Promises

Four days passed. In Golgotha West, the Cadian, Vendoland and Dyneemek regiments were finally pulled from frontline service after weeks of heavy fighting. As new regiments moved in to occupy Luesan Island and continue the push south in the orks' wake, the bloodied veterans retired to Temple Hill.

Imperial tacticians projected that fighting would continue for months, and even then, there was little hope of ever truly ridding the spire of the xenos infestation. Hundreds of orks had gone to ground in the undercity, but the bulk of the horde had fled the center and occupied the southern hab districts. It seemed early reports of the warboss's demise had been misleading; Smashface was still active, and his considerable horde still numbered nearly a hundred thousand. Imperial troops were preparing for another push in the coming days.

The Green Winter, some guardsmen were calling it. Merrick laughed humorlessly at that. It wasn't all bad, however. The greenskin air power had been decimated over Luesan, giving the Imperials control of the skies. Less fortunate, though, was the lack of supplies. The orks had stolen everything they couldn't destroy, and had made off with vast stores of munitions and foodstuffs from Golgotha's warehouses.

Back amongst the troopers of 4th company, it was apparent Merrick had a lot of catching up to do. Every guardsmen he met had a story to tell the wayward sergeant major. Many old faces had been replaced by new soldiers from the merger, and Merrick had to get their names all down. But first, he had some more personal business to attend to.

He stopped in front of an old, wood furnished building, halfway up Temple Hill. Merrick opened the door to the gambling hall and let himself in from the cold. The interior was dark and heavy with cigar and lho-stick smoke. Exchanging words with the proprietor, he was directed to the back rooms. Finding the right one, he poked his head inside. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

The big man with the beard, Beryn Mathis, looked up from his game of Regicide and grinned. "Not at all, sergeant major. Alek here was just about to pay up, weren't you, Alek?"

Alek rubbed his fingers together, making a metallic grating noise as he did. He looked over the board, heavily concentrating. Mathis pressed him. "Come on, Tendall, admit it, it's over. Now be a good lad and hand the Thrones over."

Without so much as a word, Alek made one move, and gave Mathis an evil smile. Only then did he speak "King's head, Mathis."

Mathis looked down at the board, shocked. But there it was, his commander piece outflanked. "How did you..."

"Pincer movement. I didn't think you'd fall for it. Pay up."

Mathis looked up at Merrick, laughing in the doorway. "How did he do that?"

"You tell me, corporal," Merrick said, still chuckling at his new squad member's misfortune. Mathis grumbled and pulled out a pocketful of coins, handing them to Alek. Merrick walked past them just as Alek accused Mathis of shorting him a few Thrones. The sergeant major decided they could work it out themselves.

At the far end of the room, Merrick found Hurst sitting with the Daredevils' other new troopers. How quickly things changed while Merrick and Hurst had been away. The two men sitting with Hurst were apparently called Lannik and Serrt. Mol Lannik was a small, weasel faced man, while Serrt was covered in crude augmetics across his bald head. He nodded to Merrick as he saw him approach.

"Now, I understand that Kippler was in charge, correct?" said Hurst.

Merrick eased himself into a reclining chair next to Lannik. "Are you worried Soras is gunning for your job, Waddy?" he said, grinning.

Hurst pit his hands up defensively. "I just want to know how Kippler handled things, Ger. Now that I've got the squad back, I need to know if there's any changes I should implement."

"Well, he seemed like a good sort," Lannik said, "before I got hit that is. Only really served under him when we took Southgate Bridge. He was pulling marksman duty when I got shot."

"He did alright," concurred Serrt, "He knows how to run a squad, and he's got eyes better than this augmetic. I do think he leads from the front a bit too much, though. The man's a marksman and a tracker at heart."

Hurst thought about this, nodding to himself. "That certainly does sound like him. If it's alright with both of you, I'd like to put Daredevil through its paces when I get the chance. Some good close order drilling. It will help me get a feel of where everyone is at and what we can do to improve."

Serrt shrugged. "It's your show, sergeant Hurst."

Lannik and Serrt got up to leave, saying they were going to visit Garrett in the infirmary. He'd lost his hand the other day and it would be a while before the 85th's supply officer could get some fresh augmetics. Merrick waited until they had left, and made sure nobody else was in earshot. Hurst looked at him expectantly.

"So," Hurst started, "what's the situation with Vornas?" The nasty business between Vornas and Connor was already well known throughout 4th company, but Merrick, being the company's senior non-com, didn't want the word to spread further than it had to.

Merrick sighed. "It's not as bad as I'd thought, but in this case, that's like saying getting shot in the arm isn't as bad as the leg. The good news is, Vornas is not going to be executed for murder. In fact, Connor isn't pressing anything against him."

"There's a large 'but' in there, somewhere, right?" Hurst said, his hopes already fading.

"There is. Connor's staying out of it, so Vornas's punishment falls to Uther, and he isn't happy one bit. Vornas has been reassigned to RIP detail until Uther deems him fit to return to the company."

"God-Emperor, if he returns to the company," said Hurst. RIP, Retraining, Indoctrination and Punishment, was where broken troopers still considered salvageable were sent. They were ad-hoc units, frequently given hazardous assignments, with the reasoning that if they succeeded, they could be deemed useful and then reintegrated into their former units. And if they died, then they had at least made a contribution doing so.

RIP details had more in common with penal battalions than proper military units. Commissar Ornoff was in charge of the 85th's RIP detail, and there were few people in the regiment you would rather avoid than that psychopath. If Vornas had been reassigned to him, there was little chance that Daredevil squad would see him again.

"And there's another thing, Wadden," Merrick said quietly. He leaned back in the recliner, resting his hands on his legs. "I'm not going to be around as much. Uther wants me to be more hands on with the rest of the company, given what they've just gone through. The men need a strong figure to rally around and be inspired by, not just officers."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Well, Uther figures between you and Kippler, Daredevil is in good hands," said Merrick. "He's right, you know, Hurst. I have been lax in my duties lately. I've always felt that Daredevil was my, sorry, our, own little project. But the rest of the company needs me as well, and I can't let them down."

Hurst gave a little shrug and sighed. "Well, the squad will still be there, Gerard. Uther hasn't taken us from you," Wadden smiled, "He's just giving you a break from us for a time."

That cheered Merrick up a bit. "That's a good way to look at it, Waddy. It'll be nice not to have to listen to Remer for a while. Speaking of which, have you seen him yet?"

"I saw him for a moment the other day. He's still recovering, Merrick. I hope he'll be alright. The others were just glad he's alive."

"True," Merrick said, "But then, we never had to spend weeks thinking he was dead."

Connor was walking along the second tier battlements of Temple Hill. Up here, she saw the island south laid bare, a once densely packed center of commerce reduced to miles of rubble and flames. There was no victory down there, only the painful scars of a needlessly brutal fight permanently etched into Golgotha's skyline.

The basilisks still thundered away, pummeling the southern habs. The long range guns would chase the greenskins to the edge of the hive spire. Though Connor was a distance from the nearest gun battery, the noise was still loud enough that she didn't notice Uther approach her until he tapped her augmetic shoulder. She spun around instinctively, but immediately dropped her guard again when she saw his face.

He had two cigars between his fingers and a funny look on his face. "Care to talk, Elle?" The commissar took one of the cigars and lit it on Uther's outstretched match.

After blowing a small puff of smoke, Connor spoke. "So, what did you want to talk about?" she said in her normal, steely voice. It didn't bother Lars, being used to her hard attitude. It also helped them maintain the illusion of professionalism to the outside world.

Perhaps not anymore, however, Connor thought. "How's the arm?"

"Still doesn't feel right," Uther said, flexing his cloned arm. "Grafts are never perfect, you know."

"I find you perfect the way you are, Lars."

Uther let out a long whistle. "You're a terrible liar sometimes, Elle." They shared a little laugh. It felt good to make friendly jabs again. "How about you? Your new spine keeping up?"

Connor took another drag and blew it in his face. Her shoulders drooped. "Look, Lars, I doubt you wanted to talk about limbs and the replacement thereof. What is it?

Uther waved the smoke away. "I want to talk about us, Elle, strictly personal, no business. Is that alright?"

"If you wish." Connor already knew what was coming. But that did not stop her dreading the words that came out of his mouth. Uther stood next to her, staring out across the expanse of Golgotha.

"I don't think we can keep going like this, Connor. I can't be with you if I can't trust you. You should have told me."

Connor glanced over her shoulder at him. "And what would have happened if I did, Lars?"

"I don't know, but I doubt it would have ended worse than it did. I just sent a man to RIP and lost more to those bloody tech-priests because of you, Elle."

Connor countered, "So their deaths are on me now? I already told you that I held nothing against private Vornas. And you sent him to Ornoff? Ornoff? You might as well have shot him yourself."

"That's your job, 'commissar'," said Uther angrily, "You forced my hand by doing nothing. You realize the reason he wanted to kill you was over Remer, right?"

"Oh, don't think I'm not aware of that, Lars," she snapped. She spun around and looked away from Uther, hiding her frustration from him. "I made a choice. It might not have been the right one, but I had not time to think it over. I'm sorry if my problems fell onto you because of it."

Uther put his hands on his hips and walked around Connor until they were standing face to face. "Listen, Elle. I don't care if you are a commissar, a simple guardsman or a damned lord general. We all make choices, the consequences of which we can't always see. But this is too much for me, now. I can't go on like this."

Connor was stricken. "So," she said slowly, "that's it, then?"

Uther looked older and more tired than Connor had ever seen him. "Yes, I guess it is." He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. There was an intensity in his eyes, "Listen, Elle, even despite this, know you are important to me, and you always will be."

Connor looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze. "I know, Lars. Emperor forgive me, I know."

The two stood there for a while, not saying anything. Eventually Uther spoke up. "So, where did Commissar Gardus place you?"

Connor cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you said we weren't going to talk about business?"

"Right, sorry." The continued to stare out across Golgotha, smoking their cigars.

"Seventh company," she said finally. "Caius's former unit. Just about annihilated. I'm going to whip the reserve troops into shape."

"It's not that far, then."

Connor looked Uther in the eyes, and for the first time in many weeks, she smiled. "No, it isn't, is it?"

There was a knock on the billet's door. Remer opened it to reveal Kippler standing in the doorway. He was carrying a plasteel crate. He handed it to Remer. "These are yours, Lenham. I held onto them for you."

Remer looked up at his tall friend and grinned. "Well," he said, "want to come in and help me sort through it all?" Remer took the box from Kippler and set it on his cot. Kippler sat down beside it and started to sift through the crate's contents.

"I wasn't able to save everything," Kippler said as he unpacked a bundle of hand rolled lho sticks. "Your flamer wasn't regulation, so the Munitorum clerks repossessed it. I just checked in with Jekam at the supply desk, though, and I was able to get you your grenade launcher back."

"Old 4551?" Remer said absently. He was fiddling with a drawstring along a lumpy package.

"The one and only," Soras said, "I double checked it with Jekam. Still has the dent in it where you clubbed that cultist back in Urizen."

Remer seemed strangely subdued, but KIppler chose not to confront him about it. He knew what Remer had just gone through; he'd need time to recover. Just released from the hospital two days earlier, it was evident he was still sore and moving slowly. But he was alive, and his injuries would heal.

"Oh," Remer said, catching the word in his throat. He managed to untangle the package's drawstring and a patchwork canvas with the symbol of a bear unraveled onto the bed. The words 'First Glory', written in broken High Gothic, were crudely stitched into the fabric.

Kippler looked over the flag. "I didn't want to let it go, Len. First Glory, friend."

Remer sniffed, and nodded his head. "Thanks, Soras. I guess I'll have to make some changes, though. Can't really name it the 85th if we're all together now."

"And you'll have to get someone to help you with your High Gothic, too" Soras said, playfully elbowing Remer's ribs. Remer gasped from the sudden pain. "Sorry," Kippler swiftly added, kicking himself for forgetting about Len's injuries.

Remer just waved it off. "Nothing, Soras, forget about it." He gingerly touched his ribs, "the doc said that they'd be sore for a while yet."

"Really, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine, just leave it."

The door creaked open again. Kippler glanced over and saw a blonde woman in a pilot's dress uniform standing there, arms folded across her chest. "Are you two done fussing?" she said with a coy smile on her face. "This your sergeant you kept telling me about?"

Remer looked surprised. "What, Kippler here my sergeant? You mean Hurst, right, Valeris?"

Valeris pointed to Kippler's arm. "He's got the chevrons, doesn't he?"

Remer's eyes darted to Kippler's shirt. "When did you get those?"

"Two weeks ago, Len," Kippler frowned. "You really didn't notice?"

"I've been in the infirmary!" he protested. Valeris started to laugh.

"I told you when I came to visit," Kippler continued, keeping his voice even.

"Again, infirmary," Remer was getting flustered now. "I probably had more drugs in my system than a hopped up hive ganger. You can't expect me to remember everything."

"I remember," Valeris raised her hand, giggling. "You're the one who came to visit the other day. Kippler, was it?"

"Er, yes," Kippler said. He offered her his hand.

"Valeris Hexus," she said, shaking it.

Kippler nodded, "Odd last name, isn't it?"

"And Kippler sounds weird on my planet too," she countered, smiling.

Pleasantries exchanged, Remer spoke next. "What are you doing here, Valeris?"

The pilot rolled her head over her shoulder to look at Remer. "I'm shipping out, so I thought I'd say goodbye first. With Aramatus gone, Helios squadron is stuck here with the rest of the ship's atmospheric craft."

"Which way are you headed?" Kippler asked.

Valeris shrugged. "South, I guess. There's still greenskins in the air and someone's got to put them down."

"Well, alright," said Remer. "But next time you get shot down, don't count on me to be there to find you and carry you up through a kilometer of ork infested undercity."

"After all that we went through, and now you get touchy at the goodbyes?" Valeris said teasingly. Remer didn't look impressed.

"I think I liked you better when we were running for our lives," he said, arms folded across his chest.

Valeris softened a bit. Remer was running between emotional highs and she was careful not to overdo it. "Honestly though, thank you, Lenham Remer. I owe you my life, and I am glad to have met you."

Remer chuckled, "It was my pleasure, Flygirl." Valeris smiled and hugged the disheveled trooper in a close embrace. Kippler, for his part, looked away. Val placed a subtle kiss on Remer's cheek while Soras wasn't looking.

Valeris glanced over Remer's shoulder. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the bed.

"It's a banner," Remer said, embarrassed. He spread the flag out evenly for her. "I know, I know, the High Gothic is terrible. I was going to fix it. I think it needs a change, Kippler."

"Oh?" said Kippler, "What part?"

"About the motto. 'First Glory' just doesn't sound right to me, anymore. It needs to be something more personal, more like the rest of the banner."

The three of them stood there, inspecting the grenadier's handcrafted masterpiece. It was a truly, magnificently ugly construction. "Are those bootlaces?" Valeris asked.

"Yes, shut up. I'm thinking."

"Did you use your old musette bag buckles?" said Kippler.

"Shut up." Remer rested his chin on his hands, plowing through his mind for ideas.

Finally, it came to him. It was simple, and it perfectly represented how he'd felt for years now.

"Remember home. Remember us."

Kippler nodded his approval. "A good motto." He patted Remer on the back, carefully this time. Valeris put her arm around Lenham and leaned on his shoulder.

"Someday, you can show me your home, footslogger."

"You first, Flygirl."

END

Author's Note: And so, the Thundering 77s closes out. I have one more story left upon Meridian, and I promise you, this one will not take a year to write. At the time of this publishing, my friend and collaborator on these Dawn of War stories, Dark Eldar, has just updated the main story of our series, Nothing But a List of Names to Mark his Ascension. Now, obviously, as that story is several years ahead of this one, there will be spoilers involved. But I strongly encourage you to read it if you haven't already.

Coming up: Meridian reaches a crisis in the final arc of the Meridian Campaign: Commando 226.