Rest and the Unquiet Dead
The Imperial Guard is regarded as the Hammer of the Imperium for a very good reason. It is a blunt instrument, weighed down with uncountable soldiers, munitorum workers, bureaucrats, administrators, trainers, procedures, camp followers, and the monumental task of defending humanity from any and all threats at all costs. It is a vast and far reaching organization, slow to move, slow to react, taking months or years to respond to a threat because of the difficulties of warp travel. However, like a hammer, once it is lifted and swung it gains momentum until nothing can stand in its way and anything that tries is smashed to pieces. Trod on by a trillion boots and ground to nothing by a billion treads. It is relentless in its duty, with near infinite reserves of manpower to call upon. Yes the Imperial Guard is the righteous hammer of the Imperium, but for more discreet matters there are more discreet organizations.
The Ordos of the Inquisition are what many could call the scalpel of the Imperium. Small, quick to move about, easy to hide, and viciously sharp when an incision needs to be made. The Inquisition in Imperial hierarchy is second only to the Emperor in terms of power and is beyond reproach from the other adeptus orders of the Imperium save for the fabled asartes and those within their own order. Yes, to compare the inquisition to a scalpel would be very fitting indeed.
They look for the sickly parts of the Imperium. The parts where rot and decay, the corruption of the ruinious powers or lust for power threatens the greater Imperium and they remove it with surgical efficiency. Quickly, quietly, and much of the time very discreetly. A simple day surgery is all that is required to keep the Imperium running smoothly and most of the time the people of the Imperium have no idea that the inquisition was ever there at all. One cut straight to the point and their work is done.
Many only know of the three main branches of the Inquisition and to them they are all that exist within the vast organization. The Ordo Hereticus, meant to stop those who would turn away from the Emperor and keep the tainted touch of the warp and other abominations away from the hearts and minds of the citizens of the Imperium. Those who lack faith are reeducated quickly. Those who proclaim the Emperor's falseness are made to repeal their statements through bloody tears, and those who would wish to consort with powers not of this realm are dealt with. Ruthlessly.
The next and possibly best known ordo of the inquisition is the Ordo xenos. One of the largest, or perhaps the largest branch of the Inquisition. They are tasked with finding, tracking down, isolating, keeping tabs on, and making sure that anything or anyone that could, might have, or has come into contact with xenos or xenos artifacts are scrutinized under a fine toothed comb and magnifying glass to ensure that the perfume they found isn't a deadly new pathogen. That the man who was for some bizarre reason saved from death by a xenos doesn't start trying to preach their benevolence, or worse still, begin trying to worship their race as a race of gods. (This generally bleeds into a jurisdictional nightmare between the Ordos of Hereticus and Xenos both, generally with a lot of accusations of heresy, blasphemy, name calling, and hurt feelings with the possibility of bolter fire and optional forced apology letters.)
The last and one of the least populous ordos for still being one of the most important is the Ordo Malleus. The very name sends a shiver down people's spines and for good reasons. Daemon hunters and warrior priests, these men and women are those who delve into the heretical, the depraved, and the inhuman machinations of this universe. Of all the ordos, the Inquisitors of the Malleus sect are the most brilliant, the most skilled, and the closest to towing the line between heroism and heretical.
What they see and where they tread is never spoken of, never reflected upon, and only ever recorded by a servitor unit that is destroyed immediately afterwards lest even the act of transcribing the dark deeds and places corrupt the machine into something other than what was intended. Something other than what was thought possible. Though one of the smaller of the major Ordos, Malleus demands as much, if not more respect than the others.
There are other sects of the ordos though that are responsible for more mundane things or even things that would seem odd or even a waste of time. For instance there once was a sect called the Ordo Kronos that was obsessed with the idea of time travel and using it for the gain of the Imperium and humanity as a whole. They were regarded as a joke, until one day every member suddenly just disappeared. A coordinated attack was suspected at first, but after time and consideration, fears that they had been successful began to surface and emerge. Then the ideas that things were changing and they had no way of knowing about it. That the laughing stock of the inquisition was changing history even as they discussed it. Then the conversations trailed off into ideas of the multiple time lines theory as opposed to the theory that the past was changeable instead of making a change being made, therefore creating a new timeline while the old continued undisturbed. Eventually as in all matters dealing with the warp and time travel, it was dropped, classified and all files of it sealed away.
There is another ordo who like to call themselves the Thorians. Obsessed with bringing the Emperor back to life they have been searching for millennia to find a way to restore the vigor and vitality into the Emperor's body to have him once more take up his sword and guide humanity onto a new path. The one that he had envisioned when he set out on his great crusade so long ago. They are small in number, but have a large amount of both financial and political backing, along with their near limitless powers as inquisitors of the most illustrious ordos.
There is another ordos though, that so few know of that they are thought to be a myth. So new in fact that they have only existed for a century or two at most. This ordo calls themselves the Ordo Secularum. This Ordo of the inquisition must guard its' dark secrets against those of the Thorians, because what they study is thought to be eternal life. Woe to any who thinks that though.
The standing belief of the Imperial cult is that all mortal things and beings must eventually expire save for the Emperor who is eternal. Life and death, death especially is one of the fundamental principles of the Imperial Creed. That is why what the Ordo Secularum studies is often called the plague of disbelief.
This is no mere crisis of faith that they consume themselves with in study, for that would merely be the job of the Hereticus Ordo, and not nearly so...unholy. They concern themselves with things which go against the very nature of the universe, against the very teachings of both the Imperial Creed and the adepts of Mars. They try to keep their studies under wraps and away from prying eyes. From both within and without of the ordos.
There are however, as in all things, instances when it is not possible to be discreet. When events transpire to necessitate force of the most overwhelming brutality, and what some would call cruelty. For when the plague of disbelief surfaces from the dark despair of some nameless soul within the Imperium and causes the very order of nature to be disrupted there is no other course but to wage war against it. For in the dark time of the 41st millennium, there is only war.
"So Sarge, what exactly are we doing down here again in the middle of the night?"
"We're here to restore order and quell any dissidence from the local populace."
"So, where's the dissidence?"
"I don't know, you tell me," answered sergeant Thornton to Lao.
They were in the bottom stacks of the hive, down at ground level where the highest amounts of unemployment, crime, and gangs were. There was always something going on down here required Imperial authority to do something. Gang wars getting out of hand, make work projects that tried to get people jobs, but always floundered, and at least every other month some kind of riot or minor rebellion. It usually didn't do much, stopping or being put to rights before even the middle hivers knew what was going on. It was almost a training mission for the local PDF of Bergrundy to go and stop a riot or put an end to a gang war. Usually things quieted down as soon as the first sighting of PDF coming down.
Years and years ago, the low hivers had decided that they weren't going to take to kindly to the seldom seen Imperial authority trying to tell them what to do and had decided to forcibly evict them from their homes. What had followed is now regarded as 'Action 13' and is still regarded as one of the bloodiest events in Bergrundy's history, the conflict ending after a bitter insurrection that resulted in nearly a third of all the stack inhabitants being killed. After that, no one opposed the PDF when they went down to the stacks. No one in the stacks liked them, but there were still a few left alive from the conflict that warned the younger generations of the risk of conflict with the upper hivers. So, simply put, when the PDF showed up, people behaved. Only question being, where were the people?
Thornton surveyed the area with professional interest and a little caution. There were still a few barrel fires burning, smouldering would have been a better word to use to describe it, but thin wisps of smoke still rose from the garbage fires. Fires meant to keep people warm who were no longer around. A few scraps of paper and discarded bags blew around, moved by the whisper of a breeze that managed to make its way down this far with its eery moan and chill, followed by the deep groaning and stuffy heat of the exhaust vents. The vents rattled and groaned, but they weren't blowing anything harmful, just hot air that smelled strongly of burnt metal. While it seemed like a major inconvenience, it actually kept conditions livable down in the stacks in winter by keeping them warm, while the rest of the hive was blanketed in a carpet of pristine white snow.
Vendors stands were abandoned. Illegal things mostly, but others selling what those higher in the hive had thrown away and had now been converted, patched, or make useable by the low stack inhabitants. A few old or barely working wrist chronometers. Patched and third hand clothing in various sizes, and other junky possessions littered the streets or stood unstolen on vendors wagons. If someone had the money, and very few did, they could even get some of the luxury items from the upper hive. Though is someone had that kind of money they wouldn't be in the low hive.
Some of the carts were overturned, some looked half-packed, and others still looked like they had been opened for the day and been left that way. Food, bottled water, and other supplies were strewn across the street in rotting bundles, that had lasted long enough to rot. It was amazing that the rats just hadn't eaten it. Hell, there wasn't really any rat droppings around that weren't hard and pebbly.
In any other place, this would have already been clear signs of trouble, but in the stacks it wasn't always the case. A rival gang could have easily pushed these people out of here and just smashed their stuff for the hell of it, then poured chemicals down drains and into basements just for the sake of doing it. The gangers didn't care for everything in an area, they took what they could carry or use and left the rest to rot or destroyed it. There was some casings lying around and dried blood, lots of it, but there were no bodies. That was odd, because some of the blood was still a little sticky and not quite congealed. No one should have moved the bodies this quick, unless they were worried about the PDF coming, but from the amount of blood lying around, it seemed that there would have been too many too move.
What was more worrying then that though, was the fact that the cheap liquor that the stackers made from cleaning supplies and whatever they could scrounge was still around and hadn't been drunk. A half full bottle here, a jar full there, and in one case, an entire shopping cart full of the stuff that had overturned and half the bottles were still intact and drinkable. The very smell of the booze as Thornton walked by was enough to make his eyes water and gag. No doubt he could use a bottle of that to clean out every drain in his apartment and still have enough left to go blind three times over.
It was almost like one of those fairy tales that his mother had told him when he was little. Be good, or else the hollow men will come for you one day. They are men without souls, without the Emperor's light to guide them they wander aimlessly and they crave the life that they have lost. Their bodies lifeless,, their skin grey, their hearts no longer beating. They lament their fate with groans of loss and sorrow, pity for what they have lost. So consumed with their grief, they hate any creature with warm blood in its veins and a beating heart in its chest. Stay indoors when you hear them moan in their grief and their shuffling walk. For though they seem like lost souls in search of help, they are actually the ones searching. Eternally searching for those that still have what they have lost, and in their despair, grief quickly turns to rage. They hunt after the living, especially little boys who don't listen to their parents and take what isn't theirs.
Crazy old woman, still, it was a child's tale and Thornton was far too old to be scared by children's stories. Still, walking the stacks at night with nothing around but blood and empty streets turned that story into something that put him on edge for no reason. Jumping at shadows like a juvie that had just watched a horror vid.
Thornton stopped and picked up a small sack off of the ground crusted brown and found that it was full of crowns. Paper crowns, all small bills, but still a small fortune in the middle hive. Down here, this would be enough to live like a king for at least a decade if you managed it right. Why would someone just this kind of money just laying around? Even gangers wouldn't do that.
"Find something sarge?" asked Lao, leaning his auto rifle against his shoulder.
"I found a lot of something," said Thornton, opening the bag and showing Lao its contents. Lao's eyes went wide.
"Holy Throne that's a lot of money. Think that we could take some of that?"
"You know the rules about looting Corporal. We'll have to turn it into the commissariat or get the lash," said Thornton, not even bothering to hide how he took out a small handful of crown notes and put it into a pouch on his belt. "Make sure everyone gets a chance to guard it, I don't want to make one guy do all the work," said Thornton, smiling as he tossed it to Lao.
"You got it Sarge," said Lao, also taking out a fistful of notes and then passing the bag on to another member of the platoon. Each man taking out a handful and stuffing it into a pouch. Yes, looting was liable to get them whipped by the commissariat, but only if they got caught and no one was going to question a few small bills in someone's pocket. A good night of drinking and partying would be in order after this. It was always shitty down in the stacks and it really smelled this time.
It reminded Thornton of his dad's undertaker business. Like dead flesh and meat gone bad when they had had that power outage for that week and they hadn't been able to treat all the bodies in time.. Throne did it stink! Leave it to the stackers to live like animals, thought Thornton as he lazily walked down the street. Only an idiot would attack the PDF, because it they did all of the Emperor's hells would fall down on them. So, it was with only mild alarm when Thornton saw his first person.
"Ey, get back inside your hab, this is PDF business," shouted Thornton at the man, staggering around drunkenly. He didn't acknowledge Thornton, but began to shuffle over towards him, his face downturned.
"Hey, I'm not going to tell you again, get your stacker ass back inside your hab, or I'm gonna bring you in as a rebel. Get me tic?" said Thornton, a trace of anger in his words. The man just continued to stagger over to him. He was moving like a lifetime drunk and had the same shambling gait, but he didn't smell like a distillery.
"I've got 'em sarge," said Nikolai, walking up to the man, unlimbering his auto rifle and holding it in a threatening posture.
"Get the frak inside or I fill you full of holes tic," said Nikolai roughly jabbing the man with the barrel of his rifle.
The man staggered back a few steps, then stood stock still, hardly breathing, and it was then that Thornton noticed the odd greyish pallor to the man's skin. Like the 'clients' that his father dealt with. The man's head slowly looked up, and as his face was shown in the light of the electro globes, half of it was missing. A grisly mess that looked as if some animal had savaged his face, tearing away one cheek and most of his lips exposing the teeth and gums beneath. His eyes were glazed over, but still they flicked within their deep sockets. Even though that the wounds were still fresh, they did not bleed.
"What the frak?" breathed Nikolai, eyes widening and backing up. The man suddenly let out a terrible groan, almost a shriek and fell upon Nikolai who's cries of surprise soon turned to ones of pain and horror.
"Golden Throne!" cursed one of Thornton's troopers, fumbling with his rifle.
"Get it off of him!" shouted Thornton, as two other troopers went and grabbed the man missing half his face, but now with fresh blood staining its teeth and neck. It, why had he called it an it? It was a person, not a thing, thought Thornton with only a fraction of his attention. The rest focused on his trooper being savaged by some whacked out junkie.
Nikolai's face was a bloody mess, with large chunks missing from his face which now bled alarmingly and revealed teeth and gums beneath. An eye had been gouged out, still hanging on by a strand, but out of the socket. He was still alive, moaning and gurgling, his feet thrashing in pain, but alive. No longer able to scream as the man simply started to eat him.
"What the frak?! You frakking junkie tic freak!" shouted one of the troopers restraining the man missing half his face and hit him with the butt of his rifle, breaking his jaw and knocking him to the ground.
"Bastard," snarled the same trooper, directing a kick and taking the man in the head. The man just sat there, stunned and dazed, unmoving as the trooper began to brutalize him, not even breathing. Ribs cracked under the rage fuelled beating, cracking like dry branches, the mans chest caving in and causing him to wheeze in his infrequent breathing. The trooper was red in the face that was twisted in a snarl, veins standing out like power cords on his arms, gripping his rifle in a white knuckled grip and shouting obscenities at the tic. The tic just laid there and took it like some inebriate, almost as if too stupid to understand what was going on or to cry out in pain. Yet the eyes, the eyes just focused on the trooper like...like...he was food.
"Get away from him!" shouted Thornton, suddenly fearful. The platoon medicae streaked past him and made for the injured PDF trooper.
"Sarge, this tic's frakked all to hell on something good, but he's going to get something better," said the trooper, kicking the man again, a dull thumping sound as it impacted its chest. It, why had he called him an it again? Thornton felt a mounting sense of dread that turned his bowels to water and his throat turn dry.
Their skin grey, their hearts no longer beating, and a hatred for all things with warm blood in their veins and beating hearts in their chests.
"Get the frak away from it," commanded Thornton, the colour leaving his face, his voice wavering, almost cracking like a juvie's.
"Why?" asked the trooper contemptuously, kicking the man in the chest again. This time though, the man seemed to come back to life. Grabbing onto the trooper's leg with a vice-like grip and sinking what remained of his teeth and mouth into the troopers leg.
"Ah, frak! Gah," grunted out the trooper as the man dragged him from his feet and began to tear bloody chunks out of his leg. Then the grunts turned to screams.
"Wait, don't shoot it!" cried Thornton as he saw the other trooper raise his rifle.
A loud concussive chattering filled the narrow street, the rounds turning the mans head to paste as that was the only available target to shoot at. His head popped like a grape between two fingers and sprayed the street with its remains. The groans of the two wounded men were the only things that Thornton heard as he looked around wildly. Looking closer at the man, Thornton realized that most of his hair had fallen out of what little he could see of the head and there was a lot of green scabbing across his body, almost veins of it really, marring what little remained to be marred of the man's face and cutting ugly lines across his body.
Lao was looking on in a mixture of sympathy, horror, and ghoulish interest at the two wounded and one dead man. Everyone else was just watching, staring.
"We have to go, we have to get out of here," said Thornton, head jerking side to side like a startled rabbit. The fear building in him like pressure in a blocked pipe.
"Ted, what's gotten into you?" asked Lao, looking at his friend a little worried..
"We've got to go, they're coming," said Thornton sounding increasingly desperate.
"Who's coming? Ted, that was a druggie, a frakking whacked out stack tic that couldn't feel pain, but still a druggie. Probably flying high on tomb. Just calm down alright, it's going to be fine." Lao's calm tone seemed to get through to Thornton and his breathing slowly returned to normal and his racing pulse gradually came back down to a normal rhythm.
"Yeah, yeah sorry about that Lao. Just lost my calm for a moment there, but I'm good now. I'm good." Thornton let out a short laugh. "Bastard really was stoned out huh?"
"Yeah, don't worry Sarge, everyone gets jitters, especially after seeing that kind of shit. I'm sure that everything's going to be alright. Nikolai and Oleg are in good hands, come on, let's get a med evac down here."
"Thanks Lao, I guess that I just-" a low groan emanated from one of the empty stack homes and a figure shuffled into view, grey as death, green scabbing and sunken features shrivelling back in on themselves, scraggly threads of what remained of its hair, and clothing torn, hanging off of it in grimy strips. Half of his torso was missing.
"The frak?" asked Lao, seeming more surprised than worried.
"No no no no no no no no, God Emperor take it back, I don't want it, here," ranted Thornton, throwing the paper crowns on the ground in front of him as more figures began to emerge, each voice adding to the murmur of groans growing around them.
"Sergeant, what do we do?" asked a trooper, swinging his rifle back and forth at the emerging bodies. All he got for a response was more mad ramblings from Thornton.
"Fire. OPEN FIRE! FIRE!" commanded Lao and soon the street was alive with the loud reports of auto rifles running through their ammo on full auto. One hundred round magazines rapidly emptying, shattering bottles of liquor, exploding doors and cheap plastic. Dust from the chipped ferracrete structures almost making a mist about them as they fired. The smell of cordite heavy in the air and the constant battering of nearly thirty rifles firing fully automatic deafening. The people who looked like corpses jerking and shuddering with every impact, falling down and flailing around as the barrage took off limbs, exploded torsos, and shredded organs. Still, those with enough muscles left crawled, hobbled, and dragged themselves towards the PDF troopers with single minded intensity. Those whose bodies were too badly mangled to function simply stared with insatiable hunger at the PDF'ers who had come to restore 'order.' Some however remained where they were, truly dead this time, heads destroyed, brains splattered, or otherwise disposed of. Many of those shambling beings fell, filling the streets and truly dead, at least five for every PDF trooper, but there was always more, always more to come.
They fell one by one, screams of pain, rage, and pure animal terror issuing from their throats as they were pulled down, rifle barrels still trailing smoke, and by assailants who had no right to be alive anymore. Then they were pulled apart and the figures began to eat. Some tried to run, but were caught as no matter where they went more and more of the grey figures with green scabs continued to arrive. Some tried to climb away, but fell into the waiting arms of the ghouls below, or climbed into the jaws of more waiting above.
Thornton went down last, crying and pleading to be left alone, holding up the handful of crowns like an offering. Thornton died, his flesh ripped from his body by hands turned grey and scabbed over green and consumed. He laid there, dead and still in the stacks that he hated so much as his last breath was torn from his body. Thornton died down there, his heart ceasing to beat before being ripped out and ripped apart. There was no one to mourn him for he lived alone and his friends lay dead around him. There was nothing left for or of him and in every sense of the word, Thornton was dead. Then he got back up and staggered away. Moaning.
Xxx
Amy moaned softly as she woke, blowing a lock of honey gold hair from her face and looked groggily over to what had disturbed her sleep and saw a figure standing over her just at the edge of her bed. For a half a moment she thought that it was Daniels, but as soon as a fraction more lucidity returned she realized that the figure was far too small to be Daniels.
"I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?" asked a childish voice, sounding a little unsure and tentative.
"What? Sure," said Amy sleepily, pulling back the covers and feeling the minor chill in the room sweep up her legs and torso waking her up slightly more than she would have liked. The Heroic seemed to have a constant problem with its climate controls, mostly involving heating making most everything cool to the point of being cold, but that was easily alleviated by having a nice and thick as well as fuzzy personal blanket. "Climb on in."
The young Athenian Penelope whom Amy had recently adopted crawled into bed quickly, and snuggled up to Amy, pulling the covers around herself, but leaving a generous amount for Amy as well. She pressed herself against Amy and Amy stroked the young girl's hair and gave her a kiss on the head before wrapping an arm around her and beginning the process of letting herself drift back to sleep. She would have to get up in a few hours, but she would try to be quiet because it was Saturday today by the ships calendar and Penelope didn't have school tomorrow, so Amy wanted to let her sleep in.
Penelope had been a child soldier on Athena II whom Amy had adopted with the help of two of her commissar colleagues, the old colonel Stanton, and a young Krieg noble who was serving in the 12th. Amy worried that perhaps she was coddling Penelope by letting her sleep in her bed with her since she was nearly 13, but it made Penelope happy and in turn made her happy.
In the two month voyage, Penelope had warmed considerably to Amy, treating her like an older sister or perhaps a guardian, but she didn't call her mom or anything like that and Amy was okay with that. She understood that in all likelihood she would never be able to take that place and although it hurt a little to know that, she understood it completely, having been an orphan herself like all commissars were. She wouldn't be able to take the place of her parents, but she could at least give her a good home and let her know that she was loved and cared for. She was only eight years older than Penelope, but it seemed like centuries to her, even if Penelope sometimes got a look in her eyes that was far beyond her years and made Amy a little worried. She worried about the simple age that she saw in the girl's eyes sometimes. How she seemed older than her years, and no doubt was because of the things that she had seen. Amy was almost afraid to know what she had been forced to do.
Like a worm, Penelope burrowed into the covers and right up against Amy, before getting comfortable and falling asleep just as quickly as she had come. Careful to not disturb her, Amy pulled the covers up around her, careful to leave Penelope's head above the covers even though it left Amy's shoulders and upper chest exposed to the chill of the room. Like a fog, the comfortable drowse of fatigue came back to Amy and she drifted slowly back to sleep. Her last thoughts were of how good it would be for Penelope to go and see another Imperial world, one untouched by war and get to be a kid again. Bergrundy would be a good place to lay over for a few months. Maybe she would like to take up dancing or singing? She was sure that she could find a studio for her and it'd be good for her to be around other girls her age too. Or if she really wanted to do a more contact sport, Penelope could learn kickboxing with her. It would be fun to spend more time together doing something like that.
Sure there were other kids on the ship, but a lot of them, if not all were the navy crews kids or Guardsmen's kids. Amy wasn't stupid and for as much as her naivete for the good of people sometimes lead others to believe her to be. At least not when it came to how kids acted or guardsmen felt about commissars. She knew that the other kids associated their parents dislike for commissars as something that they should emulate and find an outlet for on anything having to do with the commissariat. Which would mean that they would pick on Penelope mercilessly for being a commissars kid, if albeit an adopted one. Even as bad as that could be though it was still much preferable to them knowing that she had been a child soldier on a rebelling world. If they ever found that out, Amy actually feared for Penelope's safety.
Xxx
Sweat poured off of Erich in rivulets down into his eyes making them sting and his muscles felt as if they were on fire. He was stripped to the waist, his equipment destroyed on Athena II and the quartermasters had become old misers with what remained when they too were forced to abandon what remained in the rushed evacuation of the hive world. So much had been lost on that world, and not just equipment. Two thousand Kriegers of the 12th Heavy Siege had found their final resting place on Athena II, and half of those hadn't been chipped.
So much lost...and for nothing for in face of the oncoming tyranid invasion,they had abandoned Athena II. They had rained nuclear fire and the Emperor's wrath down from low orbit, turning Athena II into a smoking ball of ruin and leaving nothing for the approaching tyranids. To watch an entire world burn, there was no way to describe it or the sheer awe and terror of it.
It wasn't just Erich who suffered from the lack of uniform parts, many of his fellow Kriegers were having to go without their masks to save on the filtration units until the regiment could secure a steady supply of replacement parts and filters for both combat and everyday use.
Every exertion seemed like it would tear his newly healed body apart, indeed, the medicae staff would have been appalled to see the kind of stress that Erich was putting his newly healed body through. The scars across his chest from the lictor, and the knife and splinter shot wounds from the eldar were still pinkish in colour and healing. Even though that they were still tender and twinged from time to time, Erich refused to give his body even the slightest break. Pain was simply a way of the body letting you know that you were getting stronger, and to get stronger you had to overcome adversity.
The events from Athena II kept replaying themselves endlessly in Erich's mind. Most importantly, the events that had transpired beneath the main hive of Olympus. He had been beaten, broken in body, his spirit willing but unable. Laid low by a wretched xeno of the kind he had sworn to get vengeance against. Then at the moment when it had held his life in its hands it had spared him. Why? It made no sense. They were enemies in a war which no quarter was given and a war that Erich had sworn to deal a vicious blow against its kind. So why had it spared him? It had held his life in its hands, like a flame waiting to be snuffed out...and he had let go. Left him bleeding and broken away from help, but had let him live all the same. Spared by a xeno, like he was just a weakling babe with no power to shape or mould his own destiny. A being of such low worth as to not even be considered a threat or worry about what he could possibly do in the future. Like he was a mere insect railing against the heavens. The thought was infuriating and with it, Erich redoubled his efforts until every muscle was screaming for release and his arms began to tremble.
Then there was the one who had saved him. An Athenian medic who had helped him when she should have killed him and in return for her kindness was herself killed by Imperial authority. It didn't infuriate him that she had helped him, not anymore, but it did leave him wondering simply why and it occupied his thoughts much of the time that he was alone.
Erich blinked the sweat out of his eyes and watched it fall from his face to the floor six feet below. He was inverted, holding himself in a handstand on top of a metal bar in an impressive display of dexterity and strength. He would lower himself until his nose just barely touched the bar and then slowly extend himself back out to a full arms length to draw out the maximum amount of Exertion from the movement.
He had redoubled his family's martial training which he found he had begun to regress in skill since he had joined the Korps, but now with nothing to occupy him he was able to train day in and day out in his family's fighting arts. He had regained his prowess and even climbed higher than before.
Erich was not laden with heavy muscle and biceps the size of melons, but he was in perfect physical shape. His muscles were iron hard and his endurance was that of any world level athlete and he could shatter bones with a single blow. All those things could be found in other men in the guard, indeed, there were many warriors from across the Imperium whom could claim the same thing or even greater, but where Erich excelled was his mentality.
It was as if fighting was as second nature to him as breathing. He felt no anxiety over the prospect of pain or death, his heart rate did not increase, he did not break into a nervous sweat, and indeed if Erich was somewhat honest with himself, he enjoyed fighting to a certain degree. Sometimes all he felt before a fight or a battle was excitement and that was the only thing that made his heart beat faster. Perhaps saying he had no anxiety over death was a bit of an overstatement, but on a whole it didn't worry him so long as he could die fighting. Not broken and whimpering.
It was the ultimate test of his skill, of himself. He came from a family literally bred for battle, with traits and genes carefully molded and selected to make a human being as close to a living weapon as possible without making them psychopathic or sociopathic. Ever since he could walk Erich had undertaken intense physical and mental training, showing the greatest potential and learning capacity for the ways of war out of any of his siblings.
Indeed, his instructors had remarked that although at times when he had been younger and flinched back when hurt and wanted to stop, as he became older it seemed just to steel his resolve more. Seeming to become invigorated by the challenge. Once he tried to break a stack of permacrete blocks before he had been ready and shattered his hand. The very next day though, even with the cast still freshly applied he had resumed his training as if though it were no more than a scrape, though abstaining from using the hand as much possible.
Erich was now seventeen years old and ready to carry on his family's legacy as the highest pedigree of warrior and soldier. To him, the thought of letting that legacy become tarnished or the mantle slip was a worse fate than a dishonourable death.
With his muscles burning like they were on fire and feeling like knives were lancing through them, Erich dismounted and landed smartly on his feet, wishing to pant but instead controlling his breathing so that his breath came in a calm and steady rhythm instead. In and out. In and out. Pulling it all the way to his diaphragm and releasing it again in his steady breaths. Once his breathing was back to normal, Erich finished off with some simple martial movements as a wind down exercise.
There were two different styles of the Von Shredier family martial arts. The first taught was the non-lethal version. This by no means meant that it wasn't dangerous as the blows were still sent full force and could still easily cause death. It was merely meant that the user didn't aim for areas of the body that would cause mortal injuries from just one blow or break bones purposely. You didn't gouge out eyes. Didn't try to crush the trachea or windpipe. You didn't aim to break the knee or neck or even a bone in the arm and especially did not try to break the xiphoid process when hitting the solar plexus. You didn't aim for the temple or any other number of dangerous areas.
The other that was taught though, it trained you to aim for all of those areas with maximum precision. A kick to the head meant to break the neck, a punch to the jaw meant to sever the spinal cord from the head by torquing the head savagely to the side. Not to say that it worked every time and indeed it didn't because many of the moves required extreme precision, even a degree of luck, but even if one of those blows landed it could easily incapacitate whomever he was fighting. No thing alive could survive Erich's training.
Xxx
"What's this?" asked Stanton as Chief Watchmaster Jaeger put down a plain manilla folder onto his desk.
"It's the list compiled by the section leaders, junior officers, and myself for individuals who would benefit from a specialized training course." Stanton let out an exasperated sigh like he was going to have the same conversation that he'd been having for the last three months, just in a different way for in a way he really had been.
"I thought that there wasn't enough room for training on this tub? I mean look around, my office is a utility closest that they cleaned out for me to use. The only thing that's still open is the few weight rooms around the ship and even those are only open because the Captain demanded it and the waiting times for those rooms is atrocious. We have a few slots open for the indoor weapons range and we do as much as we can, but I can only beg, cajole, and wheedle out so many sessions from the other commanders and ship officers. I'm sorry Jaeger, but there's simply no way that we can train these men how you like right now," said Stanton with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"It's not that kind of training sir." Stanton raised a bushy grey eyebrow questioningly.
"What kind of training could it be then Chief?"
"The names on this list have shown signs of deviating from what is considered the ideal conditions for a soldier of Krieg. It has been decided that they need type III training to get back towards the proper state. I would also like them to be kept isolated from the rest of the regiment and any outside contact for the duration of the training sir."
"Mental conditioning Chief?" asked Stanton as he began to flip through the folder.
"Yes sir, these troopers have displayed behaviours that are damaging to the Death Korps operating capabilities and unit cohesion. The reason that Death Korps soldiers are so prized and well reputed throughout the Imperium is because of not only the training and conditioning of the Korps soldiers, but the upkeep and constant maintenance of our assets."
"I've had no brawls. No gambling. No drug use. No troopers go AWOL. I haven't had to discipline any since the business on that transport-by the way wasn't there supposed to be a hearing or some such other bureaucratic nonsense like that?"
"It is not my place to...criticize certain trades of the Imperium sir," said Jaeger hesitantly, as if he knew he was saying something taboo but had to say it anyway. "But the munitorum isn't the most...prompt of agencies at the best of times and with our unexpected departure and destination from Athena II with the difficulties of warp travel and it being of such a low priority," trailed off Jaeger.
"It might never come to anything or we might have a trial tomorrow."
"Exactly sir."
"I do love bureaucracy, but as I was saying I practically have a regiment of saints with only a few odd exceptions who perform well above the physical and practical standards the guard imposes, so why to we need to recondition them?"
"Permission to speak freely sir?"
"Granted."
"They may be up to Guard standards, but not to Korps standards. These men are no longer that. We have spent considerable time, money, and resources to turn these men into more than soldiers. We have turned them into weapons of the Imperium. Your average Krieg soldier will take his own life as readily as an enemy's at any time when ordered to. They will operate without food, sleep, warmth, water, and even basic necessities until death or are literally physically unable to continue standing. Like any other piece of hardware from a Leman Russ Main Battle Tank to a common las rifle though they are tools. They are owned, used, and operated like any other piece of hardware or equipment in the Guard's arsenal. They will never question, never falter, and will never stop until they are victorious or dead. But like any other piece of equipment they need constant maintenance to ensure that they stay this way and do not begin to regress to a state less than ideal for a Korps soldier. We continue such a lengthy and time consuming training regimen so that they are not only too tired to question or think about anything other than what we wish for them to. Which is also why we try to isolate them from social interaction as much as possible sir."
"You try and make it sound like these men don't have any other life or thoughts outside of the Korps."
"They're not supposed to sir," answered Jaeger promptly. "They freely gave their lives over to the Death Korps and only once they atone in death are they released from that vow."
"Well, I see then. I suppose then that this folder must contain some rather damning evidence then I suppose?"
"It does indeed sir."
"Alright, let's see what we have here. Owning and operating a lighter. Talking about his mother. In possession of pornographic contraband, HAH! I like this one I dare say," announced Stanton gleefully.
"Colonel, with respect sir, this is something that I would like you to take with the utmost seriousness," said Jaeger respectfully, but with a kind of strained tone in his voice like he had just quickly repressed a boiling anger, but hadn't had time to remove all traces of it from his voice.
"Sorry, Chief," said Stanton a little bashfully.
"You don't need to apologize to me sir. I am your subordinate and you may treat me as you wish. It is my duty though to inform you of the regulations and standards that the Korps wishes you to keep up and enforce and to which you promised to do upon receiving a commission from the Deaht Korps. If you ever find that I am rude or disrespectful in my presentation of these standards you may discipline me as you wish sir. I don't wish to sound critical sir and if I am fully prepared to handled the consequences of my opinion sir, but the 12th Heavy Siege Regiment is slowly becoming a regular guard regiment instead of a Krieg regiment."
"Don't be so serious all the time Jaeger. You're my Chief Watchmaster. My right hand. I rely on you far more than you think and you're damned good at your job and I expect you to tell me when I'm not up to snuff on my job. From one veteran to another, a lot of officers don't know the end of a las rifle from their own sphincter. I've always liked noncoms for the fact that they usually know their job far better than their superior. My first platoon sergeant practically had to babysit me for my first few months so that I didn't screw up too badly. I expect you to guide me as much as you can."
"I doubt that I will need to babysit you sir, but I will do my duty as you have requested."
"I hope you don't either," said Stanton with a short guffaw. "That was bloody well near seventy years ago. If I still need babysat at this point then that would just be embarrassing."
"Indeed it would sir, but back to the task at hand I do believe that there is something in there that I think even you will recognize as a serious breach of regimental protocol."
"Hm, very well. Doo do doo, possession of candy...non issue shampoo...oh. Oh my," said Stanton for once sounding startled. "That is something that we need to take care of immediately."
"I'm glad that you agree sir."
"Do we have a protocol for this or do we get Osei or miss Walker to handle this?"
"Forgive my promptness sir, but I have already taken the liberty of taking care of this matter."
"And this trooper?"
"Will be brought here shortly sir, though I would like you to not refer to this individual as a trooper because the title does not apply."
"How would you like to proceed with this chief?"
"I will leave that to your discretion sir."
xxx
Erich sat at a long mess table surrounded by other members of the assault company, sucking the food paste from the Krieg ration tubes through his mask along with the rest of those present. They were trying to stretch out the food supplies on board the ship and so they were eating their field rations as much as possible. With nearly double the amount of people on the ship that there normally was it had more than halved their available travelling distance and the Heroic had been short on supplies to begin with. Or so the ship officers had claimed.
The mess hall was loud with voices and people engaged in daily small talk, scrapes of cutlery on plates and chairs sliding across metal floors as people finished their meals or came to eat. The mess hall could hold about five hundred at a time and was just one of many on the ship with strict schedules for meals. Banners hung on the walls as well as paintings, a large one of the Emperor as to be expected, but also romanticized pictures of atmospheric dogfights and ridiculously close space combat between ships and others merely pleasing to look at. Small editorials on previous pilots hung underneath some of the photos of the deceased and histories of the differing squadrons on board of which there were three. Renamed many times and having gone through many machines and men.
Steam wafted from the serving counter, carrying with it much more enticing smells and promises of much more satisfying food. It seemed that there was no shortage of food when it came to giving the navy personnel their meals, their plates piled high with differing foods, much of it natural, even giving them things like fresh biscuits, cookies, even slices of cake occasionally. Just the thought of rich chocolate, creamy topping, and savoury warm biscuits made Erich's mouth water.
Erich didn't mind eating food out of a ration tube, but his one vice was that he had was that he liked his sweets and it irritated him a surprising amount when he wasn't allowed any of the desserts on the serving counter. Cake, cookies, pie, chocolate, jello, cupcakes, muffins, candy, and anything that was sweet and sugary always invariably found its way onto Erich's list whenever he went to the canteen to buy necessities like: boot polish, tooth paste, shaving cream, sewing thread, shampoo, and soap. So staring longingly at the treats and sucking idly at the ration tube, Erich didn't notice the two fully armoured grenadiers approach from behind.
A sense that Erich had developed in the long months of fighting on Athena II suddenly went into overdrive, making adrenaline surge through his body and his senses become hyper aware, his fight or flight response kicking into overdrive and the first option was the obvious choice. Tensing, Erich prepared to lash back at whatever or whoever was behind him, when he heard a violent struggle suddenly break out. Looking back he soon saw the cause of it.
Two grenadiers, adorned in their carapace body armour had each grabbed an arm of an assault company trooper and had pulled him roughly from his spot at the table, knocking his chair over and thrashing about madly. Kicking his legs and trying to get a firm stance on the ground.
He was a shorter man, maybe five foot eight, possibly a little shorter and slight of build, but he fought ferociously against the two who had grabbed him. Possibly not even knowing who they were, just reacting on instinct.
The struggle spilled into the aisle between two rows of tables and people around the cafeteria stopped to watch the drama unfold. Even for all the ferocity of the assault company soldier, he was no match for the two grenadiers, men who already considered themselves dead in the Emperor's service and had gone through the body and soul crushing training to become grenadiers and wear the coveted death heads pins. Their skull painted masks looking dispassionately down at the struggling form beneath them.
Erich watched as one pinned the Krieg soldier down holding his arms and the other pulled back his mask, then pressed his shock gauntlet down onto the troopers bare skin, causing the Krieger to spasm for a moment before coming still. The subtle rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was still alive. If anyone else, even ship security had tried to do that to a Krieger, especially one from the 12th Erich would not have watched it happen idly three seats from him, but it was Krieg grenadiers whom had done it. Grenadiers from the 12th which meant that they were acting on orders and that meant they had every right to do what they did and that he had no right to become involved.
Erich watched as they dragged the inert trooper out of the mess hall by his arms, mask half off and legs occasionally bouncing off of chairs in the way. Faster than one would expect everyone returned to their meals, the idle chitchat now about what the trooper had down and about what sort of punishment would be meted out. Some even went so far as to claim that it was too bad that they hadn't done a summary execution, but agreed that it would have spoiled the meal, though it would have made for an interesting dinner show.
Xxx
Stanton watched the young Krieger's head loll on slumped shoulders in front of his desk, and then slowly come to, head slowly coming up. Eyes blinking blearily a few times and then muscles tensing for a moment as memories of what had recently transpired came back. Then the customary shock to see the highest ranking officer in the regiment sitting behind a somewhat impressive mahogany desk that barely managed to fit into the room.
"Sir," said the startled trooper, trying to rise and salute but stopping short as the restraints held fast and kept the Kreiger in place and in the chair. Dark grey eyes looked around uncertainly, with black hair that was too long to be regulation fell into the Krieger's eyes, no doubt having been unable to secure the services of a good barber or even get the time for a watchmaster to do it in the past couple of months.
"Sir, this trooper is confused," stated the young Krieger in the soft voice of what could have been assumed to be prepubescence.
"As am I," said Stanton not at all happy to be dealing with this now. He never liked dealing with this kind of thing. "Would you like to tell me your name? Just the short form if you would please."
"Corporal HS-1972 sir."
"Your real name," said Stanton.
"This trooper's real name?" asked the Korpsman sounding confused. "Before training, this trooper was called Wilhelm Kluge sir."
Jaeger whom to this moment had been silent suddenly lashed out in a string of native Krieg words said in a low growl that seemed to make the young trooper physically shrink inwards and lower his head in shame.
"We know that that isn't true, so please just tell the truth. Nothing bad is going to happen to you and no one is going to hurt you. I am truly sorry about how you were brought here, but we already know so please, let's be honest here," said Stanton in a soothing, fatherly voice.
"My real name sir?" asked the trooper finally looking into Stanton's eyes.
"Yes dear, go ahead."
"My real name...is Ursula Wolff sir," said the Young Krieger, her soft voice and softer features becoming much more obvious.
"You do understand why you are here don't you?"
"Yes sir, I am here to fight in the Death Korps of Krieg and for the God Emperor of mankind."
A harsh rebuke in native Krieg erupted from Jaeger with the same result as before, Stanton surprised at the simple rage that the normally unflappable soldier was displaying towards the young woman. Whatever he was saying was clearly very unkind, and very much in no way positive.
"Ich bin wurden!" suddenly lashed back the young woman at the watchmaster, her face set into a snarl and grey eyes alight with fire. "Ich bin ein soldat! Ich verdiente diese!" Jaeger hit the young woman with a backhand that split her lip.
"Nur schade verdient."
The young Krieger lowered her head, appearing as though she may cry, but when she raised her head again, her eyes were dry and her face was as if it was carved from stone. Giving away nothing.
"I would appreciate it if the rest of this conversation was conducted in Low Gothic Watchmaster," said Stanton, still surprised by the first emotional outburst he had ever seen from the regimental watchmaster in the year that he had known him.
"Yes sir. I must apologize for my behaviour. I failed to conduct myself in a manner befitting my rank and station. I let my anger at this breach of Korps protocol override my professionalism and am willing to suffer any and all disciplinary action merited from it sir."
"That won't be necessary Jaeger."
"Yes sir."
"Now Miss Wolff, you do understand the trouble you're in don't you?"
"Yes sir, but this troop-I am not in the kind of trouble you think I'm in. I'm not going to be punished. Per say."
"Jaeger, would you be a good chap and explain this to me?"
"The inspection by the medicae confirmed that she is a class 4 and as a result will be immediately shipped back to Krieg as soon as transport can be acquired."
"Class four? I daresay, what system does that numeric represent?"
"It means that I'm fertile," answered Ursula. "Very fertile and ripe for breeding," she said, almost spitting the words out, like they were more painful than her split lip.
"She will be returned to Krieg and provide future generations of Korpsman for the Emperor's armies and serve him on the home front to the best of her abilities. It is the honour of a daughter of Krieg to matry their sons in the name of the Emperor and continue providing sons for his service."
"I"LL BE BRED LIKE A BITCH!" shouted Ursula, teeth set in a snarl, hands in tight fists and chains restraining her taut. "Every ten months they'll get me pregnant and take away my kids or have other women raise them. They'll keep me locked away in a hospital while doctors poke and prod me like an animal to make sure that I carry my child to term and that it's healthy. Then, once They finally burn out my womb and I can't have anymore kids, no matter what kind of surgeries or drugs they give me, I'll get a hard labour job until I get too old to work anymore. I don't want that life, and I won't go back. I won't! I'd rather die with a bullet in my skull that a baby in my stomach."
"You will go back, and in time you will tell us who helped keep you hidden in the regiment fraulein Wolff. Colonel, do I have permission to make arrangements regarding miss Wolff's travel accommodations?"
"Yes, you may begin making preparation," said Stanton, still mildly horrified by what he had just heard.
"Thank you sir," said Jaeger. He saluted smartly, clicked his heels, and as soon as Stanton returned the salute, pivoted sharply and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Stanton heard muffled choking sounds like someone having trouble breathing, and felt a wave of both surprise and empathy when he saw the young Krieger in the chair quietly sobbing, but in an odd way as if she didn't quite know how or was fighting it. Her eyes shut tight and body shaking with every sob that wracked her frame.
"I won't go back," said Ursula, barely more than a wavering whisper. "I won't."
Knowing that it was more than likely improper to do, but finding he didn't quite care, Stanton went around his desk and gave the young Krieger a comforting hug. She didn't return it or even seem to acknowledge it, as if accepting compassion was akin to weakness, but her sobs did lessen.
"I won't go back," she said through gritted teeth.
"Sometimes we're forced to do things that we don't want to and have no control over my dear, even myself," said Stanton gently stroking the back of her head in a calming gesture. "We don't always get to choose to pick the path we walk, but life isn't always fair."
"I won't go back."
"I know you don't want to, but I'm afraid that my hands are tied my dear."
"No sir, forgive me, but you don't understand." There was an odd tone to her voice, no longer hurt, or even remotely vulnerable, but the dispassionate voice of a Krieg trained killer.
Stanton let go of his embrace and stared into the Kriegers eyes and found them to be as hard and cold as iron, in sharp contrast to the thin streaks of tears down her cheeks.
"I was trained to kill by the best instructors in the Imperium and to see death as my release from mortal burdens. I have gone through training that has broken lesser people and not only passed it, but excelled at it. If anyone tries to send me back I will kill them or failing that I will kill myself. It's very easy to kill someone sir and very easy to die if you know how. I won't go back."
Stanton had doubts about many things in his long life, but what he didn't have doubts about was the fact that his young woman was fully prepared to die rather than return to Krieg. But more than that, she was prepared to kill.
AN: I changed my mind a half-dozen times whether to put Ursula in the story or not, but eventually I decided that it would be a good insight into the social structure of Krieg and often despotic nature of their rules and laws. In total there should be at least four or five other Korpsmen as characters in this story other than Ursula and they'll have different experiences when they go to Bergrundy.