Chapter 2 – All We Have is Questions

580.M41 – Zedina Airfield, Hive Trachiad, Cardinal Voldt

The Valkyrie's powerful downdraft kicked up a wall of dust from the landing pad as it dropped, forcing Colonel Breton to guard his face with the lapel of his greatcoat. The report had come through two hours ago. The Imperial reinforcements had arrived. Breton had volunteered to head up the welcoming committee.

He called the honour-guard of Paenar Praetorians to order, resplendent in their glossy green surcoats. They shouldered their arms in perfect parade drill as the rear-hatch of the Valkyrie hissed open, disgorging six men in variegated battle-dress. The forerunner was a tall man of aristocratic bearing, clad in a long black trenchcoat. An officer of the commissariat marched at his side in a peaked cap complete with gold Aquila.

Behind them strode a pair of matched veterans in the uniform of the Armageddon Steel Legions, already so familiar to Breton. Another regiment sent to join the two that were already engaged in the campaign. General Vorskad was the Corps Commandant under whose purview the three regiments fell.

The other two men Breton could not place, so he assumed they were the Orrax men. Both were obviously veterans, wearing full battle gear, clean but in places heavily abraded. The leader, a Major according to his pins, bore a vertical scar on his left cheek while his adjutant had an artificial voice-box in place of his lower jaw. But it was the Major who was by far the more impressive of the two, the set of his features telling of hardships endured, his eyes glittering cold under heavy brows. His left breast bore testament to his achievements with an impressively colourful ribbon. Even without this he was intimidating.

The shore party crossed the gritty landing pad to stand before the Colonel. The haughty aristo threw a crisp salute that Breton returned before holding out a hand in greeting.

'Centurion Primus Pilus Maxillia reporting for duty. You must be our welcoming committee…'

'Colonel Yurls Breton, sir, of the Lord General's staff. Welcome to Hive Trachiad.'

'Allow me to introduce my regimental Commissar, Ersztat Bokae,' the Centurion replied, brimming with affected warmth. Breton caught a glimpse of the Orrax Major men rolling his eyes. 'My other associates are General Vorskad of the Twentieth Corps, Armegeddon Steel Legion and Colonel Dremoni of the 232nd Armoured Regiment.'

Vorskad was a heavy set man with a neat beard and craggy brows. He stepped forward to shake Breton's outstretched hand.

'We come to join our bothers of the 21st and 237th ,' he growled, a hint of disapproval in his voice. His regiments had seen heavy fighting in the drawn out campaign. It was evident that the General thought they had been misused.

'Brave boys, General. The impasse stands in spite of their bravery and commitment, not because of a lack of it. I pray that your men will bolster that spirit to bring us victory.'

'Pray the Emperor it is so,' Vorskad replied.

It seemed strange to Breton that Vorskad had deferred the introductions to Maxillia, but then it was painfully obvious that this man had fought his way up from the ranks, as was so common with the men of Armageddon, whose martial history was turbulent at best. It appeared that social standing had determined the order of the day.

If that was the case, then it was only borne out by the fact that Maxillia left the Orrax men until last.

'And this is Major Corgan of the 567th Orrax penitent.' The shaven-headed man stepped up, shooting Maxillia a murderous look at his faux pas. It was obvious to Breton, who fancied himself a keen observer of human interaction, that the aristo sought to remind Corgan of his place. Nevertheless, he shook Breton's hand firmly. His poise reminded Breton uncomfortably of the hunting lion native to his homeworld. His casual grace could not conceal the potential for sudden and deadly violence. Breton inadvertently put a hand to his throat, an image of his carotid – pumping arterial blood – springing unbidden to mind.

'Delighted to make your acquaintance, Major. We've heard much of your exploits at Five Rivers. We hope you will feel at home here.'

Corgan just grunted, a look of obvious disdain in his eyes. Breton immediately regretted his comment. It had been intended to appeal to the man sense of martial honour but it seemed that he didn't share the Paenar view on such things. He hadn't even bothered to introduce his dark-eyed adjutant and the boy didn't seem to care. Breton supposed it was to be expected from an ex-convict.

'I welcome you all to Hive Trachiad and extend to you the Lord General's hospitality,' said Breton, addressing the party as a whole. 'If you would follow me I shall escort you to the drawing room where refreshments will be served.'

'Charmed,' said Maxillia with an aristocratic nod of his head. The Colonel led them through the impressive portal and into a broad atrium at the front of the Lord General's manse. Maxillia fell into pace beside Breton and endeavoured to engage him in conversation. The Orrax Major walked behind them with his man while Vorskad and Dremoni brought up the rear.

'So Colonel,' said Maxillia. 'How goes the war?'

'Badly, I'm afraid, Lieutenant-Colonel. This is a war without any clear lines of defence. The central hive is a virtual fortress and the outer habs are little easier, riddled with guerrillas and terror squads. Patrols have to be carried out at platoon strength to stand any chance of survival and we pay for every inch of real estate we claim with the blood of our best. The place is a death-trap.'

'Sounds like the right kind of egg to me, Colonel.'

'Why is that, may I ask?'

'My men are cannon fodder. We will provide the human shield that you need to crack this war wide open.'

'I don't suppose you'll be joining your men at the front, Maxillia?' Corgan broke in from behind them. The Centurion's lip curled in contempt, as though his uniform had been splashed with pond-slime.

'Kindly exercise a little respect when you address me, Major Corgan. I am Centurion Antios Maxillia of the Scholam Tactica of Triton, nephew to the High Lord Harkon Maxillia of Terra. I will not be spoken to as though I had just crawled from the gutter.'

'Fair enough, Centurion, sir! I suppose you've earned that privilege, what with all the inbreeding your parents had to endure to spawn you…'

The Centurion stopped dead and spun on his heel, rounding on the white-armoured veteran.

'Insult me again, my good man, and I swear I'll have you shot where you stand!'

There was a dangerous look in Maxillia's eyes, his cheeks were trembling with wrath and his eyes burned. Corgan, on the other hand, was like ice, unperturbed, uncowed, unconcerned. Breton instantly sensed that here before him was the most dangerous man he had ever come across.

'Sirs,' he ventured. 'There will be ample time to iron out your differences in the Lord General's drawing room,' he said, fully expecting Maxillia to strike him.

Corgan shrugged.

'Suits me, what do you say, Max?'

The Centurion seemed to take a grip on his temper then. He straightened his tunic peremptorily and turned to Breton.

'Lead on, Colonel.'

xxx

Maxillia refused to occupy the same space as Major Corgan. Unfortunately for him it seemed that the Orrax commander was flavour of the month. Vorskad was itching to speak to the man that had single-handedly taken Pelloris Ridge and been instrumental in the final victory at Five Rivers. A hundred questions bustled to get out. He was only disappointed in the knowledge that he would never get chance to ask them all.

'So, Major, how did you find the gardens of Gunga IV?' the General asked. Until now he had not had chance to fraternise with the man, despite their months aboard ship together. The itinerary of a Three Star Officer was demanding at the best of times. Nevertheless he'd heard both good and bad things about the man. Dremoni had shared with him a rumour that was popular among the rankers. They claimed that Corgan had gained his Officer's rank by murdering the entire command cadre of his regiment. It was utter drivel, of course. For a start there were still many former wardens among Corgan's men who wouldn't stand for such a thing. But the story as it was told to him had a certain romantic appeal to it and now that he met the man behind that myth… he had decided he would rather have Corgan onside than off.

'It was rather an expensive picnic, if you ask me,' Corgan replied, seeming completely indifferent to the General's attention.

'I have no doubt of that,' said Vorskad. 'I've seen little enough of the Tyranid scourge and I've no desire to see more. As to this little spat I've seen very little actual intelligence so far. From what I have heard it promises to be one hell of a spit-storm!'

Corgan blinked.

'I'll try not to break too much of a sweat,' he replied.

The General laughed, trying his best to build some kind of bridge, Corgan didn't even crack a smile. Vorskad had never met a Penal Legionary turned commanding officer before. Frankly he'd been mildly alarmed at the prospect. But the 567th had a fearsome reputation and he was determined to maintain an amicable relationship with the Orrax division. They might well be the instrument of victory on Cardinal Voldt and Vorskad was not too proud to press such an advantage.

Breton joined them, offering cigars from a pungently scented box.

'From the Lord General's own stock, sirs, the finest leaf in the Creon sub.'

'Don't mind if I do,' Vorskad replied, taking one and running it lustily under his nose.

Corgan reached into the box and left one behind. Three disappeared into his webbing. He bit the end off a fourth and spat it into the hearth, allowing Breton to light it for him. His eyes never left Breton's throughout the sequence, as though he was daring the Colonel to object. Breton only smiled. He seemed to have adopted a similar tack to Vorskad. He wasn't going to fall out with Corgan over a few of the Lord General's cigars.

'Allow me to express my anticipation, Major. I was most impressed by the reports of your actions on Fered Roathi. It makes for very interesting reading.'

Corgan sighed as though he was fed up of hearing about it. Vorskad cringed on Breton's behalf.

'Spare me the platitudes, Colonel. My boys don't do that kind of work any more, what with their reformed characters and all. It's Maxi-boy you want, he's the cannon-fodder these days. The 567th is not expendable!'

'Indeed not, Major. I would never suggest that. Your men are heroes of the Imperium…'

'Well I wouldn't go that far,' Corgan smirked. 'They're still scum, but they're my scum. As such it'll be me that decides where they die, not some poxy, jumped up little fart like Antios Maxillia!'

Vorskad experienced a moment of blankness. In the society of rank, to which he had become accustomed since attaining his rank, such sentiments were generally very carefully concealed behind the veneer of polite tolerance. It would appear that Corgan was from a very different school of thought. Both Breton and the General wisely decided to ignore it.

'So, Colonel Breton,' said the General, deciding to change the subject. 'We hear the war is dragging its heels?'

'To be fair, General, to say that the war is dragging its heels would be to gravely misinterpret the situation here at Hive Trachiad. This is not a war in the conventional sense, but rather a policing operation on a colossal scale. There is no defined enemy line, no definitive enemy, and no safe place within the city limits. We are mired in a conflict of attrition. Militant cults and terror squads plague us day and night. The enemy moves like water through the streets, dispersing and concentrating seemingly at whim, making it impossible to prosecute a conventional engagement. We need something decisive, gentlemen, and we need it soon. All we really have is questions.'

'Sounds like a mess…' Corgan contributed.

'The Lord General is fixated on taking control of the Three Spires, but every time we try to put men and resources that deep in we find ourselves attacked from behind. Our expeditions invariably get cut off and mauled before we can move more men in to drag them out of the fire. Half of the attacks upon us are perpetrated by local insurgent groups, opportunists using the war as an excuse to take action, making it impossible to calculate the strength and composition of the enemy arrayed against us. All we really know is that they seem to be entirely made up of offworld mercenaries.'

'Who would have the resources to keep so many hired guns?' asked Dremoni, aghast as such a possibility.

'A question we have asked ourselves numerous times. The Lord General believes the answer lies in the Three Spires.'

'And you agree?'

'It's an assumption based on the fact that we are prevented from getting there. I trust the Lord General's instincts if not his tactical methodology.'

'And what do you say of the situation, Major Corgan?' Vorskad asked. 'You're unit has had experience in this kind of situation, has it not?'

'My unit hasn't, General. At Five Rivers the enemy was easily identified by the ritual wounding they inflicted on themselves. City-fighting they know, but throw in an unseen enemy that could be standing right next to you without you realising it and you've got a completely different situation.'

'I dare say,' Breton replied. 'You see to the heart of our problem, at least.'

'I, on the other hand, was born and grew up in the underhives of Necromunda. I've a mercenary's instincts. I daresay that could play in our favour if we let it.'

'Hmm,' Vorskad swirled his brandy thoughtfully. 'You could be right. I've heard it said that the 567th is the sharpest, most incisive unit to see service in this sub sector. Forged in the fire-storms of Fered Roathi and tempered in the meat-grinder of Gunga IV.'

He turned to address the entire gathering, lifting his voice as though giving a speech to his men before a battle. He supposed it was for Maxillia's benefit. The pompous ass stood in the corner, sulking.

'The 567th held the line at Gurshun with the Emperor's own fury, so they did, and emerged from the killing fields drenched in the ichors of the enemy. They went on to carve out a beachhead for the Astartes themselves in order to bring an end to the conflict, standing alone before the tides of xenos hatred. Such warriors they are,' he grinned, suddenly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 'But not entirely selfless, I think.'

'N.. not selfless?' Breton stammered, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Vorskad laughed aloud. 'Our friend Corgan and his men are of a self-centred breed, of that I've no doubt. Unswervingly loyal given the right encouragement, but obstinate in the face of ingratitude, or so I've heard it told anyway.' He said it with such good humour that Corgan only smiled. He obviously knew of his and his unit's patchy reputation. If Vorskad knew anything he would have said that this man had created it deliberately. He knew the value of his own myth.

'Where I come from we have a saying;' Corgan said as his reply. 'It goes along the lines of; "I will gladly scratch your back if only you would scratch mine!"'

xxx

It was late before Corgan managed to get away from the Lord General's manse. He hijacked a driver to run them down to the regimental billets allocated to the Orrax, a school gymnasium in a more affluent neighbourhood of the city.

'What did you make of that?' Corgan asked. Wheln shrugged.

'I thought it was a crock of shit!' he replied in his mechanical monotone. His augmetic was not exactly what most men would call a war wound, rather it had been perpetrated by a gang of Navy bravoes setting upon him after some perceived slight to their commanding officer's honour. Wheln had saved his own life by performing a field tracheotomy on himself. Corgan was still getting used to his mechanical growl.

'My sentiments exactly! Chaffed's as clueless as the rest of them.'

'I don't get it!' the younger man mused, his brow furrowed in thought. 'Why us?'

Corgan shrugged, 'Chaffed probably thinks that the secret to our success is down to the bully boys beating their twisted morals into the rest of us ex-pens. I dare say that our allotted duties'll suit some of the old boys right down to the ground. But what our Lord General doesn't seem to realise is that most of the regiment is made up of people like Pars…'

'Emperor save us…' Wheln gurgled, his mock horror lost in the monotone. He'd fallen back on communicating so much through his eyes, these days.

'I think we should look upon this as an opportunity,' Corgan mused. 'I'll agree that it seems a shame, after all we've been on garrison duty for nearly two years straight, excluding side-trips. I was looking forward to a stand up fight…'

'I don't think you'll be too disappointed, boss!'

'No,' Corgan smiled. 'Nor me. In my experience it takes one twisted intellect to get the measure of another. They'll come knocking on my door soon enough.'

xxx

The journey to Cardinal Voldt had taken six sidereal months. The Orrax regiment had gotten to know their gruff Armageddon counterparts fairly well in transit, nicknaming them the 'Geddies, all in good humour. There had been mistrust initially. The 'Geddies were mostly enlisted men, free perhaps, until their enrolment in the Guard. They knew that the majority of the Orrax were formerly indentured soldiers, little more than the kind of chain-gang scum that even the lowliest Imperial Guardsman felt justified in looking down upon.

But the barrier put up by that mistrust didn't last long. There was the occasional scuffle, but these occurred within units as often as they did between them. In the end it was boredom that broke down the walls. The recreational facilities aboard ship were less than adequate. The soldiers had been required to make their own entertainments.

Some of this fraternisation had resulted in solid friendships being forged between the regiments. The fact that the two units were billeted close by one allowed this situation to continue.

Shopal and Darron had made good friends of a couple of twin brothers, known to all and sundry as Chalky and The Cheese. They'd earned the nickname by being polar opposites, despite their close birth. Chalky was lanky and fair, a quiet and friendly young man. The Cheese was short and dark with an acid wit.

The four of them were busy spending their first evening on Cardinal Voldt playing a rowdy game of Kill the Cardinal in the twins' dingy wardroom. The Orrax boys were still getting the hang of the rules so they were losing money in wads, but then they were used to betting against Corgan the Cardshark so what else was new?

'You fellas really are sucking it up, eh?' said the Cheese. 'What, are they paying you by the hour?'

Darron looked coy while Shopal just grinned.

'Something like that…'

'No, really, how can you afford to throw money away on a game you haven't even learned the rules to yet?'

The two men shrugged. Shopal sparked up a fresh lho stick and added another cloud of acrid smoke to the room's already foggy atmosphere.

'I mean, it's insane,' The Cheese continued, pressing them for information. 'And didn't you say you'd been on garrison duty for the last couple of years? Hell's bells! The last time I did a stint of civvy-sitting I was broke by the third day… and that was after a whole year campaigning up the ass-end of beyond…'

Neither man was rising to the bait. Darron's smile had faded somewhat while Shopal just revelled in the attention.

'Not sayin' huh?' the Cheese goaded. 'Well, I guess that can only mean one thing…'

Shopal rose to the bait.

'What do you mean by that?'

'Hey, man, it's no biggy. I understand!'

'Understand what?' Shopal's good humour was evaporating fast. Darron kicked him under the table, a warning to let it go and keep his mouth shut.

'Alright, alright, keep your frakkin' hair on, okay? I just knew a guy, is all. He used to make a few creds on the side, no big deal. I hear he used to pull jobs for the locals, sorting out beefs with their neighbours and shit like that, running packages for the odd smuggler's concern. He was made, he really was. Always had money when the rest of us were screwed up tighter than a sororitas' chastity belt, you get me?

'Jeez, but that guy had balls. Fought like a bastard when the blacktops came for him. They say it took three "lethal" injections to put him to sleep.'

Shopal's face dropped as The Cheese continued, so much so that the little man started to grin himself.

'Hey, man, it's okay, don't panic.' He held up a handful of credit chips. 'Why would I rat out my meal ticket? As long as you keep spreading the wealth I don't care where it comes from.'

'It's not like that,' Shopal muttered. 'It's completely different…'

The Cheese leant forward, fixing Shopal with mischievous eyes.

'So I'm right?' The look on Shopal's face confirmed it, albeit involuntarily. 'Frakkin-A,' Cheese howled, leaping to his feet and dancing an excited little jig. 'You really are the genuine article, huh? Class-A, bona fide mercs!'

Shopal shrugged, regaining a little of his good humour as The Cheese showered him with attention.

'Mercenary is such a dirty word,' he smiled. 'I much prefer Soldier of Fortune…'

There was a jubilant atmosphere in the room after that, entirely created by Shopal and The Cheese. Darron looked like he was coming down with something but Shopal was warming to his topic, telling the 'Geddies a few of the stories he'd collected from jobs they'd pulled on Sarassa and Necromunda. He was only glad that he avoided any mention of the Vundt operation. The Administratum had posted a huge bounty on the gang that had kidnapped Tordoph Raize and shot up their headquarters. Not only that, but Raize must have been working for someone and that shadowy employer was likely to have a lot of clout. He'd almost certainly be looking for them with bloody revenge on his mind.

Nevertheless, both Shopal and The Cheese enjoyed their evening immensely.

As midnight came around the Orrax boys decided they'd best be heading back to their digs. They ratified the stakes and packed up the cards. As they moved towards the door Cheese had one last question on his mind.

'I don't get it,' he said. 'I know you boys all got the opportunity to go free after Five Rivers, right? You must've had plenty of chances to cut and run since then, especially with all that cash to hand. So how come you're here?'

Shopal scratched his head, looking thoughtful. Perhaps he was contemplating his own motivations, but his reply sounded so contrived that Darron knew he'd had it ready for just such an opportunity.

'The Orrax Penal Legions have a motto, right? "Imperator Conservo Nosta Animus." It means Emperor save our souls. It's a play on what the Arbitrators say when they pass down a sentence of execution, like that's what you're signing up for when you join the penal legions. I'll bet the blacktops were rolling around for hours after thinking that one up. But in the 567th we have our own motto, because we know that whatever shit-storm we end up in, however badass the Major might be, it'd be so much worse without the surly bastard!'

'So what's the motto?' Chalky piped up after a pregnant pause that had Darron rolling his eyes.

'It's better the daemon you know than the daemon you don't!' Shopal replied, and he turned and walked away.

As they rounded the corner Darron smirked.

'You're so full of shit!'

A/N - Thanks for all your comments, guys, I'm really enjoying my writing at the moment and it's nice to see I'm keeping my readers happy. Sorry I had to keep you guessing just that little bit longer but don't worry, all will be revealed in due course!