0930 hours – En route to Camp Davish, Pelloris Ridge
Exhaustion made for a quiet journey as they headed back to their digs. Most of the others had found sleep as soon as they were seated in the bulk transport vehicles. Trooper Darron couldn't sleep. There was still too much adrenaline flowing through his veins. The day kept playing back to him in irresistible idiot repeats.
He'd been part of Vogin's Century before the man's deserved end. He'd been part of the mass, suicidal assault on the sally-trench. He'd seen a more hellish view of war than he'd ever witnessed before. He was one of the few amongst them that had seen battle before, but never anything like this.
He'd been a member of the PDF on his home-world of Salacius Juris. He'd fought the insurrectionists that had sought to bring down the corrupt Imperial Governor. He sold his soul to the Imperial cause only to be demobbed without even a thank you once the risings had been fought down. He'd thought he'd known what war felt like until today.
After his stint in the PDF he'd been abandoned to survive on the mean streets of Juris Diaddi. He'd ended up on Orrax after being caught for a series of petty misdemeanours. He could say he'd been too upset to leave his home behind. The blood he'd spilt for his government was never going to be repaid.
He occupied his hands stripping down his lasgun. He could do this with barely a glance at what he was doing, leaving his eyes free to roam the interior of the flat-bed. He noticed the chief was still awake and looking at him. He offered a nod of acknowledgement that Corgan returned.
Darron had seen plenty of rough-cut characters in his time on the streets of Juris, but none of them could have held a torch to this guy. Corgan was all steel! Perhaps that was why he'd seen them through. Darron was intelligent enough to have learned that it required an iron will to hold a command when the hell of battle came to call.
He wasn't a man to cross, that much was certain.
He looked around at the others occupying the flat-bed. Shopal was the clown of the outfit. There had to be one. He broke through the fear-fog with his jocular, scathing remarks. Darron and Shopal had formed a bond of friendship today. The shoulder wound he'd picked up was still wadded in its mucky-brown wrappings. There hadn't been time to change the dressing.
Arines was snoring in the corner. The big, shaggy, bearded man was as good an NCO as Darron had ever seen. He understood the trials a soldier faced and he knew how to support them through it. Darron thought he might also have been a soldier once, but the man hadn't said anything.
Biggs was a late-bloomer in the unit. He'd shown his mettle during the scrap with the Marine. He was cool under fire. A thinker, but with a solid fighting core to him too. He gave the impression of being an enigma, as if there were more to him than met the eye. Darron didn't know if that was just because he had an aura of calm about him even in the craziest fire-fight. You never saw Biggs pull off a salvo on full auto. Each shot he pumped out was aimed with deathly accuracy, designed to kill with a minimum of fuss.
Wheln was one of many in the regiment. Young, fresh-faced, innocent of character and totally out of his depth. Whatever it was that had landed him on Orrax, Darron would bet money it was nothing violent. Hence his assignment as signalman. You generally kept your vox-man safe, he was your 'permission-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here-sir!'
Darron didn't know Dror well enough to judge him, but he'd seen the guy turn tail and run. That sort of thing was hard to forget. Come to think of it, Darron couldn't remember even seeing Lantry during the scrap with the Marine. He'd likely kept his head down and hoped to go unnoticed. The guy was still white-faced and was muttering to himself under his breath.
Darron looked back down at his lasgun, slotted the barrel back into place and screwed it in tight. He gave it one last wipe down with his oil-cloth and then pushed it down under the bench. Leaning his head back he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
It felt like only moments later that he was dragged back into consciousness by shouting inside the truck. A scuffle had broken out in the flat-bed. Dror and Biggs were holding trooper Lantry down. Lantry was frothing at the mouth and gurgling obscenities. The smell of fresh blood pervaded the close confines of the vehicle.
'What's happening?' Corgan bellowed. Someone was hammering on the partition between them and the cab. The truck swerved off the road and ground to a halt.
'Get him outside!'
The occupants of the truck hopped out. Darron reached up to take Lantry's kicking legs. It took all his strength to hold him along with another trooper.
'Where is the light?' Lantry cried, pathetically.
Corgan struck the kid about the face.
'Shut up!'
'Where is the light?'
'Someone shine a lamp in his eyes, dammit! And gag him too, I can't listen to that…' Corgan bellowed. 'What happened?'
Dror was white-faced as he explained how Lantry had started cutting his own face with his bayonet.
'It's like them,' Biggs surmised, cool-eyed as ever.
'What do you mean?' asked Corgan.
'We've been seeing self-mutilation a lot today…' he let the comment hang.
Suddenly Darron was aware of a stiffening in the men around him. The Commissar-General materialised out of the darkness.
'What's going on here, Centurion?'
'I was just trying to figure it out, sir. Looks like one of my men has taken today a little harder than the rest…'
Draven moved forward to look Lantry in the eye. The Commissar's gaze caused the trooper to writhe more furiously than before and scream incoherently. Darron could see the flames of righteousness in Draven's eyes.
The Commissar spun on his heel and stepped away.
'It seems to me, Centurion, like one of your men has succumbed to the taint of Chaos.'
'Where is the light… all fools… linger in ignorance!' Lantry seemed to be affirming the Commissar's edict. He seemed possessed by some maniacal, irresistible urge.
Corgan's shoulders seemed to slip a notch. It was his only outward sign of resignation. What little light there was seemed to glint from his cold, hard eyes in that moment. He unfastened the clip on his side-arm's holster.
'Permission to discharge my fire-arm, sir?'
Draven's features softened a little. There was sympathy and a great sense of sadness emanating from him as he bowed his head.
'This is my duty, Centurion…'
'With all due respect, sir, this is one of my lads. If there's a duty to be done I'd be grateful if you allowed me to undertake it.'
Draven sighed.
'Permission granted.'
Corgan raised his laspistol. A shot screamed out and Lantry went limp in Darron's arms. Corgan tried to make it look casual but Darron had a clear view of his face as he pulled the trigger. The grim set to his jaw, the twitching of the muscles there. Such small signs of tension, but in a man like Corgan they spoke volumes of his inner pain.
Darron respected this strength of character. He'd already known Lantry was a goner. Some of the others looked away. Most of them were even more afraid of Corgan now. They didn't understand his sacrifice.
xxx
1200 hours, Day 58 – Pelloris Ridge
Pelloris Ridge had to be guarded against the enemy holed up in the Delta. Corgan's unit was stationed some way north of where they'd finished up the day before. He'd just had time enough to check in on his wounded and catch some shut-eye before shipping out again.
Down the slope behind them the Munitorum had been engaged in cleanup operations since before the sun came up. Corgan and his men had needed to engage in similar work before they could take up station, hauling mounds of bodies up out of the trenches. Most of the bodies were those of the heretics. Each face reminded them of Lantry the night before. They burned these bodies in massive pyres some distance down-wind. The rest, the bodies of their own, were lined up behind the trenches in orderly rows. Corgan went around collecting up bags full of dog-tags to pass on to the campaign clerks when they arrived to collect the dead.
Corgan stood on the parapet, looking down on the city of the Delta. It was unnervingly calm and undisturbed. The last of the morning's mist was dissipating. Gargantuan viaducts wove among the tenements and basilicas and factorum complexes. The docks stood empty of ships and the glittering green sea stretched away into the eternal south.
Corgan wondered how long this picturesque image would survive in his mind. The repatriation of Fered Roathi was not nearly done yet and this was their next objective.
'Sir, there's a commissar here asking for you,' Wheln called up to him from the trench below. Corgan hopped down the steps to join him.
'Which one?'
'I think it's the General's cadet, sir.'
'Great, just what I needed.'
Vaughn stood waiting with two white-armoured MP's in tow, their shotguns brandished before them as though they expected trouble.
'Centurion Princeps Prior Escabar Corgan?' asked the pompous youngster.
'I guess so…'
'Please relinquish your arms and come with me. You are under arrest.'
Corgan snorted with wry amusement.
'On what charges?'
Vaughn stepped closer, lowering his voice.
'You are accused of gross negligence in the field of battle and of murder, Centurion. Please do not resist, you will only make things worse for yourself.'
xxx
1330 hours – Arbitration Headquarters, Camp Graviers
The cage door slammed shut behind him. The guard turned his key and clomped off into the better lit recesses of the stockade. Corgan took stock of his surroundings.
The stockade was little more than a prefabricated warehouse filled with barred cages. Most of them were occupied. There wasn't room for a bed, just a pile of filthy rags in one corner. A bucket inside the door served for a toilet. He hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to have to use the 'amenities'.
'What you in for?'
He realised his neighbour was a woman, though it hadn't been obvious at a glance. She was pulling chin-ups from the barred ceiling of her cell. She was fairly heavy-set and her scalp was still close shaven from the enrolment exam back on Orrax. She wore scuffed up boots, filthy penitent-issue breeches and a skin-tight vest that showed off her impressive shoulders, glistening with beads of sweat.
'What's it to you?' he retorted, too distracted by his predicament to layer it with the aggression he would have liked.
She dropped to the floor and turned to face him. She was a fraction shorter than himself, though stockier. The vest stretched tight across her ample chest, which was further accentuated by a droplet of sweat that coursed the upper curve of one breast to run into her cleavage. Her other features were unremarkable, except for her eyes that had a certain sharp clarity to them.
She stuck her hand through the bars in a gesture of friendship.
'I'm Lita.'
He eyed her hand for a moment, warily.
'How do I know you're not going to try and pull my arm off through the bars?' he speculated. She certainly looked capable. 'You could be in here on account of some random psychotic episode…'
She grinned and Corgan instantly decided that he liked her.
'I survived the Ridge, didn't I?'
He shook her hand, allowing himself to crack the barest of smiles. Her grip was a firm as her physique suggested. It was true, though. None of them could deny that the Ridge had been a psychopathic episode they'd all participated in.
'I'm Corgan, feel free to call me sir, at least until further notice.'
'Field promotion?'
'You could say that.'
'What outfit were you with?'
'The Fifth, Second Cohort.'
'Right. I heard you boys found your own little piece of hell up there.'
'Where were you?'
'Down in the mud with the Sixth.'
'See much action?'
'More than I wanted to but not enough to kill me.'
'I guess we're more likely to die in here than out there.'
'Not me. I'll get a few lashes, maybe, nothing serious. So, what did you do?'
Corgan snorted.
'What didn't I do? The charges sound cooked up to me. What about you?'
She rolled her eyes and shrugged.
'I… uh… misinterpreted a direct order.'
'I thought that was a shoot-on-station offence?'
'It is if you don't manage to save your unit's bacon in the process. They could've tried shooting me but they would have been next on the fatalities list. My boys were looking after me. He had to wait until we came back in to file charges.'
'So it's a medal and five lashes?' Corgan asked as a Warden arrived to unlock her cell and take her away.
'I reckon.' She said, holding her arms out for the cuffs.
'Well, good luck'
'Keep it, sounds like you'll need it more,' she winked, as she was escorted away.
xxx
1130 hours, Day 59 – Abitration Courthouse, Camp Graviers
Decurion Torvik barely managed to suppress a snarl as Corgan shot an insolent smirk in his direction. He felt his Administratum representative cringe away from him in fear. The Warden's anger emanated from him in waves. He'd show that impudent upstart who was superior around here.
'All rise!' cried the court-orderly. A door at the back of the sparse, cold chamber opened wide. Three Magistrates entered to take their seats behind the long metal table, flanked by shotgun-wielding Arbites.
Here comes my justice, Torvik mused.
'This court is now in session, the Honourable Lord D'Boussey presiding. The defendant will remain standing.' Everyone else sat down.
'Who would bring charges against this man?'
Torvik's counsel stood, rustling the papers on the desk before him.
'Decurion Torvik of the Fifth Regiment, Orrax Penitent. Formerly an Adept of the Arbites stationed on Ultima Sextus, your honour.'
'Name the charges, please.'
'Decurion Torvik accuses Penitent Trooper Escabar Corgan of Gross Negligence in the Field of Battle and of Murder in the First Degree, your honour.'
Corgan's counsel stood. Torvik recognised him as the Commissar-General's own cadet.
'I would like to raise an objection at this point, your honour. The defendant was promoted in the field to Decurion Princeps Prior by the Commissar-General himself. This rank was certified upon the Commissar's return to regimental headquarters yesterday morning. I have the relevant documentation here.'
'Objection sustained, please present it to the court-orderly. The defendant will be referred to by his right and proper rank, counsellor.'
Torvik fumed with rage. How had this come about? He wanted to rail and shout and break things with his meaty fists.
'The prosecution will state its case,' intoned the Magistrate. Torvik's counsel rustled his papers again, more nervously than before.
'Your honour,' he stammered. 'Decurion Torvik asserts that the Centurion did wilfully leave him to suffocate or burn to death inside his tank while the Decurion was unconscious. The vehicle had been immobilised and set on fire by a shell-hit. This is the reason for the charge of negligence. On the charge of murder, Decurion Torvik states that another member of the squad, whom he himself dragged from the flaming wreck upon regaining consciousness, had been shot in the head with a lasgun from close range. Although the Decurion cannot substantiate the assumption that the Centurion fired the shot, it can be assumed that as he had taken command of the unit it was done with his knowledge and approval, thus amounting to murder in the first degree. Said charges occurred on the morning of 2-057-575-M41.'
The magistrate turned his craggy features towards Corgan, whose expression was blank.
'How does the defendant plead on the charge of gross negligence?'
'Not guilty, your honour.'
'And how does the defendant plead on the charge of murder?'
'Not guilty, your honour.'
Torvik gripped the edge of the desk in his gauntleted hands, his teeth clenched against an outburst. How could he stay so calm? The Magistrate turned back to Torvik's side of the room.
'I see before me a distinct lack of evidence, counsellor.'
'Your honour, it is the nature of war that such evidence is often lost long before the crimes can be brought to trial.'
'Nevertheless, as a direct result of this lack the hearing will be far from a cut-and-shut case. The word of a Decurion, be he formerly of the Adeptus or not, carries less weight than that of a Centurion even if he has been raised from the ranks of the penitent.' The magistrate pursed his lips thoughtfully.
'I will hear statements, then, if this is to be a battle of rhetoric. Decurion Torvik, you will state your case by describing to me the events as you remember them and in as much detail as possible.'
Torvik stood, glad to be offered this opportunity. It was time to get creative.
0900 hours, Day 57 – Pelloris Ridge
The darkness of unconsciousness receded, replaced with the darkness of a cabin full of smoke. Torvik coughed, unable to draw breath. He was still in his harness. He hit the release but nothing happened. After a moment of panic he realised it was already loose He was just hanging in the straps. He threw it off and collapsed to the floor, pressing his face to the grille-work to try and find clean air. He managed to stay conscious long enough to tear a square of cloth from his sleeve to hold over his mouth.
His eyes were streaming and the smoke was impenetrable. The heat on his face told him the tank was on fire.
He had to get out.
With one arm extended he probed his way forward, trying to find the side-hatch. His hand brushed across the remains of one of his men. Were they all as dead as this one? Moving closer he saw that it was Erriks, or what was left of him. The top half of his head was a ruin of fused bone and cauterised flesh. Torvik had seen las-wounds before. From the angle of entry he judged the shot had come from inside the tank. This was no accidental death.
He found the door, realised it was jammed. But there was light coming in from somewhere. He probed the hull, heading away from the heat of the flames and spotted a slash of clean, bright light through the smoke. He hauled himself out and scrabbled away from the wreck, fearing a secondary explosion.
Shells were still dropping all around him. Corpses and twisted hulks littered the slope. There was no sign of any other member of his squad. The damn cowards had left him to burn to death in that metal coffin. They had better hope death got its hands on them before he did. He leaned back against a neighbouring wreck to take stock of himself.
His eyes were still streaming. His mouth and nostrils were clogged with acrid, oily ashes and his ears still rang from the knock on the head that must had rendered him unconscious in the first place. In short none of his senses were serving him as they should and he was alone in this charnel yard of ruinous death.
He curled into a ball, almost involuntarily, and succumbed to wracking sobs.
Some minutes later he had recovered himself enough to take one last look around himself. For the first time he realised he was covered in blood, but it was not his own. It was the blood of the shredded corpses he'd crawled over to escape the tank. Corpses he'd barely even registered at the time but which some part of him had been aware of nevertheless.
He saw that the hatch of the Chimera against which he'd been leaning was hanging ajar. It beckoned to him. He crawled inside to find it deserted. The occupants had managed to escape. Curling up into a corner once more he resigned himself to the fitful shaking that overwhelmed him.
He was immune to the sounds that assaulted him. The shelling receded and by midday it had stopped altogether. He might have heard the roar of six hundred eager engines as they passed his hiding place by and moved on up the hill, but he didn't respond. He remained hidden, unable to force his limbs to respond.
Darkness fell. Torvik regained some of his faculties. He realised that he was dead if he stayed here and was found, whether by friend or foe. He had to move or at least do something. He had to blend in with the carnage and ruin. The only way to do that without giving his friends reason to kill him was to move up-hill, but to do so would bring him within reach of enemy guns.
He couldn't decide on a course of action. In the end he dared not venture out of the broken-down vehicle.
Morning came and Torvik was still wide awake and hiding out. He peered out the hatch to see if he could gauge the results of yesterday's madness. Down in the distance, near the bottom of the slope, he could just make out Imperial cleanup crews starting the clear away the wrecks and their incumbent bodies. No doubt there would be medical teams with them, searching for wounded.
Torvik experienced a moment of clarity. He'd been wounded. Perhaps it was just a knock to the head but that still counted. Provided he was clever enough he might just get away with it.
He ventured out, keeping low so that he wasn't seen from below. His own Chimera had stopped burning sometime in the night. A quick inspection told him that if he laid himself across the rent in the hull it would look as though he'd managed to use the last of his strength to find clean air. It might just be credible enough to save his life. He arranged himself just so and feigned unconsciousness, ignoring his discomfort.
Within the hour a medical crew came scouting through his vicinity. They spotted him and approached to see if he was still alive. As they dragged him out he affected a groan.
'We've got a live one!' cried one of the medics.
'Emperor be praised!'
'He seemed remarkably intact…'
'Unlike his comrades.'
'No, there's only three corpses that I can make out. Some of them must have got out. Guess they thought this one was a goner!'
'Lucky for him. If they'd realised he was still alive he might've ended up like those others. Get their tags if you can, we'll mark 'em up.'
'He's got a mild concussion, I think,' came a third voice, having dragged Torvik's limp eye-lids open to shine a light into them. 'He's also suffering from smoke inhalation but other than that he's quite hale.'
'Alright, let's get him on a stretcher and back down to the MASH.'
Whatever happened to him from that moment on, Torvik resolved never to divulge his actions of the previous day to any soul. He would take the secret of his cowardice to the grave.
xxx
1145 hours – Arbitration Courthouse, Camp Graviers
Torvik finished his account with a flourish. Corgan had watched the man fidget and squirm all the way through it. The whole story was a pack of lies. Still, it had been entertaining. He especially liked the bit about Torvik dragging Erriks' lifeless corpse from the burning wreck, thinking him still alive, and then rounding up a team of dazed and leaderless penitents for a heroic advance. That was rich. No penitent worth his salt would have passed up the opportunity to shoot Torvik on sight given half a chance.
'Thank you, Decurion. May I ask, why did it not seem prudent to provide a corroborated account of your heroic actions?'
'Objection, your honour: My client is not on trial today,' Torvik's counsellor put in.
'Not today, perhaps,' the Magistrate replied quizzically. 'Centurion, please summarise for me the events as you recall them.'
Corgan stood, standing to attention as respectfully as he could manage. It wouldn't do for him to make a bad impression and allow Torvik to get away with his cockamamie bull.
'Your grace, after the shell hit most of us were still trapped in our harnesses. Luckily one of the cages had been damaged by the impact, allowing Penitent Trooper Ardin to hit the release lever. Troopers Jarny and Tolpo were killed instantly by the impact as they were closest to it, but more or less everyone else took shrapnel wounds to varying degrees. Trooper Erriks, whom the Decurion claims was murdered, had taken a fatal shrapnel wound to the groin which had severed his artery. He was bleeding out and we had no medic on station. I saw fit to offer him the Emperor's mercy and did so without consulting with my squad-mates.
'Trooper Shopal had found that the door was, as noted by the Decurion, jammed shut. He did, however, spot the rent in the hull. I told everyone to evacuate, fearing that the flames might trigger a secondary explosion and kill us all. Meanwhile I checked on the Decurion. He was, as he has stated, covered in blood, though I did not know that this was the blood of Jarny and Tolpo. Unfortunately the Decurion's bulky armour prevented me from being able to check his pulse and I could not detect any discernible breathing motion. Nevertheless I tried to release him from his straps. The weight of his armour once more prevented me from doing this. I took the decision that the risk of staying inside the tank to rescue him, even if he was still alive, was too high.
'My unit had been ordered to take the Ridge. This is what we did. I believe my actions and the actions of the other men in my unit are ample justification for this decision. The details should be in the report my counsellor handed to your orderly.
'I'll admit to being heartily relieved that the Decurion survived. My abandonment of him weighted heavily on my conscience, though perhaps not as heavily as my act of mercy for Trooper Erriks.'
'You lying son of a grope!' Torvik bellowed, rising like a tidal surge from his seat. He had grown increasingly red in the face as Corgan told his story. Now he was boiling over.
'I'll have order in this courtroom, Decurion Torvik!' the Magistrate cried. Torvik's counsellor had bolted under the table and lay quivering in a ball.
Torvik subsided, realising his error. The Magistrate turned back to face Corgan, who had suppressed his wry smirk. He had always known he was a good liar and today he'd proved it. He hadn't had to go too far away from the truth in claiming to have tried to rescue Torvik. Just far enough.
'Thank you, Centurion, for your frank and thorough report. I see you have also listed three men as witnesses to your actions on the day…'
'Yes, your grace, though they might not be able to corroborate my attempted rescue of the Decurion as they had been ordered to evacuate. I'm sure you can understand the expedience of this.'
D'Boussey pursed his lips in thought, nodding slowly to himself. He turned to his subalterns and they exchanged a round of hushed whispers.
'It is the judgement of this court,' he began, making his final decree. Corgan tensed and Torvik gathered his hands up into fists. 'That the charge of Gross Negligence be thrown out of this courtroom with disdain. The acts of heroism perpetrated by the defendant are beyond reproach. They were witnessed by hundreds of surviving penitents who might not be alive had he taken the risk of rescuing the Decurion. The charge of Murder in the First Degree is also refuted. The lack of evidence would have rendered it impossible to convict and yet the defendant has admitted to it being an act of mercy. I can find no grounds on which to deny or uphold this claim.' He brought the hammer down and the magistrates stood to file out of the room.
'The verdict is spoken, let no man doubt the Emperor's will has been done!' intoned the court-orderly.
Torvik favoured Corgan with a venomous look that received only amused contempt in return. If Corgan knew anything about retribution, he knew that Torvik would be back to try and claim it.
Let him come.
