This question was directed, not at Wulfe, but at van Droi, who forced down a dry mouthful of
meal-brick before answering.
“Sergeants Kohl and Strieber,” he said, sorrow stealing across his face. “No medals. I must’ve
pushed for them half a dozen times. Damned OS classified the whole operation Zenith Eyes Only.
Officially speaking, it never even happened. All the normal channels are closed.”
Immrich’s smile had vanished.
“Damned Strategos have a lot to answer for,” he hissed. “How many Imperial heroes have died
unsung on account of those pen-pushing bastards, I wonder. I’m sure Sergeant Wulfe here deserves
a medal for what he went through.”
“The captain is too kind,” Wulfe said absently. He was thinking, not of medals, but of the
ghostly vision he had seen that day.
What I went through, he thought? You don’t know the half of it.
Another officer piped up, eager to guide the conversation in a slightly different direction.
“Decorations aplenty,” he said, “when our General deViers gets his name in the history books,
though, what?”
It was Hal Keissler, a sturdy, heavy-browed lieutenant with deep-set eyes. He was commander
of the regiment’s 2nd Company, Colonel Vinnemann’s number three man, and something of an
occasional rival to Immrich. Wulfe wasn’t overly fond of him — the man’s love of extreme physical
discipline bordered on sadism — but he knew him for a solid battlefield commander. The ribbons
and tin on his chest had been earned fair and square, just like van Droi’s.
Immrich laughed, changing his mood in short order. “We all know how much you and your boys
love a bit of decoration, Hal. Tell you what, if you leave now, you could have The Fortress of
Arrogance back here before breakfast. They might even give you a damned governorship for that.”
The others laughed, and Wulfe joined in politely, though not loud enough to draw attention to
himself. In his head, he was thinking, frak your bits of tin. If Strieber and Kohl couldn’t get theirs,
why in the blasted Eye should anyone else? They served the Golden Throne with honour and
courage. They gave their lives.
As the officers embarked on a round of good-natured jibes, Wulfe leaned across to van Droi and
said pointedly, “If you don’t mind, sir… What was it you wanted to see me about?”
Van Droi had been chuckling at the banter of the other men. When he looked across at Wulfe,
however, the humour quickly bled away from his face.
“Markus is sick, Oskar.”
“Rhaimes?” asked Wulfe, taken aback. His fellow sergeant had been goggled and masked last
time they had talked, but he had seemed healthy enough.
“He’s in a medicae bed right now. Held out as long as he could. He wanted to see his crew to
safety, at the very least. It all caught up with him just as we came in.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
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“It’s the fines, mostly,” said van Droi. He sipped from his glass of water, and then placed it
heavily on the table. “He’s having a bad reaction to the build-up in his body. Allergic, apparently.
He can’t command anymore, not in his current state.”
“How long will he be out? Days? Weeks?”
Van Droi locked eyes with Wulfe. “I won’t sugar-coat it, Oskar. We’re not talking about
recovery. We’re talking about death. You saw what happened to those lads who got sick on our way
across the desert. You heard Colonel Stromm’s medics. Even with the facilities here at Balkar,
Markus will die unless he gets off this planet soon. And he’s not alone. The beds are full of sick
troopers.” He pointed at the back of Wulfe’s hand. “More to come, too. Don’t pretend you haven’t
noticed the colour change.”
Wulfe looked down at his fingers. The reddish tinge was undeniable.
“I don’t get it, sir,” he said. “Golgotha was a Mechanicus world once. They must’ve had
millions of workers here. How did they manage?”
“If I get the chance to ask them, I’ll let you know, sergeant. Maybe the planet has changed since
then. Perhaps the factory-settlements were sealed somehow. I think most of them were in the polar
zones, anyway. It hardly matters now, does it?”
Wulfe couldn’t miss the bitterness in van Droi’s voice. Rhaimes and the lieutenant had been
good friends for longer than Wulfe had known either man.
“I’m sorry to hear about Rhaimes, sir,” said Wulfe. “I’ll offer prayers to the Emperor that he
pulls through. With luck and a blessing, we’ll find Yarrick’s tank quickly, and the sick will be lifted
out in time. I should visit him.”
“No, Oskar,” said van Droi. “He doesn’t want that. Respect his wishes.”
Wulfe couldn’t find anything to say to that.
“General deViers is expected tomorrow,” continued van Droi. “He’s flying in. According to
Major General Bergen, he’s keen not to waste any time. The major general has been in regular
contact with him via a cable-based communications system that the tech-priests set up. Didn’t quite
get the gist of it myself, but at least it seems to be more reliable than the bloody vox. Anyway, the
general wants all forward elements to be ready for deployment on his arrival. Gives you about
fourteen hours, Wulfe. How serious are the repairs you need?”
“She just needs a new radiator, new fuel lines, new filters, and a bit of love from the cogboys,
sir. She’ll be good to go after that. I’d say eight or nine hours, give or take.”
“Good,” said van Droi, “but it’s not just the condition of your tank that concerns me right now.”
He stared at Wulfe without blinking. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I have to pull Corporal
Holtz off your crew.”
Wulfe felt like he had been slapped in the face. “Holtz? You must be bloody joking, sir! He’s
only just mastered the main gun. You already stripped Viess out. Now you’re reassigning his
replacement? What’s it about?”
“War is what it’s about, sergeant,” replied van Droi, suddenly brisk. “With Markus out of the
game, you’re my senior man. You had better understand what that means. The crew of Old
Smashbones came in as new meat before the drop. Holtz has plenty of combat experience and he’s
worked his way up from sponson-man. Plus he’s a hard bastard. They’ll need someone like that to
get them through.”
Damn it, thought Wulfe, if I thought he was ready for command…
“Put me in charge of Rhaimes’ crate,” he told van Droi. “I’ve got more experience. I can deal
with a rookie crew. Put Holtz in charge of mine. He’ll be much better off with men he already
knows.”
Van Droi shook his head. “I’ve thought about that,” he said, “but, to be frank, Wulfe, your crew
is unorthodox, and I’m being kind with my wording here. With you at the helm, they’re working out
all right, but with anyone else…”
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“Unorthodox?”
“For starters, you’ve got a driver most troopers still believe is cursed. They still call him Lucky
Metzger. It’s damned hard to erase a reputation for being the only survivor on crew after crew.”
“That’s all behind him,” said Wulfe. “His luck hasn’t killed me yet, has it?”
“I hope it stays that way. But then there’s Siegler.”
“What about him?”
“Come on, Oskar. He’s damaged goods. You know what he’s like. As hard as it’ll be for a new
commander to get used to him, it’ll be twice as hard for him if you leave that crew. The only reason
he still functions as a frontline loader is the strength he draws from your presence. I honestly think
he’d lose it under someone else.”
Wulfe was quiet while he thought about that. Since the accident that had damaged his brain,
Siegler had clung to Wulfe like a lifeline, a rock in a turbulent ocean, one of the few things that
remained familiar to the man after so much about his universe had changed. What would he be like
without his sarge to watch out for him? Van Droi was right.
“I promise you,” said the lieutenant, “you’re getting the best gunner we could find from the
reserve squads, a lad from Muntz’s platoon that I’ve had marked out for a while. Good scores on the
ranges and I reckon he’s got the right stuff. He only missed out on a frontline posting earlier because
of misconduct. Nothing serious, you understand. Commissar Slayte has given him the lash a few
times for brawling, but you weren’t exactly an angel yourself at his age. You’ll like him.”
Wulfe was still angry over Holtz being swapped out, but he was in no position to argue.
“This trooper got a name, then, sir?” he asked.
Van Droi sat back. “Most of the troopers call him Beans. Heard of him?”
“Beans?” repeated Wulfe suspiciously. “Why the hell do they call him that?”
“I think I’ll leave you to discover the specifics yourself,” said van Droi with a grin. “It’ll give
you something to talk about. You’ll find him waiting for you at C-barracks. He’s expecting you.
You’ll need to break the news to Holtz, of course.”
“That won’t be pleasant,” said Wulfe darkly.
“For you? Or for him?” asked van Droi. “Trust me, Oskar. Holtz will light up like Skellas Plaza
on Emperor’s Day. Think about it. If he does well, he could make sergeant by the end of this bloody
fiasco.”
Wulfe had never considered Holtz particularly ambitious, but most troopers aspired to having
sergeant’s stripes sewn onto their sleeves. It was more to do with the perks than anything else. Holtz
would certainly enjoy the increased alcohol and tabac rations… if he made the grade.
Having finished with Wulfe for now, Lieutenant van Droi was on the verge of dismissing him
when a commotion erupted at a table across the room. A short, silver-haired, red-faced man in a
colonel’s uniform stood and slammed his palms down on the table’s surface. His chair crashed to
the floor behind him. “I will not hold my damned tongue, Pruscht. You’re not my senior officer. It’s
about time someone spoke his damned mind around here.”
There were five other men seated at the table. Four of them looked desperate to be somewhere
else. The fifth was Colonel Pruscht, commander of the 118th Cadian Lasgunners. He was a heavyset,
dark-eyed man with a neatly trimmed beard. Calmly and quietly, he stood and addressed his
angry peer.
“Calm down, von Holden,” he said, hands raised in placation. “You don’t want trouble. Think of
your men. You don’t want them to see you like this, do you? Let’s put this one down to strong drink
and forget about it. We can’t have you talking like—”
“Like what?” exploded von Holden. “Like someone with a bloody brain?” He spun and cast his
bleary gaze over men at the other tables. “Who among you has the gall to deny it?” he yelled.
“Where’s your damned integrity? You all feel the same. I know you do. Armageddon is where we
should be, fighting where it counts, where we can do some bloody good. Not out here on this
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backwater. Men dying of dust and bug-bites and Throne knows what else. And all for a bit of scrap
metal no one gave a flying damn about until now. It’s been forty blasted years. DeViers should—”
“Should what?” demanded a sharp, clear voice from the door of the mess.
Wulfe turned his head and saw Major General Bergen standing in the doorway flanked by two
commissars. His heart skipped a beat when he recognised one of them: Commissar Slayte.
Crusher!
Some men in the regiment boasted that they were afraid of nothing, but they stopped boasting,
all of them, when they met the man known informally as Crusher. He was the commissar attached to
Wulfe’s regiment, and to say he was unpopular was an understatement of titanic proportions.
By the Eye, thought Wulfe, that colonel has dropped himself right in it. Open dissent in front of
commissars? I don’t want to be around for this.
“Please continue, colonel,” said Major General Bergen, striding into the room, removing his cap
and overcoat. The electric lamplight glinted from the medals on his chest and the golden boards on
his shoulders. The commissars stalked silently forward at his flanks, like a pair of sleek attack dogs
just barely held in check. “I’ll be happy to pass on any recommendations you or anyone else has
directly to the general for his consideration.”
Von Holden, his face turning redder by the second, stuttered and looked desperately at Pruscht
for support. Pruscht, though, seemed to know better. He sat back down in his chair and sipped from
his glass.
With Major General Bergen in the room, Wulfe felt extremely self-conscious. This was no place
for a noncommissioned man, despite Captain Immrich’s earlier welcome. It certainly wasn’t right
for a sergeant to see a decorated colonel like von Holden being dressed down.
But the dressing down never actually came. To everyone’s surprise, Major General Bergen
walked calmly over to von Holden, picked his chair up from the floor, and politely invited the
colonel to sit back down. Speechless, perhaps taking this for the calm before the storm, von Holden
did so, all the while gaping at the higher-ranking man.
Wulfe glanced discreetly at Commissar Slayte while this was going on, but the man’s face was
emotionless and his gaze was fixed straight ahead. If he had noticed Wulfe and van Droi, he didn’t
let on. Perhaps he was waiting for a cue from the major general, some sign at which he would
pounce on Colonel von Holden and drag him away. The sign didn’t come, and the only movement
Crusher made was the flexing of his metal fingers back and forth into fists. Wulfe knew that the
action was habitual. The man probably did it in his sleep.
Van Droi turned his attention back to Wulfe and said, “Best get yourself away now, Oskar. Go
about the business we discussed.”
“Right, sir,” said Wulfe. “Be glad to.” As he rose, he offered a quiet farewell to the other men at
the table, “Have a good evening, sirs.”
A few, Captain Immrich among them, smiled and nodded back. Wulfe saluted, turned, and
walked out of the door, relieved to be away from the officers’ mess and the tension inside it. He
knew there were some good men in the upper ranks, but they made everything so bloody
complicated sometimes, not like the grunts. You could speak your mind among the rank-and-file.
There might be the odd punch-up afterwards, but you didn’t have to worry about bloodlines, family
honour and all that career lark, and the bond of brotherhood shared between the men of the lower
ranks was one of those things that made life in the Guard more bearable. Wulfe had always thought
so, until Lenck had shown up.
Wulfe was torn over that one. The bastard had saved his life, but he was the antithesis of
everything Wulfe valued and respected. He was a boaster and a manipulator. Wulfe could almost
