stepped away.
One of the lieutenants from the 303rd saw it coming, too. He protested. “Come now, commissar.
You can’t mean to spoil the fun prematurely. It’s good for morale to see our enemies caged and
helpless. You must agree.”
Crusher didn’t even glance at the man. Instead, he took aim at the smaller, lighter-skinned alien,
eased a black metal finger back on the trigger of his pistol, and loosed off a barking shot.
Wulfe had been about to shout, “Stand back!” to Siegler and Beans, but it was too late. The bolt
punched a coin-sized hole in the ork’s skull and detonated there, showering the closest men with a
foul spray of blood and brain matter. The men behind them, shielded from the spray by their
luckless comrades, laughed out loud. The headless ork body slid down to the floor of its cage.
Seeing the slaughter of its foul kin, the darker ork began thrashing madly. Slayte calmly turned
towards it and repeated the exact same procedure. Those in the front rows of the crowd pushed
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backwards. There was another loud crack as the bolt pistol fired and, again, the air filled with a
bloody mist.
Crusher holstered his pistol, turned and addressed all those present. “Damn your eyes, the lot of
you. Have you forgotten the principles of intolerance set forth in the Imperial Creed? Perhaps the
sting of the lash would help you all to remember.”
The crowd parted wide for him as he stalked off, calling out as he went, “Suffer not the alien to
live!”
“Damn it,” said one of the lieutenants from the 303rd as he dabbed at his bloodstained tunic with
a handkerchief. “Which regiment is that bastard attached to? I feel sorry for them.”
“That would be my regiment, lieutenant,” said Wulfe grimly, “the 81st Armoured.”
“Colonel Vinnemann’s lot?” asked the other officer. “Throne help you, sergeant. You’ve got a
bad one there. Execute many, does he?”
Wulfe shook his head. “He likes his punishments, does old Crusher, but the colonel can usually
talk him down from a killing. The alternative isn’t much better, mind you. He gives out a hell of a
beating.”
“Is that why you call him Crusher?” asked the first man.
“You didn’t notice, sir?” said Wulfe, surprised. “His hands. Augmetic replacements, both of
them. He lost his organic pair to the jaws of a bull carnotaur some years back. Not that he
complains. He caught a deserter back on Palmeros in the first months of the campaign and forced us
all to watch the execution. The boy was nineteen. New meat. He saw his cousin get killed and lost it.
Commissar Slayte crushed his skull with one hand. Broke it like it was an egg.”
The officers from the 303rd both frowned and shook their heads.
“Those boys in the 259th Mechanised aren’t going to be pleased,” said one. “They had the killrights
to these two. They made the capture.”
“Might as well disperse, you lot,” shouted the other to the grumbling crowd. “Nothing much to
see now.”
The troopers moved off trailing a palpable air of disappointment and resentment. For a short
time, the imprisoned enemies had offered a distraction from the biting of the ticks and the coughing
and sneezing caused by the dust. Wulfe stayed a moment longer, staring in silence at the headless
alien bodies. Siegler and Beans waited for him a dozen paces away, also silent.
It’s not enough, thought Wulfe. No matter how many we kill, it’s never enough. They keep
coming. We send troops to purge them from one world, and another falls at our backs. Can we ever
break the stalemate? Will we ever do more than just survive against them?
He reached a hand up and stroked the scar on his neck. Where had all his faith gone? Aboard the
Hand of Radiance, Wulfe had always turned to Confessor Friedrich for spiritual strength. There was
a man he could talk to. Despite being a year younger than Wulfe, the priest had a calm wisdom
about him that Wulfe envied, though he wasn’t prepared to drink quite as much as the priest did to
achieve it. As he led Beans and Siegler back to the barracks, he considered seeking out the priest,
but it was already late. He would have to wake his crew at sunrise tomorrow. General deViers
wasn’t about to let them rest up. That was fine with Wulfe. The hardest part of any soldier’s life was
down-time: too much time to think, to notice the little things. Typically stoic men would begin to
grumble. Colonel von Holden was a stark example and he wouldn’t be alone. Dissidence was far
from exclusive to the officer class. Fights would start breaking out. There would be more incidents
of drunkenness. Some would turn to less legal distractions. Before you knew it, the commissars
would be executing men left, right and centre.
It was just as well that the bulk of the 18th Army Group would be moving out soon. Nothing
cleared the mind like going into battle.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was still early, but the day was already uncomfortably hot. The Golgothan sky was lighter than
Lenck had ever seen it. The chief medicae liaison issued a warning; all personnel at Balkar should
stay in the shadows as much as possible until further notification. But it was difficult to follow the
Imperial Medicae’s advice when Lieutenant van Droi had ordered all crews to run maintenance
details. Still, Lenck did his best. He slouched with his back against the New Champion, taking
shelter in her shadow while his crew griped and whined and ran the necessary checks.
Since daylight had broken over the base, Balkar had been abuzz with activity. Word hadn’t
reached him why this should be, but it wasn’t hard to guess. They’d be moving out again soon. The
final leg of Operation Thunderstorm would commence shortly.
Fine with me, thought Lenck. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get off this blasted ball of
dirt. If the next deployment doesn’t take us somewhere populated, I’ll kill someone.
A scowling Varnuss stuck his head around the rear corner of the tank and said, “We’ve finished
with the headlamps.”
Riesmann and Hobbs appeared beside Varnuss, both wearing murderous looks that told how
much they hated menial work.
“Congratulations,” said Lenck. “You can start oiling the treads, then. Shouldn’t take long with
three of you.”
“Sod off,” spat Hobbs. “Why don’t you get off your arse and pitch in?”
Lenck lifted an eyebrow and gazed at his driver coldly. “Because I’m the one that keeps you lot
in extra smokes and booze. Earn it.”
Hobbs spat on the ground and disappeared around the corner of the tank shaking his head and
muttering. Lenck got to his feet and dusted himself off.
“I’m going for a wander,” he said.
“Where?” asked Varnuss.
“A little place called none-of-your-frakking-business, that’s where. Just have the treads done by
the time I get back, all right? Throne knows when van Droi might show up for an inspection or
something.”
A few hundred yards away, in the south-east corner of Staging Area Four, Wulfe and his crew were
likewise engaged with running basic maintenance. Van Droi required all his crews to be able to
undertake basic field repairs and the like. If there were problems the crews couldn’t handle, the techcrews
took care of them. If it was something even they couldn’t manage, the enginseers and their
mindless, half-human servitors took over.
“Make sure they’re locked down tight, Sig,” said Wulfe, pointing at the spare track links that
Siegler was fixing to the armoured sides of the turret. At the rear of the turret, Beans was working,
fatigues soaked in sweat as he packed and sealed the stowage boxes that extended backwards from
the turret bustle.
Metzger was at the front of the tank, seated in his station with the hatch open, running checks on
the remote control system he used to operate the hull-mounted lascannon. He had already checked
everything else he was responsible for, working with a wordless efficiency that Wulfe appreciated.
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It was their first day with Beans on crew, but the new gunner seemed to be fitting in well
enough. Early days, of course, and Wulfe was yet to see how Beans handled the main gun, but he
worked without complaint despite the heat and heavy lifting. He may have found Metzger a little
cold — the driver took a long time to warm up to people and, even then, he was far from talkative
— but Siegler had taken a shine to him. He laughed loudly at even the worst of Beans’ jokes. Wulfe
cracked the odd smile himself at how bad they were. The one about the two-headed whore on
Emperor’s Day had been going around since Wulfe’s days as a Whiteshield. It hadn’t been funny
then, either.
Footsteps approaching from the right made Wulfe turn, and a smile spread over his face. A man
in simple brown robes was approaching, a heavy, gold-leafed, leather-bound copy of the Imperial
Creed swinging from a bronze chain at his belt.
“Confessor!”
The priest smiled back, came to a stop beside Wulfe, and stretched out a hand. “Damned good to
see you, sergeant. I prayed you would make it back to the flock. It seems that the Emperor was
listening.”
Wulfe had the sudden impression that Confessor Friedrich had been about to add “for a bloody
change” before he stopped himself.
“I think you might be right, confessor,” said Wulfe. “It certainly seemed like a miracle when we
heard the voice of that Sentinel pilot. I doubt even van Droi believed we would actually make it out
of the deep desert alive.”
The priest nodded. “I heard about Siemens and Muller, Throne rest them. I’ve already had their
crews listed for remembrance at the next honours service.”
Wulfe shuddered as he recalled Siemens’ limp body burning atop the turret, but he said, “They
died doing their duty, confessor. I hear Golgotha hasn’t exactly been a sightseeing trip for the rest of
the army group.”
“Then you heard right. The things I’ve seen… Sometimes I think the Guiding Light of all
Mankind is testing me, sergeant.”
“Maybe He’s testing all of us.”
A look of pain crossed the confessor’s face. “Aye, only dead men are free of that. I pulled ten
bodies out of a brewed up Chimera yesterday. You couldn’t tell one man from the other. Ten
shrivelled black mannequins. Two of them fell apart in my hands as I was trying to lift them out. For
them, at least, the test is over.”
Wulfe nodded, his face mirroring the priest’s sadness.
Confessor Friedrich raised a hand to Wulfe’s elbow and drew him away from Last Rites II.
“Let’s talk where others cannot hear, Oskar. Just for a moment. I would like to know of your
spiritual health.”
They stopped in the shadows at the back of an empty Thirty-Sixer, and Confessor Friedrich took
a quick look around to make sure they were alone.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you still troubled by your memories of Lugo’s Ditch? I had hoped that
redeployment might give you a new perspective on what you saw there. Perhaps your nightmares
have receded?”
Wulfe held the priest’s gaze. “I haven’t been sleeping enough to judge, confessor. We’ve been
on the move night and day. I slept well enough last night, but I was exhausted. I think perhaps the
worst of the dreams are behind me. It may be that you’re right. The mission might be crowding the
memories out a bit.”
“I would have your mind at ease, my friend, but forgetting your experience completely would be
a mistake. We’ve already talked of the positive. You’ve seen something that others wish desperately
to see. You’ve had proof of that which lies beyond death. Does that still give you no comfort?”
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“I’ve told you, confessor. His eyes were so hollow. He did not look like a man restored. On the
journey here to Balkar, my crew confessed that they had guessed the truth. If any weight has been
lifted from me, it’s that I no longer need to hide it from them. But can you imagine what others
would say?”
“If they knew you had seen a ghost?”
“It sounds like bloody nonsense when you say it aloud. I think I’d rather believe I was mad.”
“I don’t think you are, but believe that if it helps. There are those who say even Yarrick is mad,
driven beyond obsession. Many of the Imperium’s heroes would be judged mad by the standards of
normal men. It’s no bad thing to be different,” he grinned. “To a degree.”
“That’s some choice, confessor, mad or haunted.” Wulfe went silent for a moment as other
ghosts rose in his mind. “If you had seen Siemens…”
The priest closed his eyes and bowed his head. “It doesn’t get easier.”
“Sorry,” said Wulfe. “You’ve seen more than your share of horrors. I didn’t mean… I wish I had
your fortitude. Why do you do it? Clearing the tanks of bodies is a job for the support crews. Why
do you continue to torture yourself?”
Confessor Friedrich gazed off into space. “How could I let those boys face such horrors, Wulfe,
knowing that they’ll crew tanks themselves one day? They shouldn’t have to see the likes of that.
They shouldn’t have to know how bad it gets before the end. And neither should you.”
“The orks didn’t give me much choice.”
They both thought about that for a silent moment.
Changing tack suddenly, the priest said, “You heard that General deViers has arrived, yes?”
Wulfe shook his head. “I didn’t know. I thought the officers would have had us all lined up to
greet him. He likes a big reception.”
“He does, but between them, the major generals decided that preparations for deployment took
priority. If deViers wants his forces rolling out before sundown, he’ll have to do without the usual
pomp this time.”
“He flew in?”
The confessor nodded. “Touched down just west of the outer wall about three hours ago. He
arrived on a Valkyrie transport escorted by four Vulcan gunships. It seems Commodore Galbraithe
was as good as his word regarding the close support he promised.”
“Five birds?” asked Wulfe. “Not exactly a major contribution.”
“Better than four,” said the priest with a wink. “Anyway, I expect you’ll be rolling out very
soon, Wulfe. That’s why I came to see you. May I bless you and your crew?”
“You’re not rolling out with us, confessor?”
“Not this time. The regiment has many sick in the field hospital here. You heard about Markus
Rhaimes, of course. I’m staying to offer last rites to those who need it. But I’m sure your expedition
will be over quickly. You’ll find The Fortress of Arrogance and return. I know you will.”
Wulfe wished he shared the priest’s confidence. “I think my crew would appreciate a blessing,
confessor. We need all the help we can get.”
