Regrets are all we have

The fishing line soared through the still air, arcing gratefully as it curved. It plunged into a lake of pure water, so still it could have been a mirror. In those waters were reflected the snow-capped mountains with exacting detail, every crag and snowy slope picked out. The sun was low enough in the sky not to dazzle and its slow journey into night set the evening sky ablaze with pinks and reds.

The image shattered as the line disturbed the water, sending ripples outwards. The fisherman smiled at the sight as he leaned back in his cushioned chair, resting his rod in one arm and a warm beer in the other. He was an old man, long past his fighting years and his age was clear from the lines on his face. His hair was thin and white and the stubble on his chin was silver-grey. He wore faded blue overalls and a thick shirt, to fend off the chill of the mountain air. At a glance he would seem some lonely mountain hermit, eking out his last days in solitude, but several things about him belied that impression.

His boots were military-grade, thick and rubberised with patterned grips on the soles. His arms bore the scars of a lifetime of fighting and around his neck hung simple metal tags on a chain. Propped up against one arm of his chair was a standard Imperial Lasrifle and from the other hung an auspex scanner, glowing faintly. Even his position was carefully selected, sitting on a small pier sticking out of the lake, where no one could approach him unobserved. He had the air of a man at rest, yet one who was watchful and ready for the unexpected. His name was Franc Renhardt, once a Marshall of his nation, now nobody in particular.

Renhardt took a sup of his beer and enjoyed the moment. Around him the trees were noisy with the sounds of birds singing their evening chorus. The air was fresh and clean, quite unlike the dirty urban stench of concrete and smoke-belching engines, a smell that had only gotten worse since the Imperium's occupation of his homeland began. Renhardt preferred the quiet life, he'd seen more than his fair share of wars and harsh duty; it was time to enjoy his retirement in peace. The fact that he was persona non grata in the cities and towns of Nordlund also helped. His name was hated and despised across his nation, even by his own family. Renhardt sighed as old sorrows bubbled up in his mind. Never far from his thoughts at the best of times, but when the night drew in he would sink into his regrets and brood. His life had been spent poorly, his choices all wrong and his service wasted. Only at the very end of his career had he done anything of note and everyone hated him for it. No, night was not a good time.

Renhardt glanced further down the shore, where a small cabin squatted. It was his home and if he had his way his grave, the last speck of comfort he could find in the world. Renhardt considered reeling in his line and packing up for the day. It didn't look like he would catch anything today; it would be tinned rations for dinner again. Yet before he could move the auspex chimed. Renhardt frowned as he picked up the device and squinted at the small screen. It was technology beyond the understanding of Nordlund, crafted by secret arts brought from the stars. But he knew how to work it and he recognised three blips moving into range, approaching on foot.

Renhardt's jaw tightened as he reached for his lasrifle and stood up. With surprising haste for a man his age he jogged off the pier, running up the short slope of the bank. After a moment he stopped on a nondescript patch of earth and knelt to dig his fingers into the loam. Under his grip a buried tarpaulin came away, revealing a small hidey-hole underneath. Renhardt slipped into it and pulled the sheet over him, leaving only a narrow gap to watch through. To any passing observer he had almost vanished, indistinguishable from the dull slope. Then he settled in to wait.

Minutes crept by, stretching out into a half-hour. The sun sank low behind the mountains and evening darkened until it was almost night. The birds finished their chorus and the first stars became visible in the sky and still Renhardt waited. He knew better than to relax his guard and it seemed so too did the intruders. Whoever was trying to sneak up on him was waiting for nightfall, doubtless expecting an old man like him to be settling down for a meal.

Just as the red sky began to fade Renhardt spied three figures creeping around the shore of the lake. They were moving swiftly, with confident steps and taking a direct route to his cabin. Renhardt spied military issue uniforms, shorn of insignia and in their hands were Lasrifles. Their hostile intent was plain but Renhardt frowned as he judged their skills to be poor. They were heading directly for his cabin, not scouting the edges and they bunched together, standing too close to each other, one burst of machine-gun fire could take them all out. He spied one of their faces and was struck by how young they looked, none older than his grandchildren. Boys playing at being soldats. Yet there was nothing wrong with the guns they carried: standard Lasrifles, an increasingly common sight since the Imperial occupation began. No one carried those without meaning to use them.

Renhardt let the trio walk past his hide, moving on without noticing him. They were focused entirely on his cabin, not watching their footsteps for traps and snares. Either they thought him an incompetent old fool or they were half-trained boys. He waited until their backs were to him then silently lifted his sheet and stood up. He pointed his lasrifle at them and barked, "Stop right there!"

The trio froze, stunned by his ambush and the one on the right whispered, "What do we do?!"

"Be quiet," the middle one hissed.

"Drop the guns, then turn around and step back," Renhardt growled. Reluctantly the three complied, laying down their weapons and moving back. As they did so Renhardt got a good look at their faces. They were all solid local lads, their features distinct to Nordlund's stock. The one of the left looked afraid, probably scared of being shot. Renhardt thought he looked like he was in over his head, roped into a cause before he understood what it meant. The one on the right looked angry, a thug in a uniform. He was the sort who was born to make trouble, all he needed was a flag to stand under. The middle one however was different, he looked neither scared or angry. Instead he seemed driven and focused, his gaze unwavering and filled with hate. A fanatic, Renhardt judged, committed to the cause and willing to spill blood for it, anyone's blood. Renhardt should know, he'd seen enough of those types in his career.

"That's far enough," Renhardt uttered as he kept his rifle steady, "Names… now."

"Harns," the middle one admitted, "This is Bans and Guthet."

"No rank pins I note," Renhardt commented, "No serial numbers either. You've been briefed not to reveal anything but I know who you are. You're with Moger's lot, his rabble-rousers and thugs."

"You know?!" Bans gasped.

Renhardt scoffed, "I'm retired, I'm not dead. I have ears and a vox-set, I heard all about the attacks and uprisings, the rebellion against Imperial rule. I knew sooner or later Moger would order someone to end me."

Harns' eyes hardened as he growled, "No point denying it then. Yes, by the authority of the Freedom League and Chancellor Moger you have been convicted of treason against the sovereign state of Nordlund and sentenced to death."

Renhardt snorted, "Freedom League, is that what you call yourselves? Pathetic, you're no true Soldats."

Guthet's eyes reddened as he snapped, "You don't know anything! We're liberating Nordlund from the Imperium. We shall free our nation and then our whole world. All nations will unite with us to free our planet."

"Is that what Moger told you?" Renhardt scoffed, "He sold you a shiny fantasy but it's really a pile of stinking manure."

"Better to die for freedom than live on your knees!" Harns barked, "Better death than submission to the spacemen and their puppet governor. You sold us out, you surrendered to the Caliphate and his Imperial masters."

Renhardt sighed forlornly, "Yes I did. Ten years ago I saw the Imperium rampage over our armies, shatter our mightiest panzer divisions and rain down fire from orbit. I saw Space Marines, the Astartes themselves, and I knew we had no chance of beating them. So I did what I had to, to save whatever and whoever I could from the senseless slaughter. Marshall Renhardt signed the surrender and so saved millions of boys like you from dying to a bolt round."

"You committed treason," Harns growled, "We weren't done fighting. Had we held on we could have won, we could have beaten them back."

Renhardt's jaw fell as he spluttered, "Oh you poor fools. Moger's only gone and got you thinking you have a chance. He's got you believing you can win."

"Chancellor Moger has proclaimed Nordlund's victory is at hand!" Guthet spat.

Renhardt sighed, "There it is: Chancellor. Not Marshall, not even Kommandant. Moger is no Soldat, he's a politician. Oh yes, I've heard his speeches on the vox and its stirring stuff but I note he's never turned up in person to a fight. He's always safe behind the lines somewhere, while boys like you bleed and die in the dirt. I bet he's never even picked up a rifle and risked being shot at. I've seen a hundred Moger's in my career and they're always eager for someone else to die for the cause, but always conveniently absent when the bullets start flying."

"You coward," Harns growled.

"My own family disowned me, my name is reviled and spat upon. You'll have to make better insults than that," Renhardt snapped.

Harns hissed, "Pride, dignity and courage, you don't know what they are!"

"Words," Renhardt sighed, "Words old men parrot to get young fools like you to go out and die for them. You have no idea how many boys I saw sent out to die by Kongress, how many young lives they fed into pointless wars without a qualm. You think Moger will mourn you, he doesn't know your names and when you die he won't shed a single tear. Your pretty words won't stop the Imperium. I've seen their space ships, I've seen the size of their armies and the Space Marines first hand. Have you seen a Space Marine? I thought not, you won't stand a chance when they bother to put down this rebellion."

Bans whimpered, "This was a bad idea, maybe we should."

But Harns yelled, "Nordlund shall be free! No matter how much blood it costs. We're far ahead of you. The cities are ours, the Imperial garrisons have fallen and the banner of the Freedom League flys high over Konningsberg. We've seen off the Imperium's armies once and we can beat them again!"

Whatever reply was coming was cut short as a terrific scream rent the sky. All eyes rose as a blazing meteor plunged out of the darkening night, hurtling earthward at stupendous velocity. It disappeared behind a mountain and long seconds later the sky blazed a fierce red, lit from horizon to horizon by the fires of hell. Moments later thunder rolled and the ground shook, sending clouds of birds into the air with shrieks of terror and the waters of the lake danced in sympathetic pain.

"What was that?!" Bans yelled.

Renhardt grimly stated, "That was a Magma bomb. Judging by the angle I'd say it just obliterated Konningsberg."

"Obliterated?!" Bans gasped, "But two million people were living there."

"Not anymore," Renhardt uttered, "If Moger was anywhere near that, he's dead, along with your Freedom League."

"But why?" Bans whimpered.

"To make an example of us," Renhardt stated, "The first time the Imperium came they wanted to conquer us, to take our resources and industries intact. This time all they will want is to grind everything to dust. They will make an example of Nordlund, to show the other nations of our planet what happens to rebels. First will come the orbital bombardments, then the drop-pods. Astartes will sally forth and slaughter all they find. They won't stay their hands for anything."

Sure enough the sky split again and again, each one signalling the death of a city. Bans cried, "My parents live in Konningsberg!"

"I'm sorry," Renhardt said with genuine regret.

But Guthet gulped, "My family are farmers. They live leagues from anywhere."

Renhardt nodded as he prompted, "You came here in a truck? Good. Then get in it and drive. Drive straight to your family and throw them in the back, then head for the border. Stop for nothing and no one, not even to help someone. With luck you might get out of the country before the Imperium notices you."

Guthet immediately turned and fled, running for the hills. Bans waited for a second then followed, seemingly having nowhere else to go and no other ideas. Harns however held still, eyes raging with anger. His fists tightened and his jaw clenched as he spat, "You did this."

Renhardt snorted, "No, you and Moger did this. Your revolution never had a chance, the Imperium has the means and brutality to erase this nation. You should have recognised that truth and made the best you could of your life. I did, my family hates me but at least I got them out of the country before they stopped speaking to me."

"Cowardice," Harns growled, "You'll never understand why we fought."

Renhardt sighed, "To make one group of old men richer than some other group of old men. That's all revolutions boil down to in the end. I've seen more than my fair share of wars and behind the scenes someone is always getting rich off it. Your revolution, how many innocents has it killed? How many ordinary people were shoved up against a wall and shot? To me the only difference between you and the Imperium is the scale of your firepower."

Harns' eyes dropped to the Lasrifles on the ground and Renhardt growled, "Don't, I've got you in my sights."

Harns hissed, "I've got nothing left to live for and you're an old man, slow and likely to miss…"

Renhardt hissed, "Then I suppose it all depends on how lucky you feel."

So night fell over the mountains as the horizon burned. Fiery reds painting the slopes the colours of flames like a vision of a heathen hell. As the tiny black motes of Drop-pods appeared in the sky the sound of a single las-shot rang over the mountains. Then all was silence.