“I… I am not sure, your excellency,” Dushan said, almost squirming before the Grand Marshal’s
gaze. “I left the matter of assigning him to a new posting to one of my aides. As to where precisely
he was sent, I should have to check the battalion rosters…”
Faltering, failing miserably to hide his discomfort, Dushan’s voice gradually trailed away to
guilty silence. He probably had the man posted to the worst unit and the most dangerous duties he
could find, Kerchan thought. Somewhere right in the thick of the action no doubt, where Mirovan
would have been lucky to survive a week. After all, with their former general still alive there would
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always be the danger of dissent and mutiny among the men who had served under him. So, Mirovan
is likely dead then. Not that I can fault Dushan’s decision-making in that regard, of course. Dissent
is a cancer. If I had been in his position, I would have done the same myself.
Then, looking at the eyes of the men seated around him, the Grand Marshal realised his mention
of Mirovan’s name had apparently had an entirely unforeseen consequence. Every man there
seemed in the grip of the same queasy discomfort as Dushan, as though the recollection of
Mirovan’s sudden fall from grace had spooked them. Watching them, the Grand Marshal began to
understand he had quite inadvertently achieved his original purpose. Mentioning Mirovan did the
trick, he thought. That seems to have put the fear of the Emperor in them, all right. Not for the first
time, Kerchan was left dazzled by the extent of his own genius when it came to motivating the men
under his command. I didn’t even realise I was doing it, he thought. And yet still, by some happy
accident, I seem to have created exactly the effect I wanted. No, not an accident. Unconsciously or
not, the fact I achieved my aim means I must have intended to do so all along. There are no
accidents when one is a Grand Marshal. Then, making the effort to summon his most carefully
unreadable sinister half-smile, the Grand Marshal spoke to Dushan once more.
“No matter, Dushan,” he said, noting with satisfaction that the man seemed little reassured by
his manner. “It was simply an idle thought, nothing more. Now, on to other matters. Colonel Vlin?
Who is scheduled to give the next briefing?”
“Magos Garan, your excellency,” his adjutant said. “He wishes to advise us on the monthly
production figures from the city’s munitions manufactoriums.”
His brief mood of good humour abruptly evaporating, the Grand Marshal watched with a sinking
heart as the hooded figure of the archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus in Broucheroc rose slowly
to his feet. As much machine as man, covered in whirring devices that had kept their owner alive for
far past the normal span of life, what could be seen of the magos’ aged and withered body from
beneath his cloak no longer looked entirely human. Most disquieting of all were the mechadendrites:
four thin tentacle-like mechanical arms that would periodically emerge from the folds of the magos’
cloak to make minute adjustments to the other machines that covered his flesh.
Though as disturbing as he had always found the creature’s appearance, the real root of the
Grand Marshal’s dislike of Magos Garan lay more in practical considerations than in anything so
flighty as matters of aesthetics. Unlike the rest of the men seated around the briefing table, Magos
Garan did not serve at the Grand Marshal’s whim. As the most senior member of the Adeptus
Mechanicus in the city Garan was not here as a subordinate. Without the machine-adepts to keep the
city’s manufactoriums working, the Grand Marshal would have no munitions for his troops. No new
las-guns. No missile launchers. No replacement power packs. No grenades, mortar rounds, artillery
shells, or any of the hundreds of other things the Guardsmen of the city needed daily to help them
keep the orks at bay. As such, the Grand Marshal found himself forced to deal with Magos Garan as
though he was the representative of some foreign power. A man to be negotiated and entreated with,
but never commanded. An equal, not an inferior. Not being by inclination a man much given to the
subtle intricacies of diplomacy, Kerchan had long found dealing with the haughty Magos to be a
difficult burden to bear.
“In the last thirty days the productivity of the city’s manufactoriums has fallen by a figure of
four point three four per cent,” the Magos said in a dry monotone voice, apparently so long past
remembering what it was to be human he made no attempt to leaven the bad news as he delivered it.
“The reasons for this fall in productivity are as follows. One, the loss of five manufactoriums in
Sector 1-49 when the sector in question was partially overrun by the orks. Two, the destruction of
another manufactorium in Sector 1-37 by an ork raiding party who had gained entrance past the
city’s defensive perimeter by unknown means. Three, damage to a further fifteen manufactoriums in
Sectors 1-22 through 1-25 caused by the orks’ long-range artillery. Four, further damage to three of
the same manufactoriums caused by gretchin suicide bombers. Five, the slowness of repair to these
facilities caused by a chronic lack of qualified personnel. Six, the outbreak of an unknown viral
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pathogen among the lay manufactorium workers of Sector 1-19, causing the loss of 180,757
working man-hours through either sickness or death. Seven, the loss of 162,983 working man-hours
caused through civil unrest occasioned by food shortages among the lay manufactorium workers of
Sector 1-32, said unrest having since been suppressed at the result of a further 34,234 working manhours
lost through either injury or death…”
His face emotionless, the magos continued, droning out an apparently endless catalogue of
doom. As he listened, Grand Marshal Kerchan once more found himself falling into despair.
According to his strategic calculations, the battle for Broucheroc should have been won weeks, if
not months, ago. More than that, by now they should have broken out of this Emperor-forsaken city
and be pushing the enemy back on every front. Yet, impossibly, after ten years of warfare the orks
still showed no sign of defeat or collapse. While day after day, hour after hour, Grand Marshal
found himself confronted by defeatism at every turn: his every waking moment spent in the
company of dozens of mewling incompetents, all of them with their pleas of extenuation and tales of
woe.
The Adeptus Mechanicus complained about not having enough workers or raw materials for the
manufactoriums. The Medical Corps complained of not having enough surgeons or medicines for
the apothecariums. The militia authorities he had placed in command of the civilian infrastructure
complained of not having the resources to provide enough food or clean water for the city’s
population. Worst of all, his own generals complained of not having enough men, or arms, or
artillery support, or any other damned thing. Complaint, after complaint, after damn complaint. All
the while, the Grand Marshal knew all these complaints for what they truly were. Excuses. It was
hardly any wonder that sometimes he felt such outrage he was tempted to pick out one of his
generals at random and put a lasblast through his head just as an example to the others.
A lasblast, he thought, hand straying unconsciously to the finely filigreed surface of the
ceremonial laspistol at his side. Right here and now. That really would put the fear of the Emperor
into them!
“Fifteen, the loss of 38,964 working man-hours through reason of power shortages in Sectors 1-
42 through 1-47.” the magos droned relentlessly on, his mechadendrites still attending to the
machines of his body as though with a life of their own. “Sixteen, the loss of a manufactorium to
explosion in Sector 1-26, said explosion believed to have been caused by a malfunction in an
incorrectly fitted power conduit. Seventeen…”
And on and on and on. Seeking relief from the depressing tedium of the Magos’ report, hearing
the sound of a door opening behind him the Grand Marshal turned his head enough to the side to
watch from the corner of his eye as one of Vlin’s aides stepped into the briefing room from the
anteroom outside. Holding a data-slate the aide advanced to the table to hand it to Colonel Vlin,
before saluting and smartly turning on his heel to march away. Pressing the display stud to bring up
the report stored on the data-slate, Vlin studied it for a full minute. Then, his face visibly growing
pale, he raised his eyes to look uneasily toward the Grand Marshal.
“What is it, Vlin?” Kerchan asked as, from further down the table, the magos’ briefing continued
inexorably.
“I have just received the latest estimates from the Office of Strategic Analysis, your excellency,”
Vlin said, a wavering tone of uncertainty in his voice. “But there must be some mistake—”
“Let me see it,” the Grand Marshal said, holding his hand out for Vlin to give him the data-slate.
For a moment, as though unsure whether he should surrender it, Vlin hesitated. Then, the habits
of obedience engrained by fifteen years in the Grand Marshal’s service proving too strong to resist,
he reluctantly complied. Curious as to what could have so unnerved his adjutant, Kerchan took the
data-slate and skimmed through the report to see for himself. At first glance it seemed no more than
Vlin had said: another dry analysis of facts and figures from the number crunchers in the OSA. At
least until the Grand Marshal happened to look at the report’s conclusions.
“Damnation!” he roared.
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Incensed, before he even knew what he was doing the Grand Marshal had thrown the data-slate
away in a rage, flinging it across the room to smash against the wall in a crash of breaking plexiglass
as its display screen shattered. Stunned by his outburst, mouths gaping open in idiot expressions of
surprise, the men around the table sat frozen in shock. Even Magos Garan was not immune, his
mechadendrites becoming suddenly motionless, he paused in his report and stood gazing at Kerchan
as though unsure how best to react. All of them silently staring at the Grand Marshal with wary
expressions whose combined meanings were almost palpably clear.
They think I have turned into a madman, Kerchan thought, the storm of his anger having
subsided immediately he had vented his rage against the helpless data-slate. The old man is losing it.
That is what they are all telling themselves.
“Leave me,” he said quietly, his face a mask, his mind feeling suddenly tired and no longer
willing to see the looks in their eyes. “Leave me,” he directed. “All of you. Get out of here now.”
Cowed, heads bent so as not to meet his gaze, the members of the General Staff stood, bowed at
him, and filed from the room in uneasy silence. All except Vlin. Treading cautiously over to the
fallen data-slate while the others went to the door, the adjutant picked it up and made to take it with
him.
“Leave it, Vlin,” the Grand Marshal said. “Put it on the table, and then get out with the rest of
them.”
Soon, he was alone. The mammoth expanse of the briefing room seemed desolate and empty
about him now it was deserted, Grand Marshal Kerchan began to wonder if he perhaps should have
held himself better in check. Generals were by their nature inveterate gossips. Within the hour news
of his outburst would be known throughout General Headquarters; by tomorrow it would likely be
known across the city. In these trying times even a Grand Marshal must be careful. Whatever the
rules and regulations of the Imperial Guard might say to the contrary, as the commanding officer of
a besieged city his position was precarious. Idle gossip about the data-slate incident could easily
lead to discussions about the state of his mental health; discussions that in turn might undermine his
authority, creating fertile soil in which the twin ugly flowers of dissent and mutiny could grow. He
was not afraid. Experience had taught him there was always one sure way for a Grand Marshal to
maintain order.
It is time for another purge, he thought. Tonight, I will tell Vlin to contact the Commissariat and
have them send over a list of anyone above the rank of major they suspect of disloyalty. A few show
trials and shootings should nip any problems in the bud in that regard. And while we’re at it, I will
tell Vlin to add Dushan to the list. Yes, another purge. That is exactly what is needing here.
Calm and satisfied now, he turned his attention back to the object that had originally provoked
his displeasure. Lifting the data-slate from its position on the table where Vlin had left it, the Grand
Marshal looked again at the words and graphs of the report still visible on the shattered surface of its
display screen. The findings of the report were bleak. Based on current estimates of ork birth-rates
and the rate of attrition of men and materiel inside the city, it concluded Broucheroc could only
survive another six months at most.
Six months, the Grand Marshal thought grimly. I shall have to remember to tell Vlin to add the
name of whatever traitor compiled this report to the list as well. Imagine claiming this city has only
six months left to live, when any fool knows the siege is on the verge of crumbling and victory is
within our grasp.
Mentally making another note to himself to have the report suppressed, Kerchan tossed the dataslate
away and sat in silence for several minutes. Feeling weighed down by the heavy burden of
responsibility on his shoulders, his brooding mood of earlier returned. I am assailed on all sides by
troubles, he thought. Bad enough after a long and glorious career for a man to find himself shunted
to a sideshow war on a planet of no importance. Worse, to then he condemned to a long siege with
no prospect of relief from other sources. But it does not matter. The genius that won me my battles
in the past has not deserted me. I am still a great leader, and my plan is sound. Soon, I will break
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this siege and reclaim this planet for the Emperor. And, when I do, the fools among the Lord
Generals Militant responsible for sidelining me to this awful place will find themselves embarrassed
to see me celebrated and revered for all my victories. I am the Grand Marshal Tirnas Kerchan. I am
still in control of my own destiny. I will win this war. And, soon enough, I will be able to add the
