all year long in perpetual winter, and dry desert worlds that never saw a flake of snow nor felt a drop
of rain. He saw the blessed warriors of the holy Astartes — god-like giants in human form, he called
them — and great walking machines so big this entire farmhouse would fit inside one of their
footprints. He saw terrors by the score, in the shape of all manner of twisted xenos and things even
ten times worse.
“Though he faced a thousand and more dangers, though he was at times wounded and seemed
close to death, still his faith in the Emperor never faltered. Five years become ten. Ten became
fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. And still your great-grandfather followed his orders without thought
of complaint, never once asking when he would be released from service. Until at last, nearly thirty
years after he’d first been conscripted, he was posted to Jumael IV.
“’Course this world didn’t mean much to him then. Not at first. By then he’d seen dozens of
different planets, and at first sight Jumael didn’t seem to have anything much to recommend it more
than most. His regiment had just finished a long campaign, and they had been sent to Jumael to rest
up and recuperate for a month before being shipped out to war once more. By then your great11
grandfather didn’t have too many wars left in him. Oh, he tried to put a brave face on it, never
complaining. But he was getting old, and the wounds he’d sustained in thirty years of battles were
starting to take their toll. Worst of all was his lungs — they’d never healed right after he breathed a
mouthful of poison gas on a world called Torpus III, yet still he didn’t waver in his duty. He had
given his life over to the service of the Emperor, and he was content that it was at the Emperor’s
will whether he lived or died.
“Then one day, as the time grew closer when they would be leaving Jumael, news came among
the regiment of something extraordinary. Emperor’s Day was coming, and with it the thirtieth
anniversary of the founding of their regiment. As an act of celebration it was decreed that lots would
be drawn from among all the men, and whichever man won would be released from service and
allowed to remain behind when the regiment left Jumael. A lottery that, for one man among
thousands, might well mean the difference between life and death. As the day of the lottery came
upon them there was a sudden outbreak of piety among the men, as each man in the regiment prayed
fervently to the Emperor to be the one to be chosen. All except your great-grandfather. For though
he prayed to the Emperor every morning and night, it was never his way to ask for anything for
himself.”
“And so great-grandfather won the lottery?” Larn asked, breathless with excitement and no
longer able to keep his peace. “He won it, and that’s how he came to live on Jumael?”
“No, Arvie,” his father smiled benignly. “Another man won. A man from the same squad as
your great-grandfather, who’d fought by his side through thirty years of campaigning. Though that
man could’ve just taken his ticket and walked away, he didn’t. Instead, he looked at your greatgrandfather
with his worn-out face and half-healed lungs and handed him the ticket. You see, he’d
decided your great-grandfather needed to be released from service more than he did. And that’s how
your great-grandfather came to settle on Jumael IV, through the kindness and self-sacrifice of a
comrade. Though in the years to come, your great-grandfather would always say there was more to
it than that. He would say sometimes the hand of the Emperor can be seen in the smallest of things,
and that it was the Emperor who had decided to work through this man to save his life. In the end it
was a miracle of sorts. A quiet miracle, perhaps, but a miracle all the same.”
With that, his father fell silent again. Looking at him Larn could see the first beginnings of tears
shining wetly in his eyes. Then, at length, his father spoke once more, his every word heavy with
barely suppressed emotion.
“You see now why I thought you should hear the tale, Arvie?” he said. “Tomorrow, just like
your great-grandfather before you, you’re going to have to leave your home and your kin behind,
never to return. And, knowing full well you may have some hard years ahead of you, before you left
I wanted you to hear the tale of your great-grandfather and how he survived. I wanted you to be able
to take that tale with you. So that no matter how dark, even hopeless, things might seem to you at
times, you’d know the Emperor was always with you. Trust to the Emperor, Arvie. Sometimes it’s
all that we can do. Trust to the Emperor, and everything will be all right.”
No longer able to keep the tears from flowing, his father turned away so his son could not see his
eyes. While his father cried into the shadows Larn sat there with him as long uncomfortable
moments passed, struggling to find the right words to soothe his grief. Until finally, deciding it was
better to say something than nothing at all, he spoke and broke the silence.
“I’ll remember that, Pa,” he said, the words coming with faltering slowness from him as he tried
to choose the best way of saying it. “I’ll remember every word of it. Like you said, I’ll take it with
me and I’ll think of it whenever things get bad. And I promise you: I’ll do what you said. I’ll trust to
the Emperor, just like you said. I promise it, Pa. And something else. I promise, you don’t have to
worry about me doing my best when I go to war. No matter what happens, I’ll always do my duty.”
“I know you will, Arvie,” his father said at last as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’re the
best son a man could have. And when you’re a Guardsman, I know you’ll make your Ma and me
proud.”
12
CHAPTER TWO
12:07 hours Jumal IV Central Planetary Time
(Western Summer Adjustment)
Marching Practice — Conversations with Sergeant Ferres — A Meal Among Comrades
“Hup Two Three four. Hup two three four.” Sergeant Ferres yelled, keeping pace with the men of
3rd Platoon as they marched the dusty length of the parade ground. “You call that marching? I’ve
seen more order and discipline in a pack of shithouse rats.”
Marching in time with the others, painfully aware of his own visibility, Larn found himself
silently praying his feet kept in step. His place midway along the platoon’s left outer file put him out
in plain view right under the sergeant’s eyes. The two months’ worth of basic training he had
endured so far had left him with few illusions as to what happened to those who failed to live up to
the sergeant’s exacting standards.
“Keep your feet up,” the sergeant screamed. “You’re not courting in the wheat fields with your
cousins now, you inbreeds! You are soldiers of the Imperial Guard, Emperor help us. Put some vim
into it.” Then, seeing the platoon was nearly at the far edge of the parade ground, Ferres yelled
again, his voice strident and shrill with command. “Platoon. About face. And march.”
Turning smartly on his heel with the others, as they resumed marching Larn found himself
feeling dog-tired and exhausted. So far today, like each of the sixty days before it, Ferres had had
them running training exercises since dawn. Marching, weapons drill, kit inspection, hand-to-hand
training, basic survival skills: every day was a never-ending series of challenges and tests. Larn felt
he had learnt more in the last two months than he had in his entire life. Yet, no matter how much he
and the rest of the platoon learned or how well you did, none of it seemed to satisfy their vengeful
sergeant.
“Hup two three four. Keep in step, damn you,” the sergeant bellowed. “I’ll keep the whole
damned lot of you drilling here for another two hours if that’s what it takes to make you keep to
time!”
Larn did not doubt Ferres meant his threat. Over the last two months the sergeant had repeatedly
shown an inclination to hand out draconian punishments for even the most minor infractions.
Having been on the receiving end of such punishments more than once already, Larn had learned to
dread the sergeant and his idea of discipline.
“Company halt,” Sergeant Ferres yelled at last, hawkish eyes watching to see if any of the
Guardsmen overran their mark. Then, apparently satisfied that every man had stopped the instant
they heard his order, he yelled again, loudly elongating every syllable of the command. “Turn to the
left!”
With a sudden clatter of clicking heels the company turned to face their sergeant. Seeing Ferres
advance purposefully towards them, Larn did his best to keep his shoulders back and his spine
ramrod straight, his eyes staring fixedly ahead as though gazing blindly into the middle distance. He
knew enough of Sergeant Ferres’ ways by now to know that an inspection would follow
immediately they had finished marching. Just as he knew Ferres would not be any kinder to the
soldier who failed to pass muster now than he would to anyone whose marching did not meet his
standards.
13
From the corner of his eye Larn saw Sergeant Ferres move to the end of the outer file of
Guardsmen to begin his inspection. Moving slowly along the line to inspect each man in turn, the
sergeant’s dark eyes darted swiftly up and down, scanning for any flaw in equipment, dress or
manner. At times like these, no matter where in line he stood, it always felt to Larn as though it took
the sergeant forever to reach him. A slow torturous eternity, spent waiting like the head of a nail to
be struck by the hammer — all the time knowing that, no matter how well he had worked or what
precautions he had taken, the hammer would fall regardless.
Abruptly, still three men away from Larn, the sergeant stopped to turn and face the fair-haired
trooper standing in front of him. It was Trooper Leden — his favourite target. Tall and broadshouldered,
with a thick neck and big hands, Leden looked even more the farmboy than the rest of
the men in the company. Even now, standing to attention under Ferres’ withering glare, Leden’s
face was open and guileless, his mouth looking as though it could break into a warm and friendly
smile at any moment.
“Your lasgun, trooper,” the sergeant said. “Give it to me.” Then, taking the gun from Leden’s
outstretched hands, he checked the safety, before inspecting the rest of the gun in turn.
“What is the best way for a Guardsmen to prevent his lasgun from failing him in battle?” Ferres
asked, eyes boring into Leden’s face as he spoke.
“I… uh… first he should check the power pack is not empty. Then, reciting the Litany of
Unjamming, he should…”
“I asked what is the best way to prevent a Guardsman’s lasgun from failing him, Leden,” the
sergeant said, cutting him off. “Not how he should clear a jam after it malfunctions!”
“Umm…” for a moment Leden seemed stymied, until his eyes lit up with sudden inspiration.
“The Guardsman should clean his lasgun every day, taking care to recite the Litany of Cleanliness
as he…”
“And if, because he has failed in his duty to keep his lasgun clean, the Guardsman finds his
weapon jams in the heat of battle and he cannot fix it?” the sergeant cut him off again. “What then,
Leden? How should the Guardsman proceed?”
“He should fix his bayonet to the mounting lugs on his lasgun’s flash suppressor, sergeant, and
use it to defend himself,” Leden replied, an edge of pride to his voice now as though he was sure he
had finally answered one of his sergeant’s questions correctly.
“In the heat of combat? With the enemy right on top of him? What if he doesn’t have time to fix
his bayonet, Leden?”
“Then, he should use his lasgun as a club, sergeant.”
“A club you say?” the sergeant asked, suddenly placing both his hands at the end of the lasgun’s
barrel and lifting the butt of the weapon above his head. “What, he should hold his lasgun above his
head as though it were a bat-stick and he was playing shreev-ball?”
“Oh no, sergeant,” Leden replied mildly, apparently unaware that with every word he was
digging a deeper hole for himself. “He should hold his lasgun horizontally with his hands widely
spaced as though it were a short-staff and strike the enemy with the butt.”
“Ah, I see,” the sergeant said, bringing the lasgun down and holding it in front of him with his
hands in the positions Leden had indicated. “And to best disable the enemy, what target should the
Guardsman aim at — the face, the chest, or the gut?”
“The face,” Leden said, an idiot smile on his face, while every other Guardsman in the company
winced inwardly at what they knew was coming.
“I see,” Sergeant Ferres said, bringing the butt of the lasgun up quickly to smash Leden in the
bridge of the nose. Screaming, a gout of blood geysering from his nose, Leden collapsed to his
knees.
“Get up, Leden,” the sergeant said, tossing the lasgun back to him as Leden shakily rose to his
feet once more.
14
“You aren’t seriously injured. Much less disabled. Look on it as a lesson. Perhaps next time
you’ll remember to clean your lasgun more carefully. The power node on this one is so filthy,
chances are it’d burn out after a few shots.”
Turning away from Leden, the sergeant resumed his inspection. Standing three men down the
line, Larn felt weighed down by the expectation of impending disaster. Ferres is really on the
warpath today, he thought. There’s no way he’ll let me pass muster. He’ll find something I’ve done
wrong. Some little thing. He always does. Then, his heart rising in his mouth, Larn saw the sergeant
pause in his slow procession down the line and turn to face him.
“Your lasgun, trooper!” the sergeant said. Then, as he had done with Leden before him, he
checked the safety before inspecting the rest of the gun in turn. Sights, barrel, stock, holding lugs —
for long seconds Ferres pored minutely over the lasgun as Larn felt sweat gathering at the back of
his collar. Next, pressing the release catch Ferres pulled the power pack free to check the contacts
and the cell well were clean. Then, glowering as he snapped the power pack back into place, Ferres
raised his eyes to look at Larn once more.
“Name and number!” he barked.
“Trooper First Class Larn, Arvin A, sergeant. Number: eight one five seven six dash three eight
nine dash four seven two dash one!”
“I see. Then, tell me, Trooper First Class Larn, Arvin A, why did you join the Guard?”
“To defend the Imperium, sergeant. To serve the Emperor’s will. To protect humanity from the
