by Gav Thorpe
It's with a shock that we burst through onto the open rock of the ridge. Glancing behind me, I see the others come
stumbling out, some turning around to open up with a fusillade of lasfire to drive back the god-plant's alien limbs as they creep towards us. Gasping and cursing, we haul ourselves up the rocky slope. There's no other vegetation around, obviously devoured by the god-plant to make room for itself.
After a few minutes we're far enough away, half way up the ridge, the going a lot easier witiiout the twisting confines of the god-plant's outer reaches to ensnare and misdirect us. I turn and look back and I can see the god-plant contracting. Its outer edges are a sickly yellow colour by now, looking like grass in a drought. It leaves bare, grey dirt in the wake of its retreat, drained of all nutrition.
'Sergeant Poal/ I hear the Colonel saying behind me as I continue to stare at the plant monstrosity, 'get your comms-operator to call down the shutties, and order a bombardment of that... thing.'
It's the first time I've ever heard the Colonel almost lost for words. Dragging my gaze away from die strange beast, I push myself a few more steps up the ridge to stand next to the Colonel. Hopkins is diere, blood pouring down from a cut above his right eye.
'Well, that was something,' the lieutenant pants, gazing in amazement at die god-plant.
'What die hell was it?' Franx asks, flopping down exhaustedly on a patch of mud in front of me. Omers are collapsing around us, staring vacandy at the sky. Some fall to their knees, hands clasped in front of them as they offer up thanks to the Emperor. The Colonel steps forward, gazing intentiy towards die god-plant.
4Vhatever it was/ he says widi a hint of satisfaction, 'it is going to be dead soon. I am tempted to request diis whole world be virus bombed, just to make sure/
^Vhat did you do, sir?' Hopkins asks, dabbing a cuff gingerly to the cut on his forehead.
'Frag grenades/ the Colonel replies, breaking his gaze from the view to look at the lieutenant. 'I have heard tales of such symbiotic creatures, diough I have never heard of them taking plant form. They lie dormant for centuries, perhaps even millennia, until tiiey can ensnare an alien mind. They form a link witii their victim, somehow using their intelligence. Captain Nepetine seemed the conduit for that connection, so I blew
him apart with fragmentation grenades. I think we were right at its centre, the damage we did was considerable/
He looks over all of us, before fastening his gaze on me.
"Those we left behind were weak/ he says sternly. 'To give in to alien domination is one of the greatest acts of treachery against the Emperor. Remember that well/
I remember how close I came to succumbing and say nothing-
It's with a good feeling in die pit of my stomach that I look out of the shutde window as we roar up into the sky of False Hope. Out of the window I can see a raging fire, setting light across hundreds of square kilometres of jungle. Another bright flash descends from orbit into die ground with an explosion as our transport ship, the Pride of Lothus, fires another shot from its plasma driver into the god-plant.
'Burn, you alien piece of crap/ I whisper, rubbing the fresh scabs on my neck. 'Burn!'
THREE
BAD LANDINGS
The feeling in the cell is even tenser than normal. Everybody's shaken up by what happened on False Hope, the memory of our fellow Last Chancers being eaten by the god-plant fresh in our memories. To make matters even worse, there's been no sign of the Colonel for the past three weeks. Talking to the ratings, it seems he disappeared on a rapid transport two days after we left False Hope orbit, taking Hopkins with him.
Not wanting to think about the future, determined to leave the past behind, I try to lose myself in the day-to-day drudgery. I've had to reorganise the men again: there are only forty-seven of us left. I've made an ad-hoc command squad out of Franx, Kronin, Gappo, Linskrag, Becksbauer and Fredricks. The odier men are organised into four squads, with Poal, Donalson, Jorett and Slavini as the sergeants. Everyone's getting really shaky now; I need the calmest heads in charge if I'm ever going to survive this whole mess. With less than fifty of us left, we're a below-strength platoon, not even a full company of men. There's an unspoken feeling floating around the unit, a feeling that the end is getting very close. Roughly three thousand nine hundred and fifty Last Chancers have died in the past two and a half years, I can't see forty-seven of us surviving the next bat-de. Not if the Colonel comes back.
The thought of the Colonel's not returning doesn't leave me too optimistic either, I can't help feeling he's dumped us. There are too few of us to do anything useful that I can think of. I mean, given time the Departmento Munitorum can muster regiments numbering thousands of men, so what can four dozen Last Chancers do? In my gossiping with the ratings I've also learnt that we're heading to a system called Hypernol for re-supply. On the face of it, diere seems nothing particularly odd about that. On the other hand, I can remember some of the
men, dead now, who had been drafted in from a penal colony in die Hypernol system. The Colonel leaving and us being shipped to a penal colony - coincidence? I don't mink so. He's left us to rot, I'm sure of it.
I'm not the only one to add two and two. As usual, Franx and Gappo are sitting with me during the sludge-eating gala they call meal time, a few cycles after dropping back into warpspace, some three weeks after leaving False Hope.
'Can't believe that's it/ Franx says vehemendy, his voice a ragged whisper since his infection on the deathworld. 'Four thousand men dead, all over? Just like that, all finished? Doesn't make sense. What have we done? Fought in a bunch of wars, lots of men have died, but we haven't achieved anything. Can't believe this is the end/
'You think there's some grander scheme?' laughs Gappo. 'Don't be naive! We're just meat in the Imperial grinder, nothing more/
ЛЯш do you mean?' I ask the ex-preacher, slighdy disturbed at his words.
'Sitting on a prison hulk or in some penal colony, we were just dead meat, carcasses hanging from the body of humanity/ he replies after a moment's thought. 'We're all criminals, according to the Colonel, who have wasted our chance to serve the Imperium. It doesn't matter if we live or die, as long as we're doing something useful. So they give us guns, put us into a war and let us hurl ourselves at the enemy/
That's stupid, too/ argues Franx, shaking his head. 'If we're such a waste, why bother sending us anywhere? Why not just kill us? Men are hung and beheaded and shot, all punishments listed in the Codex Imperialis. Having a naval transport at our beck and call is unheard of. Those resources don't come cheap, somebody owes the Navy/
That isn't normal, I'll grant you/ Gappo concedes with a thoughtful look. Then again, we've all heard the Colonel. He genuinely believes in our Last Chance, in giving us an opportunity to save our souls from Chaos by allowing us to serve the Emperor again/
'Can't see how the Colonel has enough clout to have a Navy transport seconded to us/ counters Franx, wagging a finger at Gappo. 'For all the Colonel believes in his mission to save our souls, I don't think it's enough of an argument to convince the
Lord Admirals to give him a ship that can carry stores for fifty thousand fighting men, to ferry around a few hundred. Logistics don't make sense/
'It's not just logistics, though/ I tell them, looking at Gappo then Franx. 'If you knew this was going to happen to you, would you have still defied the cardinal or let your men revolt against your superiors?'
'Not sure/ answers Franx, gnawing at his bottom lip in thought. 'Never really thought about it/
'I know what you mean/ Gappo exclaims excitedly, as if he's just stumbled on some secret truth about the galaxy. 'It's the deterrent, you're saying?'
We've been in twelve war zones now/ I remind them. 'How many other regiments have we come in contact with? There were at least thirty on our batdefront on Ichar IV; there's the Perditian Outriders from Octo Genesis, the Choreks at Deliverance, and about another ten from other places. They all saw or heard about the dirty
jobs we have to do, the massive casualties we suffer. I know for a fact that if I'd seen this coming, my knife would have stayed firmly in my belt that time/
'Still doesn't explain why there's a few dozen of us left/ Franx argues, his voice rasping and quiet. Gappo's about to answer back but Franx holds up his hand to stop him. He takes a sip of his juice before continuing. Throat feels on fire... Anyway, it would make sense to round up convicts as we travel. Four thousand men are as much a deterrent as fifty, much more useful military force/
'So perhaps that's where the Colonel's gone/ I suggest with a smug smile. 'He's gone ahead to the penal colony to organise some new recruits. They'll be waiting for us when we arrive/
'I don't know which would be worse/ Gappo laments, looking thoroughly miserable again. 'Getting locked up in a prison somewhere for the rest of my life, or dying on a battlefield/
'I want to go down fighting/ I tell them firmly. "Whether the Colonel's right or not about my immortal soul, I want to die doing something that's worth a damn. I joined the Guard to fight for the Emperor, I ain't gonna rot in a cell, be sure about that/
'With you on this one, scarface/ Franx laughs. 'Give me a gun, a googly-eyed alien to shoot it at, and I'll die a happy man/
* * *
It's another twenty cycles before we drop from warp space into the Hypernol system. The tension and uncertainty is almost tearing us apart. A trooper called Dress was shot by the arms-men when he attacked a Navy warrant officer during unarmed combat drill. Another, Krilbourne, got a broken arm from a fight with Donalson, and everyone, including me, has a few bruises and cuts from flaring tempers. I've tried everything to ease the men: drilling them hard so they're too exhausted to scrap, organised a meal time rotation system so that everyone eats with everyone else and the squads don't get too isolated, stuff like that. None of it seems to be working too well, but then again maybe things would be a whole lot worse if I hadn't.
I'm not sure why I'm bothering, to be honest. Actually that's not true, when I think about it. On the face of it, I could quite happily let them strangle each other in their sleep, even Franx and Gappo, and I wouldn't shed a tear. Nearly four thousand in the regiment have died, and I hardly ever give them a second thought, except perhaps in my warp-dreams. No, it's not a concern for them individually that I'm worried about. It's my survival that bothers me. If the Last Chancers are going to keep going, which means I get to keep breathing, they need to stay sharp, need to keep it together as a fighting force. They always fight and bicker, more than even your normal Guardsmen, but in a fight they watch out for each other.
There's something about battle that unites men like us, whether it's for a common cause or, like us, just for survival. You're all in the same crap, and that makes a bond stronger than friendship or family. But as soon as the battle's finished, the cause is gone and they fragment again. I've come to realise a lot about these men, and myself along with them, over the past thirty months. They're born fighters, men who are at their best in combat. Any other situation and they're not worth a damn, but with a knife or a gun in their hands they seem a whole lot happier somehow. I know I am. I like to know that the man in front of me is the enemy and the one behind me is an ally. I can handle that without any problem. It's the rest of it that I can't stand: the politics and personalities, the responsibilities and the frustration and helplessness of it all. If you haven't been there, you might have some clue what I'm talking about, but to really understand you can't just watch, you have to take part.
* * *
It's with confusion and trepidation that we're herded back into the cell after exercise; rumours are flying everywhere that the transport the Colonel left in has come back. My feelings are mixed, and I'm just waiting to see who's come with him, if anyone, before I start worrying about the future.
Sure enough, an hour later the cargo hold door opens and the Colonel steps in. I bark orders to the Last Chancers, forming them up for the unexpected inspection. The Colonel walks along the five ranks, looking intently at each of the men, before standing next to me.
The men appear to be combat ready, Lieutenant Kage/ he quietly says to me.
They are, sir/ I reply, keeping my eyes firmly directed forwards as my drill sergeant instructed me back in basic training.
You have done well, Kage/ he tells me and my heart skips a beat. I barely stop my eyes flicking to the right to see his face. That's the first word of praise I've ever heard slip from the Colonel's lips. It's stupid, I know, but to hear him sound pleased makes me feel good. The praise of this murderous bastard, this unfeeling tyrant, makes me happy. I feel like a traitor to the other Last Chancers, but I can't stop myself.
Той will have to reorganise the squads again/ he tells me. You have some new troopers/ He takes a couple of steps back towards the door and gestures to the armsmen waiting in the corridor. Two figures walk into the cell chamber and I stare in amazement at them.
The two of them are almost identical. Both are tail and slender and dressed in urban camouflage fatigues. Even in the yellow light of the cell their skin is incredibly pale, almost white, and so is their hair. Not silvery grey with age, but pure white, cropped about two centimettes long. As they march into the hold and stand to attention in front of the Colonel I can see their eyes, strikingly blue, a lot darker than the icy colour of the Colonel's, but still very disturbing. Looking more closely at them, I see that the one on the left is a woman. I can see the roundness of small, firm breasts under her shirt, and a curve to her hips which is altogether quite pleasing to the eye. There were about forty women in the Last Chancers when we first started out, but the last of them, Aliss, was killed on Promor about a year ago. The only women I've seen since then were the Battle Sisters at Deliverance, and they were always wearing power armour.
'See that they settle in, lieutenant/ the Colonel orders, snapping me from my contemplation of the finer points of the female form. He strides out and everybody relaxes.
'Names?' I ask, walking up to the new pair, my eyes still drawn to the woman.
'I am Loron/ the man says, his voice quiet, almost feminine. He indicates his companion. This is Lorii, my sister/
'I'm Kage. You two will join my squad/ I tell them, pointing towards where Franx and the others are lounging. Without a word they walk off, sitting next to each other near the wall, in the vicinity of the squad, but not really with them. Franx waves me over.
4Vho are they?' he asks, staring at the two troopers.
'Loron and Lorii/ I tell him, pointing each one out. 'Twins, I reckon/
'Not exacdy your normal guardsmen, are they?' Linskrug mutters, stepping up beside Franx, his eyes following our gaze.
"What do you call a normal guardsman, baron?' Franx asks with venom in his voice. There's always been a bit of a thing between the two of them. I blame Franx's experience with the officers of his regiment for his distrust of anyone from the Imperial aristocracy. Linskrug didn't help himself; he was a bit off-hand when he first arrived a couple of years ago. But since then I mink he's realised he's up to his neck in crap, just like the rest of us. Franx doesn't seem to have noticed the change, though.
'One with a bit of colour, I guess/ Linskrug chuckles, slapping Franx jovially on the shoulder. They do seem a bit distant though/ he adds.
'Quit staring, the pair of you!' I snap, tearing my own eyes away. They'll soon warm up, once they've shared a few meals and exercise periods. They certainly won't settle in with everybody giving them the wide-eyed treatment all the time/
'Gives me a strange feeling,' Franx says with a mock shudder before strolling off. Linskrug wanders away after another few seconds, leaving me standing there with my own thoughts. I glance at the two again. It's odd, you'd think that combat fatigues would make a woman look more masculine, but to my eye the manly clothing only emphasises her female attributes even more. Giving myself a mental slap to clear my thoughts, I march away, hollering for Poal and lorett's squads to report for exercise.
>
* * *
'Witchery, it must be! says Slavini, dropping to a crouch and bending his head forward to stretch the muscles in his back.
'I don't think they'd taint us with a thaumist/1 reply casually, continuing my own warm-up exercises.
'But nobody's heard them utter a word to each other/ protests the sergeant, standing up again. Twins are more prone to magical infection than others, everyone knows that/
'Well, they keep themselves to themselves/ I admit, 'but I'd prefer that to more gossiping old women and bad-mouths like you/
'Ah/ he says with a triumphant look, 'that's something else as well. In the week they've been here have they given you any trouble at all? Any fights started? Tried to steal anything?'
'No/ I tell him, rolling my head back and forth to loosen my neck. 'I wish you were all like them, in that respect/
'So it stands to reason, doesn't it?' Slavini says emphatically, looking at me for some sign of agreement.
'What stands to reason?' I ask him irritably, wishing he'd talk sense for a change.
Twins, perfectly behaved/ he says in a frustrated fashion, as if his point is obvious. 'Is there any other reason that they'd end up in the Last Chancers you can think of? Witchery, it has to be/
'It doesn't have to be anything of the sort!' I argue. 'Perhaps they're cowards, that's why they're so quiet. Maybe they refused the order to attack or something/
They certainly don't come across to me as cowards/ Slavini counters, leaning against the wall and pulling a leg up behind him with his free hand. There's something hard-edge in there, not fear, when they meet your gaze/
'Okay/ I admit, 'they don't seem to be cowards, but that doesn't make them psykers/
'Does to me/ Slavini exclaims, getting the last word in before jogging off along the gantry. Shaking my head in disbelief at his stubbornness, I run after him.