Chem dog, p.3
Chem Dog, page 3
With a seemingly practised ease, Grukkur presented the weapon’s left side. It too was impressively clean. Hasp looked in turn at the weapon’s barrel, grip and ammunition magazine.
‘Satisfactory.’
The ogryn’s eyes widened with apparent pride, but he maintained composure.
‘Lord Commissar Traig has given me a mission of vital importance to him. You are hereby assigned to my direct command. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, commissar, sir! Honoured, commissar, sir!’
‘Do you remember the Savlar known as Rastus?’
‘Him and others murdered Commissar von Zek, sir! Lord Commissar Traig released them, sir!’
‘Indeed. Lord Commissar Traig has assigned them to me for my mission.’
‘Yes, commissar, sir!’
‘I need you to find him and his squad and bring them to my quarters. And I need you to find the members of what was Squad Zakir. Zakir is dead, but there are survivors. I need you to bring them to my quarters as well. You are free to use what force you believe necessary to ensure you complete your orders.’
‘Yes, commissar, sir! Rastus and Zakir squads, your quarters, any means necessary!’
‘You can’t kill them, Grukkur. Unconscious is acceptable.’
‘Yes, commissar, sir!’
Hasp saw the ogryn was trying to suppress a grin. ‘I believe I can count on you,’ he said.
‘Commissar Hasp, sir!’
Bastun looked up from his worn copy of A Thousand Wartime Prayers, which he had only just opened. It was Grukkur. It had only been a few hours. Hasp had spent an hour on the ranges, half an hour cleaning Reaper and over an hour in a briefing before returning to his quarters. It had been a notable one. He’d learned that a Savlar had been executed for putting a kind of local venomous serpent in the latrines. Also, a commissar had been taken off field duty until Mechanicus oculogeers could craft her some bionic eyes – a prisoner in solitary confinement for presenting a dirty lasgun at inspection had spat some of her own rotting rations into the woman’s eyes prior to an interrogation.
Hasp’s quarters was a partially buried bunker-dugout, six feet wide, six feet long and seven feet from floor to ceiling. A small drainage hole was dug in each corner. A collapsible cot lay on the floor along one wall and a small desk and stool made from old ammunition boxes were the only furniture. The commissar kept no personal effects, and everything he carried was standard issue. The prayer books, writing materials, polish and brushes could be replaced as needed. Being this way meant he could carry additional ammunition.
He rose to his feet and placed his stool under his desk. He patted down his jacket and straightened his belt buckle. His method and manner were crisp and curt but not rushed.
They work to my time.
Hasp climbed the handful of stairs and out of the open hatch into Kruxx’s waning daylight. Sandbags were piled either side of the entranceway and over the top of his bunker. Before him were the Savlars. Grukkur stood to attention on their right, chest puffed out, chin up.
The sight of the ‘mongrels’, as Hasp called them, made his lip curl. One he recognised as Judd, who easily stood at six and a half feet tall, with a huge upper body covered in burn scars. The man had written FREKK in large letters on the front of the Cadian helmet he wore. Another soldier that he didn’t recognise, from Squad Zakir, was unconscious, propped up by two of his teammates. One of them, who had a very clean heavy stubber resting against his leg, sported a black eye, the rest of his face bruised and swollen.
‘Ogryn Grukkur’s powers of persuasion are strong indeed,’ he said, glaring at them. ‘None of you should forget that.’ He looked pointedly at Judd then, who was clearly the most powerful of the squad physically. Out of the corner of his eye, Hasp saw something like a smug expression on the ogryn’s face.
Hasp drew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. On it was listed the name of every mongrel he was to take with him on his mission. He read them all out one by one, and each name was answered. Rastus’ troops included Kazyn, a woman Hasp knew intimately after having pulled all her teeth out in punishment for rudeness, and Szank, a skinny man who was festooned with jewellery and knives. There was also Xiv, a short and portly woman whose lined face and weather-beaten skin belied her years, and Judd. The unconscious man was Gren – the one with the swollen face, Rec, answered on his behalf.
Squad Zakir also included Tilz, a woman with a hard, pointed face and iron eyepatch, who bore her long-las comfortably. She kept several scopes strapped to her flak armour. All of her exposed flesh, including that of her shaven head, was tattooed with spiral patterns. There was a medic known – highly originally – as Doc. He only carried a sidearm and a few knives. Nothing about his physical form was remarkable or noteworthy to Hasp. His skills were what mattered, though.
Separate from him was another woman with an eyepatch. She was several inches taller than the medic. Her name was Axla.
Finally there was Yernis. The man had no chin, his chest was sunken and he had so little body fat his veins were visible enough to resemble an entire plumbing network running under his skin.
What a frekking shiteshow, Hasp thought.
‘You’re all here. Good work, Grukkur.’
The ogryn beamed. ‘Yes, commissar, sir!’
‘Now I’m telling you why. Lord Commissar Traig has ordered us to join in the upcoming assault on the Bastion Ajaxus. The Emperor’s forces will be reclaiming it from the orks. Our job is to find something of great importance to the lord commissar. We have five days to reach the siege lines, and we will be getting there on foot. We leave at first light tomorrow. Draw rations, air and ammunition as you would normally. The proper way. Questions?’
Grukkur saluted. The others looked flabbergasted.
I thought much the same thing, he thought. Their expressions were no surprise.
‘We will do as we are ordered by our betters,’ Hasp said, raising his voice, looking every Savlar in the eye. ‘Failure isn’t an option. Willingness to entertain it is cowardice. It is practically treachery.’
‘Sir?’ said Rastus.
‘Speak.’
‘The ground between here and there isn’t held by anyone. It’s full of aliens and bandits–’
‘I know. And you left out the mongrel deserters from this and the other Savlar regiments. Lord Commissar Traig knows also. Our mission remains the same. I am a soldier, and by edict of the Emperor all of you are, too. To be one is to know danger and face it with faith in our hearts. For all of us, especially criminal scum like all of you, death in battle is the best we can hope for.’
Hasp directed his answer at all of them.
‘You should be far more afraid of me than anything we might find out there,’ he said, resting one hand on the head of his power hammer – a clawed weapon with a long pick on the back of its head – and the other on Reaper in its holster.
‘And me!’ shouted Grukkur.
Hasp rounded on the ogryn, placing himself inches from him. He stared straight into the giant’s eyes. ‘Did I give you permission to speak?’
Grukkur lowered his gaze. ‘N-no, commissar, s-sir.’
Hasp stayed where he was in complete silence, his look boring into the ogryn, for close to ten seconds. ‘I expected better,’ he said finally.
‘Y-yes, commissar, sir. ’Twon’t h-happen again.’
‘See that it does not.’
Hasp made an about-turn then marched to his previous position in front of the gathered Savlars. Their eyes were wide, and many of the faces were considerably paler.
That will give them something to think about.
It took Hasp a matter of minutes to pack everything he possessed ahead of the mission. Still, he spent considerably longer checking every strap, ensuring everything was in its proper place as dictated by the Schola Progenium, trimming loose threads in stitching and fixing the smallest signs of wear and tear. His sewing was neat and tight – it had won him praise at the Schola and been a source of great pride to him.
‘Attention to detail,’ he had said to himself as he worked. ‘To be careless in any regard is to invite carelessness in every other.’ It was a mantra he had always lived by. More than one person he had fought beside in the past had failed to live up to it. Many of them did not live long after this mistake. Not because of enemy action – though in some cases that was what happened – but because Hasp ensured that was so.
He knew that it was easy to believe that such acts were callous, merciless, even a detriment to the Imperial cause because of the fear and disruption to military leadership they caused.
It was particularly foolish to believe what the commissars did was harsh or wasteful. It saved lives to execute the weak, cowardly or incompetent – the lives of Imperial soldiers, possessions of the Emperor, the instruments of His will, His hammer and His shield.
He had seen enough of the courageous faithful killed because of the failings of those above them whose strength and belief were lacking. Hasp killed because it was his duty. Because he wanted humanity to prevail. Because he saw the faith and bravery in the common soldier, the blood of the Imperium, and loved it.
‘Remember that in the days to come,’ he said to himself, as he brushed the last few fragments of dust from his prepared pack. ‘Remember why this matters.’
His pack had numerous empty slots and pockets. He had yet to claim his ammunition and rations. It was something that he could ask another to do for him as a benefit of his rank, but he had never done so out of principle. His duty was to ensure discipline. To command, when necessary. That meant being an impeccable example. Any soldier under his leadership had to obey him, by military law. They may have hated him for all manner of reasons, but they could never criticise him for not doing the grunt work when it was expected, whether that be digging trenches or sourcing his own supplies. This was of less concern to Hasp around the Savlars. He had no need for the respect of mongrels, whose very existence as fighting troops was anathema to him. The fact that commissars frequently took on the command of such soldiers said as much as anyone needed to know about the Savlars.
Giving weapons to criminals… He shook his head as he had many times before.
‘God-Emperor, all I can imagine is that this is a test. And if it is, I am sorry. I am sorry for whichever sin I have committed to need it.’
Despite having the authority to command others to gather his supplies, it was irrelevant around penal troops. He could not trust them enough to find him five days’ worth of ammunition, food and air – they would only steal it for themselves. Knowing this, Hasp walked up the steps out of his quarters and into the open camp to get what he needed.
Night had well and truly fallen. Kruxx had three moons, but there was no telling because of the clouds and smog overhead. All three were being fought over by the orks and the Emperor’s forces. What little news reached the planet of the wars raging above them was generally good. They’d heard of enormous hordes of orks routed, their keeps toppled and ships destroyed by the dozen.
But if it’s anything like it is here, it won’t be as simple as that. I wonder what they tell the troops on the moons of how we are progressing on the planet?
He knew the true answer to that question was ‘badly’. There had been minor victories, but at best Imperial forces were in a position of stalemate. The loss of the Bastion Ajaxus was just one example of the setbacks they’d experienced.
Hasp had an advantage that many of the rank and file did not. He knew commissars who knew commissars who knew officers who attended campaign briefings that covered events across the entire system. He knew that Kruxx Alpha, the planet’s nearest moon, had been carved through with labyrinthine warrens of gas mines. The conflict raging within them had caused explosions that had incinerated hundreds of thousands of Guardsmen. He also knew that the forces of the Adeptus Mechanicus had insisted that they alone fight on Kruxx Betaris, the second moon, for months. Now all of a sudden they were requesting reinforcements. At first Hasp had trusted that the tech-priests had known what they were doing. Perhaps they believed there to be dangers on that moon that only they could unravel, or archeotechnological wonders only they could retrieve and make use of. Now events seemed much more ominous. As for Kruxx Gammar, the final moon, that place was airless, making it ideal for docking facilities. It was central to high command’s plans that it be secured as a place where their transports and warships could dock for repairs and rearmaments. It could be of great value to the Armageddon campaign as a whole.
As the months of war dragged on, orbital support for the action on Kruxx had been slowly depleted. Elysian drop-troops had been pulled out, as had regiments of so-called ‘asteroid hoppers’ from Balteus. What that meant, Hasp could only speculate. He didn’t think these troops, expert as they were in unconventional warfare, were being sent for recuperation.
Only the beams of searchlumens and promethium drum fires illuminated the camp. Once there had been insistence on light-discipline, but it had proven detrimental. Ork infiltrators had used the darkness as cover. One of their raids saw an entire company wiped out. In another attack they hit storehouses containing special rations and ammunition for an entire battalion’s worth of commissars. Clearly the greenskins knew where the camp was; using lumens meant at least the sentries, of which there were considerably more than before, might now have a chance to drive off raiders before their throats and guts were carved open.
Hasp headed towards the company storehouse. He passed numerous guards. All were chain-smoking lho-sticks, most appeared indifferent and some exchanged crude jokes in whispers. They fell silent and snapped salutes when the commissar strode past them. He never returned the mongrels’ salutes; they didn’t deserve his acknowledgement. Had any been asleep he would have had them flogged then thrown into the cells. He wouldn’t have wasted a bolt on them.
On Hasp’s walk he also passed tents and bunkers. Most were packed full of Savlars. One privilege of rank he did allow himself was his own quarters. His was a small space, but at least four of the criminals were packed into bunkers of similar sizes. He knew some slept sitting in the corners. He knew others used strength and ruthlessness to lord over their spaces, seizing ample room for a cot while the others huddled on the floor with nothing, cowed. Coarse laughter, whimpers, burping, screams, flatulence, rutting – he heard it all.
Filth. Weak or strong. Every last one of them.
There was the occasional scrape of a bayonet being sharpened, or clunks and snaps as weapons were checked and assembled. A few words of hatred for the ork, a few prayers to the Emperor.
Good sounds. War sounds. But not enough of them.
When Hasp reached the primary storage bunker, the two ogryns standing guard outside made rough salutes, which he returned. Savlars were never trusted to take care of such resources. He descended a number of sandbag steps to a door and knocked three times.
‘Who goes there?’ said a voice
‘Commissar Bastun Hasp. Permission code eight-alpha-seven-iota.’
He heard several locks click and clank, and the door opened before him. He removed his hat and strode through. Inside were two more ogryns and the commissar on duty serving as quartermaster. The latter stood behind a counter made of old duckboards.
‘Well met, commissar,’ she said with a nod. Her turnout was smart, neat, tidy. But the look in her dark eyes and the flatness of her voice told Hasp she was bored. He didn’t blame her. In any other type of regiment, rank and file could be trusted to watch and issue supplies, leaving commissars free to see to their primary duties. If the Savlars were left in charge, nothing, not even the sandbags, would be left unpilfered.
‘Well met indeed, commissar,’ he said with a respectful nod.
Sickly yellow lumen strips lit up the bunker, their illumination revealing crate after crate of lasgun and laspistol charge packs, autogun slugs, shotgun shells, fragmentation grenades, corpse-starch tubes, recaff tins, packs of lho-sticks, med-kits and more. All were on shelves stacked higher than him in more than a dozen rows.
‘We keep the commissar-reserved supplies in a separate room here,’ said the quartermaster.
‘I will only need bolt pistol ammunition from there,’ said Hasp. He had to keep Reaper well fed, but beside that, just as he collected his own supplies, he refused special treatment in this regard as well. No one could say he took comfort above those whose discipline and spiritual guidance were his responsibility.
‘By all means, Hasp. Take what you need.’
‘Thank you, commissar,’ he said, as the quartermaster lifted a portion of the countertop for him to pass through. Freedom to take his rations was one small privilege he did enjoy. He took no pleasure in recaff or lho-sticks, however. Such things affected the mind. He had no need for that. He had his faith and his purpose. Besides, forgoing these meant enough space for another grenade.
Pack in hand, Hasp set about taking what he needed – exactly five days’ ration assignments. He could expect to replenish once he reached the Mordian 2201st’s positions. The bunker was peaceful. Beneath feet of dirt and sandbags, the sounds of the camp at night were completely inaudible. The shelves absorbed the faint grunts and mouth breathing of the ogryn guards, who in any case had turned back to face the door, away from him.
After taking bolts for Reaper from the commissar-reserved section, he remembered he also needed filters for his rebreather and air for his tank. Turbines and recyclers kept the air relatively clean around the camp, but beyond its boundaries out in the wastelands anything breathed in was dangerous after a matter of minutes. He took enough filters for five days of heavy breathing.
The section of the stores bunker reserved for commissars had air tankfilling units containing pure air. Savlars were forbidden to use this, because their own was laced with chems designed to encourage aggression and limit fear. Hasp had been forced to use some in his unit’s previous engagement when his air tank had been destroyed by an ork. To stay alive he had taken air from a dead Savlar. He had tried to resist with all his might, to only take the smallest breaths, just to stay alive. The experience had nonetheless been… intoxicating.
