by Gav Thorpe
Even inside the walls of Epsilon Station, hewn from the bare rock of the mountains, it's cold. Damn cold. Outside, they say, you'll freeze in five minutes without a proper suit. I can damn well believe it too, my toes are still numb from the short trek from the landing pad at the top of the valley. We're resting up here tonight and heading off in the morning. As I lead the men
to the part of the barracks the Colonel's requisitioned for us, Franx falls in beside me.
'Planet's going to kill me, Kage/ he says sombrely, gloved hands clumsily unfastening the toggles down the front of his heavy winter coat.
'If False Hope didn't get you, this place is a walk in the plaza/ I reassure him.
'False Hope might get me yet,' he says with a grimace. 'Cold is playing havoc with my chest, can hardly breathe/
You'll survive/ I say with feeling. 'It's what we're good at/
'Maybe/ he admits, still looking unconvinced. 'Just a matter of time before we're all dead. If the weather doesn't kill me, orks might. How long can we keep surviving?'
'As long as we want to/ I tell him emphatically, gripping his shoulder. 'Look, my philosophy is that if you give up, you've had it. You need something to hang on to. Me, it's the Colonel. Every time I see him I convince myself again that he's not going to get me killed. I don't want to give him that pleasure. It's worked so far/
'You believe him about our chance at redemption?' asks Franx, hopefully.
'It ain't what I believe that matters/ I tell him with a shrug. 'It's what you believe that's important. We deal with it in our own way. Linskrug thinks that if he can just survive he'll be able to return and reclaim his barony and get revenge on his enemies. Kronin's gone mental, but he thinks he's the voice of the Emperor now and that's what gets him through. Everyone's got their own thing. The ones who died just didn't believe it enough. If you want to fight for your soul, that's fine by me/
'Emperor, you're bloody scalding me!' Gappo shrieks at the young boy by the water temperature controls. Steam rises from the massive pool, condensing in droplets on the light blue tiles of the walls. He pulls himself up the side so that just his legs are dangling in the bath.
'Keep it nice and hot, boy/ argues Poal, the former storm trooper. This weather's bitten clean through to my heart, I need to let the heat seep in/
'Don't rust your hook/ Gappo sneers back, gingerly lowering himself back into the water.
'Best damn wash I've had in a long while/ I tell them, reaching for one of the bottles of cleansing tonic. This ansidium stuff must bring in a good price, they live pretty well here on Kragmeer/
'By the sounds of it, the Cult Mechanicus give an arm and a leg for the stuff/ agrees Poal, sliding further into the water until it's up to his chin. "Think what kind of energy it takes to heat water to this when it's freezing cold topside/
'Push over, give a weak man room!' calls Franx, padding gingerly across the floor, his bare feet reluctant to touch the cold tiles. He's right, he is looking really haggard, his once ample frame clings to his bones now. There's still plenty of muscle there, but the weight's fallen off him completely. He dips a toe in and whips it back with a hiss, much to everyone's amusement.
Too hot for your delicate skin?' laughs Poal, splashing water at the sergeant. Franx puts a foot on Poal's head, forcing it under the water. When he surfaces again, spluttering and cursing, Franx jumps in beside him.
'Aieee/ he winces, biting his lip. 'Bastard hot!'
You get used to it!' I reassure him, pouring some lotion into the stubbly growth on my head that passes for hair.
'Don't forget to wash behind your ears/ Gappo chuckles, grabbing the bottle from me, his lunge forward causing waves to lap against the side and splash up onto die floor. I hear someone else coming in and look up to see Kronin, treading cautiously across the water-slicked tiles.
'And there shall be space in the Emperor's heart for all true believers/ he tells us, waiting at the edge, peering suspiciously into the pool.
That means shift up, Last Chancers/ I tell them, pushing Poal to one side to clear a space on my right. Kronin takes a deep breath and steps off the edge; the small man splashes in and goes completely under. A few seconds later he bursts into view again, face split by one of the widest grins I've seen.
'Could easily stay here for days/ Franx rasps, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the pool edge. 'Can see why Kragmeerans don't mind cold patrols up top if they come back to mis/
'I think it's Kragmeerites/ Gappo corrects him, tossing the lotion to Poal.
'Kragmeerans, Kragmeerites, whatever/ Franx croaks back sleepily.
'And I'm sure the novelty wears off after a dozen sweeps in the early morning frost/ the ex-preacher continues. 'I met a sergeant from one of their long-range scouting groups. Even the most experienced men die quite regularly. Frostbite, hidden crevasses, ice bears, all kinds of nasty things waiting for the unwary out there/
'Can't be any worse than False Hope/ I remind them. 'Now there was a hellhole, with no redeeming features/
'Amen to that/ Franx agrees. He's got more reason than any of us to want to forget that deathworld.
There was a great light, and all around was the beauty of the Emperor/ chips in Kronin, chasing after a piece of soap as it slithers through his thin fingers.
'Eh? What's that mean?' asks Poal. Our synchronised shrugs cause more ripples to spread across the water, and Kronin looks around, brow furrowed in thought.
"There was rejoicing upon the Square of the Evernight, for the darkness had passed and the light had returned/ he tries again. He sighs in frustration when we shake our heads.
'Try something from the Articles of Thor/ suggests Gappo. 'I studied them. Wrote a treatise published in the Magnamina Liber, actually/
'I always thought the Articles of Thor were dull/ argues Poal, dropping the lotion bottle over his shoulder onto the tiled floor. 'Give me some stirring hymns from the Crusade Verses/
You even think about singing, I'll drown you/ Franx laughs. We all have to put up with Poal's atonal bellowing in the ablution block aboard ship.
'Ah!' exclaims Kronin suddenly, raising a finger excitedly in the air like some ageing scholar who's just discovered the secret of eternal health, youth and attraction to the opposite sex. The people gathered about Thor, and fell to their knees in adoration, for they realised that all that had come to pass was gone, and that all that remained was the future, and it was filled with the love of the Emperor!'
'Thor five-six-eight/ Gappo tells us, biting the corner of his lip in thought. 'It's all about how the people of San Sebacle survived the horrors of the Reign of Blood/
'Going to be all right!' exclaims Franx suddenly, opening his eyes and turning to Kronin. 'Got a good feeling?'
Kronin grins widely again and nods, his thin face bobbing up and down in the water.
That's comforting/ Poal says. 'Last time Kronin had a good feeling about a mission was on Harrifax. I ended up jumping bunks with Morag Claptin after that one!'
'You mean Lieutenant Claptin? That's how you made sergeant so fast, you wily dog!' Gappo says, his face a picture of shattered innocence. I duck under the water and rinse my head as Poal expands on the details of his conquest. I've heard them before. We've all heard all the stories before, but it doesn't stop us telling them, or listening to them again. Two and a half years together, there isn't that much we don't know about each other. Or anything new to say.
'Damn it!' I hear Poliwicz cursing as I rise up again. He's been busily scrubbing away on the far side of the pool. 'I knew it wouldn't work/
^Vhat's that?' Poal asks, swimming a few strokes to cross the three or so metres to the other side.
Wondered if these fancy cleansers might work on the tattoo/ Poliwicz admits, lifting his shoulder out of the water to show where he's rubbed his upper arm raw. He's talking about the penal legion marking we all got tattooed with when we were 'recruited'.
'Ain't nothing gets rid of that/ Poal assures
us. "Cept perhaps the worms. Just ask Kage here, look what happened to his/ he adds, swimming back and prodding his hook into my right upper arm. You can't see that much of my tattoo now, there's a scar from a too-near miss of an eldar splinter rifle slashed across it.
You remember Themper?' I ask them and they nod. 'Remember how he used his bayonet to slice off about three fingers of flesh to get rid of his?'
That's right!' exclaims Poal. 'Bled like some fragged bastard for weeks, then they just tattooed another one onto his other arm and the Colonel told him if he cut that one out the next one would be across his face!'
'Should've said it'd be on his crotch/ Poliwicz laughs loudly. There'd be no way he'd take a blade anywhere near there!'
'He still died of blood poisoning though/ Gappo finishes the sorry saga of Themper. 'That's what happens when you don't change dressings/
'And that is the importance of cleanliness and hygiene/ I say to them like a stern tutor. And then I grab a wet flannel floating in the pool and fling it at Franx, landing it square across his chin. Franx hurls it back, then Kronin ducks under the water and grabs my leg, pulling me under, and everything devolves into soaking wet anarchy as the others pile in on top.
As we get further into the mountains, the weather gets worse, if you can believe it. The wind gusts so strongly at times the only thing keeping me upright is that I'm standing thigh-deep in snow. The going is really slow sometimes, as we have to force our way up a ridge or slope. They're expecting the orks to reach the pass we'll be defending in about five days, and we've got to cover more than forty-five kilometres in that time. Not only that, we've got to bring all our camp equipment with us. A few dozen ploughfoots haul sledges for the heaviest gear, but the rest of it we're humping on our backs. I've never been so bone-tired before in my life. The past two nights I've just collapsed in my bedroll and fallen asleep almost straight away. At least we're getting some fresh food, roasted snow-ox, Kragmeerian pod-wheat and other such basics. It's good wholesome stuff. The Colonel realises that we wouldn't be able to carry on in these conditions on a bowl of protein slop a day.
The worst problem is the broken monotony. You can march for an hour or two, happily getting into your stride and letting your mind wander away from all this crap so that you don't notice the biting cold or the continuous aches in your spine and the backs of your legs. But then you have to scale a hill or something, or the snow gets soft and shifts under your feet, or you almost stumble into an ice crevasse, and it breaks your rhythm entirely and you have to work really hard to get back into your comfortable, numbing rut again.
The whole comms-blockage is playing on my mind too. I've been thinking about it while I've been plodding along. No communications with the base or even an army in the next valley. We're totally isolated. We're marching out here just to fight and die. Nobody's expecting us to return, they're just hoping our deaths will make the orks falter for a day or two while they
build more barricades and bring in more troops from other stations. Fodder, that's all we are. Fodder for the orks to chew on for a while, maybe to choke on a litde, and then it's over. Emperor knows what Kronin was so happy about. The hot bath seems a thousand kilometres and a year ago, though it was only three days.
Kragmeer is two different worlds, if you ask me. There's the one inside the stations. Nice, civilised, heated. Then there's the surface where snow twisters tear across the ice plains, blizzards can rip the skin off a man, and predators the size of batde tanks fight with each other for morsels of precious food. One planet, two worlds. And we have to get stuck in the nasty one.
I've been watching the Colonel closely these past few days and he seems to have changed. He seems more agitated than usual, urging us on with more than even his normal uncaring relendessness. This whole business about us getting redirected to Kragmeer has unsettled him for some reason, and that worries me. If there's something that unsettles the Colonel, it probably should make me very, very worried. Still, there doesn't seem to be anything that can be done about it, whatever it is, so I try not to get overly concerned. Problem is, just trudging along I've got too much time to think, and that's when I get depressed. I don't like to think about the future, because I never know when I won't have one any more. Not that I've got much of one at the moment either.
Braxton died today. The stupid fragger slipped out of his tent and tried to make a run for it. He headed the wrong way for a start, legging even further into the wilderness. We found his body a couple of hours along the march. He'd slipped down a narrow ravine, jagged icicles tearing his coat to ribbons. His body was frozen solid just a couple of metres down the crevasse, his face looked very serene considering his blood had frozen in his veins. He must have passed out before he died, that's what Gappo reckons.
It's the end of another long day. Not just in terms of hard work, it really is a long day here. It lasts about half as long again as a Terran day, which is what they use for the shipboard wake and sleep cycle. In the middle of winter, that's still twelve hours of straight slog; you can't really even stop for proper meals or anything, because once you stop, it's so hard to get
going again. I'm getting blisters on my feet the size of eyeballs, and Poliwicz reckons he's going to lose a toe or two to frostbite. I told him to check with the Kragmeer guides, to see if he can get some better boots or something. They told him to put ploughfoot crap in his boots, for added insulation. Poal thought they were messing Poliwicz around, but I'll give it a try tomorrow, see if it works. If it gives me another edge, something else that helps keep me alive in this place, I'll do it.
There's self-respect, and there's pride, and some people can't see where the line is drawn. For me die difference is between doing something you don't want to but is necessary, and just plain refusing to do anyming unpleasant at all. I won't let anyone tell me I'm worthless, even if I am a criminal. But I'll still put crap in my boots if it means it'll keep my feet warm. That's self-respect, not pride.
Kragmeer's star looks very distant and almost bluish as it sets over the mountains. Everything about this place is cold, even the light. I turn and watch the others rigging up our three storm tents - long, dome-like shapes of reinforced animal hide, designed to let the wind flow over them rather than push them over. Everything has to be done inside, the cooking, cleaning. Even emptying your bowels, which is quite unpleasant for everyone involved because snow ox is quite rich, if you understand me. Better that than freezing your butt off in a blizzard though.
With the camp set up, I tell Gappo to break out the stove. Huddled under the low roof of the tent, a few of us try to get as close as possible to the portable cooker, desperate for any warmth. The others huddle down in their bedrolls instead. Like everything else on Kragmeer, the stoves have been chosen for their suitability for the conditions, using a hot plate rather than an open flame that could set light to the tent. Its red glow is the only illumination, reflecting off the flapping walls to cast ruddy shadows, one moment making the tent seem warm and cosy, the next turning it into a blood-hued vision of hell. I try to concentrate on the warm and cosy look.
'I can't remember the last time I was this cold/ mutters Poal, his good hand held over the hotplate while Gappo digs around in the ration bags.
'Sure you can/ says Poliwicz, pulling back his hood to reveal his flat cheeks and broad nose, a classic example of Myrmidian ancestry. 'It was when you were in bed with Gappo's sister!'
'I don't have a sister/ Gappo says distractedly, pulling a hunk of flesh die size of my forearm from a saddlebag and dusting it off with his sleeve.
'Do they remove your sense of humour in the Ecclesiarchy?' asks Poliwicz, pushing past me to help Gappo with the food preparation.
'Hmm? No, they just bludgeon it out of you/ Gappo replies sincerely. 'Keeping the souls of humanity pure is a serious endeavour, you know.'
'I guess you're right/ Poliwicz concedes, pulling another piece of meat free and slapping it sizzling onto the stove.
'Not as
serious as filling the coffers with donations and penances, of course/ Gappo adds darkly.
'Stop it right there!' I snap, before anyone else can say anything. 'Can we talk about something else? I'm too tired to stop you killing each other over religion/
Everyone sits quiet, only the wind and the sputtering of the food on the stove break the silence. The tent flaps and flutters, the gale singing across the guy ropes in a tuneless fashion. I hear laughter from one of the other tents, where I put Franx in charge. The Colonel's on his own, keeping his solitary counsel as usual. It's been said before that he practises ways of killing himself in case he gets captured. I guess we all occupy our minds during these quiet moments in our own ways. Well, if the orks get him, all he'll have to do is strip naked and he'll be a lifeless icicle in minutes. The smell of the grilling snow ox fills the tent with its thick scent, reminding my stomach how empty it is. Someone else's guts gurgle in appreciation, so I'm not alone.
'I've got a sister/ Poal says finally.
'Oh, yeah?' I ask, expecting this to be the lead up to some crass joke.
'No, seriously/ he tells us. 'She was, is still I hope, in one of the Orders Hospitaller, from the Sisterhood.'
'Patching up wounded soldiers?' Gappo asks.
That's right/ Poal confirms. 'Last I heard from her, before my unfortunate encounter with that two-timing serving wench, she was in a field surgery over near Macragge/
'Say what you like about the Ministorum and their tithes, you get it back really/ says Poliwicz.
'In what way?' asks Gappo, the question half an accusation.