The chainswords sang in the morning light as they met each other with a clang. For training purposes the teeth were removed and the chains were immobile. Getting hit by one would still result in blunt force trauma. And sometimes pain was the best teacher, if a cruel one.
Hartmann breathed in and out and blocked another swipe from his protege. Undeterred, the Cadet Commissar went for a thrust, forcing Hartmann to step back before blocking again. Eshu didn't give him a moment of respite, following up one attack after the other.
"What is the duty of a Commissar?" Asked Hartmann, his brow gleaming with sweat. No use limiting the training to simple physical exercise when it can be a recitation of vows as well.
"To maintain morale and discipline, sir!" Answered the youth, not breaking off his attack. Good lad.
"How does a Commissar achieve that?" Asked Hartmann, avoiding another swipe by dropping to his knees, before trying to kick the Cadet with a leg sweep.
"Leading by example, sir!" Yelled the youth jumping back before charging back in with a low sweep.
"And if the men refuse to follow a Commissar?" Asked Hartmann, pulling his sword down into the sand to block the attack.
"Then he must exercise appropriate punishment, sir!" The youth's sword clashed with Hartmann's but before he could pull it up, Hartmann jammed his foot on top of it.
"What kind of punishment?" Questioned Hartmann, foot planted on top of the chainsword.
The Cadet Commissar didn't reply, grunting and trying to move his blade away. Hartmann sighed, levelled a fist and punched his protege in the gut. The youth gasped for air and stumbled back, letting go of his sword. Hartmann swept again with his feet and a moment later, Cadet Commissar Eshu Orun was laying on his back, defeated.
"What kind of punishment?" Asked Hartmann again, chainsword levelled at his pupil.
"Summary execution, sir." Eshu grunted. "Also with due respect, that was a low blow."
Hartmann kept his chainsword levelled for a few more moments, then laughed. "You think the Alien or the Heretic will play fair in a duel?"
"I think that I wasn't taught that move at the Schola, sir."
"And that's why you're here." Noted Hartmann, before kicking Eshu's sword in the general direction of the youth. "And don't think I haven't noticed your reticence to answer my last question."
The Cadet Commissar got back to his feet and was dusting off his pants. A youth in his early twenties, Eshu Orun was fresh from the Schola, recently assigned to Hartmann for training. Dark skinned, with sleek cornrows tucked behind his Commissar cap, tall and not unpleasant to look at, he was already the talk amongst the female contingent of the regiment. Apparently the veterans considered him 'cute'. Well nothing a few scars and battlefield experience couldn't fix.
Eshu picked up his chainsword: "I just… Well sir, the teachings of Cain stipulate that summary execution should be used as a last resort."
Hartmann groaned and gritted his teeth. Propaganda was well and good, but there was a great difference between the happenings at the front and the heroic retellings prepared for the civilian populace. Sometimes the Commissariat didn't do a great job at teaching the distinction between the two.
"Some men," He started solemnly, falling into his oratory voice, "can inspire an entire regiment with but a single phrase. Are you that man, Cadet Commissar Orun? Do you presume to be a Hero of the Imperium?"
Eshu looked away in shame: "No sir."
"Then learn that on the battlefield, your first resort is often your last." Hartmann stared at his protege for the next few seconds, making sure he understood. Then he nodded towards the barracks: "Now, go check on platoon five, make sure they're not too busy gawking at the arrival of the Astartes."
"Wouldn't it be heretical to not gawk at the Emperor's Angels, sir?" Asked Eshu with a wry smile.
"And that just earned you additional latrine duty. Now off with you." Eshu grunted, but seemingly considered his remark to be worth it as he didn't protest. That youth. He had the potential to be a great Commissar, Hartmann could see it but he had so much to learn…
The old Commissar threw these thoughts aside as he picked up his coat and his cap from a stand near the training grounds. Sarduriade was mostly a frigid world, filled with canyons and tundras. The main headquarters of the Astra Militarum, however, was near the equator and so he'd worked up a thirst. Putting on his coat, Hartmann appreciated the business of the camp even at this early hour. Battle tanks passed in a tight column on the way to the front, a few regiments of Scintillan fusiliers were performing morning exercises and as the pale twin suns of the system rose slowly over the horizon, he could see the Thunderhawk of the Astartes descending to a landing pad near the main HQ. Hartmann shook his head. Now he was gawking. So instead of breaking his own rules, he made his way towards the company command tent of the 36th Elysian regiment, intent on winning his next match as well.
"Knight to F6." A voice called to him, in lieu of a greeting, as soon as he entered the tent. Over the many years of his service, Hartmann saw and worked in many tents like these. Temporary structures that could last for many years, if a campaign dragged on. And so despite their ephemeral status, a Regimental commander strived to make it liveable. As close to a home as men of constant war could get. A tent was then the best way to judge the personality of a commander: Hartmann had seen tents filled with gold, war trophies or parade uniforms, one time all three. It was not surprising then that the tent of Colonel Farrah Zal was modest and efficient. A large working desk with numerous reports neatly arranged in triaged stacks. A board displayed with different maps outlining the combat fronts. A vox operating table with an adjutant writing down the latest developments. A recaf machine and a smaller table with a Regicide set completed the picture. The Colonel herself was busy making recaf.
The relation between the military high command and the Commissariat was often a strange one. Commissars were outside of the chain of command, and had the authority to supersede it at critical times. A commissar couldn't be ordered around, something that made the officers feel uneasy. A constant reminder that they always had someone to answer to. Because of this, and other factors such as cultural differences, a working relationship was often difficult. So Hartmann appreciated the extent to which Colonel Zal strove to maintain their relationship, difficult as it may be. And he'd be lying to himself if he said that this appreciation had nothing to do with the third cup of recaf the Colonel was making.
Hartmann sat at the smaller table and examined the Regicide board. The chequered pattern was a field to a game that was ongoing for three days now. Both participants rarely had enough time for a full match. The Colonel had the whites, the Commissar had the blacks. And he was losing. Hartmann had already lost two pawns, a bishop and a knight. Farrah on the other hand only sacrificed a single pawn, though the Colonel spent nearly a day trying to find a way to avoid the exchange. Perhaps that weakness was her greatest sin.
As if to confirm his thoughts, the Colonel made her way to the regicide table, while stopping to give a second cup to her adjutant: "You shouldn't be so hard on the Cadet." She stated putting a mug before Hartmann: "Kid's got talent when it comes to duelling."
"Why do you think I put him through this?" Asked Hartmann, still studying the board. "Talent is nothing without proper training."
The Colonel smiled wryly: "And latrine duty is part of that training?"
"Heard that did you? It'll teach him to keep his tongue in check." Noted Hartmann, before moving his rook and taking a well deserved sip from the mug.
"Somehow I doubt that." Answered Colonel Zal, though Hartmann knew that her thoughts about the Cadet were pushed to the side the second he made his move. Now it was her turn to study the board.
Hartmann took another sip while observing her. In her late sixties, though still looking like she was forty thanks to a rejuvenation treatment, Farrah Zal was the veteran of many campaigns. Olive skinned, like most of her regiment from Elysia, with short black hair, multiple scars from a lifetime of service and rejuvenation marks across her face, she had most features one would expect from a commander of the guard. She was always dressed in standard green flak armour with a khaki long coat, two holsters holding plasma pistols at her sides. Hartmann was fairly certain that she went to bed with those. They were relics in more ways than one and the most expensive piece of her kit. In everything else though, the Colonel was modest. No intricate ranges of medals or honours, no gold trimmed epaulettes or expensive uniforms. No, at a glance Farrah Zal could be mistaken for a non commissioned officer. That was the point. Often at the frontlines due to the nature of her regiment she couldn't afford to stand out. This also had the side effect of making her seem less distant to the rank and file of the 36th. Hartmann had often heard the Elysians refer to their Colonel with affection and pride, usually through nicknames that most commanders he worked with would find insulting. Farrah Zal found it endearing. In fact she did her utmost to nurture that reputation, often dining with the drop troopers, eschewing officer meals for simple grub. This combined with her record, her personality and good commanding skills meant that most of the regiment was willing to follow her into hell.
Which was good as the 36th was expected to make routine round trips there.
The Colonel moved her knight again. Hartmann tried defending his king with a bishop but Farrah quickly outmanoeuvred him with her own two bishops.
"A missive from the Lord General arrived while you were abusing your pupil. We have a meeting in an hour." Farrah noted absentmindedly, while removing Hartmann's bishop from the board.
"Concerning the arriving Space Marines no doubt." He mused, letting the abuse comment slide through. "You're not worried?"
Farrah raised an eyebrow: "About what? Them taking all the credit? Please, if the Emperor's Angels are willing to perform our work, I'll only be grateful. Throne knows the men earned a respite after the canyon blitz."
Hartmann nodded. The Elysian 36th was a drop trooper regiment. That made it quite different from any line infantry fighting in the trenches or mechanised infantry making breakthroughs in the enemy lines. No, the 36th was a rarity amongst the Imperial Guard, for they were an airborne assault regiment. During their deployment on Sarduriade, they were the first regiment on the ground, clearing the Orks from the designated land zones. During the initial weeks leading up to Canyon blitz, they were the ones that destroyed the great cannons behind the xenos lines. And during the Blitz itself, focused on a giant canyon near the equator where the Ork warboss set up camp, it was the 36th that diverted the tide of the Greenskins from the main assault for long enough. Each time they survived, sometimes barely. That was the norm. Drop troopers lived and died by the mercy and availability of the naval contingent and the coordination of the other regiments. Their skills were valued, for in many ways they were the best shock troops the Lord General had at his disposal. Of course the arrival of the Adeptus Astartes changed that. Superhuman masters at shock and awe, it didn't matter how good or experienced the 36th was, they could never compare to the Emperor's finest. A human swimmer could train all his life and he still wouldn't be able to outpace a dolphin. That was simply how it was.
"I was talking about their potential conflict with the Lord General." Carefully noted Hartmann, while moving a pawn.
Farrah laughed while intercepting the pawn with a rook: "Oh come now, even he's not arrogant enough to feud with Space Marines."
"If they came to assist his plans, no. But if they take initiative…" Hartmann didn't elaborate, leaving the silent part open to interpretation. He was already swimming far too close to the shores of blasphemy than he would've liked, but unlike Farrah Zal he did have the privilege of fighting alongside Space Marines in his previous deployments and knew all the hierarchical headaches that it entailed.
The Colonel remained quiet, looking at the board. Then she moved her queen and declared: "Technology."
"Excuse me?" Asked Hartmann looking at the check she just put his king into.
Farrah shrugged "I think that's what they're after, based on the history of their chapter."
"You read the records of their chapter?" Asked Hartmann again, wondering where she got them in such a short amount of time.
"What I could get my hands on." Farrah said, almost apologetically.
So she was worried. At least concerned enough to spend hours looking through the chronicles of the Imperium for any mention of their newly acquired allies. Hartmann moved his king out of danger though he knew that a checkmate was imminent. He expected this, Farrah Zal had an almost supernatural sense when it came to locating and limiting the threats to her regiment, be they external or internal. This was perhaps the biggest reason for why the 36th survived where other airborne regiments suffocated. A bribe to the Valkyrie pilots, a gift to the admiralty, a dinner with the Lord General. Hartmann normally scoffed at such practices, but years of service alongside the Elysians made him acknowledge how necessary such bribes were to a regiment that could not work without the rest of the guard or the navy. Anything to protect her regiment…
She moved her queen again. Checkmate. Hartmann sighed, and finished his recaf.
"Good game. I'm starting to think I'll never get the hang of it." he joked, getting up from the table.
"You had your fair share of victories," Shrugged Farrah, "besides, I could've done better."
Hartmann grinned: "Winning a round at a cost of a single pawn? Most players would call that a complete victory."
"But not a perfect one." Mused Farrah, eyes still set on the board. "Well in any case, we best make ourselves ready."
Hartmann saluted and made his way towards his own tent. Yes, he considered, the greatest sin of Farrah Zal was her priorities. Always unable to make sacrifices that a commander had to make. Most would consider that a virtue. Hartmann knew that it always tethered close to a dereliction of her greatest duty. Not that it was much of a problem. After all, this was why Commissars existed.