Chapter 4

Aleks footsteps squelched in the still fresh earth as he was lead through the trench. Around him, the men of the Cadian 189th were preparing for battle, streaming down the trench network as he trudged up towards the rear. Every so often, the repetitive pattern of the trench network was split by the presence of an emplacement or a hulled-down chimera. Their crews were running through their weapons with a practiced rhythm that came from hard training. In front of him, Beckendorff's head lolled from side to side, mumbling incoherently as the two troopers press-ganged into being stretcher-bearers lugged him around on a battered khaki litter. It was stained with colours that didn't exactly inspire confidence in its previous occupants' chances of survival. Behind him, despite being unable to see them, Alek could feel the Commissars steel gaze drilling a hole between his shoulder blades. Their first conversation had been exceptionally brief in the sense that she had ordered that his hands be bound, accusing him of cowardice, and Alek hadn't managed to get a word in edgewise. It had seemed like it was over then and there. He would have just been one more guardsman shot dead in the name of 'moral,' but it would seem the presence of Beckendorff complicated the matter. The men around him had shot him sympathetic looks as they told the Commisar of how Alek had lugged the wounded officer out of the woods and across no-mans land. However, it was not enough to warrant his release, apparently. So, while he escaped death at that particular moment, he wasn't out of the metaphorical woods yet. The commander, one Colonel Dent, had pulled the commissar aside for a terse conversation of hushed whispers and not-so-hushed objections from the sash-wearing psycho. In the end, she seemed to give in, letting "Drusus" have his way. The use of his first name set off alarms in Aleks skull. The commissar, Vanden, didn't seem like the type to avoid proper titles and nomenclature. The pair's behaviour on the walk away from the front line seemed to confirm his thoughts. Officer and commissar walked side by side despite the narrow nature of the trench, and every time he glanced back, he seemed to catch a lingering touch or look that spoke of the two's real feelings for each other. Great, I'm about to be shot in the head, and they're back there flirting like a couple juvies, he thought, fiddling with the bindings around his wrist as he did. He returned his attention to placing one foot in front of the other and thinking how he would get out of this one.

After a time, they reached a crossroad of multiple different trench lines, the intersecting fortifications combining together into a colossal knot of dugouts, bunkers, and pitched tents. The positions seemed cleaner, more permanent than the ones they had been slogging through, with rockcrete and blast-plates replacing the earthen emplacements of the front line. The Guardsmen hurrying around the web of command centres and administrative structures wore clean uniforms, many even forgoing the flak vests and helmets that front line troops wouldn't be caught dead without. Alek paused at the entrance to the place, which was practically the size of a small town, before a swift shove from Commissar Vanden nearly sent him tumbling to the duckboards below his feet. The trooper shuffled after the stretcher-bearers after resisting the urge to glare at the commissar. This was no time to let anger get the better of him. The jumble of rear-echelon personal made way for the group, whispering to one another as they passed. Alek kept his gaze straight, refusing to cower like a guilty man would. The stretcher-bearers lugged the unconscious captain through the tent flaps of a narrow temporary hab marked out as a hospital, disappearing into the gloom beyond the doorway. The young trooper moved to follow them before a gloved hand grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, yanking him to the side. Vanden was surprisingly strong despite her height, and as she practically led Alek over to a discarded box beside the tent, he cursed himself for not noticing why earlier. The woman was loaded up with enough augments to refit a servitor, only just barely noticeable under the bulk of her crimson greatcoat.

"Stay here. Don't move." The commissar growled before entering the tent as well, but not before she and Colonel Dent playfully demanded that the other go in first for about a minute. It reminded Alek of the cheesy holodramas his mother used to watch back home. At the disappearance of the two authority figures, the surrounding guardsmen continued to mill around. Though now, the conversation seemed heavily focused on speculation about what was going on, who was on the stretcher, and what "That scruffy trooper" had done. He thumped down onto the crate, leaning back against the tent pole behind him. Snippets of conversations floated around him.

The surgeon needed more stims; they kept getting stolen. The mess needed a new pot; someone shot a hole in the old one. The heretics slaughtered three whole regiments last night: rumours about mass executions of the survivors. Alek looked up at the sky. The grey sky stretched out above him, hiding the twinkling lights of the battlefleet that sat in orbit around the tiny planet. He stared for a few minutes, the muddle of sounds around him fading away as he focused on his breathing. He had been running on adrenaline since saving the captain, and slowly his exhaustion began to catch up to him. The trooper sagged, chin resting on his chest as he closed his eyes. Sleep tempted him, tugging at his consciousness. A commotion from the tent behind him jerked him awake. Alek sighed, cocking his head to the side. He could just barely hear the sound of conversation inside, clipped words in High Gothic. Beckendorff was awake; Alek recognized the captain's voice, soft-spoken but steely despite its hoarseness.

Vanden and Dent were speaking too, often interrupting the wounded officer, their tone harsh and demanding. Unable to understand what they were saying, Alek turned his attention back to sleep. His mind wandered as he shut his eyes, turning to the other members of his regiment, especially those in his platoon. It wasn't that he had been incredibly close to any of them; in fact, there wasn't anyone from his unit he was especially friendly with. Mostly he had kept to himself, attempting not to get too attached to any of them, but it wasn't as if he'd hated them. Generally, they had seemed good lads, undertaking their duty to the Emperor with as much effort as he. The fact that most of them were likely dead brought a dull ache to his chest. Would he soon be joining them? Executed in the bottom of a trench half a segmentum away from home, alone and disgraced? Would his family ever hear of his demise, and more importantly, would they care? These thoughts flitted through his sleep-deprived mind as he drifted across the line between the waking and dreaming worlds, exhaustion dragging his mind into unconsciousness like hands of iron dragging him into the abyss.