The Xenobane

The great doors to the cathedral sank back into place with a muffled thud, showering the last few stragglers with the accumulated dust of centuries. The air was thick with incense, a heavy smell that thickened the air and clung to the skin like a film. The candles cast a warm glow over the cathedral's halls, a calming contrast to the harsh service lights in the billets. Gren and Flinn sat together on a filled pew, surrounded by refugees, holy men, and other soldiers, listening as the preacher continued the daily sermons.

In times of doubt, faith was often the only thing standing a man and his end. For Gren, at least, it helped to soothe his thoughts, help him forget what had happened that awful day. The blast, the noise, and then nothing. He and Flinn would have been dead as well, gone in an instant, if they hadn't stopped to talk to the Artemians. He didn't say anything, but Gren quietly appreciated the lad's company. Faces came and went, but his was constant. It helped ground Gren's perception of reality. Flinn would never know how much it meant to him.

Things were quiet now, around Angel Hive. Those bloody cogboys had managed to end years of constant skirmishes in one moment, flattening Spire Legis with nuclear weaponry. From there, fighting had become little more than a mop-up operation, taking out small, uncoordinated cells. The Hounds of Vandis were gone, at last. For the first time since the First Crusade, life on Meridian had returned to normal. The cost had been great, too many dead friends to count, but Gren felt it was time to put his demons to rest.

No major offensives, just guard duty. The fighting had moved on from the Capital. The outlying systems in the Subsector were the new fronts now. Meridian was a stable base of operations for the Imperium once again. The Forge was churning out supplies readily once again, and Capitol Spire gleamed ever golden, the extensive repairs finally showing progress. All things told, life was pretty good. The ravaged Vendoland regiments could at last rest easy. Starting with going back to Church.

Nobody ever said anything, but the missionaries attached to the Guard regiments were almost universally hated by the Vendolanders. Screaming fanatics, intent on 'inspiring' troopers to greater heroism, were constantly botching ambushes, betraying locations to enemy patrols, and generally being a nuisance. Gren much preferred the quiet seclusion of the chapel, where he could worship in peace, rather than under fire. Keeping faith and fury separate was a difficult task, but he had managed to strike a balance.

The preacher's sermon reached a particular line. "The heart of the faithful was consumed by the hunger of doubt, until all that remained was the instinct of a beast, unknowing, uncaring, and forever lost."

Strong words, thought Gren, as the service ended. He repeated the phrase over in his head on the walk back to the barracks. Flinn pulled his cloak tighter around himself, shivering. The cold winter weather blanketed the streets with a layer of snow, and fierce winds gusted down the alleys. "I find it amazing that so many brave this weather for a service," said Flinn.

"Faith is a strong motivator, lad," said Gren. "Emperor knows, it motivates me. What were you going to do before curfew?"

The boy shook his head. "I was going down to the Gulch to see the new arrivals," he said excitedly. Flinn was beaming.

"That doesn't sound very exciting. Who's coming that has you so excited?"

" It's the Cadians! Emperor blessed Cadians themselves, here in the Subsector. Remer from 4th Company was putting together a 'welcoming committee' for them, but most people just want to get a look at them."

That was interesting, thought Gren. Everyone in the Guard had heard of Cadia. Details were often vague, but the regiments that served alongside them universally considered the Cadians to be the best trained soldiers they had ever seen. They were a legend unto the Guard, as respected as the holy Space Marines themselves. They were an ideal to look up to, a shining example of humanity's finest.

Gren let out an impressed whistle. "Well, that does sound like fun. Perhaps I will come along. It isn't like I was signing up for Undercity patrol. Lead the way, lad."

"Don't you love it how 'two months confinement' can magically turn into three when you weren't looking?" said Merrick.

Hurst didn't look up from his book. "You were keeping count?"

"Wasn't anything else to do in there," muttered Merrick. "Forty two floor tiles, the left wall had a dent from a previous occupant, and the lights went out at exactly nine thirty. Meals were twice a day, seven hours apart on the dot. And they still couldn't get my release date right. I'm betting it was Connor's idea."

"Perhaps she ran out of punishments for Remer and moved onto you."

The Bunker, the Vendolander's regular pub, was relatively quiet today. The pit fights wouldn't start up until the evening, and most of the troopers on leave had gone down to the docking bay to catch a glimpse of the Cadians. Merrick and Hurst sat at their regular booth on the third level, overlooking the cage pits below. A lone servitor with scrubbers was washing the blood stains from the platform. The regularly blaring Gang-Rock music had been replaced by a tranquil piece from the Spire's artisan quarter.

Hurst set down his novel, "Really though, Gerard, I am glad to see you again. It gives me somebody to talk to while Kippler has the boys out."

Merrick took another long drink. A cold draught was heavenly after nothing but prison food. He savoured the thick lager's taste as it trickled down his throat, conjuring nostalgic feelings for a brewery on Vendoland, many years before. "Back still stiff?"

Hurst fidgeted in his seat, stretching his shoulders. "The doctor said I'd make a full recovery in time. I've got about eighty percent of my mobility back, she says. It still hurts when I strain myself, but I'll be fine."

"Mhmm," grunted Merrick, face buried in his pint. "I hope so."

Hurst spoke softly. "It wasn't your fault, Merrick."

"I know that, and I'm not blaming myself," said Merrick. "It was a bullshit situation to begin with. I made a call I thought was right, and I'm standing by it. It doesn't mean I can't feel bad about what happened to you, or feel a little bit responsible. You're my friend, and I watch out for my friends. I'll save my anger for the cults."

"And Remer," added Hurst with a smile. The two shared a chuckle.

"And Remer."

Merrick grabbed another ale, popping the cap off the table edge. Wadden picked up his book and flipped back to his bookmark. "The officers still haven't told me when they're letting me back on active duty, Waddy. With the lull, it could be a while before we get deployed again."

"Maybe I could get them to speed up the process," offered Hurst. "I could talk to the Captain and maybe convince him."

"Maybe," said Merrick. Captain Uther got along well enough with Hurst. They were of the same mind, career oriented professionals with a bizarre respect for paperwork. If Uther would listen to any enlisted man, it would be Waddy. He'd make RSM in no time, if he didn't get selected for a commission first.

"I was thinking," started Hurst. "I... have some pull back home. On Vendoland. It's been years, but I'm sure they would listen. I could make Uther give you your command back if I wanted. No need to ask, just tell him to do it."

"You really thing you can boss around the Captain?" laughed Merrick. "With Commissar 'I will stab you with my sword if you hurt my Lars' Connor standing behind you?"

Hurst shrugged, shifting his shoulders back and forth. He seemed unusually wary, cautiously glancing to the other patrons to make sure nobody was listening in. "Possibly. An astropathic message to my family would be all it takes."

"And who's your father? The Archduke of Dartour?" said Merrick, leaning back in his seat, arms folded behind his head. This should be good, he thought. Hurst threw up his hand in defeat, shaking his head.

"The Duke of Raiylis Principality, actually," sighed Hurst. Merrick was quiet as he processed what he was hearing. Hurst was pulling his leg, surely.

"You're... you're a blueblood?"

"Twelfth in the line of succession. Politics never interested me, so I joined up at the Founding Fields. Been enlisted ever since."

"And you never thought to tell anyone?" said Merrick incredulously. "You could have made Colonel on your name alone, and you're slumming it as a sergeant?"

"My family's status isn't important to what I want, and that type of thinking is exactly why I joined the infantry," said Hurst, shaking his head. "I want to be an officer, but I wanted to know how to fight and earn my position, rather than get in on nepotism. I needed to prove I could do it."

Merrick was shocked. He'd figured that Hurst's aristocratic angle was just a result of higher education, something few people in the Guard achieved. But an actual, honest to god noble was sitting across from him, and he'd never known. "Why leave your family though?" he asked.

Hurst's expression was hard, but unreadable. "It was a good reason, and one I'd like to keep to myself. Maybe some other time. It's a difficult subject."

"Alright, I'll let it go."

Hurst was visibly uncomfortable talking about this. "You don't seem to mind as much as I thought you would. Does it bother you, now that you know?"

"I don't see how it would make much of a difference," said Merrick, surprised. "Everyone is equal in the Guard, theoretically. You've saved my skin, I've saved yours. I'd say we're level, blueblood or no."

"Good to hear. Let's change the subject."

Merrick waggled a finger. "Uh uh, first, let's get another round. You've been holding out on me with all that royal coin of yours, Waddy."

Wadden groaned, throwing an extra Throne down on the table. "Fine."

The vast troop carrier descended into the Gulch, the unofficial name given to Capitol Spire's spaceport. Dug into the side of the spire like a metal valley, the Gulch made the carrier look like a toy as it manoeuvred further down towards the larger moorings. The ship was emblazoned with Cadia's banner, a black and gold cross atop a red background, with the Aquila emblazoned across the center. Thruster pods moved the leviathan onto the landing platform's magnetic locks, ending with a deep rattle as the ship settled into a resting position.

The platform was packed with hundreds of troopers, as well as the usual dignitaries. Despite the tremendous winds blasting through the cavern, everyone wanted to see this for themselves. The reputation of the Cadian Shocktroopers was nothing short of legendary. They were the next best thing to a Space Marine that any of the Guardsmen could hope for.

Lenham Remer was scrambling to unfold a large cloth, fighting with the cords tying the bundle together. Finally giving up, he drew his knife and sliced the cord. The cloth unraveled to reveal a banner. Remer looked adoringly at his handiwork. It might not have been a properly made flag, being patched together with hastily dyed sheets and stitched with boot laces, but he was proud of how it had turned out. Alek appraised the banner, putting on his best impersonation of an art critic. Remer pointed eagerly to the words emblazoned across the bottom.

"In Princeps Gloria?" asked Alek. "What does it mean?"

"It's High Gothic, Alek. It means 'First Glory'. I was going to with 'Death or Glory' at first, but then someone pointed out that it was the motto of the Emperor's Royal Lancers. I thought, since we're usually the first ones in, our motto should reflect that."

"I think it's spelled wrong," said Vornas bluntly.

The shaggy black haired trooper didn't seem impressed. "Can you speak High Gothic then, Bor?" snapped Remer, folding his arms.

"No more than you can, genius," said Vornas.

"So? Does it really matter? It sounds good, doesn't it?"

Kippler hissed at them. "Quiet! Here they come, it's opening. Stand straight, let's try to show a little class, alright?"

The great loading ramps of the carrier extended, exposing the cavernous hold. And out they came. Marching in perfect unison, rank upon rank of pale skinned Guardsmen disembarked from their vessel. Each soldier's green uniform had a badge on the left shoulder. 39th Cadian, 'Xenobane'. The regimental officers lead the column, never missing a step, a testament to their drilled nature. But the thing that struck the gathered crowd the most were the eyes. The Cadians all seemed to share brilliant purple eyes, almost glowing in the cold winter light.

The crowd was wild, great cheers ringing out across the assembly. Remer and Vornas lifted their banner into the air, shouting excitedly. The Cadians never broke their cadence, but it was clear that they were enjoying the attention. Small grins occasionally flashed in the marching column, even as the troopers stayed utterly silent and dedicated. The regimental band played the Cadians to a stop, marching in position before snapping to attention. The crowd's noise level dropped to a hush.

The 39th Cadian's officer cadre approached the podium set up for General Tullassar Derim and the Spire welcoming committee. Officers, adjutants, commissars, dignitaries and missionaries formed the group, nodding with respect to the new arrivals. Climbing the stairs, the Cadian commander drew his sabre, offering it handle first to General Derim.

"By order of Segmentum Ultima Command, I, Colonel Raynis Moran, present to you the 39th Cadian Shocktroopers. May our service to the Father, our Emperor, guide us that we may see a new dawn this day."

Derim took the sabre in his hand, turning it over, inspecting it. The blade was engraved with the names of former saints of the Imperial Guard, heroes of old and ideals to aspire to. At the cross guard, beginning the line of saints, was the name every guardsman knew by heart. Ollanius Pius, the Light in the Dark. A thin smile crept at Derim's mouth as he admired the craftsmanship.

Seeing the weapon fit, Derim returned the blade to Moran. "I, Brigadier General Tullassar Derim, 31st Artemian, welcome you to Meridian. Your presence here is a testament to the devotion and tenacity of the Cadians. With such news from the Eye of Terror, that you are here gives us hope. We will gladly accept your forces, Colonel."

Moran spoke plainly. "The Cadians always pay their dues, General. We go where the Emperor wills."

"Indeed, as do we all. The 85th Vendoland are the resident unit stationed here. They will show you to your billets. Colonel Crassus shall be your guide. Accommodations have been made across the upper city, I trust they will be to your liking."

Moran shook Derim's hand, but his stony expression did not change. "I am sure they will be, General, thank you. However, I need to speak with the Command Staff immediately. Colonel, I trust your men will see to the Regiment's quarters. I expect to see you at this meeting as soon as possible."

"Is it truly that serious, Colonel Moran?" asked Derim.

"It is not safe to discuss in public, General. I will meet you at your headquarters in an hour."

An army of servitors and adepts began listing off billets and organizing transportation for the Xenobane, now breaking off into individual companies. Drums playing taps marched the units off towards their rides, allowing the troop carrier's munitions and vehicles to be unloaded.

"Emperor be damned, look at the size of that thing!" exclaimed Alek. He was pointing towards the vehicle bay of the carrier. A colossal tank, bristling with more guns than he could count, rolled out onto the platform, followed by two more. The Daredevil's collective jaws dropped. The tanks were each the size of a small city block, dwarfing the Leman Russes that debarked alongside them.

The look of awe was etched into their faces even as the lead behemoth rolled immediately past them. From the top hatch, a crewman smiled down at them, clearly enjoying their childlike fascination with his ride.

"Never seen a lady like this, have you, lads?" he laughed. The man's accent was thick with rolling "Rs" and long "Os", with a gruffness matched only by his impressive beard. He tapped the side of the tank's turret. "This, gents, is the Baneblade, the Emperor's own eleven barrels of hell. Commander McTavish, at your service."

A Baneblade. Remer whistled, it certainly looked like it could live up to its name. While the tank trundled past, McTavish noticed Remer's flag. He squinted to read the text. "You spelled it wrong."

Remer deflated. "Oh," he said, clearly embarrassed.

McTavish just shook his head, grinning. "Not to worry, I wager there will be enough glory to go around. I'll be making my mark soon enough. "

"Is that a bet?" said Remer slyly, immediately perking back up. His mind was already working on calculating odds if this McTavish decided to play along. The tank commander simply winked.

"No sir, that's a promise. I'll buy the first round, and then we'll see who ends up covering the second."

The tank division continued to trundle towards the platform's end. Remer jogged alongside to keep up with McTavish. "The Bunker, nine o'clock this evening! We can go over the finer details!"

"I look forward to it, mate!" called McTavish before swiveling around in the turret. The Cadians on their way, the crowd dispersed. Vornas nudged Remer in the ribs.

"I think he's got you on this one. How exactly do you plan on beating a tank?"

Remer pushed Vornas off him. "I'll think of something, just you wait and see. First I've got to think up a new slogan..."