backwater, Emperor-forsaken world?
Aggravated by the thought, Strell cast an ill-humoured eye over the printout of the ship’s
transport manifest held in his hand until he came to the listing for the offending company. 6th
Company, the 14th Jumael Volunteers, Company Commander: Lieutenant Vinters. There was
nothing out of the ordinary in the company’s listing on the manifest. Nothing to explain why he and
his crew had been diverted from their duties and the protection of the convoy to ferry two hundred
men to a planet that, in galactic terms, might as well be in the middle of nowhere.
Perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye, thought Strell again. Perhaps the manifest
listing is only a cover, and they are special troops on a secret mission. Why else would we have
been sent here? The only other reason could be if some mistake had been made but the Imperium
does not make mistakes. Yes, a secret mission. It is the only explanation that makes any sense…
23
Satisfied at last that he had found the answer, Strell turned to see Gudarsen hurrying towards
him once more, holding the text of the astropathic message gripped tightly before him.
“All confirmation codes read correct, captain,” Gudarsen said. “The specifics of our mission are
confirmed.”
“Very good. You have my permission to relay instructions to Launch Control to prepare a lander
for launch. Oh, and Number One? This is strictly a ‘drop-and-depart’ mission. Tell Liaison to have
the navigator plot a new course for Seltura III. Once the lander has dropped its passengers planetside
and returned to the ship, I want us to underway within the hour.”
“Orders received and understood, captain,” said Gudarsen, ending with a standard phrase of
acknowledgement as he hurried away to carry out his duties. “The Emperor protects.”
“The Emperor protects, Number One,” Strell echoed, already turning to redirect his gaze
towards the planet once more as he waited for the lander to be launched so he could watch its
descent.
Yes, he thought. A secret mission. That’s the only thing it could he. If Operations Command has
decided we are to be denied information as to the nature of that mission, so be it. It is like they used
to teach us in the scholarium. Then, he allowed himself a small smile of nostalgia as his mind turned
to the half-remembered wisdoms of long ago days. How did it go now, he thought. Ah yes, it was
something like:
“Ours is not to reason why.”
“Ours is but to do and die.”
“It is better to die for the Emperor than live for yourself!” the vox-caster screamed, drowning out the
sound of trampling feet and shouted orders as the men of 6th Company ran through the troopship’s
cramped corridors towards the launch bay. “The blood of martyrs is the seed of the Imperium! If
you want peace, prepare for war!”
The vox-caster blared on through the bowels of the troopship, on and on in a pre-recorded loop
of exhortations to duty, as Larn ran stumbling with the others under the weight of the heavy pack on
his back. Barely three hours had passed since Sergeant Ferres had at last relented and dismissed
them from training to return to their quarters. Three hours since, exhausted, Larn had finally been
allowed to go to sleep. Only to be roused blearily from his slumbers two and a quarter hours later by
the wail of sirens as Sergeant Ferres had ordered the men of the platoon from their bunks and told
them to make ready for a planetary drop.
“Be vigilant and be strong!” the vox-caster shrieked ever louder, harsh echoes rebounding from
loudspeakers set in the metal walls and ceiling all around them. “The Emperor is your shield and
protector!”
Now, three quarters of an hour’s worth of hurried preparations later, Larn found himself running
in full kit as he and the rest of his company were herded like sheep through the troopship’s maze of
corridors. Here and there they passed naval crewmen who paused from their duties long enough to
cheer them on, offering half-heard words of encouragement in place of the sardonic laughter that
had greeted their earlier training exercises. With the prospect that their erstwhile passengers might
soon be seeing combat, it seemed the normal antipathy between the Navy and the Guard had
abruptly given way to mutual respect. With a sudden tremor in the pit of his stomach, Larn realised
he was about to go to war.
“You shall know no reward other than the Emperor’s satisfaction!” the vox-caster continued.
“You shall know no truth other than that which the servants of your Emperor tell you!”
This is it, Larn thought. After all the training and briefings, all the preparations, the moment for
which it was all in aid of is here at last. I am finally going to war. As much as that thought filled his
mind, he found himself distracted as a second thought pushed itself insistently to the fore. Three
weeks, he thought. Three weeks, maybe four. That is what the naval officer said in the briefing only
yesterday. He said it would be at least three weeks before we saw any action. Confused, Larn
24
wondered what could have changed in the meantime. If yesterday they were still three weeks from
combat, how was it today they were about to make their first drop?
“The mind of the Guardsman has no place for questions,” the vox-caster screamed unnervingly.
“Doubt is a vile cancer whose symptoms are cowardice and fear, steel yourself against it. There is
room for but three things in the mind of the Guardsman: obedience, duty, and love of the Emperor.”
Abruptly, as though the blaring of the vox-caster was somehow the sound of his own
conscience, Larn felt a sudden shame. He thought of his family far away on Jumael, and how every
night they would be offering a prayer for his safety as they knelt before the votive picture of the
Emperor above the fire mantle. He thought about the tale his father had told him, about his greatgrandfather
and the lottery. He thought about all the promises he had made his Pa about doing his
duty. He realised, for all his talk and promises then, how close he had coming to failing them at the
very first hurdle. It did not matter that the facts given him in yesterday’s briefing now seemed at
odds with today’s reality. He was a Guardsman, and all that mattered was that he did his duty.
Putting his questions aside he found himself comforted by the memory of his father’s words in the
cellar, his recollection of his father’s voice serving as a kinder and more gentle counterpoint to the
vox-caster’s wail and bombast.
“Trust to the Emperor,” his father had told him with tears in his eyes. “Trust to the Emperor, and
everything will be all right.”
Emerging from the cramp and narrowness of the corridor, the launch bay seemed huge as Larn
followed the men in front of him inside it. Ahead he saw the imposing bulk of a lander, steam rising
from the hydraulics of the platform it rested on as tech-adepts scurried around it like mindful ants
giving succour to a fallen giant. He saw adepts manning the massive fuel lines that ran from a
recessed spout in the far wall of the launch bay to the lander’s engines, while others anointed the
surfaces of the lander with unguents, burned incense, performed blessings, or made final
adjustments to the lander’s systems with the diverse instruments of holy calibration. All the while
the lander hummed with power, the thrumming of its restive engines vibrating through the metal
floor of the launch bay towards where Larn and the others stood gazing at it uncertainly, like wary
travellers unsure whether to risk waking a sleeping tiger.
“Get moving, you inbreeds!” Sergeant Ferres yelled, the volume of the continuing vox-caster
broadcasts around them having been diminished enough by the open spaces of the launch bay for
them to at last hear their sergeant’s commands. “A man might almost think you bumpkins hadn’t
seen a lander before.”
In truth, none of them had: their journey from Jumael to the orbiting troopship having been
undertaken inside local planetary shuttles of much less startling dimensions. As Larn rushed towards
the lander with the others he found himself in awe to be approaching so enormous a vehicle. It looks
like it could hold a couple of thousand men at least, he thought. Not to mention tanks and artillery
besides. For the first time he truly appreciated the extraordinary scale of the troopship he had been
travelling within for the last twenty-nine days. Sweet Emperor, he thought in amazement, to think
they say this ship carries twenty such landers!
At the front the mouth of the lander lay open, the primary assault ramp stretching towards them
like the tongue of some improbable metal beast. Running up the ramp into the cavernous and dimly
lit interior of the lander itself, Larn and the others found a grim-faced member of the lander’s crew
waiting to point them in the direction of a nearby stairwell. Then, following the stairwell to its
summit, they came to the vast rows and aisles of seats of the lander’s upper troop-deck.
“Find a seat and fasten your restraints,” Ferres barked. “I want you seated together in fireteam,
section, and platoon order. Any man who isn’t in his seat and ready for drop in two minutes’ time is
going to find himself on a charge.”
Hurrying to his seat Larn quickly sat down, carefully fastening the buckles of the seat’s impact
restraints across his waist, shoulders and chest, before tightening them to fit him. Making sure the
25
safety on his lasgun was set to “safe”, he pushed the gun upright and butt-first into the shallow
recess of the weapon holder set at the front of his seat and clipped the barrel lock closed to hold the
gun in place. Then, looking about him at the other Guardsmen as they did likewise, Larn found
himself briefly confused as he realised just how few men there were inside the lander. Despite the
fact that the lander was built to house a minimum of two thousand men, there was at most a single
company of men inside it. It looks like they are only dropping my company, he thought. 6th
Company. But that would make no sense. Why would they only put only two hundred men on board,
when this lander can hold ten times that? No. They must be going to load more men on board. No
doubt we are just the first aboard and rest of the regiment will be following us soon enough.
“Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus two point zero zero minutes,” a harsh metallic voice announced
over a hidden vox-caster speaker as, in the distance, Larn heard the slow grinding of the lander’s
assault ramp closing.
“Sounds like we got into our seats just in time, Larnie,” Jenks said, as Larn realised he had taken
the seat next to him. “Good thing, too. Never mind old Ferres and his threats, I wouldn’t want to be
wandering around out of my seat when this monster finally gets going.”
With that Jenks turned away to fasten his own seat-restraints. For a moment, still confused, Larn
found himself fighting the urge to ask Jenks where he thought the rest of the regiment was. Then,
abruptly, he realised it made no difference. It was too late to turn back now. Like it or not, it looked
like 6th Company would be making their first planetary drop on their own.
“Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus one point zero zero minutes,” the voice said again, as Larn felt
the vibrations of the lander’s engines grow stronger.
“Don’t worry, Larnie,” said Jenks by his side as, trying as much to allay his own anxieties as
comfort a friend, he turned to give Larn a kindly smile. “They say it’s not the fall you need to worry
about. It’s hitting the ground that kills you.”
“Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus zero point three zero minutes,” the metallic voice continued its
countdown as Larn realised, too late, he had forgotten to pray to the Emperor for a safe descent.
“Ready for launch in ‘T’ minus zero,” the voice said as the lander’s engines fired and Larn
found himself feeling suddenly weightless. “All systems ready. Launch!”
And then, quicker than Larn would have thought possible, they were falling.
26
CHAPTER FIVE
23:12 hours Imperial Standard Time
(Revised Real-Space Close Planetary Approximation)
Evasive Manoeuvres — Falling and the Taste of Vomit — Landfall, Death and Grim Realisation —
The Calamity of Sergeant Ferres — No-man’s land and the Eagle in the Distance — Welcome to
Broucheroc
“Bearing one eight degrees one five minutes,” the navigation servitor’s voice croaked, the
parchment-thin tones of its voice barely audible in the lander’s crew compartment over the roar of
engines. “Recommend course correction of minus zero three degrees zero eight minutes for optimal
atmospheric entry. All other systems reading normal.”
“Check,” said the pilot, automatically pushing his control stick forward to make the adjustment.
“New bearing: one five degrees zero seven minutes. Confirm course correction.”
“Course correction confirmed,” the servitor said, its yellowing sightless eyes rolling back in
their sockets as it rechecked its calculations. “Atmospheric entry in T minus five seconds. Two.
One. Atmospheric entry achieved. All systems reading normal.”
“Look at that glow, Dren,” Zil the co-pilot said, his eyes lifting from his instruments for a
fraction of a second to look out the view-portal at the nose of the lander as it was surrounded by a
nimbus of bright red fire. “No matter how many planetary drops we do, I never get used to it. It’s
like riding in a ball of flame. It makes you thank the Emperor for whoever first made heat shields.”
“Heat shields reading normal,” said the servitor, gears whirring inside it as it mistook the
comment for a question. “Exterior temperature within permitted operational thresholds. All systems
reading normal.”
“That’s because you’ve only got a dozen drops behind you,” the pilot said. “Trust me, by the
time you’ve done another dozen you won’t even notice it. How’s the signal from the landing
beacon? I don’t want to miss the drop point.”
“Beacon signal reading strong and clear,” Zil replied. “No air traffic, friendly or hostile. Looks
like we’ve got the sky to ourselves. Wait! Auspex is reading some—”
“Warning! Warning!” the servitor interrupted, the whirring of its mechanisms reaching an abrupt
crescendo as it burst into life. “Registering hostile missile launch from ground-based battery.
Recommend evasive manoeuvres. Missile trajectory eight seven degrees zero three minutes,
airspeed six hundred knots. Warning! Registering second missile launch. Missile trajectory—”
