Heart of the Faithful

Connor hung suspended in the tank's force field. She was stripped of her heavy coat and sash, and wore only a medical gown that dangled just over her feet. Every part of her body was screaming in pain, but she endured it with a grimace. Beyond the tank, the doctor was arguing emphatically with the techpriest Connor had sent for. The priestess approached the tank, and spoke into the vox receiver. "Commissar, we are ready to proceed with the operation."

"I really must protest!" said the doctor, pushing aside the engineseer. He pressed against the tank. "My lady, you need rest and rehabilitation! The shock of cybernetic augmetics at this stage of your recovery could cause permanent paralysis. I implore you, return to your cot and rest. This is not the right way!"

Connor ignored the doctor. She spoke to the engineseer as though she was the only one in the room. "How long will the procedure take, Aros?"

"If the procedure goes as planned, it should take just under four hours. Spinal augmentations require delicate adjustments. As such, I am well suited to this task." From under Aros' robe, four mechadendrite tendrils emerged. The metal fixtures could operate on machinery at a microscopic level. They were the only devices precise enough to perform the complex surgery Connor required.

"This is absurd!" exclaimed the doctor. Connor rolled her eyes and nodded to the techpriest. Aros extended one of her tendrils, wrapping it around the doctor like a snake. Lifting the doctor by his neck, she tossed the man through the swinging doors of the operating room. Two Skitarii guards outside grabbed him and escorted him away, kicking and screaming as he went.

"I am a member of the Officio Medicae! You cannot do this! You are violating the sanctity of this facility!" Before the doctor could say another word, one of the Skitarii rammed the butt of his gun into the man's face, reducing him to pained whimpers. The doors closed behind the guards, leaving Connor alone with the priestess.

"Now we shall have no more interruptions," said Aros. The priestess moved to the stasis tank's console and activated it. "Your body diagnostic is complete, Commissar. We are ready to commence with the operation."

"Then begin, Aros. I have waited long enough. Every hour I have spent in this hospital has been time wasted, and I shall not fail in my task."

Aros entered a code into the console. Small access ports opened in the tank, and she pressed her mechadendrite through the force field suspending Connor. A needle pricked Connor's back, and the commissar felt her body go numb below her neck. "Do you trust me, Commissar?"

Connor didn't hesitate. "More than anyone, Aros."

"Then I will be honest with you. This operation will be painful. The slightest miscalculation could leave you in pain for the rest of your life."

Connor closed her eyes. If that is what it took, then so be it. "I am ready."

Two days had passed since Flinn and Rast had entered the undercity to look for Gren and the others. When they had come across the spot where the Kommandos had ambushed them, all they had found were greenskin corpses and spent power cells and bullet cases. The scene was a mess: guard rails were twisted and melted, rockcrete was torn up and buildings were charred black by flamer bursts. Poor Marlo's body was strewn over the site. But there were no other human bodies. So, Flinn and Rast continued their search.

Orks were crawling across the Undercity now. Several times, the two guardsmen had almost been discovered, saved only by their stolen gear and the orks' preoccupation with fighting among themselves. The search was slow going. The auspex scans were shoddy at the best of times, and most of what Flinn received came through only half assembled on the screen. Rast had tuned the auspex to their squad's personal vox channel, sweeping the passages for any residual signals.

Flinn took point as they descended further, following the faint traces. He tried to focus, but his mind kept wandering back to the Commissar. Caius must have informed him, Flinn was certain of that. He was worried that the murder would lead back to them. Rast had assured Flinn when they had dumped the body that it wouldn't. They were in a warzone, and three men would not be missed. But the nagging doubt remained in Flinn's mind.

"We'll lay low for a while," Rast had said. "There was talk that the army was going to send purge teams down here to flush out the Orks. When we find the sergeant, we hunker down and wait for our 'rescue'. Caius won't be able to pin anything on us, trust me."

Hours passed by. Above him, from an overlook, Rast called down to Flinn. "I think I see something. Down over the railing, look."

Flinn leaned over the barrier. Below, a narrow bridge crossed over a black chasm. It was barely hanging onto the ledge by a few wires. On the edge, a pile of dead greenskins lay where they fell trying to cross the narrow walkway. "I'll check it out," said Flinn, attaching a rappel line to the rail. "Cover me."

Flinn eased himself over the edge, and slowly descended. Setting foot on the bridge, he inspected the xenos bodies. Heaving one of the brutes over, Flinn noted where lasgun shots had punctured the ork's chest and head. This wasn't some hive ganger kill, the shots had been made by a trained marksmen. He looked across the bridge, where the Orks had been heading. In an alcove beneath the street from which he had just dropped, there was a small passage.

Flinn called the area clear, and Rast roped down beside him. He flipped open the auspex and performed another sensor sweep. This time, rather than the usual static, a clear transmission came through. Rast grinned, shaking the device triumphantly. "We've got something. It's responding to our vox channel."

The two guardsmen checked the auspex's screen. The auspex indicated that vox transponders on their squad's channel had been through the area within the last forty-eight hours. The trace led directly down the passage from the bridge. Flinn felt newfound hope growing in his chest. They at last had a solid lead.

Crassus and Lester waited outside Colonel Moran's office. The Cadian commander had summoned them for a meeting on short notice. He hadn't said why, but Crassus assumed it had something to do with the growing crisis in the eastern sectors.

The door opened, and Moran's aide ushered them in. Like everything at the truck depot, the office had been quickly converted into a headquarters for the Guard. Piles of boxes filled with the previous owner's affects were stacked in the corner. The Golgotha citizens had left in a hurry.

Moran was like Crassus, he kept very few personal items. A small brass statue was the only noticeable piece among them. The statue was carved in the shape of a woman. She wasn't particularly pretty or well shaped, simply normal. It sat on his desk atop a number of paper maps and charts.

The colonel noticed Ertrand's gaze fall on the statue. Raynis Moran held up the figure, looking at it longingly. "My wife," he said, sadness filling his voice. "I met her during a campaign on Tharuban. Orks had made planetfall and overrun the primary Hives. She was one of the few that made it out."

"What happened to her?" asked Ertrand. "I didn't notice a baggage train when the Xenobane debarked."

"No, you didn't. Cadians are soldiers first, Colonel. We don't have families. Once the infestation had been pacified, we were shipped out. I haven't seen her since."

"How long has it been?"

Moran sat silently, as if lost in thought. "Seven years," he said, finally. He shook his head.

Major Lester stepped forward tentatively. "You did summon us here, Colonel. What did you need?"

"Yes, of course," said Moran. "With the Warboss now engaging our east flank, more resources are being diverted to contain his advance. This in turn is dragging more Orks into the combat. We need to take some pressure off of our allies. We need to strike at the Rok."

"Agreed," said Crassus. They had been shelling the greenskin fortress for days, softening them up for an assault. "We should move as soon as possible. Overwhelm the Rok and then wheel our forces east to secure the island. With the underground sealed off, we need to control the surface."

"How soon can your regiment be ready to move?" asked Moran.

Lester spoke. "I can have the men mobilized by tomorrow, sir. Should I recall our companies off the rotation?"

"No, we go with what we have." Crassus turned back to Moran. "We need to get underway, Colonel. Contact me when you are ready.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Moran. "I understand this is short notice, and I thank you for your candor. Now, if you please, I need to speak with my officers."

Raynis showed them out and shut the door behind them. "Armand, get on the vox with the PDF artillery. I want that a hole in that Rok you could drive a Baneblade through."

A murmur of shock traveled throughout the 4th company guardsmen, waiting in line for their rations. At the end of the warehouse, watching the men with an icy glare, stood Commissar Connor. Where she had been struck by the Ork days before, a gruesome layer of scar tissue had formed from the right side of her jaw, running down her neck. She approached the company, moving with slow, deliberate motions. Those close to her could hear a faint mechanical whine as she passed.

Uther stood as she came closer. He didn't try to hide the anger he felt. "Commissar," he said stiffly.

"Captain," responded Connor. "I trust that discipline has not diminished in my brief absence?"

"Not at all. Naturally, given the company's leave from the front, misbehaviour is expected. But the men are well trained. There haven't been any infractions, Commissar."

"See that it remains that way, Captain. Ill discipline at the front can be dealt with swiftly. Dissent in the rear will lead to our downfall. General Derim stepped down this morning for his failure to contain the Xenos. I will not have morale collapse at such a critical juncture."

"Understood perfectly, Commissar," said Uther with a hint of sarcasm. "If I may ask, who is to lead the army in our disgraced general's absence?"

"The Commissariat has informed me that General Dagor Lessek of the 12th Maveron Lance Division has been elected. The Maverons may not be the most experienced soldiers, but at present, they have the largest number of regiments deployed to Golgotha, and their officers carry significant weight in the decision making. According to the Commissariat, it did not take much to sway opinions to their favor."

Uther lowered his voice. "And how about yourself, Connor?" he asked. "Are you feeling well?"

Connor straightened up and huffed. "I am fine, Captain Uther. The procedure was successful, and I am fit for active duty."

"You know I'm only concerned for your wellbeing, Connor. Are you sure about this?"

"I am, Captain," Connor said. She nodded to the guardsmen. "Carry on."

Coat billowing behind her, the Commissar turned and strode towards the exit. The company, which had watched the brief exchange in tense silence, resumed their routine. It was a poorly kept secret of the captain's relationship with the commissar, and the recent distance between the two had been a point of conversation among the men.

Vornas watched her go, stone faced when she glanced his way. He had been sitting by himself among the rest of the company. He didn't talk to anyone, and nobody dared to brush him off as he ate. After Connor left the building, he waited for a minute before getting up himself.

A man looking like he knew where he was going attracted little attention, Remer had told him, once. Not that Vornas received much attention anyways. His scarred face and bad moods more often scared people away than attracted them.

He followed Connor at a distance. The commissar was heading for the train station. More supplies from Angel Forge arrived daily, including hundreds of those new Rogal Dorn tanks. They were being driven directly from the station to the frontline, as the Guard desperately tried to hold back the Ork assault along the shore.

Ahead, the path split, one side heading down to the rail lines, while the other passed over the station. Connor took the lower path, and Vornas took the upper, walking until he had a full view of the station. He followed the commissar's movements from above while she moved among the loading crews.

From the main building, a red mechanicus priest emerged and ushered Commissar Connor inside. Vornas had noticed more and more of them recently. Most kept to the station, overseeing their supply drops, but every now and then, he found techpriests wandering through the streets. They always traveled in groups of two or more, and always with a detail of cogboy troopers.

"What are you doing, Vornas?"

Vornas spun around at the voice. Soras stood with his arms crossed and a hard look on his face. The sergeant approached him. "You didn't think I missed you leaving, did you?"

"What do you think she's doing?" Vornas wondered aloud. "She comes back from a coma with gears sticking out of her goddamn spine, and now she's cozying up to the cogboys."

"Does it matter? You're not going to kill her."

"I didn't ask your opinion, Soras," spat Vornas.

"And I didn't give it," Kippler said forcefully. "I don't want you wandering off anymore. You stay away from the commissar and you pull yourself together. Is that clear?"

Vornas didn't answer. Soras repeated himself. "Is that clear, private?"

Vornas still didn't respond. He just walked away, ignoring Kippler's protests. He knew what Kippler would do next. The sniper wasn't as opaque as he thought he was. Vornas just had to get there first. Connor would die.

"Here, Flinn, I've got a live one!" called Rast.

Flinn sloshed through knee deep water. A waterline had broken and flooded the monorail tube. The trail had led them through a veritable warren of passages before opening up into the transit tubes. But they were getting closer.

Flinn rounded the corner and saw Rast holding a small creature by the throat. Rast slammed the gretchin into the wall and punched its distended belly so hard that it coughed up blood. Numerous greenskins of all sizes lay floating in the pungent sluice; red blood mixed with the grey water now pooling in Flinn's boots.

Something in Flinn snapped when he saw the gretchin. He remembered the Ork that had pursued him out of the undercity days before. The same hatred that had overwhelmed him then suddenly returned. Unsheathing his knife, Flinn pressed the blade deep into the gretchin's chest.

"Now, you listen to me you little freak. You better talk fast, or this knife is going to cut a little deeper, and I know how much a greenskin can bleed before they die. You are going to answer our questions."

"Please," gasped the gretchin, "I dun' know nuffin, I just carry da boyz dakka, I swearz!" Rast threw another fist into the creature's gut, knocking the wind out of it.

"Who did this to you, for starters?" demanded Flinn. He twisted the knife in a little further. The little wretch squealed. "Talk!"

"It was you humies, wasn't it? We was chasin' your runts fer a good fight, an' den half da boyz was shot dead! What more do ya want from me, I just run da dakka!"

"Not good enough, freak. What did they look like? Were they wearing green armor like us?"

The little xenos was turning from green to purple while Rast held him by the throat. "Dey was green, I swearz." It held a trembling arm up and pointed down the tube. "Dey was screamin' about gettin' to da center o' da tunnelz, or sumfin'. Where all da trains wot run in deez tubes come from."

"Monorail transfer station," said Rast. "We should go, some of the trains might still be running, or they might be there. Come on, Flinn." Rast loosened his grip on the gretchin's neck.

Flinn didn't move. He still had the runt pinned to the wall with his knife. "Flinn?" Rast snapped his fingers. "Come on, let's go. He'll bleed out anyways, stop wasting time."

"No." Flinn leaned in, almost bumping his head on the creature's long nose. "You know what I hate most about you greenskins? It's that you never take anything seriously. It's all a game to you, all this killing and fighting. But it isn't so fun when you lose, is it?"

The gretchin's eyes widened with fear. "Well, we humans aren't like you. We don't have fun killing if we can help it. Except, I'm not feeling very human right now," Flinn pulled the knife out of the gretchin's belly, "so, I'm going to enjoy this."

Despite the xenos's screams, Flinn pressed the knife's edge against its throat, and began sawing. Blood spewed everywhere as he slashed the jugular veins. The gretchin's eyes bulged and it coughed up mouthfuls of blood. But it was still alive. Good, it can suffer longer, thought Flinn.

He didn't bother to cut the head cleanly off. Washing his knife off in the water, Flinn stood up and left the still dying greenskin with its neck half severed, still alive for a few more agonizing seconds.

Rast stepped back from Flinn. The younger trooper looked at him with disgust. "It's a xenos, it doesn't deserve better. They kill us a hundred ways and worse. I figure it was time we got our own back. Let's find Gren and get the hell out of here."