SONS OF NORTHAM

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only War.

Prologue

THEN

101.946.M41, Northam Prime, Segmentum Obscuras

There were seven statues.

Each one was twenty feet tall and cast in solid bronze, polished to a reflective shine and lovingly attended to stave off the agents of decay. Six of them formed a rough circle that surrounded the seventh, central figure of an old and hunched man wearing the long coat and uniform of a Navy Captain. His face - complete with a perfectly-groomed moustache and bearing a monocle - was forever locked into a pensive expression, as he stared out across the grand city of Endeavour, named after the captain's old ship.

He was Jeremiah Northam, the intrepid Explorator Captain who had lead his fleet out to this corner of the Segmentum Obscuras nearly three hundred years beforehand and had settled this dusty rock of a planet. A small plaque was affixed to the rockcrete base of the statue, bearing three simple words that had now been engraved into the minds of every resident of the Northam system.

I see potential.

Those words were spoken to his fellow subordinate captains, when all of them tried to convince him to move on, to seek a more suitable planet to colonise. But the wily old man was convinced that the planet held unseen potential, and stayed his course. And the rest was history.

The remaining statues depicted his six immediate captains from that fleet, who had gone on to found the six major noble families of Northam, each one holding sway over one of the planet's major cities. Nathan Flynn with his roguish expression and long, flowing coat was instantly recognisable, as the founder of Flynn's Respite and the great hero of The Uphill Struggle. Opposite him was the distinguished figure of Cormac Kessler with his spectacular waxed moustache, and next to him was Lilith Parker, identifiable by the shoulder-high cane she was standing with, and the imperious look about her narrow, blade-like face. The bronze was not painted or coloured in any way, but the Founders were still recognisable from their silhouettes and individual bearing. Every child of Northam Prime learned each figure off by heart.

The young boy – blonde-haired and blue eyed and tall – turned back from the statues, standing at the very centre of the city's Grand Plaza, a huge open space paved with marble flagstones, grand fountains cast in steel and silver, and dozens of benches for visitors to come and see the sights. On a regular basis pilgrims came to Northam Prime to gaze upon the grand plaza, even from half a Segmentum away. It was a fitting tribute to the potential of mankind, and of an old man's simple belief in himself and those around him.

Right now, it was full of a different group of people. Most of them were young, eager, fresh-faced, but there were a good number of older men there too, some of them milling about in groups, though the majority had joined a long line which reached to the North end of the plaza, into the shadow of the city's grand cathedral. Either side of the line was watched over by pairs of men, either in the brown uniform of the Adeptus Arbites, or in the blue armour of the Northam Guard, the golden trim of their uniforms marking them out as members of the 1st Regiment, or the 'Honoured' as they were known.

Centuries ago – after the Uphill Struggle which nearly destroyed the fledgling Imperial colonies of the Northam System – the 1st Northam Guard regiment had sacrificed much to aid in the great victory then, and in recognition for their service and sacrifice, the regiment had been granted the honour of standing an eternal vigil on their home planet. Maintained at a constant number of ten thousand, the 1st Honour Guard would stand their ground against any and all threats to their home planet, providing a solid boost to the main PDF forces. Most of the Honour Guard on duty today were on patrol, though there was the odd group here and there, clustered around Chimera carriers and other vehicles, talking amongst themselves and even to the odd visitor who asked them a question.

The Arbiters were less approachable though. Most of them were in their full armour with the visors down, with shotguns or auto rifles cradled in their hands and watching the crowds of milling civilians carefully. Sometimes they would move lingering groups on, barking out curt commands with their vox-amplified voices.

"Move on, citizens!" snapped the closest one, sounding more like some artificial construct than a human. The boy hurried along on command, joining the long snaking line of people stretching far into the distance, towards the base of the grand Cathedral of the Founders, centre of the Ecclesiarchy's power on Northam Prime. Its main spires towered a hundred feet above the plaza and its thronging visitors, threading their patient way towards a line of tables in the shadow of the great building.

The boy tried to crane his neck to peer down towards the front of the line, but it was no use. He was too far off and there were far too many people in the way for him to make anything out. The people in line were all men of various ages, shapes and sizes, though there was a predominance of PDF troopers, many of them still in their uniforms. They were all eager, excitedly speaking between themselves. Here was their chance to get off-world finally rather than being chained to Northam Prime's rock and dust for the rest of their careers.

But then again, today was a day to be celebrated. Segmentum Command were launching a new crusade to quell a sudden heretic uprising in the neighbouring sector, and they required fresh fighting men for the endeavour, including a significant tithe of an extra fifty thousand troops from Northam Prime. The soldiers of the Northam Guard were well known for their numerous victories against the Orks in this part of Imperial space, especially against those in the nearby Apotheosis system who were a constant threat to Northam and her system, along with their excellent discipline on and off the battlefield. Thus, they were in high demand in at least a dozen war theatres, and growing.

It took nearly two hours for the boy to finally get close enough to the front of the line to see the line of tables ahead of them. They were staffed by Munitorium clerks in red clothing, backed up by men from both the Arbites and the 1st Honour Guard who stood behind the clerks, weapons visible. There was a veritable pile of papers and other miscellaneous items spread across the tables, and each man who approached the tables was asked a curt series of questions before a decision was made. Some of the men were given a form and a nub of graphite and moved on, while others were turned away entirely, either due to their occupation being noted as an 'essential' one, or they were PDF soldiers who couldn't be taken on lest they leave their main postings understaffed.

One of them argued at length with the male clerk in front of them, who just had this glazed, tired look that all drones of the Munitorium seemed to share, speaking in a monotonous tone that suggested great fatigue. The PDF man wasn't taking no for an answer though, hunched right over the desk, palms flat on the wood. He only backed off when an Arbites officer racked their shotgun and aimed it at the man, ordering him away with a curt blast of vox-enhanced voice. The PDF soldier retreated, cursing and promising a reckoning that would never come.

Ten minutes later, the boy was second in line. He could hear the conversation between the nearest clerk and the man in front of him. This clerk was female, younger than the first but still with that same vacant, exhausted look all Munitorium staff seemed to wear. She was asking the man in front of her a series of questions about occupation, current living condition, and so forth. Occupation was always important if the recruit held some vital job on the world. A minute later, the clerk seemed satisfied and passed some papers and some graphite to the man, who took them and moved on, where he was promptly given a bulging kit bag which was thrust into his arms without fanfare, and he staggered away.

"Next!" a voice barked, and the boy looked up and around, briefly caught off-guard.

"Go on, you're holding up the rest of us!" snarled a voice behind him, and then someone drove a palm into the back of his shoulder and he stumbled forwards.

"Name?" the clerk then asked. The boy swallowed nervously, then looked the woman right in the eye and gave his answer.

"Gaius Nova."

"Any debilitating medical conditions or illnesses? Are you taking any form of medication?"

"No and no."

"Age?"

"Eighteen," he answered, which was the minimum for recruitment in this system. The clerk seemed satisfied as she made one final scrawl on her slate, and then passed Gaius his own forms and a stylus with which to fill them in.

"The Emperor Protects," the woman said, then looked past him at the next in line. "Next!"

Then the young man – still a boy in some regards – was ushered along to the next in line, to another Munitorium clerk who practically tossed a bulging backpack at the boy, which Gaius caught with a little difficulty, and then staggered off to find a place to sit down and complete his forms. He found a relatively shaded spot in the shadow of the cathedral's flank and sat himself down, surrounded by dozens of others like him: men of all ages and sizes, from all walks of life, here to do their service to the Emperor. To leave this dust bowl of a world behind and set out across the stars.

Less than an hour later, they all filed into the cathedral's nave, hundreds of them, and they all crouched at the far end, in front of the main altar, in order to take their oaths to the Emperor and to the Imperium, becoming fully fledged Guardsmen before they left world. In that moment, crouched on the marble tiles of the cathedral nave, repeating the oaths as they were recited by the bishop in his crimson finery, stood at the pulpit, Gaius Nova would always remember that singular instance of feeling like part of something significant, something huge.

This was what he was born for.

Then they were packed into the troop transports – hundreds of them packed in as tightly as bluebait fish – and they were jetting away off planet, up into the massive ships in low orbit, readying to take them onto their very first posting as Northam Guard. Some nightmare realm, half a sector away, bathed in mud, blood, ruins and the madness that frequently came with any warzone. He glanced around at the faces he could see, every one of them a complete stranger. Most of them wore the solemn look of men who were fully aware of what was to come, but they accepted it nevertheless. This was their duty after all.

Gaius Nova glanced up towards the ceiling of the hold, feeling the subtle vibration and hum of the vessel he was stood in. He was about to see how dark and savage the galaxy could be, and he didn't care a jot.

NOW

201.968.M41, Northam Prime, Segmentum Obscuras

There were seven statues.

Each was twenty foot tall and cast from bronze, each one depicting Old Man Northam and his six captains which would form the planet's six main founding noble families, their living descendants still ruling over Northam's people. The statues were showing the unmistakable green shade of corrosion on some of the more exposed areas, but otherwise they were maintained well enough to give an impression of each figure's character and personality: Nathan Flynn's roguishness, Shay Castor's calm nature, or Lilith Parker's shrewd intellect.

Much the same as it was twenty-two years ago, another huge crowd of Northam men had gathered, in order to give themselves to the Emperor's service and fight against His enemies the galaxy over. But this time security was much higher, following the suppression of a recent secessionist uprising. Though swiftly crushed by a unit of Northam PDF, the authorities were taking no chances: Leman Russ tanks idled at the corners of the Plaza of Potential, while units of PDF soldiers in their Northam blue uniforms lingered here and there, lasguns on full display. The 1st Honour Guard occupied reinforced bunkers and sandbag emplacements, manning heavy weapons in some cases.

But that didn't deter the eager recruits, who turned out in their thousands to enlist. Over three hundred years after the original settlement of the system, the Northam Guard had announced the formation of three new regiments: the 201st, 202nd and 203rd Northam Guard. But there was also a need of reinforcement for other existing regiments: badly mauled following their recent exploits against the Old Enemy many sectors away. The mood was generally upbeat, as groups of friends or acquaintances gathered around talking between themselves, or sometimes even complete strangers who shared a common interest as they clustered together, talking animatedly. Some of them already had received their equipment packs, bulging with all manner of essential gear for their Guard careers.

One particular young man, who had turned eighteen only a few days ago, wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was staring sideways, at the slew of recruitment posters plastered across the side of a small shrine dedicated to the Castor founding family. Most of them were old and tattered, showing classic symbols of Imperial propaganda: stern-faced Commisars beseeching others to serve the Emperor, lines of Leman Russ tanks churning on to war, skies filled with the unmistakable outline of Lightning fighters.

But a few were the most recent, showing the chiselled features of a Northam officer in a dress uniform gazing out at some unseen feature, while in the background there was a line of men approaching a recruiting station. Above the design was emblazoned in huge black lettering, DO NORTHAM PROUD: OFFER YOUR SERVICE TO THE EMPEROR. Certainly it had the desired effect, looking at the turnout. The line suddenly shuffled forward, and the man moved with them, moving his gaze back to staring straight ahead. The line was heading towards the base of the Cathedral of the Founders, which had added a few new spires over the last decade.

Matthias Grendel – eighteen years old standard, green-eyed and blonde-haired, and at that point in his life, resolutely afraid of nothing in the galaxy (though the future would prove him very wrong in that regard). On Northam Prime, a man his age had little to look forward to save for either a posting on a fishing trawler, or back-breaking work down in the mines, extracting ores and valuable minerals. Why else would he come down and volunteer his service to the Emperor purely on a whim?

"Next!"

Matthias glanced up and realised that he'd drifted to the front of the line sometime in the last ten minutes. He blinked in surprise, before he noticed the nearby PDF troops watching him warily, and he moved forwards, up to the recruiting table where the Munitorium clerks waited. He stepped up to the one in the centre, the closest one.

"Name?" the middle-aged clerk asked Matthias as he held a blank form and a stylus before him. Matthias took a deep breath and opened his mouth to answer before someone else was barking at him.

"Feline got your tongue?" growled the armed, grizzled Guardsmen standing beside the clerk, "spit it out, wretch!"

"Matthias Grendel," he replied, with a trace of annoyance of being spoken down to in such a way.

The clerk wrote the name down and then asked their next question. "Any debilitating medical conditions or illnesses? Are you on any medication?"

"No to both."

The scratch of a stylus on dataslate. "Age?"

"Eighteen."

"Occupation?"

"None." That answer drew a brief glance from the clerk and the PDF sergeant beside him, but then there was the scrape of the stylus against slate, and he continued on as though nothing had happened with his questions.

And then, just like that, it was over. The clerk tapped on his dataslate twice, and the information was sent on. "Thank you for your personals, now move along the line to my colleague and she'll get you your forms." Matthias had just about enough time to nod his thanks before he felt the hand of a PDF soldier on his shoulder and he was being ushered further along the line to another tired-looking clerk, this one a middle-aged female with greying hair.

"Fill these in and return them here," she said, sliding across a thin sheaf of forms and a nub of graphite with which to write, and Matthias scooped them up and then followed the woman's outstretched pointing hand towards an area off to the cathedral's flank, filled with milling recruits who were sat on upturned boxes or cross-legged on the dusty flagstones, filling in their own forms. Matthias found himself a shady spot in the shade of the cathedral's massive white stone wall and sat himself down to complete his own forms.

He was halfway through when he stopped and glanced up and around, taking in the numerous faces that he shared the space with. There were several clusters of young men standing around together and talking, no doubt friends or fellow scholam students who had decided to enlist together, bound tightly together by the bonds of loyalty and brotherhood. But he also saw plenty more who were just standing around on their own, keeping a distance from the others, or daring to approach one another and strike up stilted conversations.

One of these loners was a big, lean-looking man leaning up against a rusty promethium drum that stood in the shadows of a PDF security post. His shaved head and rough, calloused knuckles spoke of a life of hard labour, or the very least a life of violence – making this man well-suited for a life in the Guard, some might say. His grey eyes watched the events unfolding around him with an impassive glance, as though he didn't care what would transpire next. Then there was a burst of sudden noise, and he glanced around at the same time Matthias did.

It came from one of the groups of friends standing in a huddle. There were four of them, each in the dirt-ingrained overalls of workshop apprentices, likely residents of Flynn's Respite. The focus was on an average-sized fellow with short hair that was black as Old Night, and with an easy smile on his face that suggested considerable confidence at his own natural abilities, but that smile quickly gave way to a satisfied sneer, and he looked around to take in the other surrounding faces.

His glance settled onto Matthias for a few brief moments, and then moved on as though nothing had happened, though Matthias thought he saw disdain behind the smug man's grey eyes in that instance.

With a shrug, Matthias finished completing his forms, and returned back to the line of tables with the clerks behind. "Here you go," he said, passing the papers back over. The clerk gave it a quick once-over, then put a stamp on the front page and pointed Matthias along the line to where a pair of men in the uniform of the Northam PDF were handing out Guard-issue packs, stuffed tight with all the essentials all good Guardsmen required. Matthias saw the odd recruit staggering away, arms slung low, under the pack's weight.

"Next!" bellowed one of the PDF men sharply, and Matthias stepped up. "Aye, another one eager for the draft?" he asked with a slight smile beneath his grey forage cap, already reaching for a fresh pack for Matthias to take.

"Yes sir," smiled Matthias, and was just about able to get his arms up before it was shoved unceremoniously into his hands. He sagged under its weight, and then eventually had to drop it to the ground. He gasped a little as the PDF man just laughed at him.

"Ah, don't worry – after all your training that weight will be second nature to you," the man smiled, and Matthias saw for the first time his weathered and lined face. "I did ten in the 33rd Northam."

"33rd?"

"Oh yes, the Heroes of Desponsa, remember?" the man said, animated now he had the opportunity to speak about his past glories. "Where we broke the back of the Ork assault and sent them packing back out of the galaxy's edge itself? But those days of glory are gone now, young one: it's up to you and all these others to carry the torch now," he continued, indicating the other milling recruits with a sweep of his hand.

"I'll do my best, sir," Matthias answered.

"I'm glad to hear that," the man smiled, and patted his hand against Matthias' shoulder. It was only then that Matthias saw that the PDF man's left arm from the elbow down was a bionic replacement. He saw the dense bundle of muscle-weave fibres encased in steel plates, and heard the subtle whirs of servos as they worked to power the limb. But the soldier had already turned away to face the approaching recruits.

"Next!"

As three hundred recruits knelt down on the marbled floor of the Flynn Chapel in the Cathedral of the Founders, Matthias absent-mindedly mused on how this was his first time inside of this grand structure. In his youth he had always prayed within one of the many, tiny chapels that dotted the habs of Endeavour. But this was unlike anything he had ever seen before. His eyes were fixed on an immense carved fresco that lined the wall above the altar to the Emperor, as they took their oath to Terra. It showed the Emperor of Mankind holding the stars in his outstretched hand, looking over his armies as they marched out on the Great Crusade to retake the galaxy for humanity.

The last few years of his life, he had wanted this. To march out, to serve his race, to bring death to the enemies that banged at their doors. And so far, fate had denied him that. But no longer. He returned his gaze to the bishop at the altar leading the oath, flanked by a pair of PDF officers who recited along with the recruits.

As the oath came to an end, Matthias glanced back up at the larger-than-life depiction of the Emperor and felt his heart soar. This was it, now. This was a life that would be worth living. There was a rustle of movement as three hundred men rose to their feet at the same time, and bowed their heads, crossing their hands across their chest in the shape of the Aquila.

"The Emperor Protects," intoned the Bishop.

"The Emperor Protects," they all murmured in response.

No turning back.

A/N: Welcome, fellow servants of the Emperor of Mankind (or not, who knows?).

Welcome to the opening entry in the first part (I hope) of the Sons of Northam saga, following the trials and tribulations of the Guardsmen of the 19th Northam Guard regiment. They were first introduced in the small ficlet I did a few years ago called The Pride of Northam, which you can of course access through the list of my stories from my profile page if you want to acquaint yourself with some of the figures who will be making a return appearance in this new story. In the meantime, please R & R: all feedback is appreciated.

Jammer69er