PROGENA

A Collection of Short Stories

By

Richard Swan
Progenium 1
Anternis, 259 955 M41

‘Albrecht Vandemarr! Come here boy, or so help me God-Emperor I will send you to the firing
squad!’

Vandemarr spat an oath at the novice lying on the stone slabs, and turned to see the deputy
master striding through the ranked trees towards him. He was a tall man, silver-haired, with a
beak of a nose and a bionic scope in the place of his left eye. He clutched a copy of some thick
tome in one hand and a sharp wooden cane in the other, and angrily brandished both as he
approached.

‘Explain yourself!’ he shrilled, stopping short of Vandemarr and leaning forward so that his
nose was only a few inches away.

Vandemarr recoiled. Though he – and the other progena-to-be – didn’t like to admit it, he was
thoroughly frightened of the deputy master. ‘I…took exception to something the novice said,
master,’ he said, forcing himself not to stutter. ‘It was about Bospen, sir.’

‘You have broken his nose, Albrecht,’ the deputy master observed, his eye whirring and
clicking as it focussed. ‘Because he insulted your home world?’

Vandemarr eyed the blossom on the tree to his left, uncomfortable and unwilling to look the
deputy master in the eye. ‘Yes, sir,’ was all he managed under the harsh glare of the wizened
old man.

The deputy master closed his organic eye patiently. ‘Albrecht, as much as I laud the gusto with
which you defend your honour, breaking the nose of the boy who insults it is not the behaviour
we expect in the Schola Progenium. What’s to stop me letting him break your nose, hm? After
all, he is to be a priest – a man of the cloth. An assault on such a man is as bad as an assault
on the Emperor Himself!’

Vandemarr thought for a second, trying to think of an explanation that wouldn’t see him
flogged – or shot. ‘Sir, because that would not be fair,’ he winced.

‘Fair? Fair!’ the deputy master straightened up for a moment, seemingly angry, before he bent
down again – his spine popping in a dozen places. ‘Let me pose a question to you, then,’ he
said, his nose crinkling while he mused. ‘Let us imagine you are a Commissar, fully sworn and
attested. You are in the field. From your intelligence, you know the enemy will attack soon. You
need your men focused, ready to react at a second’s notice.’

The deputy master straightened up again. ‘Horforth, see to your duties. I will deal with you
later,’ he said to the novice clutching his bloody nose. ‘Albrecht, come with me.’

Vandemarr obediently fell into step next to the deputy master, and they walked together down
the stone slabs of the courtyard. Ranks of trees lined the walkway, blossoming pink in the
spring weather, and the babbling of a nearby pool echoed off the rising concrete walls of the
Schola.

‘There is a fight,’ the old man continued. ‘One of the men has assaulted another – broken his
nose, in point of fact.’ The deputy master licked his lips, relishing in the problem. ‘Both men
are attracting attention – attention which would be better spent on the enemy line. Indeed, the
altercation is so loud you fear it may even entice the enemy to an early attack.’

They paused at the edge of the courtyard. Either side of them, the walls of the Schola plunged
downwards, and were lost in the trees of another courtyard a hundred metres below. The
deputy master looked out over the bustling city that surrounded the base of the obsidian
tower, then all the way to the distant horizon and the deep yellow sunset.

‘What course of action do you take?’

Vandemarr scratched his ear. ‘I… would shoot the man responsible for the fight.’

The deputy master smiled. ‘And why would you do that?’

‘He broke discipline. He started the altercation which drew the attention of his comrades away
from the enemy line. His laxity in judgement could well have cost the lives of the entire unit.
For that, his own is forfeit.’

The deputy master clapped, chuckling. ‘Spoken like a true Commissar. I do not doubt you
would make a fine member of the Commissariat – or perhaps, the Inquisition?’

There was a moment’s silence, as they both took in the commanding view. Though it paled in
comparison to the upper levels of Hive Primaris on Bospen, to say capital city of Anternis was
picturesque would have been a gross understatement.

‘Albrecht,’ the deputy master said, breaking the silence. ‘Are you aware of why your father
sent you here?’

Vandemarr didn’t take his eyes off the horizon. ‘Yes,’ he said after a short while. ‘I am aware.’

‘You find fault in his reasoning?’

‘No,’ Vandemarr snapped, then calmed himself. The deputy master pretended to mistake his
tone. ‘I mean, sir, I don’t find fault in it. I just don’t like it.’

The deputy master sighed. ‘Albrecht, Horforth did not insult Bospen did he?’
There was a pause. ‘No, sir,’ Vandemarr eventually acquiesced.

‘He was jealous, because you have a father, and he is an orphan.’

Vandemarr nodded.

‘In fact, out of all our pupils here, you are the only one with a parent.’

Again, Vandemarr nodded. The deputy master eyed him with his bionic eye, and exhaled
loudly.

‘Albrecht, the Abbot did your father a great favour when he granted you a place here. To take
an un-orphaned child into the Schola is most unusual. And when we consider what happened
to your mother…’

Vandemarr’s eyes suddenly blazed. ‘Do not talk about my mother! The rabid bi–’

‘You must learn to control your temper, boy! You are not beyond the lash yet!’ the deputy
master swiftly interjected, cuffing him round the head.

Vandemarr calmed as he remembered his place, his eyes searching the ground for something
to concentrate on.

‘Albrecht,’ the deputy master resumed, ‘learn to appreciate what has been done for you. The
Schola Progenium on Anternis is one of the most exclusive in the sector. All whom we train
here are of the utmost elite. Don’t throw away the opportunity that has been given to you by
the God-Emperor Himself.’

‘Yes, master. Sorry, sir,’ Vandemarr said, trying to wipe the blood off his knuckles.

The deputy master nodded, seemingly satisfied.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now report to the Master of Castigation. Twenty lashes. And do not misinform
him; I will be counting the wounds this evening.’
Progenium
Anternis, 270 956 M41

The classroom was cold, as the winter season on Anternis’ northern hemisphere set in.
Vandemarr’s breath streamed away from his mouth in flurries of vapour, and he struggled to
keep warm in the Schola uniform. The robes seemed to have forgone any insulating properties
for poor quality of manufacture, though he was a little heartened to see he wasn’t the only one
having trouble with the cold.

Around him, the other students shivered in their seats. It didn’t help that the classroom was so
high up either; the Schola Progenium’s main building consisted of a single pinnacle of obsidian
rockcrete that stretched a good kilometre into Anternis’ skyline. Outside, he could see the
whole of the city stretching away to the burning yellow horizon, and not for the first time he
longed to be somewhere else.

‘Ave Imperator,’ the abbot said as he entered the room – an old, slightly overweight man with
a head of cropped silver hair and a greying goatee. The room was suddenly filled with the
sharp scrape of chairs, as the students stood in unison.

‘Ave,’ they replied, making the sign of the aquila.

‘Sit,’ the abbot said, and they did. The old man picked up a small piece of chalk, and wrote on
the blackboard vestri vocation in spidery Gothic script.

‘My apologies for being late,’ the abbot said, rifling through some old, leather-bound books on
his desk. ‘I was held up by the deputy master. I trust you’ve all been learning your litanies?’

‘Yes, abbot,’ they all chanted.

‘Good. Then you, Ylane; Libation to the Emperor, please.’

The girl stood up and cleared her throat. ‘The Emperor is our guiding light, a beacon of hope
for humanity in a galaxy of darkness… As we serve Him, He is our greatest servant. As we pray
to Him… uh… His thoughts are only for us. And in the dark when the shadows threaten, the
Emperor is with us, in spirit and in… uh, in…’

‘Fact, girl, in spirit and in fact! Be seated. You shall be dealt with later.’

‘Yes, abbot,’ Ylane replied dejectedly, and sat down.

‘Today we are going to look at your calling, progena. All of you have had the fortune of being
selected by the Schola Progenium on Anternis – a very exclusive Schola, I would add – and the
purpose of this lesson is to teach you, at this point only cursorily, about what will potentially
become should you graduate. Are there any questions before we begin?’

Only the wind rattling the window panes answered. The abbot nodded, satisfied.

‘Good.’ He shuffled through his notes for a second longer, before picking up the chalk again.
‘As all of you will no doubt be aware by now, the aim of the Schola is to give you the proper
education in the ways of the Imperial Cult, and tutor you on the righteous Imperator Cultus,
the worship the Emperor. Since you, progena, are the willing and fortunate recipients of this
education, there are certain pathways which you are destined to take – those pathways which
require the correct indoctrination in both the Imperial Cult and the Imperator Cultus to be fully
effective.’

He put the chalk to the board, and began writing as he spoke.

‘For those of you who will take the path to the Emperor’s glorious Imperial Guard, there are
the righteous Commissars, men who lead and inspire men on the battlefield to acts of great
courage, and punish those who are found wanting in the Emperor’s service. Then there are the
elite storm troopers, crack units of the most disciplined and hardened men who spread the
word of the Imperial Cult deep into the enemy’s poisonous stronghold.’

Vandemarr allowed himself a brief daydream as the abbot spoke. The old man’s voice was
already taking on an excited tone, and not for the first time Vandemarr reckoned the man had
not willingly stayed behind to teach in the Schola. Perhaps he suffered from some ailment,
such as a game leg?

The truth was, Vandemarr hardly knew anything about any of the missionaries in the Schola;
they all kept to themselves during prayer and reflection, and only saw the students during
mealtimes, lectures and lights-out.

‘Albrecht Vandemarr, concentrate, boy! One day you will take one of these paths! Don’t make
me send you to the master of castigation again!’

‘Yes, abbot,’ Vandemarr said, standing up, ‘sorry abbot.’

‘Good. Sit down, boy.’

Vandemarr did, and resumed his shivering. It was just so damned… cold in the classroom.

The abbot resumed.

‘For those of you who are truly skilled with a rifle and blade, you may be called upon by the
Officio Assassinorum, to dispatch the enemies of the Imperium with clean, precision strikes. It
is a lonely life, a life of danger and excitement; but for the work of these holy assassins, the
Imperium would not function!’
He cursed as the chalk snapped in the midst of his lecture, and scrabbled for another from a
small cardboard container on his desk.

‘For those devoted and militant girls among you, your path lies with the Adeptus Sororitas, the
fighting arm of the Ministorum. It will be your job to root out and destroy the mutant, alien
and heretic within the Adeptus Terra and indeed, the very Imperium itself! You, brides of the
Emperor, will cleanse the Imperium with the holy flame of retribution, and your enemies wills
scream and writhe as the purifying fire destroys their worthless forms!’

The abbot was speaking quickly now, his voice overcome with exhilaration. Vandemarr cocked
his head. Was the abbot mental? They’d only had a few lessons with him, and he’d always
seemed slightly… eccentric.

‘The Inquisition, students,’ the abbot said with an excited whisper, ‘future acolytes of the
feared and all-powerful Inquisitors, mankind’s avenging shadow! It is your task to root out
heresy and corruption, to interrogate and destroy heretical leaders and if necessary, order the
annihilation of entire worlds in case that heresy should spread! The three Ordos of the
Inquisition, Malleus, Xenos and Hereticus call on you to eliminate these traitors, these aliens
and heretics who rot the Imperium from its core and threaten to destroy everything we have
worked so hard to build! All of you, progena, have this duty! When those of you not specially
preselected to join the ranks of the Ecclesiarchy go forth, it will be your remit, your mandate,
your holy duty to see that the Imperium is safeguarded through glorious force of arms!’

The abbot’s voice was reaching fever pitch now, and he gesticulated wildly to the ceiling. ‘You
are our future hope! The lives of trillions rest on your shoulders, progena! This is your life,
your service to the Emperor! The Emperor who died for you and is kept alive by the mystery
and love that comes with faith! He who sits on the Golden Throne, thrice blessed God of
mankind! He who smote the enemies of the Imperium, He who drove away the Ruinous Powers
when Mankind’s need was greatest! He who – argh!’

The abbot suddenly collapsed to the floor, writhing and babbling in some ancient dialect of
Gothic. The students all leapt to their feet in a mass scraping of chairs on cold stone.
Vandemarr ran forward and knelt down beside the man, who was clearly in the throes of some
evangelical fit.

‘Abbot! Sir, are you alright?’ he shouted. The man was foaming at the lips, a completely mad
fervour engulfing his brain. ‘Sir!’

‘Stand aside, progena Vandemarr!’ commanded a booming voice. Vandemarr looked across to
the door to see the deputy master striding towards them.

‘Sir he’s –’

‘Abbot Hesthal is fine, Vandemarr,’ the deputy master said, kneeling down. ‘He has always
been one of the more… zealous amongst our order.’
The deputy master closed his eyes and placed his hands on either side of the abbot’s head,
and muttered a quiet prayer. Soon the abbot ceased his flailing and relaxed, and the master
motioned for the students to return to their desks.

‘Initiate!’ he snapped, and a young man bearing the branding of an initiate ran into the room,
his brown robes fluttering behind him.

‘Yes, deputy master,’ the young man bowed.

‘Fetch me two orderlies from the sanatorium. Abbot Hesthal has succumbed to his… condition
again.’

‘Yes, deputy master.’ The initiate bowed again and hurried out the room.

The abbot was now only quietly muttering to himself, and his writhing had ceased.

‘Return to your seat, progena Vandemarr,’ the deputy master said curtly, as the smell of
freshly voided bowels assaulted their nostrils.

‘The lesson will resume shortly.’

Crypteia
Altaroth, 199 957 M41

‘Commissars are the lynchpin of a unit! They are the Emperor’s wrath incarnate! They instil
faith, and courage into the soldiers of the Imperium at all times, on and off the battlefield! No-
one is above the Emperor’s wrath! Therefore no-one is above a Commissar! From the lowliest
trooper, to the lord commander militant, they will all obey the word of the Emperor! Is this
clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the cadets barked, fifty clouds of steamed breath stabbing into the cold air.

‘God-Emperor help me, one day it might be down to you frag-handed pissants to spread that
word! But!’ the instructor continued, spittle flying from his lips, ‘being the Emperor’s wrath
incarnate is a heavy, heavy burden! Only a few choice men will have that honour! The rest will
perish along the roadside, unworthy, unremembered, and un-mourned! Is this clear?’

‘Yes sir!’ the cadets barked again, louder than before.

‘You are all fresh from a Schola Progenium within this subsector! I do not care which one! They
all teach the same thing! Love the Emperor! Spread his word! Kill those who do not heed it!’
The instructor paced the line, his perfect, gloss-black boots rapping on the stone. ‘Forget the
Inquisitors! Forget the assassins, the storm troopers, the Sisters of Battle! This is the life of a
Commissar! Any one of you who does not want this glorious, honourable life as their own can
and will leave, now!’

Only the bitterly cold wind answered, whistling through the hills and crags of the Altaroth
uplands.

‘Good,’ the instructor growled, peering at a dataslate in his left hand.

Vandemarr looked about him. There were over fifty cadets spread either side of him, each in
ill-fitting olive green fatigues and boots, but he knew only five of them from Anternis, and then
only two by name – Nadel and Oster. The transports that had brought them there were idling a
hundred metres away on a grey square of asphalt – the only sign of civilisation for kilometres
in either direction.

It was freezing cold, and there was rain in the air, but he dared not shiver. He’d been singled
out for cadet training by the Commissariat and shipped to Altaroth the same day of graduation
from the Schola, and he was determined not to appear weak on the first day of trials.

His eyes rested on the instructor ahead. He was a monster of a man, hugely tall and built like
a refrigeration unit, replete in full Commissar regalia and with both a bolt pistol and power
sword about his waist. A network of scars marked his craggy face, and there were rumours
that one of his legs had been lost to a Tyranid carnifex – though Vandemarr doubted the
veracity of these claims. There had been rumours for just about everything in the week’s warp
transit to Altaroth.

‘Cadets!’ the instructor resumed, making a few of the boys start. Vandemarr hastily averted
his eyes and resumed staring straight forward.

‘Today is a glorious one, for it marks the first step on the long and rewarding path to the
Commissariat. There will be hardship ahead; some of you will die – if not all of you. But then,
be comforted! For if you die, then you are inept, and weak! And you are sparing a company of
His most glorious guardsmen that ineptitude and weakness!’

The instructor resumed his pacing, his cold, hateful eyes scanning the assembled cadets.

‘Today is the first day of the Crypteia,’ he announced, an evil grin forming on his lips. ‘What is
that, I hear you cry? Well listen in! It is the first of many trials in which we weed out the inept,
and weak, and pathetic!’ He gestured towards the jagged hills behind him. ‘These hills will be
your home for the next seven days. You will not eat! I’ll be damned if you sleep! And if you’re
lucky, you will not die!’ He paused, licking his lips, relishing the look on the boys’ faces. ‘There
will be rivers and gullies to cross! Minefields to navigate! Guards to evade, and if necessary, to
kill! There will be wild animals chasing you! There will be pits and traps! All this, over one
hundred kilometres of unforgiving terrain! And, cadets, I expect to see you all at HQ at 09:00,
exactly one week from now!’

He snapped his bolt pistol from its holster, and aimed it at the ranks. Those caught in its
immediate range shrank back, much to the amusement of the instructor. There were a few
seconds of silence as he eyed them, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

‘There are those amongst you who think that you are already sufficiently prepared to join the
ranks of the Commissariat. You think the Schola has taught you everything you need to know
about a life of faith and devotion to the Emperor. I see it on your faces!’ He spat on the floor.
‘We shall see!’

He re-holstered his bolt pistol, and motioned to two men standing by the transports. They
nodded and walked over, each carrying a large brown sack.

‘Number off! You are number one!’ the instructor shouted to the rightmost man. He waited
until all sixty-four cadets had shouted out their number. ‘Good!’ he growled, ‘at least you can
all count! Something the Schola does right!’

He leant across and snatched one of the sacks from the men, and snapped the opening taut.
‘Every cadet who is an odd number, remove all of your clothes! You have twenty seconds to
ditch your fatigues and fall in! Go!’

Vandemarr tore his shirt off as fast as humanly possible, grasped his laces and yanked them
free of their iron loops, and shoved his combat pants and underwear off in one swift
movement. Within seconds he had deposited his clothes in an outstretched sack and fallen
back in, pressing his arms hard into his sides in an effort to stay warm.
The instructor observed with grim satisfaction. Once the last cadet had fallen in, he thrust the
large sack into the hands of one of the men, and motioned them to head back to the
transports. With another sneer, he readdressed the cadets.

‘As many of you will now realise, you are naked!’ he shouted above a gust of rain-sodden
wind. ‘If you want clothes – well, there they are,’ he said, indicating the fatigue-clad cadets.

Vandemarr was shivering freely now as the rain soaked his skin and the wind cut through the
ranks. Without clothes, he would die from exposure within a matter of hours – and he doubted
one of the clothed cadets would willingly surrender his own fatigues.

The instructor took one last look at them before checking his chronometer. ‘It is 09:14 now!
HQ is due east! That way for the particularly thick amongst you!’ he said, pointing directly
ahead of them. ‘For those of you who have not already worked it out, you have fourteen
kilometres to cover every day!’

‘I recommend you get moving.’

Crypteia __________________________________
Altaroth, 200 957 M41

He hadn’t meant to kill the boy, but he was just so… cold.

He had only wanted to knock him unconscious, to take his clothes and then – and then to
leave him to die.

The Schola had not prepared him for this. The Schola had taught them to love the Emperor
and spread his word, not to kill your fellow cadets for their clothes in the uplands of some
planet you’d never heard of.

He looked at the branch. It was covered in blood, and drooling crimson on to the soil. He
turned to the boy in front of him –

And retched. The boy’s skull was open to the elements, and his exposed, jellied brain was
cluttered with grass and soil.

What had he done? Was this the life of a Commissar? This was nothing what the pict feeds had
shown; the brave men in fantastic regalia, gloriously inspiring men with litanies of praise and
catechisms of hate against the vile enemies of the Imperium. The formal dinners, the cultured
lifestyle, the dress uniforms, fine wines and tobacco, the swordsmanship and etiquette, war
games and respect – how could such a brutal and demanding training regime lead to all these
things?

He shook his head and wasted no more time. Such thoughts could wait; already his extremities
were numb.

With intense difficulty, he managed to pull the clothes off the corpse, careful to avoid the blood
and brain matter, and put them on. The boots were too big for his feet, and they rubbed
against the many wounds which he had already sustained in the first few hours of running
barefoot through the uplands; but they were better than nothing.

There was nothing in the pockets except a palm-sized piece of sharp rock. An improvised
dagger no doubt. Vandemarr re-pocketed it, and then looked about him.

Their Commissar Instructor had warned of minefields, traps, wild animals and guards, along
with the terrain itself. Fourteen kilometres a day wasn’t impossible – indeed, it wouldn’t even
be difficult with food, adequate clothing and no obstacles to overcome. But with the promised
danger, Vandemarr was suddenly filled with apprehension as to whether he’d made the right
career choice – not that he’d had any say in it anyway. The only combat experience he’d ever
had was brawling with the gangers back on Bospen, and he’d never camped anywhere or spent
a night outside. Indeed, he’d never even stood in this kind of terrain before. The first time he’d
seen real trees was on Anternis when he was moved there for the Schola Progenium, and hills,
rocky outcrops and forests were utterly alien to him. The only thing he had to go on was the
sun and a vague recollection of the direction in which the Instructor had pointed them in.
He sighed, and started walking towards the far edge of the forest. It was colossal, and white-
trunked trees with yellow leaves were all he could see for kilometres; but at least they offered
some protection from the wind and rain.

How could he have been looking forward to this? The Schola had made it seem as if this was a
life of glory and honour, and yet he’d just stove a boy’s head in for his clothes!

His fists balled as he pressed on. He couldn’t see anyone else; once they’d been set off, the
cadets had scattered out over a large area – though those without clothes had tailed those
with. He wondered how many were dead already.

His attention was suddenly stolen by a distant boom.

‘What…?’ he breathed, turning. Silence again claimed the forest, broken only by the wind
rustling the leaves. He had definitely heard something – an explosion, perhaps?

He took another few steps, then stopped short as another distant boom sounded, muffled by
the trees. It was definitely an explosion. What was going on? And how far away?

He wasn’t going to wait to find out. He broke into as fast a run as he was able, dodging
between the tightly packed tree trunks and low branches, kicking up dead leaves and
undergrowth as he went.

He ran for hours, stopping for nothing. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles were
already aching badly from oxygen debt; but he dared not rest, for fear of what he might find in
the woods. Perhaps it was the guards the Instructor had warned about, shooting at them? Or
maybe an aircraft firing on the forest? He’d heard no engines, but then the dense canopy did
well to shut out noise.

Early into the third hour of his tortured run, he slowed. He’d heard no more explosions for a
good while, and his legs were weak and shaking. Plus, the trees had thinned out considerably,
and he could see the edge of the forest – perhaps a kilometre distant.

He stopped, and sat down against a tree. How far had he run? It had to have been at least ten
kilometres. Adding that to the tally of mileage reaching the forest, he must have made up the
day’s fourteen.

He gulped in air, and wiped the worst of the perspiration from his brow. Was this really his
purpose in life, as the men on board the transport vessel had said during the warp crossing to
Altaroth? They had been specially selected from the Schola Progenium to lead and inspire men
on the battlefield – and out of all the paths available to the progena, being a Commissar or
storm trooper had appealed to him the most.

But it didn’t seem… personal, like they were choosing him for his merits. Rather, it was a trial
and error attitude to selection; throw all the cadets into the ring and see which ones come out
the other side. As a selection process, it was costly and random. Even the best cadet could
accidentally fall into a concealed punji pit and be impaled or seriously injured long enough to
die of exposure.

He knew he should have been honoured to be selected. But all he felt at the moment was
resentment that he’d been forced to kill a boy for his clothes and then run through a wet and
cold forest on a foreign world whilst the noise of explosions echoed all around him – all the
time knowing that he had to cover a hundred kilometres of land before the ordeal was over.

He waited for what could have been another half an hour, and then set off again, heading for
the edge of the forest in a foul mood. If the next year of his life was going to be like this, he
wanted to have no part in it.

Within twenty minutes he had reached the edge of the forest. Ahead of him, the craggy hills of
Altaroth stretched, and already he could see three figures moving in the distance.

With a sigh he set to work climbing down the rocky edifice leading to the valley floor,
completely unaware that he had just blithely run through the largest minefield on the planet.
Commissar School
Altaroth, 224-240 957 M41

‘The standard M-G short-pattern lasgun is the hand of the Emperor!’ Commissar-Instructor
Angelus barked at them, holding the worn, battered weapon at arms’ length. ‘It is the
instrument of Mankind’s divinity! You will use it to kill the enemies of the Emperor! Hell, you
may use it to kill your own men!’

The Commissar-Instructor flipped the bulky green weapon over in his hands. ‘It has a simple,
reliable design! Magazine fed, 10mm caseless ammunition with a nineteen megathule range.
This sucker’ll burn through bone like paper, and used correctly, even light armour. This is the
stock; this, the body casing; and this the barrel. This is not an autorifle! Do not strip the body
casing! The ignition chamber will blow your face off even without a power pack in the
magazine housing!’

He set the weapon to one side, pulled a magazine from his webbing, and held it out. ‘This is a
pattern 3 power pack. It is the standard model magazine for the M-G. Each magazine is fully
rechargeable, and will fire anything from twenty to forty shots, depending on the conditions it
has been kept in. Sunlight and natural warmth will recharge it fully in four hours! Fire will
recharge it in ten minutes, but this will decrease its life!’

He picked the rifle back up, and slammed the magazine into the housing. ‘This rifle is now
loaded! With the safety catch off it will fire in three modes; single shot, semi automatic and
fully automatic. With the safety catch on, it will not fire in three modes!’

He snatched the power pack, barrel and stock free, and threw the weapon into the hands of
the nearest cadet.

‘You will now assemble your weapons whilst reciting the litany of assembly! Prayer is like a
second oil! It will protect and consecrate the lasgun! It will ensure the Emperor’s love and
power is channelled through the lasgun! This weapon has killed more enemies than all the
other weapons in the galaxy put together! You want a bolt pistol and sword? You learn to use
this first!’

‘Begin!’

***

‘Welcome to target recognition! This is where we teach you to recognise targets!’

The Commissar-Instructor paced the line of assembled Cadet-Commissars. Ahead of him was a
range, though it was obscured by several boards which would presumably be moved once the
lesson began.
‘Today, we are going to be looking at the Tau! You should all know what the Tau are and what
they look like! You have all received lessons on the xenos which inhabit the galaxy!’

The Commissar-Instructor grinned. ‘This lesson is not to teach you about the aliens! This, you
already know! This lesson is to teach you how to kill the aliens! It is the first of many lessons,
for there are many types of alien to kill! You boy – why do will kill the aliens?’

A young cadet near the front stood up. ‘Sir, because they are impure, weak and pathetic! They
blight the galaxy with their vile ways! The Imperial Creed has no place for them because they
shun the Emperor! And for that, their lives are forfeit!’

‘Good,’ the Instructor growled, ‘sit.’

The boy did, and the Instructor resumed.

‘The Tau are a young race! Whereas mankind has survived for over forty millennia, driven
forward by the faith and blood of martyrs, the Tau have only been here for a sixth of that!
They have not earned their place in the galaxy! What is more, they rely on unmanned and un-
spirited machines to perform combat tasks!’

Some of the cadets gasped. Vandemarr remained silent.

The Instructor walked over to the first of the boards and pulled it away, revealing an impaled,
though relatively intact and upright, Tau fire warrior. Some of the cadets started. The
Instructor’s eyes widened.

‘Emperor alive, it’s not alive! You boy, and you boy! One hundred times round the range! Now!’

The two guilty cadets stood and commenced jogging.

‘Pissants,’ the Instructor snarled. ‘Anyone else frightened of a frakking corpse?’

No one said anything. It would not have been wise to.

‘Good,’ the Instructor said warily. He straightened up, pulled his combat knife free of its sheath
about his waist, and hurled it at the model. It slammed into the breastplate, burying half the
blade, and some of the cadets made impressed noises.

‘Shut up!’ the Instructor snarled. ‘This is a Tau fire warrior. Note how it is shorter than a
human! Note how it wears thicker armour than the human, meaning it is a coward with no god
to protect it!’ The Instructor strode forward and pulled the helmet off, revealing an embalmed
Tau head. ‘This is its head! Shoot it and it will die! In this respect at least, it is not dissimilar to
a man!’
The Instructor yanked the knife free of the model’s chest plate. ‘Kill points are here,’ he said,
stabbing the knife into its chest, ‘here, here and here. Las shots to any of these areas will take
it down. Now, you cadet! Show me the kill points.’

Vandemarr stood up, and took the proffered knife.

***

‘This is an Astartes Mk. III bolt pistol! Emperor knows, if any of you graduate and are assigned
to a regiment, this is what you shall receive! It will be your standard battlefield weapon! It is
more powerful than a lasgun! It fires a 19.05mm explosive-tip warhead capable of killing most
things with a single shot! Its stopping power is immense!’

The sun was just coming out, though the range remained cold. The cadets sat round in a
semicircle, watching as the Commissar-Instructor expertly handled the bulky pistol so that the
underside was now pointed towards them.

‘This is the magazine housing. This is a standard sickle-pattern magazine! This type can carry
ten bolts! Because of this, many of you will choose to carry a laspistol as well, alongside your
power or chainsword.’

He slammed the magazine into the housing, and aimed down the range. He fired off a single
shot. The report was the loudest thing Vandemarr had ever heard.

‘Smell that?’ the Commissar-Instructor said after the bolt had gorily obliterated the target.
‘That’s cordite! Get used to it! That smell is your friend!’

He pulled the magazine from the bolt pistol, and tossed the weapon to the nearest cadet, who
nearly buckled under its weight.

‘Emperor alive, cadet! Feel the weight, don’t die under it!’ the Instructor snorted. ‘Pass it
round! One day you will be expected to wield this and accurately fire it one-handed! This is the
importance of regular exercise in the gymnasium!’

Vandemarr took the weapon from the cadet next to him. It was heavier than he thought it
would be – much heavier. He could barely lift it with one hand.

‘When do we get to fire it, sir?’ he asked the Instructor.

The Commissar grinned. ‘Soon, lad. Soon.’

***
‘This is a sword! More specifically it is a rapier! It is a sword for thrusting! Note the sharp tip
and relatively blunt sides! This is the pommel, this the grip and this the cross-guard! This is
the blade, divided into four parts! This is the fuller, this the edge, this the central ridge and this
is the point!’

The instructor flicked the sword, and it ringed out across the cold training field.

‘Note this sword is mere metal – that is, without a power field – and will not do a great deal in
battle! The only purely metal swords that will are those made by the Black Guard Space
Marines! They are katanas, and none of you will ever get to hold one!’

The Instructor slid the sword back into its rack, and pulled another free. ‘This is a power
sword! It is not a particularly good one, and it is one which you will be issued with until you
pass swordsmanship grading five! Note the power field generator above the cross-guard! It
generates a static field capable of cutting through power armour! Do not touch it! We will not
give you augmetic limbs! Any cadet stupid enough to touch the blade will be sent for hard
labour on the nearest agri world! Understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the assembled cadets barked.

‘The generator makes the sword heavier, but what it lacks in agility it makes up for in cutting
power! You all attend the gymnasium mandatorily every morning and evening! Work on your
arm strength! Work on your wrist strength! Take dummy swords to the practice cages once you
have passed first grading!’

The Instructor depressed a button on the grip, and the blade crackled and hummed into life.
Vandemarr watched as the metal distorted slightly, and a shimmering field like a heat mirage
engulfed it.

‘The blade is now activated!’ he walked across to a sheet of plate metal, and neatly sliced it in
half, leaving two glowing edges steaming in the cold morning air. The cadets made impressed
noises. The Instructor thumbed the power off, walked back over to the rack, and slid the power
sword back into place. He glanced across at the cadets, then pulled free a monster of a
weapon, a metre long and at least five centimetres thick.

‘This is a chainsword!’ he thumbed it on, and it roared into life. He made a few sweeping
strokes with it, before lunging across to the plate metal again and driving the weapon deep
onto it. Sparks flew out in all directions, and both the chainsword and the plate shrieked.
Within a few seconds, the sword had cut through the metal almost as cleanly as the power
sword had.

He thumbed it off, and silence claimed the training ground.

‘These are the swords of your arsenal as Commissars. Some of you will prefer the power,
others will prefer the chain. You will become proficient in both! Is this clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ the cadets barked.

‘Good. Servitor, bring me those weapons! One each! Today we will be working towards your
first grading with the power sword!’
Cadet Commissar
Eknev Beta, 091 959 M41

Explosions, constant and deafening, tore into the ruined mudscape ahead of them and sent
vast plumes of mud and water jetting into the sky. The air was filled with the shrieking of
artillery shells and the roaring of fighter engines, and the thick smog was underlit red and blue
by flashes of crisscrossing las and plasma fire.

Smashing aside sandbags, emplacements and spools of rusty razor wire, the enemy tore
onward through the maelstrom of destruction. Vast armoured divisions, their tractor units
gunning wildly, clashed in tangles of churning track and recoiling cannon. Legions of men
clawed their way through the shin-deep mud, exchanging mind-numbing volleys of both solid
and energy shot. Above, the sky was darkened by entire squadrons of atmospheric fighters,
rocket pods and cannons blazing a lightning-storm of tracer.

Clawing through the clay-like earth, Cadet Commissar Vandemarr ducked as another shell
landed nearby and exploded in a storm of metal fragments, ripping two of his fellow trainees
apart like they were blood-filled sacks. No – not two of his fellow trainees; two of his friends.
Nadal and Oster, young men he had known since the Schola Progenium, cut to gory ribbons in
a split second.

But there was no time to stop. More explosions were quick to drown out their tortured
screaming. Vandemarr hastily wiped coppery viscera from his mouth, and gripped two fistfuls
of earth to pull himself onward. He gasped as a concealed spool of razor wire dug into his
palm, drawing blood.

‘Come on, boy! Move!’ Commissar Lucien roared above the shelling, grabbing Vandemarr’s
jacket and hauling him onwards. The man was covered in mud and blood, and shrapnel had
torn his uniform in a score of places; but he still held his sword aloft, bellowing over the
explosions and directing the training squad onwards.

Already they had lost six cadets.

Vandemarr’s breath rasped in his ears as he pistoned his agonised legs. The explosions and
gunfire had rendered him nearly deaf, and he was coated in sweat from the insane exertions
the battlefield demanded.

Ahead of him, he could already make out the beginnings of the enemy lines; dark figures
moving in the swirling smog, and the flash of small arms fire whipping about the ruined
mudscape. He gripped his cadet-issue lasgun in anticipation, but a pair of hands suddenly
grabbed him from behind, and pulled him down into a crater. His hand instinctively went for his
knife, but it was held fast in an expert grip.

‘It’s me, boy!’ Lucien shouted, his craggy face contorting into a grin. Vandemarr stopped his
struggling, and the Commissar released him.

In the crater were the remaining fourteen cadets of their Commissar training squad, all soaked
in mud and blood. Lucien was in the middle of them, his finger pressed to his earpiece. After a
few seconds, he nodded, and turned to address them.

‘Right, lads!’ he shouted above the terrific commotion. ‘Welcome to your first mission!’

Vandemarr gulped in air. He couldn’t understand how the Commissar’s voice carried so
perfectly over the clamour of the surrounding battle. Their voice coaching back on Altaroth had
been extensive, but their own inspirational bellowing was insipid and quiet.

‘This is what you can expect from a battlefield!’ Lucien continued, gesturing at the surrounding
land and the sky. ‘Not the same as the simulation, is it?’

The cadets shook their heads. Some had taken to the field like a fish in water; but some,
Vandemarr noted with distaste, seemed almost… frightened.

‘You, cadet! Identify that craft for me!’ Lucien shouted, pointing to a blunt-nosed Imperial
vessel screaming across the field above them.

‘A lightning attack craft, Commissar!’ the boy replied.

‘Good,’ Lucien growled. ‘And you, Vandemarr! Identify that regiment!’ he said, pointing to a
headless corpse a hundred metres away.

‘The Vargonroth 181st rifles, Commissar!’ Vandemarr barked in reply, his voice startlingly loud
in his deafened ears.

Lucien nodded, satisfied. ‘Good! And you, Remus! Identify that vehicle!’

The cadet looked across the field. ‘It’s a Gryphonne IV Vanquisher-pattern Leman Russ,
Commissar!’

Lucien holstered his bolt pistol and took out a small notebook wrapped in a waterproof cover.
Around them the battle raged on, though the crater offered ample protection from the las fire
coming from the enemy line.

‘Cadets!’ the Commissar said, tucking the notebook back into his webbing. ‘Welcome to Eknev
Beta! As you are no doubt all aware by now, I am Commissar Lucien! My apologies for the
haste in which this attack has been conducted, and the lack of a formal briefing; but,
gentlemen, this is war! And this is as good a lesson as any in the unpredictable nature of it!’

A nearby explosion caused some of the cadets to flinch, but Lucien seemed to barely notice.

‘Dispatch has told me we have a few minutes respite, so I am going to take this opportunity to
conduct the lesson we should have had earlier. Firstly, then, this is what a Commissar training
squad is! No doubt they would have told you this in your lessons back on Altaroth! You are all
Commissars-to-be! If you want to lose that blue trim on your uniform, then you all do as I say,
when I say it! Understood?’

‘Yes, Commissar!’ the all barked in unison, their combined voices barely making up the volume
Lucien was able to manage by himself.

‘Good,’ the man replied. ‘You have all received a briefing, albeit cursory, in orbit, so I will not
dwell on the particulars; suffice it to say, this is a world contested by the Ruinous Powers, and
we are here to show them the error of their ways!’

More explosions crippled the landscape. Shrapnel whizzed above their heads, so loud and
fierce it threatened to tear the air itself apart.

‘As you may have noticed, some of your number are dead! Six, last count! This is what we can
expect from the battlefield! Casualties! These are a good thing for a Commissar! It means you
are applying your men to the most dangerous area of the battlefield! It means you are an
effective instrument of the Emperor, for men will not willingly enter such areas without the
correct inspiration!’ he pointed at the assembled cadets with a filth-encrusted glove. ‘Look to
yourselves as an example! You do not know me, and you sure as hell should not like me! And
yet you have followed me here! This is the hallmark of a good Commissar!’

He paused and pressed his finger to his ear. After a few terse words, he turned his attentions
back to the cadets.

‘This is not a dangerous warzone! Far from it! You cadets have had it easy with Eknev Beta,
but we shall have to make the most of it! As you have been taught since the Schola, it is the
task of Commissars to inspire men to acts which secure the future of the Imperium! The
horrors and abominations facing mankind are many! Chaos! Tau! Eldar, Orks, Tyranids! All
these are enemies of the Emperor, and it is up to the Imperial Guard to see that they do not
claim the Emperor’s worlds! It is up to you to see that the Imperial guard do this! You are the
Emperor’s word! You are his faith incarnate! You are the instrument of his will! You are all
these things and more!’

More explosions, more gunfire. Some of the cadets were becoming visibly apprehensive about
receiving a lesson this close to the enemy lines.

‘But the men of the glorious Imperial Guard are fickle!’ Lucien continued, oblivious to their
concerns. ‘They are weak! They will not trust you when they rightly should! They only way to
inspire men to acts of bravery worthy of the Emperor is by showing them you have been there!
You have seen and done these acts in the flesh! You have faced the horrors of the Warp, the
alien, the mutant, the heretic, and come out on the other side a stronger man! You have had
your faith sorely tested! And you are worthy and rightly deserving of their respect! Only then
will you be Commissars! And this is why we have Commissar training squads! Is everyone
clear on the first lesson?’

‘Yes, Commissar!’ they all shouted.

‘Good!’ Lucien shouted back. ‘Colonel Gorkov of the Vargonroth 17th is pushing up a kilometre
to the west! We are going to attach ourselves to his unit! There you will practice your
inspirational litanies and your warfighting skills! There you will earn their respect!’

He pulled his bolt pistol free of its holster and drew his sword. ‘Today, cadets, we make the
Emperor proud!’
A Question of Faith
Bospen, 120 961 M41

It was raining.

The thick torrent swept through the streets of the Commercia, clogged the drain conduits that
lined the filth-encrusted road, and swelled the banks of the brown, foamy Lange until it lapped
fitfully at the chemical pools either side. It lashed the sprawling districts of the outer-hive with
warm globules of water, overcoming myriad poorly-fitted gutters and sumps with ease, and
then extended north towards the mind-numbing bulk of Hive Primaris, and lashed the towering
west face of that too.

Cadet Commissar Albrecht Vandemarr strode purposefully through the rain, ignoring its slightly
acidic sting, irritated and uncomfortable in his stiff, newly-soaked uniform. All around him, the
many filthy inhabs of the Commercia bustled for cover from the thunderous onslaught,
although not so urgently as to deprive him of hateful sneers and wads of saliva.

He ignored them. Whilst he may have commanded at least the cursory respect of Bospen’s
newly founded regiments over five hundred kilometres away, in the outer districts of Hive
Primaris he may as well have been the Chaos gods incarnate for all the hate he generated. Or
perhaps the Emperor.

He turned left onto a wider accessway running parallel to the Lange, bleached a darker shade
of grey by the rain and filmed with a sticky layer of effluents. Above, a pair of freighters
rumbled through the smoggy ochre sky, pouring thick black exhaust from their engines. To his
right lay the Commercia, a thirty-kilometre district that was anything but the municipal trading
area it was intended to be. Shanties, hundreds of thousands crammed together in derelict
blocks, stretched to the incandescent yellow horizon, housing millions of poverty-stricken
denizens.

Disease was rife. Vermin scuttled over the accessways – or what remained of them, and
human waste was piled in the drain conduits or simply left to fester in the open alleyways. It
was a vile, stinking morass of death and decay, and it was also a place Vandemarr had no wish
to be in.

He quickened his pace, the comfortable weight of his newly-issued bolt pistol slapping against
his hip.

The Founding on Bospen had gone as well as could have been expected. Four new regiments,
newly trained, equipped, and billeted on the salt-flats near the planet’s equator, were ready to
be transported to the naval escort holding low anchor.

Except, of course, for the deserters, who had no intention of being transported to the naval
escort holding low anchor.

It had seemed like the perfect assignment for Vandemarr, fresh from his training on Eknev
Beta and eager to prove his worth. His new mentor, the embittered, alcoholic old Commissar
Ivan Crevitsk, had told him that earning the respect and fear of his men would take priority
over everything, especially during the run up to their first combat engagement as a regiment –
and shooting a couple of them was the perfect way to go about it. Although most of the men
were conscripts only a couple of years older than himself, they would still consider themselves
superior, both in combat and wisdom.

‘Sod them,’ Crevitsk’s gravelly basso echoed through his head. ‘Sod the lot of them. You’re
younger and better than them; they know it and they don’t like it. Don’t take their schtan;
you’re not here to make friends. The more enemies you make, the better. In fact, I want you
to personally make enemies with every one of these men.’

It had probably been the most coherent advice the old man had offered Vandemarr. Crevitsk
himself had been attached to the Bospen 771st rifles since forever, seen all the horrors of the
galaxy, and now cured his ruined mind with alcohol. The regiment kept him about partly for
sentimental reasons, and partly because they knew replacing him would mean a more hard
line Commissar – thus earning Vandemarr a particularly fierce brand of loathing. And since the
771st were holding low anchor over Bospen, he suspected that it hadn’t been exclusively
Crevitsk’s idea to send him to the surface to hunt down deserters within one of the most
dangerous and lawless areas of the planet.

He sighed as the rain thickened. At some point along the road he strode down was a shanty
which was well-known to the Arbites. It was more likely than not they would be sheltering the
deserters, though how they had come to that conclusion was apparently beyond Vandemarr.

He passed more inhabs, and glared at them. Not for the first time in his life he was glad he
was a member of the Imperial Guard – leading an ordered, regimented lifestyle in which his
worth was measured by his deeds, and respect had to be earned. Out of all the paths he could
have taken from the Schola Progenium, the Commissariat had always appealed to him most –
and although the Crypteia on Altaroth had stripped him of most of his impetuousness, he was
still over-eager to see his blue cadet trim replaced with the authoritative red of a fully-fledged
Commissar.

More freighters rumbled overhead, pouring thick black exhaust into the atmosphere of Bospen.
They soared past the upper levels of Hive Primaris – the same upper levels which contained
the wealthy House Vandemarr – and then banked sharply skywards. It was strange to be so
close to his childhood home. He could see the palace-like building in his mind’s eye – the
marble pillars and gold leaf, the tapestries and paintings and gorgeous antiques. He was
absolutely forbidden to return there whilst planetside – indeed, it would probably be the last
time he would ever see it again, even from the outside; but he had difficulty in erasing it from
his mind entirely, even after the indoctrination of the Schola. Especially considering what had
happened to his mother…

His attention snapped back to the street. A flurry of movement had caught his eye.

‘Schtan,’ he growled, angry with himself for not being focused. He pulled his bolt pistol from its
holster, and peered through the thick blanket of rain. His quarry?

He cleared his throat and prepared his voice like Crevitsk had taught him. ‘Repent and you
may receive a quick death!’ he boomed as authoritatively as he could.
Silence answered. Even the sky seemed to have emptied. He desperately wiped the rainwater
from his eyes and approached the shanty ahead, bolt pistol outstretched.

Three shots exploded from the second floor of the building, one putting a hole through his
right stock-collar. He instinctively fired back, his rigorous training instantly springing him to
action, and moved towards the bank of the Lange. He dropped over the side and onto a
walkway of metal grilling which ran the length of the river, and searched desperately for his
target.

More shots were fired. He watched the muzzle flashes and fired back, the sight, breathe, fire,
repeat action coming naturally to him. His bolts hit the sill of the window, the surrounding wall,
and one went so embarrassingly wide it missed the building altogether.

‘Emperor damn it, focus!’ he snapped to himself. He hadn’t seen combat since the campaign
on Eknev Beta some months ago, and he was frustrated at how quickly he’d lost his cool in a
fire fight which utterly paled in comparison to the death-dealing on that planet.

He shuffled across a few metres in cover so as not to appear in the same place again, and
sprung upwards, his bolt pistol raised. Sure enough, the shots of his quarry went wide,
affording him valuable seconds in which to plant a single bolt straight through the window. A
wet bang and a strangled cry issued from inside the shanty, and Vandemarr wasted no time in
hoisting himself over the lip of the riverbank and sprinting across the road to the foot of the
building.

He slammed into the wall, pistol prone. How many deserters had there been? The report had
said… four? Three left, then. Confirming the kill of the first was his priority.

He took a breath, then rolled to the side and brought his pistol up so it was pointing through
the doorway. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond, though there was no-one in
there. It was a small room devoid of furniture save a mattress in one corner and a pot of
faeces in the other – nowhere for a potential assailant to hide.

He kept his pistol outstretched, his heart racing. He tried to force himself to feel a calm that
wasn’t forthcoming. Why was he so apprehensive? What was wrong with him?

He advanced through the room, keeping the bolt pistol trained on the next door. He couldn’t
hear any noise coming from upstairs, but that only lent credence to the idea that they were
laying a trap for him. He had no choice but to spring it; they had turned their backs on the
Emperor. If every man who did not want to be enlisted did the same thing, the Imperium
would collapse overnight!

He reached the next door, and darted into the hallway beyond. It was some kind of odd shanty
atrium, rising through both floors to the holed, corrugated-iron roof above. Rain spilled
through the opening and slicked the floor, giving the whole hallway a rotting, festering smell.

As quietly as he could, he made for the stairs to his left, and advanced cautiously up them. He
was surprised at how empty the shanty was, given that it was supposed to be full of filthy
inhabs sheltering the deserters; but then he’d come to expect missions to be contrary to the
briefings which preceded them.

His worn, recycled, cadet-issue bolt pistol was trained on the left hand side door of the landing
– the room from which he had been fired on – as he made his way slowly and cautiously up
the stairs. If the deserters had any sense, they would have switched to the right hand side
room – or even tried to escape; but Vandemarr still couldn’t quite shake the indoctrination he
had received on Anternis, Altaroth and Eknev Beta; that anyone who didn’t accept the way of
the Emperor was stupid, pathetic and weak, worthy of nothing but death.

The rain and his footsteps made the only sound in the shanty. Even the ambient noise of the
Commercia seemed to have stopped in anticipation of the coming bloodshed.

He reached the top of the stairs, took a deep, quiet breath, and with his gloved finger curled
around the trigger of his bolt pistol, he moved into the doorway.

Three corpses and a dying man confronted him.

‘What…?’ he breathed. The three dead men’s mouths were crusted with a yellow-white foam,
and their cold, lifeless eyes were glazed over. They lay propped against each other in the far
corner of the room, each with an empty ampoule in their hand.

The fourth man – and evidently the one he had shot – was lying by the window, a good portion
of his stomach missing from where the bolt had exploded. Blood seeped across the floor and
drooled from his mouth, and he was shaking violently.

Vandemarr’s eyes met with his.

‘Go on… then,’ he stuttered. He was still dressed in the olive green fatigues and boots issued
to the Founding regiments, though all the Imperial insignia had been torn off. ‘F-f-finish it. You
f-f-frakking… p-p-pig.’

Vandemarr lowered his bolt pistol. ‘What happened here?’ he tried to demand, but found his
voice lacking. What on Terra was wrong with him? He had witnessed countless horrors on
Eknev Beta – not just the unrelenting gore of combat, but the mind-scarring abominations of
the warp and the sheer cost of human life in defending the world against them.

The man snorted, his mouth and nose leaking blood at an alarming rate. It was a harsh
miracle he was alive at all.

‘N-n-never take…us,’ he spluttered. ‘N-n-never take us, p-pig.’

He smiled, his teeth covered in blood. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years
older than Vandemarr.
‘You killed yourselves?’ he said, eyeing the corpses. Incomprehension wrinkled his brow.
‘Why?’

The man tried to laugh, but was cut short as a spasm of pain wracked his body. ‘Never…t-t-
take us,’ he repeated, choking on his own blood.

And then Vandemarr realised why he was so apprehensive. So loathe to shoot this man.

He had never executed anyone before. All his training had taught him that the Imperial Guard
was honourable, was good and right – that the men in it were courageous soldiers of the
Emperor, facing off daemons and heretics that would see the Imperium destroyed. They were
not the Astartes, whose ruthless and unswerving devotion to the Emperor was the stuff of
legend. They were not the fearless Inquisition, who had the power to consign entire worlds to
death. They were ordinary mortal men, with nothing but a lasgun and their faith to fight the
most repugnant and horrifying enemies the galaxy could produce.

It was his job to inspire men to these acts of courage. But to shoot them for failing in this?

In the two years he was on Eknev Beta, he had never once shot a man for cowardice or
insubordination. He had witnessed it – indeed, Commissar Lucien had made them watch at
least three public executions, and he had observed countless more in the heat of battle. But he
had never done it himself. It almost seemed… wrong. He had witnessed the waste of life that
was the Guard’s way of fighting. To kill a man for not wanting to be part of that was almost like
adding to the slaughter.

‘W-w-what are you wai—ai-ting… for, pig?’ the man stuttered. The pool of blood must have
been a metre in diameter now. Why wouldn’t he just die?

Vandemarr lifted his bolt pistol. It felt heavier in his hand.

He swallowed. No. This was a test of his faith. The Emperor was testing him, and he would not
fail. This man was a coward, a deserter. Where his peers had stood firm and resolute, this man
had run away – had abandoned them.

He was a coward and a deserter! A coward!

‘By the authority vested in me by the Emperor’s Holy Commissariat, I, Cadet-Commissar

Albrecht Vandemarr, hereby judge your life forfeit for the crimes of cowardice and desertion,
under section one of Imperial Martial Edict fourteen.’

The words were comforting. This was his task. His life. Inspire men to safeguard the
Imperium; punish those who are found wanting.

‘Have you anything to say?’ he asked, through the aligned fore and rear sights of his bolt
pistol.

The man smiled. ‘You’ll never take us.’

Vandemarr fired.

***

The sun beat down on the salt-flats of Bospen’s equator, and the heat hit Vandemarr like a
physical blow as he stepped out of the bulky green transport. He affixed his sunshades, and
checking he had all his equipment about him, headed toward the HQ.

All around him, rows of thousands of tents were being packed away, as the Founding
regiments prepared to embark on the ships holding low anchor. Colossal heavy landers sat on
the edge of the camp, landing ramps open, already loading up tanks and armoured transports.

Smart salutes were thrown his way as he strode down the accessways that ran between the
billets. It was common knowledge where the Regimental Cadet-Commissar had been. He
briefly entertained the thought that he was earning their respect already; but only the coming
combat could answer that question.

He advanced down the lines, his footfalls kicking up plumes of salty dust, and returned his
salutes. Never had he been so eager to lose his blue cadet trim – not since Eknev Beta. The
mission had changed him, and the impetuousness which the Crypteia had shed him of was
returning.

Crevitsk was waiting for him outside regimental HQ. The block of prefab buildings that
administrated the Founding was bustling with activity, as the final preparations for the
embarkation were put in place – but the old Commissar seemed oblivious to the commotion.

‘Did you get them, then?’ he asked, his breath already rank with alcohol.

Vandemarr nodded curtly. ‘Yes, Commissar. All killed, sir.’

Crevitsk grunted. ‘Good. Now you know how it feels to be a true Commissar.’

Vandemarr smiled at his mentor’s approval. Even if the man was almost completely useless, it
felt good to be equated with a fully attested Commissar. Though he wasn’t sure how Crevitsk
had been aware of his lack of execution experience. Perhaps there was something in his
demeanour – in the demeanour of all Commissars – which all men recognised on some base
level; the inherent bearing of a man who has killed another man in cold blood.

He mentally shook his head. No, not cold blood. He was duty bound to kill those who had been
found lacking in the Emperor’s service. The quicker he came to accept that, the better off he
would be for it.
‘What happens now?’ he asked, holding his cap on as a nearby transport kicked up a fierce
downdraft.

‘Now we hitch a ride to the Titus,’ Crevitsk replied, pointing to the sky. ‘We break anchor
tomorrow morning.’

‘Any further word on where we’re going?’

‘Lord General Lutanis has authorised a crusade into the Ikthishian sector, two light years away,’
the old Commissar half-slurred. ‘A good chance to make your name, boy. A very good chance.’

Vandemarr managed to nod nonchalantly, though in truth his stomach was suddenly knotted
with adrenaline. There had been rumours that they would be attached to the crusade, though
he had not been expecting it to go through at all. Such things could take centuries to reach
any form of conclusion, and often involved billions of men, entire Chapters of Astartes and
multiple naval battlefleets. A local action on a regimental level would have suited him much
better – at least until he had proved himself.

He exhaled. In the end it didn’t make a difference. Fighting was fighting.

‘How did you get them, anyway?’ Crevitsk asked him, over the roar of another transport’s
engines.

‘Hm?’ Vandemarr replied, wrong-footed by the question.

‘The men that you shot? You said you’d killed them! How?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Oh,’ Vandemarr replied, his mind suddenly catapulted back to the shanty outside Hive
Primaris. The smell, the rain – the man grinning at him through gouts of blood as he
challenged Vandemarr’s very faith.

‘It doesn’t matter.’