Trying again now that the whole story is done. My longest piece of Warhammer40k writefaggotry. Enjoy. Or criticize (I don't know how to archive anything)
I am dying. So slowly, so…gently. Doubtless this revelation will not surprise you, inquisitor, considering where I am – though my health was against me from this mission's beginning, as it has been for the past sixteen months. We are all dying. Slowly, gently dying. I had never expected to end this way – I had resigned myself to a brutal, violent demise decades ago; Emperor knows I've seen my share of them and it was only a matter of time before it was my turn to be shredded by the grinder. But this, this is galling beyond words. I am an Imperial commissar and a commissar must never be seen as weak, nor can he blame fatigue or environmental conditions should weakness manifest itself. Yet to my discredit, I find myself doing both. Vespit is killing us: this I must state here and now. I am not afraid to die. Only in death does duty end – this I have known and accepted since my childhood-days at the Schola Progenium, but I never thought I would be dying in such a fashion: indeed, I am still not quite sure if I truly AM dying, yet there can be no other explanation for what is happening to me…and to my men.
Kevin Young
My men. There are only seven left, now. Of the fifty I hand-picked myself (at your bequest, lord) these are all that remain. You do not know them. You are not worthy to know them. But having served as the Joskoll 89th's regimental commissar for eight years, I have come to know them, to respect them and to guard their honor jealously. I would tell you a little bit about these last seven soldiers, inquisitor, so that you may see them as individual persons – rather then merely as names and service records found on Munitorioum files; perhaps they will become, through my words, more then simply a handful of backwater-world Guardsmen that you have unjustly abandoned here to die. Heed me now in His name, inquisitor! You, who hold the fate of millions of Imperial souls in your hands; you, who bears the holy seal that grants you the authority to burn worlds; you, at whose command these loyal Joskollians have toiled, suffered and died – heed me, and mark well our names and our labors carried out on your behalf and for the love of Him on Terra. This will be my final testimony. May my words endure long after my body has perished – and may you one day answer to the Highest Judge for all that you have done and for all that you have failed to do.
Ave Imperator!
* * *
Parker Murphy
The man sleeping next to me with his sandy-haired head resting on his kitbag, one sky-blue eye now mangled beyond salvation, is my loyal adjutant Jeffron Knolls, who was assigned to me upon my jointing the 89th on Helnorr following my predecessor's death in action. He was only eighteen then: young, pious, friendly and eager to please. He has a mild mental disability that keeps him childlike and simple-minded (there is a rumor that his family took advantage of his devoutness to the Emperor by convincing him to join the Guard so that they wouldn't have to house and feed him anymore). Though he was a capable enough soldier and always followed orders to the latter, the men of his platoon bullied and teased him constantly, much to his own perpetual hurt and confusion. His assignment as my aid was an act of mercy on behalf of his then-sergeant, who hoped I could offer him protection. After it became known that he was the new commissar's footpad the men left him alone, though one fool made the mistake of calling him a 'black-coat's boot-licker' and promptly got his nose broken for his pains. Knolls is utterly devoted to me, viewing me as a physical embodiment of the Emperor's Will and there is no task he will not undertake, no horror he will not boldly confront, if it is done in the knowledge that it is my will – and by extension the Emperor's – that he acts upon. He has saved my life more the once, and no adjutant before him has served me so faithfully and selflessly. The years have hardly changed him, and now he is sleeping the sleep of the just, and is the only member of our merry company who is completely at peace with our current situation.
James Walker
Apart from taking care of me (not the easiest of tasks since I became ill) Knolls's sole other hobby is sketching and drawing everything from me (he recently presented me with a flattering rendition of yours truly striding over a blasted landscape waving his power-saber, firing his bolt-pistol and looking overly heroic in his greatcoat and cap), any officers, other Guardsmen, xenos he has slain, the landscapes and botanical wonders of various worlds we have served on and the animals and local Imperial citizens thereof, the God-Emperor and the Primarchs, Space Marines, epic historical battles, various Saints, warships and tanks (my favorite is a sketch of Saint Sabbet Reborn riding into battle on a Chimera). The space around his sleeping berth is plastered with dozens of these drawings and certain pious Guardsmen, ratings and officers actually pay him good coin to sketch their favorite heroes and battles for them. I am glad his art is so well regarded on our vessel, as these fragile treasures will be his only lasting legacy thanks to you.
* * *
Aiden Gomez
Sitting across from me, his back propped against the cave wall, his long-las cradled loose but primed in his nimble hands, is Trooper Norman Crawley, a sniper of some renown in our regiment. He is awake, and he is watching me with hooded hate-filled eyes. Since I had his only friend, Leeds, executed two years ago, hatred for me has ruled his heart, though it may surprise you, inquisitor, that he is the one who betrayed his friend to me upon discovering that the man he loved like a brother was involved in the running of a prostitution ring made up of orphaned youths during our year-long deployment on Flegon I. Crawley confided in me privately, bribing me with the names of the rest of the pimps, two of which were junior officers, if I would be merciful and consign Leeds to the Penal Legions so he could redeem himself.
Liam Martin
But he had mistaken my fair-handedness in dealing out punishment for a weakness of will and character. I am not a man to be bribed. I promised him nothing and it was his own sense of regimental honor that compelled him to yield the names and locations to me or else be charged with withholding information concerning the criminal acts overseen by his friend, which would make him an accomplice by default. After their capture and interrogation, I had all eight pimps hung before the assembled regiment along with thirty-seven enlisted 'clients' for their predatory transgressions against the long-suffering people of Flegon. Leeds died in disgrace and Crawley has despised me ever since. Yet it is his unfailing sense of honor that has kept him from putting a bullet in my back, for he knows that he is just as responsible as I, and his hatred of me is succeeded only by his own self-hatred and hatred of the base creature Leeds had become. He is fed by and nourished by his hate; it is all that he has left, and as long as I live he has an outlet to focus it upon. But now, as our lives slowly draw to a close, I keep my eye on him and wonder if he may yet choose to finally punish the punisher.
Josiah Brown
Lately Crawley's renown as a sniper has increased ten-fold. As I write this he has scored seven Iron Hound kills with his precious weapon, and looks forward to adding to that score before he dies. He does not allow his grief, anger and fatigue to distract him from his duty. Although no one outside of our little band will never hear tell of his deeds, there is a strange aurora of contented satisfaction about him. He knows he has done well by his profession and though you have condemned him to die along with the rest of us, that satisfaction cannot be taken from him. Like all good Imperial soldiers he knows that the greatest of deeds are those only the Emperor sees, and while he has never impressed upon anyone that he is a pious man, Crawley nevertheless embodies the ideal of the unsung, unknown warrior who quietly makes his kills under the watchful eyes of his God and finds them good.
* * *
Kevin Martinez
Seated next to Crawley and wrapped in a blanket, his gray-bearded chin resting on his chest, is Sargent Paull Landon, the only surviving officer in our group after myself. He is the oldest of us all; his face is lined and weather-beaten and his once-blond hair is now a dignified iron-gray. He looks to be asleep, but he is merely deep in thought, brooding upon our dire predicament, and, like any true leader of men, wondering how he might keep us all alive for a little while longer. He was a stalwart vigorous sergeant when I first joined the 89th and eight years later he remains a stalwart vigorous sergeant, despite that fact that I have recommended him for promotion six times. He started out as a common dog-soldier, earning his rank pins through his own sweat and blood. He is entirely free of the commissioned officer's desire for medals (Emperor knows he deserves them), glory, recognition and advancement. He lacks the refinement and breeding of our regiment's aristocratic officer cadre and is rough around the edges, but makes up for it with feats of battlefield improvision, a fekton of guts and an uncanny ability to get his men both in and out of the most tricky and volatile of situations. Landon boasts of an augmetic right leg and a bionic left eye: mute testimonies to his unfaltering service in our eternal Emperor's many wars. Despite his coarse behavior and rough mannerisms we get along well; he is the best regicide player I have ever had the pleasure of loosing to on a continuous basis. Soon he will get stiffly to his feet, stretch his legs, crack his neck and amble over to me so we can talk over his next plan of action.. I will not trouble him until then. He is a dedicated officer and there is no man or woman here who is not ready follow him to whatever end awaits us here on this Emperor-forsaken world (can you say as much, inquisitor?).
Brayden Carter
It will be a bitter hour indeed if he should fall before I do and pass the burden of command onto me, but Landon is far too stubborn to bite the dust and leave the remainder of his men in the care of a black-coat. It is true: I am in no state to assume complete command. Lead on, Sergeant Landon; chart a sure course to your doom and I will follow in your weary wake like a shadow-crow in anticipation of the slaughter and death to come. It is the only thing we both have left to look forward to. Sometimes I wonder if Landon is too good to be true (Throne on Terra, he volunteered for this mission). Or perhaps, to my continued discredit, I have become too cynical and jaded to appreciate it when a man of Landon's integrity and competence arises from the faceless masses of beleaguered Guardsmen to guide and lead them to glory in the most forthright and selfless manner that a soldier can display. May the Emperor reward him were all his stuffed-shirted superiors failed to - he is a worthy warrior and I am glad he is here with me at the closing of my long years of service. We make the perfect pair.
Jacob Mitchell
One man is not resting like he should. Vox-operator Brett Sorran is a man whom you have driven to the uttermost limits of sanity and constraint. For days (weeks?) he has presided over his battered vox-caster like a famished Joskollian woodswolf over the mounded bodies of the plague-slain. It is one thing to have a damaged set to tinker with and so justly whittle away the hours trying to fix it, or else because of atmospheric conditions hampering transmission, an excuse to explore the terrain in hopes of getting a decent signal – but to have a perfectly functioning set on a planet generating nothing from the ground or air that would interfere with our communications is something he cannot handle. He does not want to accept the truth that you have abandoned us. He would rather believe that his set is malfunctioning or that Vespit itself is to blame for the perfect unbroken static that has filled his ears following your last transmission weeks(?) ago. Yet now he cannot pretend any longer that you are on the other end, awaiting a status-report from us and that all he has to do is adjust his set or alter his location so he can make that report happen. You are not there and he knows it. He now paces the confines of our cave, muttering to himself, his brown hair disheveled and his augmented right hand clenching and unclenching as he struggles with the frustration and despair building up inside of him. He feels useless and helpless; there is nothing he can do and we all know it. If he keeps up this behavior I may need to have a few words with him. He should conserve his strength for the long road ahead – a road that has only one destination, a road that will not end until we are all as dead as this world. Sorren is the man who suffers your silence the most, inquisitor, though I suspect that he will have much to say concerning you when we are gathered before the Golden Throne and true silence rules once more on Vespit.
Ryder Robinson
In case I neglected to mention, Sorren is an extremely nervous, high-strung individual who is incapable of sitting still unless he is physically strapped into something. And he never goes anywhere without his vox-set. Or without ten grenades of various types. He has it in him to bravely acquit himself in any battle or skirmish despite his easily rattled nerves and his inability to hold still. He is a wealth of jokes, snide under-the-breathe-remarks, outrageous suggestions and statements, crazy ideas and the ability to shriek loud enough to give the Emperor ear-bleeds when some truly unfortunate comrade or enemy sneaks up and scares him. Looking at him now I just now that he wants to scream in frustration at the top of his lungs but out of courtesy for his fellow troopers he refrains. Because we would kill him. Another good man, another survivor, another victim of your precarious whims, inquisitor. There is no forgiveness for this.
* * *
Landon Diaz
Hunched over and sitting cross-legged by the mouth of the cave with his flamer and promethium tanks close by rests our hulking flame-trooper Rochard Rollins, scribbling in a journal of his own, the small pencil clutched in his meaty hand. The bloody light cast by the dying sun illuminates his bald head, causing the intricate gang-tattoos of his pre-Guard life to stand out vividly against his light olive skin. Even in a dress uniform he looks like an undersump thug, and once he was, but life in the 89th has changed him for the better. Mostly because he loves to burn things, and while the Imperium is full of things and beings that need to be burned it is not a full-blown obsession – he also enjoys writing, carving and tattooing, the latter hobby having earned him the nickname 'Inker'. His skill with the needle has made him a legend aboard the Imperial Herald – not only Joskollians but Guardsmen from other regiments billeted with us will seek him out for their ink-work (I happen to be guilty of this as well). Thanks to his skills, many of Knolls's sketches have become permanent fixtures on the body-parts of various troopers and ratings. He is a solid, reliable trooper whose fearsome exterior conceals a great heart; yet he remains a man to be terrified of just the same. Like Knolls, Rollins seems to have resigned himself without rancor to our current fate, though some of his good humor has declined in recent days(?). At lest he is not idle. He always finds something to do, and he does it the best he can. He is easy to be around, the kind of man you could randomly sit down next to in a tavern and have a conversation about anything as if he was your lifelong friend. We once discussed the pros and cons of plasma weapons for two hours during a particularity long warp-voyage - one of the most engaging conversations of my life.
Cameron Watson
Annoyingly, Rollins' one true vice is his bias against the 89th's aristocratic officers (who are equally biased against him). Once I had him publicly flogged for referring to Captain Cornelius Draulian as 'Captain Crap-Dribbler' (and only because he was unfortunate enough to utter this within Draulian's hearing – I had to appease him or risk loosing a popular trooper to the infuriated Captain's pistol even though the title is apt, as poor Draulian suffers from chronic diarrhea). Rollins repaid me later with a free tattoo of my favorite Saint on my right bicep. He is a man who understands diplomacy. I sometimes wonder what he is writing about. What is this like for him, knowing that we have been left here to die? I wish he were filling his journal with creative insults crafted solely for you, inquisitor; but, unlike me, he never had the pleasure of meeting you face-to-face. Like the rest of them, he does not know the true nature of the man in charge of this merry mission. He never will. That is a burden that I, Colonel Nathanial Brayce, Commissar Elkor Udett and High Command must bare in silence (like the silence of Vespit).
* * *
Matthew Parker
Lying on the ground not far from me is scout-trooper Elise Graystone, our most recent casualty. Like Knolls, she is sleeping deeply and peacefully but, unlike my adjutant, it is not the sleep of the simple and the innocent but that of the heavily-medicated soon-to-die variety. A few hours(?) ago Wess amputated her left arm which the Iron Hounds had mauled past salvaging. She has lost too much blood and Wess's reserves have already been given to other troopers, some still alive, most now dead. Graystone is a small wiry woman with a heavily-freckled face and short curly hair. She is our last scout. I think Landon is waiting for her to die before he gives orders for us to move out so no-one will have to carry her. Wess keeps glancing at me, waiting for my approval to grant Graystone the Emperor's Mercy – or should I do it myself?
Anthony Lewis
No. Graystone has done her duty (as I knew she would) and for me to end her now in my trademark brutal manner would seem as if I were punishing her rather then sending her into the Light. Her poor body has suffered enough. I nod slightly to Wess and she flourishes the already prepared injector. She gently places a gloved hand on Graystone's pallid brow, leans in close and whispers a quiet prayer that I cannot overhear. There is no chaplain with us to preform the proper last rites for her according to the traditional Joskollian customs, but Wess has administered the Emperor's Mercy to countless numbers of her kinfolk so she knows what to say, though I doubt Graystone can hear her. Then the needle slips in and our dutiful scout passes in silence (like Vespit), freed at last from pain and weariness. I will never see her smile again. She always found something to smile about, even in the bleakest of situations; always cheerful, always optimistic. She is one of the few female Guardsmen whose attitude and skill-set I genuinely admire. Now she, too, is gone. The Guardsmen say nothing; I say nothing – we have become inured to such sights, to far worse sights. Only in death does duty end. Yet in my heart of hearts I know that I am directly responsible for Graystone's death as surely as if I had put a bolt-round through her head. I chose her, after all. I chose them all. For you, inquisitor, I chose them for you. Yet you are not here to bare witness to their final sacrifices. But I am. Because in addition to choosing them, I also chose myself: a dead man walking…ah, my hand is cramping up. I will pause and eat a ration bar, though I have no appetite. I will eat and pray I have the strength to stand when it is time to move out.
Jayden Butler
(This damn xenos 'artifact' I am carrying is not helping my situation either. It is still vibrating soundlessly in my satchel as it has been since I took it from the Domed Mountain. As long as I have it the Iron Hounds will never stop hunting us. Yet I dare not entrust it to anyone else, even for a brief while. It is my responsibility, I know, but I do not know how much longer I can stand to carry it. Maybe Knolls will…no…I must not…)
* * *
Owen James
Once upon a time, inquisitor, when I was a young raw cadet barely three months out of the Schola, I witnessed my mentor, Commissar Karl Kaegan, shoot five heroes of the Imperium in the back.
Joshua Parker
Dawnbreak was just minutes away when he followed the three men and two women out of our camp and up a large grassy hill that overlooked a vast swath of the wheat fields and farming-plantations that are the pride and joy of the argi-world of Pellose. I did not know what was happening at first. Kaegan had been up all night interrogating and cross-examining them and I had observed until an hour before midnight when he ordered me to retire and sleep. I had suddenly awoken due to some now-forgotten anxiety-dream. Without really thinking I left my cot and poked my head out the tent. The camp was eerily still and silent. Just as I looked out five Guardsmen, the same five Kaegan had been questioning, came walking past: first Okjarr, the sergeant, with the other four walking two abreast behind him.
Nathaniel Wood
None were wearing flak-armor, nor did they have their lasrifles. I was about to call out when I saw Kaegan. He was a little ways behind, striding slowly, his eyes fixed upon the troopers. He passed me by without even looking in my direction. It was all so surreal and dreamlike I wondered if I was still asleep. Without grabbing my coat, without even pulling on my boots, I left the tent and fell into step behind the commissar, heedless of the pre-dawn chill seeping through my nightshirt. Something about my mentor's body language and movements forbade any questions. I kept silent and followed him without a word. Okjarr made straight for the hill and we all followed. No-one hindered us; no-one even called out or glanced our way. The hill was deserted; no sentries were keeping watch. The Guardsmen climbed, Okjarr still leading, until all five stood on the summit, looking out at the fields and farms still hidden in shadow, awaiting the dawn. Kaegan and I halted fifteen meters from the top, the five silhouetted troopers dominating our view. They were all now standing shoulder to shoulder. Two were holding hands. None looked behind them and I wondered if they even knew we were there. Slowly the sun began to rise. The sky grew lighter. The clouds drifting invisibly above us were suddenly tinged with pink, then with orange, then with gold. Birds were singing. I was memorized: I was sure this must be a dream. I was just about to continue walking past Kaegan so I could join the Guardsmen, look out over the darkened farmland and watch the shadows perishing in the breaking dawn…
Angel Brown
That is when Kaegan fired a laspistol. The sudden crack it made in the still air caused me to flinch involuntarily and I saw the trooper at the end of the small group collapse. Before he even finished falling Kaegen fired again and then again, shooting left to right. All five troopers went down without a sound. None turned or tried to run, so swiftly did Keagan shoot. In the span of seven seconds they lay dead on the hilltop while the new day brightened around them. I was so stunned - I could not move or speak. I finally looked towards Kaegan, half-expecting the barrel of his pistol to be pointing in my direction. Kaegan was staring at me, his narrow face stoic and composed, his dark blue eyes black and unreadable in the still-dim light.
Aaron Ortiz
"Come, Ritter," he commanded quietly and strode back down the hill. I followed him like a bewildered lost puppy. As if on cue a detail of ten soldiers emerged from the camp and made for the hill. Apart from their abrupt appearance, Kaegan's shooting had caused no disturbance. The ten troopers passed us by without exchanging any words with the commissar. I knew then, as strange as the whole situation was, that what had just transpired had been expected, and that some forewarning had been given. I did not understand. I had been present during the beginning parts of the interrogations. The five Guardsmen had been apart of a larger detachment that had infiltrated a vast farming/harvesting complex whose inhabitants were rumored to be engaging in cultist practices. The regiment Kaegan and I were attached to had been deployed on that part of the world to supplement the local PDF if the cult problem proved to be too large or too volatile for them to handle.
Christian Price
The 267th was essentially glorified backup kept waiting in reserve in case something particularly violent happened. But neither Kaegan nor the senior officers intended to sit on their thumbs until the PDF came crying to them for help. With High Command's blessing we began our own investigations, looking into those rumored hotspots no one else had gotten to yet, hoping to cast a wider net about the suspected cultists. Okjarr and his platoon soon stuck gold, but in the worst possible way: they stumbled right into the middle of a blasphemous ceremony being conducted in an attempt to summon a Greater Daemon. The Guardsmen wasted no time; they began to purge and with no regard for their own survival called in an artillery strike which was promptly answered by our Basilisk gun-crews who were delighted to be finally given a target. The complex and some ten acres of surrounding outbuildings and farmland were razed to the ground and obliterated. Okjarr and his five comrades were the only Guardsmen to emerge from the mess alive. I did not understand. Okjarr and the other were heroes deserving recommendations and medals for their bravery and their decisive actions. Yet my mentor had just gunned them all down in cold blood. He had executed them. Bewilderment gave way to anger. When we reached Kaegan's tent I followed him in and confronted him. I must have looked so ridiculous, standing there in my night-clothes, barefooted and full of righteous wrath. I was so damn young.
Brayden Hall
"You killed them!" I cried out, struggling to hold back tears of rage. In that moment I forgot that Commissar Kaegan held my future, my career, even my very life, in his hands. All my respect for him had evaporated like the morning dew. I wanted to hurt him. I was under no illusions about what it meant to be an Imperial commissar, but this level of ruthlessness was beyond my ability to grasp. Innocent, heroic soldiers of the God-Emperor had been unjustly slain at the whim of one man and I would rather be damned then keep silent about it.
"You executed them!" My voice sounded high and shrill to my ears, far cry from Kaegen's deep rich timbre. It was insolent and petulant. It reeked of overbearing outrage and disillusionment. It was the voice of a spoiled man-child.
Jayden Sanders
"Are you here to pass Judgment on me, Cadet-Commissar Ritter?" Kaegan's voice was quiet, measured and calm. After what he had done, it only served to make me angrier. "Those Guardsmen were heroes!" I cried. "Imperial heroes! They stopped a daemon from manifesting and were willing to sacrifice themselves so the cultists could all be destroyed. They should have been given medals, but you just…instead you just…"
I started to weep. I could not stop myself. The injustice of it all was too much to handle. I stood before my mentor weeping, hating myself for weeping and hating him even more for causing me to weep. The passion filling me gave way to a terrible hollowness. The whole universe suddenly seemed empty and meaningless and every endeavor ever undertaken by Mankind futile and pointless. Overcome by these impressions and emotions I gagged, staggered back and dropped heavily into a camp chair next to Kaegan's desk, feeling as if I were about to vomit. I lowered my head and covered my face in my hands, struggling against the nausea and the shaking that had begun wrack my entire body. Was this to be my life until my dying day? Was this all I had to look forward to? My mind swam. I felt as if I were drowning in a black pitiless void. All is vanity…all is senseless…all is darkness…
Jaxson Watson
Then Kaegan's hands were on my shoulders. "Randall, if you had truly been observing what was happening between me and those brave troopers, you would know that it was not the Emperor's Judgment that I passed on them – it was the Emperor's Mercy."
I forced myself to look into his face. What I saw stunned me. Kaegan was weeping as well, his tears flowing without restraint, wetting the dark circles under his eyes.
I had never known my father. Orphaned at age four I had spent my entire childhood and adolescent years in the harsh, demanding environment of the Schola Progenium before being inducted into the Commissariat following my Trail of Compliance and Selection Day. Separated forever from the few friends I had, and knowing that he had the power to make or break me, I forced Kaegan to play the multiple roles of mentor, teacher and father. His approval meant more to me then anything else in the Imperium. My admiration for him knew no bounds. He had been an Imperial commissar for five decades and had mentored six other cadets before me. I wanted so badly to please him, to earn my scarlet sash with his blessing. I was so damn young, inquisitor. There was so much I still had to learn, so much I still did not understand.
William Foster
"Why, sir?" My words were punctuated by hitching sobs. "They were not badly injured…they were not tainted…were they?"
"No Ritter, they were not tainted…" Kaegan sighed heavily; suddenly he looked ancient, old and weary far beyond his years. I imagine that is how I must look now.
"They were still pure, still loyal…but something happened to them, something that the inexperienced and the unobservant may mistake for disloyalty or taint, but is neither of those things. Those five Imperial heroes were broken, Ritter. The unholy ceremony they disrupted involved, among other things, the ritual mutilation and sacrifice of young children and infants. What they witnessed was unspeakable in its depravity, yet I had to get as much detailed information out of them as I could, for I have little doubt that my report will soon find its way to an inquisitor's desk.
Jeremiah Thomas
All five, especially the women, implored me to end their lives. Not directly, not with words, but in other, more subtle ways. The experience had broken them, shattered their will to live, robbed them of their moral and their resolve. They were dead men walking. Factor in the guilt they bore for being the only survivors of that hellish purging and the subsequent bombardment and my choice was clear: send them to the Throne; end their misery and allow them to rejoin their fallen comrades. There was nothing else I could do for them. They had done their duty; now it was my turn. I am known to this regiment as a fair and just commissar, one who does not kill arbitrarily or punish beyond reason. Those troopers expected me to do the right thing by them. I hope to the Emperor that I did."
"But…" I was still confused. "Why on the hill? Why were you so…sneaky? Stalking up behind them and shooting them all in the back like that? Why didn't you…"
Josiah Allen
"You mean why didn't I take them behind the storage sheds and have a firing squad take care of the rest?" Kaegan's laugh was bitter. "For the same reasons you were just crying about: those Guardsmen are Imperial heroes. Do you think I would allow them to die in the same manner as their regiment's cowards and criminals? Certainly not. Once I had decided on a course of action and informed the necessary personnel, I had a priest brought in and he preformed the last rites. Since the night was drawing to a close I told Okjarr and his troopers to go take a walk, to go stand on the hill, watch the sunrise and that I would join them shortly. He understood my meaning; he knew what I would do. Did you not notice how they were all standing in such a straight line? They were expecting me…expecting mercy…"
Kaegan paused. He had ceased his weeping but now his face contorted again; his hands gripped my shoulders tighter.
William Brown
"I did not want them to die in such a state of hopelessness, Ritter. I did not want the horrendous things they had witnessed to have the final say. I wanted them to see something beautiful, something that has uplifted the hearts of men since the first dawn on Holy Terra. I wanted them to spend the last minutes of their lives watching the sun rise over a world that they had helped to purify and cleanse. I wanted them to die believing that their suffering had not been pointless or without meaning…I…I wanted them to go into the Emperor's Light in peace, both with themselves and with the Imperium…I should have given them more time. I almost lost my nerve, Ritter; I was almost unable to shoot. You are perfectly right: I killed five Imperial heroes – Guardsmen who should have been given medals and recommendations…but that is not what they wanted. They saw things they should have never seen, saw things you are not yet prepared to see, saw things I suffer nightmares from every time I sleep for having seen. Yet there will always be something worse: some new horror that will somehow manage to supersede the old - always.
Adrian Gutierrez
This is not something you can learn in a classroom, or from books or holo-vids, Ritter. Only experience can teach such things. That is why you are here. The life of a commissar is a lonesome and thankless one. To bare the authority to deal out judgment and death in the Emperor's name is a terrible burden, one which often leaves you isolated and friendless. It makes many of us hard, merciless and cruel. Yet you must never abuse that authority. Never give the men under your care just cause to celebrate your death. Never order or expect a Guardsmen to do anything a commissar is unwilling to do. Learn to differentiate between honest fear and base cowardice; learn when to push and when to give. Lead from the front; be an inspiration, not a hindrance. Remember that for every Imperial life you take, be it in Mercy or in Judgment, the Emperor will hold you accountable, for we are all His children and are equals in His eyes."
Carson Phillips
Kaegan released me and stepped back. I rose to my feet, the nausea and the shaking having subsided. I stood up straight and saluted him. He was of average height, and during the three years I mentored under him I outgrew him by a foot; but he has always remained a larger-then-life figure in my mind's eye and in my memories, which remain my most precious possessions.
"I am sorry, sir. I…I have misjudged you; and…I condemned you in my thoughts. Forgive me."
Kaegan nodded solemnly but without anger. "I forgive and the Emperor forgives. Let it trouble you no more. Now cease your sniveling and go get yourself cleaned up, you're an unsightly mess. Put on your full dress uniform; there is a special ceremony we will both be attending shortly."
Asher Phillips
Two hours later Kaegan and I stood at the top of the hill along with our adjutants, a selected honor-guard of twenty of Okjarr's closest surviving comrades, the regiment's priests, the color-sergeant holding the 267th's battle-banner, the colonel himself and all the available junior officers. The bodies of the five Imperial heroes had been cleaned and redressed in their finest uniforms. They lay side-by-side next to a large grave that had been dug into the hill. Their faces looked serine and at peace, a sight I have rarely seen on the vestiges of the battlefield dead. They were buried with full military honors, with Kaegan giving a short but eloquent speech about duty and sacrifice and how these common Guardsmen had set the highest example for us to follow, and how before the Golden Throne all the worthy dead, regardless of rank or occupation, stand together and are honored forever. Whether the colonel and the other officers came of their own violation or if Kaegan 'pushed' them into attending is something I never learned. I have stood at attention at many funerals, memorials and commemoratory ceremonies since then, yet none will ever be as beautiful or as memorable as the simple, intimate service on that grassy hill under the shining sun of the argi-world of Pellose.
Aiden Green
Why am I telling you this story, inquisitor? I do not really know. The memory came to me as I ate, and so I wrote it down. My memories are all that are left to me, especially now in a world devoid of life and warmth and meaning. Since I contracted Fergon's Fever sixteen months ago the dead from my past often appear to me, despite the fever-inhibitors and anti-hallucinatory drugs the Medicea provides me with. The dead never speak, and though I know they are merely hallucinations brought on by my chronic illness, I sometimes find myself speaking to them when I am alone; when Okjarr appears I praise him for the hero he is, though this seems to sadden him. Who else remembers him now, or his comrades? Who remembers Kaegan, dead now for seventeen years, the mentor who made me who I am, the father who replaced the one I lost? Only me. They all live in my memories, both the good and the evil. They surround me day and night. All commissars ineffably leave a bloody trail in their wake, and I have been a full-fledged commissar for twenty-six years, therefor my wake is longer and bloodier then most. I remember them all: the men I saved; the men I killed; the men I led; the men I failed. Officers and grunts – they are all one and the same…
But these final few, these last brave desperate few, in whose company I am likely to perish…they are the finest warriors I have ever had the pleasure of serving beside, despite all their flaws…my dutiful bodyguards…
Oliver Campbell
* * *
Combat-medic Abbi Wess covers the still-warm body of Graystone with a spare blanket and sits back on her heels, her pretty face a mask of quiet anger. Tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, she reaches into a breast-pocket and withdraws a pack of Ilos. As worn-out and stressed as she is, she has showed remarkable restraint in her smoking; the pack is still quiet full. She knows that it is not healthy, and I know I should reprimand her, but if anyone deserves a smoke right now it is her. I say nothing as she lights up and she shoots a sardonic glance before exhaling explosively. She bares a particular sort of fear/affection for me, likely because I spared her life when her bed-hopping threatened the stability of our officer cadre. She was the lover the 89th's current major, Heffener, but she grew bored of him and went to Colonel Brayce, who refused her, preferring to stick to his marriage vows and because of his close friendship with his XO. So she came to me next, thinking a lonely commissar would welcome her with open arms. I welcomed her with a bolter-butt to the jaw. She spent five weeks in the ship's infirmary while it mended, during which time I overpowered and beat an outraged Major Heffener within an inch of his life for having the audacity to openly threaten me in the middle of a staff meeting (I should have shot him, but barring his weakness for women he is a brave, decorated, highly competent leader, so I humiliated him in front of his peers instead). Then Commissar Udett and I got Wess and Heffener alone in an interrogation room together where we outlined in non-negotiable terms how their relationship was to be conducted from that point on, and that one more incident would bring the Emperor's Judgment down upon them both. Since that time Wess has remained faithful to the good major, and the good major has not dared to threaten me again either openly or discreetly.
Nolan Rogers
Formally the 89th was an all-male unit, but after our bloody campaign against the tau on Sepnir a mix-gendered Joskollian regiment was consolidated with ours to bring it back up to strength. Their losses were more grievous our own, with Udett being the only senior-ranking officer to have survived. Wess had a history of sleeping with senior officers and causing infighting even then, and it was only her looks combined with her cool-headed professionalism under fire that kept her from being stood against a wall. I am rather inclined to think Udett has stepped out with her also in the past, but knows better then to let himself be compromised by a serious relationship. In my mind he is compromised, which is the main reason I chose to bring Wess with us to Vespid as our chief medic. I still do not trust her. When the drill-abbots are away the students will play. Though I knew my chances of getting off this planet alive were slim, I still continue to keep the health and the coherence of the 89th firmly in mind, as is befitting a regimental commissar. Though Udett and I are equals in the eyes of the Commissariat, he differs to my seniority and does not try to undermine my authority. Doubtless he is irked by my choice in medical personal, but knows me well enough not to interfere with my decisions. Wess is a skilled medic and the mission demanded one, naturally – I do not need to justify my reasoning to anyone. Major Heffener and Udett will be better off in the end, even if they never realize it.
Tyler Nelson
* * *
It is time to move out. Landon has stirred and is now on his feet, the blanket swept back over his shoulders like a cloak. Crawley stands also, still keeping his eyes on me, while Sorren ceases his pacing and slings his vox-set onto his back. Rollins looks up from his journal and quickly follows suit with his tank and his flamer. Knolls is still out of it; I will have to wake him. "You need a stimm-shot, commissar?" Wess asks. Her voice is somewhat raspy, but we all sound that way now. I grit my teeth. I am not ready to stand, but we cannot stay here forever; especially now that we have accomplished your mission, inquisitor. During our last battle with the Iron Hounds when Lieutenant Perrell was killed and Graystone received her fatal injury, I hewed off the head of what I assumed to be the leader, as it was the largest and most driven of the pack. But by the time I had done so twelve more Guardsmen had perished in the act of dispatching the leader's eight smaller but no less lethal companions. As much as I would like to believe that pack was the last of the Hounds, I know that there must be more of them still in the mountains and that soon they will find me again. The xenos artifact in my possession calls out to them; they cannot help but be drawn to it.
Jace Price
"Commissar?" Wess seems genuinely concerned.
"No, medic," I lie. "Just give me a few minutes…"
I am so weak. We all are. No-one can understand why. We are not sick. Wess has assured Landon and I that there is nothing wrong with us – nothing at all. We are all, according to her Diagnostor, perfectly healthy (apart from me having Fergon's Fever, that is) given our circumstances. Yet our symptoms are all the same; they began the day(?) we arrived and have progressively worsened the longer we linger on this planet: we are fatigued, listless, uncoordinated in our movements, and, most alarming of all, undergoing rapid inexplicable weight loss. Landon has always been a thickset beefy man who had no qualms about using his body mass as a weapon, both against the Imperium's foes and belligerent Guardsmen (and certain other junior officers) despite his advancing years, but since we deployed on Vespit he has lost over seventy pounds. Rollins, who is a giant bear of a man, has lost almost a hundred and twenty.
Dominic Robinson
These two men are the most obvious examples – but we are all suffering from it. I am nothing now but skin and bones; what lean corded muscle I was able to build up following the first onset of my illness has been stolen from me again and now I have once more become the true embodiment of my nickname: the 'Scarecrow'. My bolt-pistol and power-saber hang from my narrow hips like laden weights, encumbering my steps. My storm coat and cuirass have become almost too burdensome for my wasted frame. My strength is being sapped by this piteous planet; we being drained, sucked dry, fed upon – we are dying.
We are not starving. We have food. Enough ration bars to last three weeks, longer still if we ration them because there are only eight of us now. Enough water also. This mission was only supposed to take two weeks all told. That is what I was told. Yet now I do not know if I have spent five days on Vespit or five years; it seems like we have always been here. After we landed it did not take us long to discover that our chronos had stopped. Every last one; though a few (including mine) were spinning like crazy – spinning clockwise. None worked properly. Engineseer Kreeve could do nothing about it; just like he could do nothing when our Tauroxes and our Tauros RAVs inexplicably broke down one-by-one; their machine-spirits are also dead, he had said, all dead and dying – like this world. Like us.
David Jenkins
Vespit is classified as a death-world. This classification is somewhat misleading. Most people think of Catachan when they think of death worlds. But now that I have spent time (how much, really?) on Vespit, I know it to be the truest, most pure example of that type of planet. Catachan is full of life, home to a whole biodiversity of plants, birds, mammals and insects; it has an ecosystem; it is alive; it begets life.
Vespit is dead. It is a dead-world; a skeleton-world. There is no life. To even call it a desert would be a great disservice to actual desert-planets. No birds soar across her reddened skies; no biological animals, dangerous or otherwise, roam her forests and fields – there are no forests or fields for them to roam. No insects swarm or bite. No reptiles scurry through the fine ash-like sand nor sun themselves on the flat polished stones. There is no grass, no flowers, no ferns, no moss, bushes or trees of any kind. A waste-world, a corpse-world…
Henry Morris
The air here is chilled, dry and thin. It is also utterly still. So far, there has been no wind, not even the faintest rumor of a breeze. We talk in whispers; any noise we make, however minor, carries out for miles. Our steps, our hushed voices, our very breath, are the only sounds that exist. Once, I gave the order to halt and commanded the men to keep perfectly silent – and it was as if we had all been struck deaf. Only our pounding hearts could be heard inside our heads. Never has solitude been so fully realized. Never has isolation been so absolute. Never has desolation been so complete.
But I am writing only of the world itself. Vespit is not the only contributor to our misery. As oppressive as this dead-world is, the sun is so much worse. The sun of Vespit does not rise or set. From our position on the planet's surface, it hangs just above the flat horizon facing the mountains in a state of perpetual dusk. Vespit does not turn upon its axis, therefor only one-half of it is exposed to sunlight while the other half dwells in the shade of an endless night. The sun of Vespit is old; old and dying. It is remote, cold and red; it observes us like a baleful crimson eye suspended in a blood-tinged sea. There are no clouds. During our last stop I stared at it with my naked eyes for several minutes and when I turned away there was no imprint of its light behind my eyelids. It is more of a moon then a sun; fitting, as Vespit has no moon. From our vantage point there are no visible stars we can see. The sun rules over all, a failing light burning weakly over a failed world, timeless and unchanging.
Carter Howard
I am so tried. I am a fool for not taking proper rest when I can, but this is not the sort of weariness that can be resolved by sleep, it is deeper and more complicated then that. Yet as weary as I am, my spirit is restless - I wish this ordeal would end soon; it is the waiting that grinds one down...and on a world were time cannot be measured it is as if I have spent my entire life simply...waiting. All of us just waiting here, waiting to die...
Damn it, where ARE you, inquisitor?! Why have you left us? We have accomplished what you required of us. We have your precious xenos artifact/device. What will the fallen have died for if its guardians reclaim it? Do you not care? Will you not come and claim it for yourself? We are waiting for you, and we are being hunted and attacked while we wait. We will not last much longer if you remain aloof. We are dying, so slowly, so…gently. In truth the Hounds need not come. Only you must come, inquisitor, or our struggles will have been for nothing. I will end this journal now, and condemn you to the silence you have condemned us. I am not afraid to die. I am afraid of having to look into the eyes of the Guardsmen and have them know, by my own eyes, that they are not leaving Vespit alive. Warp take you, Inquisitor Setherin – you have spat in the face of loyalty, kicked the bent back of duty and mocked the pain of obedience. The Emperor's Judgment awaits you – and in His Shadow I will rejoice when my God avenges me.
