Sebastev saw a meaningful look pass between the enginseer and Colonel Kabanov as the
enginseer continued. These are matters I have kept to myself, though Tech-priest Gavaril detected
the truth easily enough. I have watched and waited for the moment that my life might be spent for
greatest gain. I suspected it would come during these dark times. I was correct. For the honour of the
Machine-God, I am ready to face my death.”
Each of the men in the vehicle, with the exception of the gagged rebel prisoner, stared at the old
enginseer with silent respect. His offer to stay epitomised the kind of honour and nobility to which
every Vostroyan officer aspired.
I always regarded this man as little more than a functionary, thought Sebastev with no small
sense of shame. When did I forget that he is a man of Vostroya? Here, he proves himself the equal
of our very best, in spirit if not in combat prowess.
“Enginseer,” said Colonel Kabanov, “you may take everything you need and go about your plan.
May the Emperor as Omnissiah ensure your success for all our sakes. Your sacrifice will be
remembered in the annals of this regiment.”
The enginseer bowed his hooded head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I will attend to the matter
with all haste. The Omnissiah’s blessings upon you, gentlemen.”
Enginseer Politnov didn’t wait for permission to leave. He simply rose from his seat in the
Chimera, opened the hatch and clambered out into the cold afternoon. On impulse, Sebastev rose
and followed him outside. The enginseer was walking away in the direction of the Path-cutters, his
red robes whipping around him in the bitter wind.
“Enginseer,” called Sebastev.
Politnov stopped and turned to face him. “Captain?” Sebastev said nothing. Instead, he raised his
hands to his chest, made the sign of the aquila, and bowed deeply. Politnov’s laugh was audible this
time: a dry, toneless sound like metal scraping on metal. He turned away and continued trudging
through the snow. “Get back inside the Chimera, captain,” he voxed, disinclined to shout over the
noise of the winds. “Flesh is so weak against this cold. Yes, flesh is weak, but the machine… The
machine is indomitable.”
Kabanov’s Chimera gave a throaty growl as it pulled into position behind the lead Pathcutter. Fifth
Company’s vehicles moved away from Nhalich in single file, three Chimeras and two heavy
transports in a loose column, making the most of the broad channel the Pathcutter’s plough carved
in the drifts. The setting sun fought its way through thick clouds, casting a bloody red glow over the
western horizon and throwing long shadows out across the open snow.
Enginseer Politnov was beyond vox-bead range, but Lieutenant Kuritsin caught a final
communication from him on the Chimera’s vox-caster. Politnov reported success in drawing the
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orks south-west from their original path. As he signed off, he was pulling them straight towards the
Danikkin armour column in the south.
Kabanov offered a silent prayer of thanks, commending the enginseer’s soul to the care of Saint
Nadalya so that she might speed its journey to the Emperor’s side. Politnov had offered his life to
aid them without a second thought, sure that the time was right for him to step up and make a
difference. Kabanov could identify closely with that, particularly now, as Fifth Company sped
towards its probable doom.
There seemed little hope that the Thirty-fifth Regiment would hold Grazzen long enough for
Fifth Company to cross with the prisoner. It was far more likely they would arrive to find the place
overrun with orks, and the bridge destroyed from the Vostroyan side. A few seconds too late might
as well be a year too late for all the difference it would make.
Such grim thoughts were cut off by a sudden pain in his lungs. Kabanov scrabbled for one of his
handkerchiefs and coughed into it wetly.
The others looked over at him, concern apparent on their faces, but said nothing. Kabanov threw
back a weary smile as he stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, keen to hide the red splotch that
he knew would be there.
Kabanov’s age wasn’t considerable when compared to many high-ranking Imperial officers, but,
unlike the others, General Vlastan included, he’d never opted to undergo expensive and often
excruciating rejuvenat treatments. He had money enough to pay for them — House Kabanov had
more than its fair share of investments on Vostroya and its neighbouring worlds — but he’d always
trusted that the Emperor would take him when it was time.
That time isn’t far off, thought Kabanov. Will it be on my terms, I wonder? Or will I be denied
my last grand gesture?
Winds picked up, driving across from the east, buffeting the sides of the Chimera. Kabanov’s
body ached for sleep. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but we’ve a hard fight ahead of us — our
hardest yet, I’ve no doubt. It’s been too long since any of us had adequate rest. So long as we take
turns to keep an eye on the prisoner, I suggest we try to get some sleep. The mountain pass is some
hours away.”
Captain Sebastev nodded his agreement, looking immensely tired himself. “We’ve been running
on ohx’ for too long. Get some rest, colonel. That goes for the rest of you, too.” He was referring to
Father Olov and Lieutenants Kuritsin and Maro. Commissar Karif, barely able to restrain himself in
the presence of the captured traitor, had opted once again to ride with the troopers in one of the
Pathcutters. “I’ll keep an eye on this rebel bastard for now.”
It was clear to Kabanov that Sebastev needed sleep as much as any of them, but the stubborn
captain wouldn’t be argued with. Someone else could relieve him later, he supposed.
“If anyone needs extra blankets,” said Kabanov, “Lieutenant Maro will provide them.”
Father Olov shook his head, lifted a flask of rahzvod to his lips and took a deep draft. Before
anyone else had even settled down, he was snoring like a cudbear.
As the others closed their tired eyes, Kabanov nodded to Sebastev and said, “Wake Maro in a
few hours, captain. He’ll take over and give you a chance to rest. That’s an order, by the way.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sebastev. “I’ll do that.”
Commissar Karif couldn’t stand to be near the so-called officer-patriot, Brammon Gusseff.
Breathing the same air as a man who had turned from the Emperor’s light filled him with righteous
fury. He wanted nothing more than to shove his chainsword into the man’s belly and watch his life
pour out.
At the same time, Karif had to acknowledge that the prisoner was worth far more alive than
dead. If the interrogations were handled correctly, what secrets might the rebel give up? The codes
to the case that accompanied him? Details of rebel deployment? Perhaps more besides.
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Aware that his self-control was being sorely tested, Karif had excused himself from Colonel
Kabanov’s Chimera and opted to ride in the Pathcutter at the back of the column. Since he’d only
been among Fifth Company for a matter of days, he expected to find a few faces that were new to
him. But with Fifth Company reduced to less than a hundred men crammed into just a few vehicles,
he soon found himself sitting among familiar figures. Directly opposite him, just as he had been on
the journey west from Korris, sat Sergeant Sidor Basch of Second Platoon.
“Glad to see you’re still with us, commissar,” said the veteran sergeant.
“Likewise,” said Karif. “Did you take many losses during the assault?”
Basch shook his head. “Two from my squad. They’ll be missed. Considering the odds, though,
I’d say we didn’t do half bad.” The sergeant paused as if choosing his next words carefully.
“Commissar… if I offended you last time we spoke… I intended the comparison with Commissar
Ixxius only as a compliment, I assure you.”
Karif raised a hand. “I meant no particular disrespect to the late commissar. I merely dislike
being the subject of comparisons, sergeant. I’m my own man with my own merits and, no doubt, my
own flaws. I’ll be measured by those alone if I’m to be measured at all. But let’s have no more talk
of it.”
“As you say, commissar.” Changing the subject, Basch asked, “How did you enjoy that pictslate?”
At first, Karif was at loss. He couldn’t recall any pict-slate. He’d been with Fifth Company for
only six days, but so much had been compressed into that time, he felt he’d been among them for
weeks. Then it came to him; he’d confiscated a porn-slate discovered by two troopers searching the
bodies in Reivemot Square in order to avoid fighting among the men.
“Naturally I destroyed it, sergeant,” he said. “A man of the Imperial Creed wouldn’t sully his
eyes looking at filth like that. He’d have to flagellate himself.”
“We’ve got a different word for it on Vostroya, commissar, but I’m sure the meaning is the
same.” The sergeant enjoyed a laugh, his infectious mirth spreading to the men seated on either side
of him.
Karif had lied, of course. He had examined the images displayed on the cracked screen of the
device. He’d been stunned that such unflattering and clumsy pictography could represent a source of
entertainment to anyone. The subjects were unattractive to begin with.
The Emperor alone knows how you Vostroyans can find delight in such sturdy, thick-fingered
women, he thought. Then again, they say Vostroya is a cold place. Perhaps the value of such women
is in the heat they generate. And they look like hard workers. I suppose that counts for something.
Stavin, sitting by Karif’s side as usual, was being engaged in conversation by a kind-faced
soldier with a long, brown moustache and a patch of burnt skin below his left eye. The burn was
probably the result of a near miss back at Nhalich. Las-bolts could still singe flesh if they passed
close enough without hitting.
“I saw you fighting back there,” said the soldier to Stavin. “You got guts for a shiny. What’s
your name, then?”
“Stavin. What’s yours?”
“I’m Kovo, Fourth Platoon. My squad came in from the north-east and joined up with your lot at
the crossroads, remember? I saw you drop the two traitors manning that bolter.”
“Oh,” said Stavin simply.
“Aye, good kills. Some of the others said you’re from Hive Tzurka. That right?”
Stavin nodded.
“Me, too, the Merchant’s Quarter. Can’t say I miss it much. Anyway, don’t worry about the
others ragging on you. All the shinies get it. Just so you know, we saw how you toasted those rebels.
You’re bloodied now, proper Fifth Company. You won’t get any grief from us.”
“How long have you been with the regiment, Kovo?” interjected Karif.
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Stavin jumped as if he’d been stung, and only just realised that the commissar was listening to
their exchange.
Kovo gave a shallow bow before answering. “I’ve been with the Sixty-Eighth for over eight
years, commissar. I’m proud to serve under the White Boar. Never thought we’d be hit this hard.
Curse Old Hungry for the fat has—”
Suddenly reminded that he was talking to a political officer, Kovo’s cheeks flushed, but he held
Karif’s gaze.
Karif let his smile put the trooper at ease. “I haven’t met the man myself, but I’ve heard he could
do with a few laps around the compound, so to speak.”
A few of the soldiers listening offered polite laughs, but Sergeant Basch leaned forward, elbows
on his knees, and said, “It’s a common misconception, commissar, that the name Old Hungry refers
to the general’s physical appearance. It doesn’t. Captain Sebastev never intended for the name to be
taken like that. He calls the man Old Hungry on account of all the Vostroyan lives his career has
needed to sustain itself. Look under ‘attritionist’ in a lexicanum and you’ll see a picture of General
Vogor Vlastan. I won’t deny he’s a wretched figure of a man, mind you, but that’s hardly his fault.
We were fighting dark eldar pirates on Kalgrathis twenty-five years ago when an assassin managed
to slip poison into his food. Together, the Medicae and the Mechanicus managed to save his life.
Whether they should have bothered is open to debate, I reckon.”
A trooper with a face criss-crossed by white scar tissue spoke up from Karif s left side. “If it
weren’t for Vlastan’s political connections with the Administratum and the bigwigs out of Cypra
Mundi, he’d never have made general in a million years.”
Someone on the right, hidden from Karif’s eyes by the press of bodies, decided to add a few
comments of their own. “Man’s a bloody fool. We should have swept on the hive-cities as soon as
we made planetfall.”
“Hestor’s balls!” another called out. “Who knew the orks were here, too? If you ask me, it’s
hardly the general’s fault. The Twelfth Army was undermanned from the start. Look to the Lord-
Marshal if you want to blame someone.”
More voices chipped in. “Khek off! It was Old Hungry ordered us to hold Korris when the rest
pulled out. Nhalich might have been a different story for the rest of our regiment and the 701st if the
White Boar had been there to lead them.”
“You really think he could have saved them?” asked someone.
“Nothing saved Vamkin,” said a man with First Platoon insignia.
“Or Blemski,” added someone else, “or Makarov.”
Other voices joined in, adding to the cacophony, half of the men battling to be heard, the other
half shaking their heads in silent anger at the loss of their brother Firstborn.
Vostroyan truculence, thought Karif. Is this to happen every time I sit amongst them? Their
battlefield discipline is impeccable, but the moment the enemy is overcome, they turn to arguing
with each other. Well, I’ve got my own way of dealing with such things.
He took his laspistol from the holster at his hip and aimed the barrel at the floor of the passenger
compartment. A sharp crack rang out, killing the raised voices in mid-sentence. The odour of
ionised air and metal reached out to every nose in the cramped space. Wisps of smoke rose from a
circular scorch mark in the floor.
Karif spoke quietly, knowing it would force the men to concentrate just to hear him. “Before I
joined this company,” he said, “I heard many great things about Vostroyan discipline. I heard of
victories other Guard regiments could scarcely imagine. I heard of a fighting force dedicated to the
Emperor’s service in every way.”
He turned his head and saw every eye on him. Those farthest from him, near the hatch at the
back, craned forward to watch him as he spoke.
