot, and there's not many survive that/

  'Any more encouraging news?' I ask sourly, wishing he'd frag off and leave me alone.

  'He's still alive, and that's half a miracle/ he tells me with a smile. 'Most men don't last the first night. He's lasted two, both of them after days of marching. He won't get any better, but I don't think he'll get any worse/

  'If he was any worse, he'd be dead/ I say, looking over at the wasted figure almost draped over Poal's sunburnt shoulders. 'And looking at him, I'm not sure that would be worse/

  'Don't say that!' Hopkins exclaims.

  'What?' I snap back at him. "You think he's going to survive for long in the Last Chancers while he's in that state? Even if he gets out of this cess tank, the next battle'll kill him, that I'm sure/

  'How long does he have left in the penal legion?' Hopkins asks, pulling a canteen from his belt and proffering it towards me. I irritably wave it away.

  We're all here until we either die or get pardoned by the Colonel/ I tell him, my voice harsh.

  'And how many people has he pardoned?' asks Hopkins innocently.

  'None/ I snarl, quickening my step to leave the annoying lieutenant behind.

  Dawn on the third day of the march sees us on the ridge above the area Hopkins calls the Heart of the Jungle. From up here it doesn't look any different from the rest of the Emperor-for­saken jungle, but he assures me that inside the undergrowth is a lot thicker, the trees are a lot bigger and closer together.

  That's where our captain was exploring,' he tells me as we stand in the orange glow of the rising sun, pointing southwards at an area that might be a slightly darker green than the sur­rounding trees.

  This captain of yours, was he a bit mad or something?' I ask, taking a swig of dentclene from a foil pouch and swilling it around my mouth before spitting the foamy liquid into a pud­dle by the lieutenant's feet.

  'Not really/ he says, stepping back from the splash and giving me an a
nnoyed glance. As far as I know, he was perfectly stable/

  He hesitates for a second as if he's going to say more, but closes his mouth and turns away to look at the sunrise.

  'What is it?' I ask. He turns back, takes his cap off and scratches his head, a gesture I've noticed him using whenever he seems to be worried about something.

  'Do you really think that those seed pods could be some kind of tyranid weapon?' he asks, crumpling the top of his cap in his hand.

  'I've seen stranger things/ I tell him, leaning closer, as if con­fiding something secret to him. 'On Ichar IV, the tech-priests are still trying to eradicate swarms of tyranid bugs, which eat anything organic they come across. I've seen bio-titans twenty-five metres tall, great four-legged things that can trample buildings and crush battle tanks in their huge claws. You ever seen a tyranid?'

  'I've seen sketches/ he says hesitantly, placing his creased cap back on his head.

  'Sketches?' I laugh. 'Sketches are nothing! When you've got a four-metre tall tyranid warrior standing in front of you, then you know what tyranids are like. Its carapace oozes this lubri­cant slime to keep the plates from chafing, it's got fangs as long as your fingers and four arms. They stink of death, when they're really close it's almost suffocating. They use all kinds of sym-biote weapons to blast, tear, cut and grind you apart/

  I remember the first time I saw them, on Ichar IV. Three warriors jumped us as we were doing a firesweep of some old ruins. I can see clearly now their dark blue skin and reddish-black bony plates as they stormed forward. The shock and fear that swept over us when we first saw them, unnatural and unholy in every way. They had guns we call devourers, spitting out a hail of flesh-eating grubs that can chew straight through you, worse than any bullet. Our lasgun shots just bounced off them, and those who didn't fall to the devour­ers had their heads ripped off and limbs torn free by their powerful claws. It was only Craggon and his plasma gun that saved us, incinerating the alien monstrosities as they carved through us. As it was, those three tyranid warriors killed fif­teen men before they were brought down. I remember Craggon died later on Ichar IV, his blood soaking into the ash wastes when a tyranid gargoyle dropped from the skies and tore out his throat.