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  “I blame Nacedon,” he said candidly.

  “Sir?”

  Culcis had been on that world, too. They’d fought side-by-side with a ragged bunch of barbarians from Tanith, a backward planet that had long since been atomised from existence. The Colonel, Gilbear, had an especial loathing for the “Ghosts”, as they were known. Regara, one of the wounded left behind by Volpone command and subsequently saved by the bravura of the Tanith and their medic, had had the audacity to recommend the Ghosts for commendations. It hadn’t translated well.

  Regara turned his gaze back to Sagorrah. A landing party was mustering a few hundred metres below. Though they were little more than slowly resolving specks, he was able to make out the crisp uniform of a Munitorum officer. Clerks, associated ground staff and servitors surrounded him. Regara was reminded of flies buzzing around a carcass. This entire sinkhole was a foetid carcass.

  “Only reason I can think of that Gilbear shipped us here. Must’ve pissed the colonel off royally.” Since Monthax, relations between the Volpone and the Tanith had improved but between two such polar opposites, there would always be needle. Grudging respect was one thing; outright commendation was quite another. In retrospect, Regara thought he must have sustained a head wound in addition to his lost leg during the Nacedon action. How else could he explain his recommendations?

  “Defending a promethium well,” he muttered ruefully, the screech of stabiliser jets smothering his voice to a thought. “Where is the glory in that? It’s no task for a Volpone.” No, Gilbear didn’t like Regara. The feeling was mutual. Being left to die by your commanding officers will have that effect on a man.

  As the desert basin closed, Regara’s gaze was drawn to a vast brawl erupting deeper in camp in the distance. He discerned several bulky troopers in commissarial black breaking up the fight and breaking heads.

  The major’s expression grew disdainful as the last few metres to the ground fell away.

  “They’re animals, sir,” remarked Culcis, the downdraughts from the engines forcing him to clamp a hand down on his officer’s cap. Their raucous din turned his comment to a shout.

  “Chain a dog in the sun long enough, lieutenant, and it’ll eat its own tail,” replied the major, dragging a rebreather over his nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the dust. “Gilbear must really hate us,” he said to himself, as the Valkyrie touched down and the eighth through seventeenth companies of the Volpone 50th arrived at Sagorrah.

  It was to be a most unpleasant stay.

  Regara looked at the Munitorum officer’s proffered hand with something approaching disgust.

  “Welcome to Sagorrah Depot,” said the officer, fighting to be heard above the slowly cooling engines.

  Despite himself, Regara shook the odious man’s hand. He learned his name was Ossika, a stoop-backed, sun-burnt wretch of a creature. Ossika had the look of a man who’d spent too long inside a Departmento-appointed office-hub, logging and charting, turning the slow logistical wheels that fed the great war engine of the Crusade. Idly, the major wondered who Ossika had annoyed to be “rewarded” with this duty.

  Introductions were made crisply and efficiently from both parties. They were walking from the landing strip when Ossika spoke next.

  “Quite a few birds you’ve got in tow,” he said, wiping a dirty kerchief across the strands of hair threading his bald patch.

  Culcis sneered but kept the gesture hidden beneath the brow of his officer’s cap. It was a gesture of ostentation and strength, making it clear to all and sundry that the Volpone were at the summit of the hierarchical chain.

  Behind the lieutenant strode the rest of the cadre: Speers and Drado, both corporals, both aides to Regara and Culcis respectively. Sergeant Vengo followed. He’d been quiet since embarkation. A head wound sustained in a recent combat action meant he’d only just returned to service from the medicae. After him were the seven remaining Volpone troopers from Regara’s command squad. The other eight company captains and their associated officer cohorts would join them later. Operatives from Ossika’s staff were already liaising with them in a holding station just outside the landing zone to assign billets.

  “Almost stretched our landing field to capacity,” Ossika concluded—Regara did not deign to respond—leading them towards a Salamander-class command vehicle. There was only room enough for Ossika, the two Volpone officers and their aides.

  Culcis nodded to Vengo as he climbed aboard, to which the grim-faced sergeant nodded back and then turned on the rest of the troopers.

  “March formation, crisp and straight!” he bellowed. “Show this rabble the quality of the Volpone 50th!”

  The Salamander was already rumbling away, its engines stuttering with the repellent sand that seemed to clog up everything—Culcis brushed at the rust-coloured rime it left on his buttons and lapels, the raised plates of his carapace armour—before Vengo had the men assembled. They’d rejoin the rest of the battalion and prepare the major’s command station for his return.

  As the command vehicle picked up speed, the camp grew slowly around them. Lieutenant Culcis found his eye drawn to the various regiments, cooling their heels and awaiting reassignment to the Crusade frontline.

  No soldier liked being away from battle. After a while, fighting and survival became ingrained behaviour. Anything else was anathema, a foreign way of existing. Most couldn’t take the silence of ordinary life. It ground at the nerves and made men who were sane and balanced in a trench war react insanely and violently when at peace—judging by the sheer levels of disorder and discontent apparent on Sagorrah, that fact was evidently true.

  Culcis recognised some regiments. Vitrians, Roane Deepers, Castellian Rangers—he’d fought alongside them all at one point or another. On the field of battle, they’d spilled blood together; out here in the desert, they reacted with hard stares and aggressive postures. Sagorrah was a powder keg, Culcis realised. All it needed was someone to light the fuse.

  “This place is a wretched dump,” said Speers. The aide was a wiry-looking man, but tall and brawny like most of the Volpone. You couldn’t tell by looking, but his head was completely shaved under his grey bowl helmet.

  “The phrase is shit-hole,” offered Drado. The pug-faced corporal smacked his lips and scowled. “You can even taste it on the air.”

  Culcis had to agree with him. As well as the reddish patina slowly crusting his uniform, there was a disagreeable tang on the breeze. Like metal.

  Major Regara didn’t comment. He’d taken a position at the front of the vehicle, hands braced across the flatbed’s holding rail as he glared imperiously at the other officers in the camp. But Culcis knew he echoed Speer’s and Drado’s displeasure.

  “We’ll need to make the best of it,” the lieutenant said. He noticed fetishes and other icons hanging from the guide poles of several tents. Since the Saint had emerged on Herodor and with her victories elsewhere on the Sabbat Worlds, there’d been an upsurge in religious affectation amongst some quarters of the Guard.

  Culcis needed no gewgaws or false reliquaries. He touched the indigo aquila that fastened together the armaplas of his collar—that was all the symbol he needed.

  “No, lieutenant,” said Major Regara from the front of the command car. “I have no intention of us staying long enough to warrant such a concession.”

  If Ossika, standing to the major’s left at the front of the car, thought anything about that he kept it to himself. The Salamander had started to gain a steep rise. As it crested the hill, a large bastion-like structure loomed. Its grey-black walls, buttressed flanks and soaring watchtower screamed operational command station. It was the seat of Ossika’s power. Beyond it, the horizon line hinted at hills and other structures. Only their vague outlines were visible, the rest was lost to the distant heat haze.

  A line of troopers was filing towards them as the Salamander began to slow. They were a ragged group with tattered uniforms, sleeves and fatigues cut back with knives to expose tanned, muscled limb
s to the sun. They carried tribal tattoos on their slab-like faces, jagged and harsh like painted blades on skin. They also wore their hair long, bound up in topknots and ponytails. Several wore feathers or spikes of bone in their ears, noses and hair. They’d been issued with lasguns, but carried spears and blades in abundance. Culcis counted at least four snipers. It looked like they’d been hunting.

  The lieutenant knew enough to recognise a feral regiment when he saw one. Such men were barely human. They had more in common with beasts. Truly, this was a pit of filth the Volpone found themselves in.

  “Hail, brothers,” said their leader, his guttural accent so thick as to make the words near incomprehensible, as the ragged troopers went by in column.

  Regara studiously ignored them.

  Culcis conceded a nod as they drove past them. Alongside their officer was a trooper holding a scrap of cloth that might once have been a banner. It was wrecked, riddled with bullet scars and burn damage. Inwardly, the lieutenant despaired at such a lack in decorum and self-respect.

  The gate to the bastion shadowed the Volpone as they approached it, smothering Culcis’ thoughts. As it ground open on slow, noisy hinges, Regara looked over his shoulder. The ragged regiment, some thirty or so men, had already disappeared behind them.

  “Dogs in the sun, lieutenant. Dogs in the sun.”

  Culcis kept his eyes on the gate, grateful when they could finally drive inside to the cool, recycled air of the bastion.

  Regara glared through a viewport in the bastion’s upper tier at the grounds below.

  “A heavy presence of guns,” he said, noting the frequency and concentration of armed patrols as they overlapped at the bastion’s fenced-off perimeter. “There are over a million Guardsmen stationed at this facility.”

  The troops Regara saw pacing the grounds wore Departmento Munitorum grey. Their kit and posture suggested storm-troopers. It seemed a little excessive.

  Ossika looked up from his desk where he’d begun compiling reports and logs concerning the depot’s current logistical situation. He was currently occupied with filling out the Volpone’s billet papers. “That’s the issue, I’m afraid—too many troops with too much time on their hands. We had a string of break-in attempts before I had to increase the guard rotations.”

  Regara turned on his heel, a deep and unimpressed frown marring his face.

  An open tiled floor led to Ossika. The Munitorum officer’s desk and series of wall-mounted file cabinets were the only furnishing in an otherwise austere and spartan room.

  It wasn’t to Culcis’ tastes. He and the two aides waited silently, halfway between Regara and Ossika in the middle of the tiled floor. The room’s only other occupant was a slack-faced lex-savant, lurking in the penumbral gloom like a ghoul. Culcis hadn’t seen it move since they entered. The Volpone had removed caps and helmets, and enjoyed the cool air from the recyc-units. Culcis wanted to run a hand through his fair, close-cropped hair but officer doctrine forbade it.

  “How many break-in attempts?” Regara asked, stalking up to where Ossika was hiding behind his desk.

  “In the last month?” Ossika leafed through a raft of data-slates. It took him a few seconds to find the report he wanted. “Sixteen.”

  Regara’s expression hardened to rock. “And the brawling, the discontent I observed as we entered camp?”

  More leafing. This time it took Ossika a little longer. When he’d unearthed what he wanted, he answered, “Again, in the last month…” He trailed off, deciding to show the Volpone major instead.

  Regara scowled as he read the data-slate. “Unacceptable,” he whispered. “This is unacceptable,” louder this time, with a barb in his tone directed at Ossika. “Who is in charge of discipline at this facility?”

  “I am.” The quiet hiss-clunk of a closing door made them all turn to see the commissar who had just entered the room.

  He wore a long black storm coat, buttoned to the collar. His peak cap carried the Commissariat iron skull icon and a thin film of the ruddy mixture currently dirtying the Volpone’s uniforms. He was thin, and looked like a sliver of darkness. Glare-goggles fastened over his eyes only added to the mystique.

  Culcis noted, despite the dingy confines of the chamber, the commissar didn’t take them off.

  “Arbettan,” he said, saluting the major. “Lord Commissar and sworn prosecutor of the Emperor’s will.”

  “Your charges are in disarray, commissar,” answered Regara, dispensing with protocol.

  “Men off the line will occupy themselves as they will, major,” Arbettan replied. Behind him, almost lost to the shadows, lurked two bulky-looking cadets. Culcis could tell by the bulges in their frock coats that they carried side arms. Probably bolt pistols. “Disorder and discontent are inevitable,” he went on. “But rest assured, my men and I have the situation in hand.”

  “Commissar Arbettan has been at Sagorrah for several months, major, and done an exemplary job,” offered Ossika unhelpfully.

  “And the explosions,” Regara countered, ignoring the toadying Munitorum clerk, “are they ‘in hand’ also?”

  Ossika started to answer, “We believe there are insurgents—”

  Arbettan cut him off. “The outlying townships are riddled with cultists. Sanguinary tribes, most likely. We theorise that some are infiltrating Sagorrah and committing acts of sabotage against some of the smaller, less well-guarded wells.”

  “Blood Pact?” Culcis ventured.

  The commissar turned his fathomless black gaze on the lieutenant. “Intelligence suggests no. A minor off-shoot is the insurgents’ probable orientation. It is under control.”

  “The pillars of incendiary that almost downed some of my gunships suggest otherwise, commissar,” said Regara.

  Like a lamp-house but with its light extinguished, Arbettan swung back to face the major. “Like I said, just minor wells. I suspect the Archenemy is trying to sabotage the fuel reserves and impede the Imperial war effort. So far, their attacks have been negligible. Patrols are tasked daily with the rousting of the outer slums beyond our borders. We’ll find the head of the insurgents…” Arbettan’s slow smile made Culcis think of a death-adder, “…and cut it off.”

  Regara’s expression suggested he didn’t entirely believe the commissar.

  “Now,” Arbettan continued, “if you gentlemen will excuse us, I have private business to discuss with Mr. Ossika here.” He looked to the Munitorum officer. “I assume all is in order?”

  It was obvious to Culcis that Arbettan was throwing them out. He saw the tic of consternation in Regara’s cheek and the tightening of his jaw as Ossika pushed the Munitorum facsimile of the billet papers towards the Volpone major.

  “Signature, if you please, major.”

  Regara eschewed Ossika’s neuro-quill, instead accepting his own pen from Speers. He signed quickly, his script flat and functional.

  “I’ll need a ratified list of men and materiel also,” Ossika added as the Volpone were leaving.

  Regara didn’t turn around. He made sure to glare at Arbettan before he left, though. Culcis stayed behind a moment after the others to hand the list to Ossika then he too departed.

  As he exited, he noticed the two cadets behind Arbettan relax. Though it was hard to tell for sure in the half-dark, Culcis swore their hands had been resting on their side arms.

  The Volpone officers returned to their billet a short while later. The Salamander command vehicle, this time bereft of Ossika, took them back down the approach road to the bastion and, after a few kilometres, to what appeared to be a disused stockyard.

  Regara’s headquarters were located in a deserted gatehouse. The other Volpone officers occupied similar structures radiating out from that central one. There wasn’t enough room in the actual buildings for all the troops, but Ossika had supplied the 50th with a sizeable pitch. Most of the men and their sergeants bunked in tents just beyond the stockyard’s footprint.

  “Even the wine is off,” moaned Drado, sipping at
his fluted glass with a disdainful sneer. He tipped it onto the sand—such waste was equal to a week’s pay for most Guardsmen—and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

  Culcis had long lost his appetite for alcohol. Like Drado, he sat in a well-appointed officer’s chair at the threshold of the billet. And also like his aide, he agreed the wine tasted bad. For such a rare vintage, it was like sipping copper-filtrate. Instead, he was occupied with watching Sergeant Pillier putting Eighth Platoon through its paces on the makeshift drill-yard.

  Every man was wearing full combat regalia, packs and helmets despite the heat. They moved fluidly to Pillier’s orders, precise and efficient. Culcis swelled with pride. Truly, the Volpone were the finest body of men in all the segmentum, perhaps the galaxy. And yet… they had not earned the glory they desired or believed they deserved. It was the nature of war, especially a war like that raging across the Sabbat Worlds, to chew up men of honour, to spit on glory and grind it to paste in the great machine. The Volpone were just one of many. For some in the regiment, it had been a hard lesson to learn.

  “And my boots are scummed to all hell and back,” a narked Drado continued. He gestured to his footwear, which was gummed with clods of ruddy sand. “Have you ever experienced such a foul desert as this one? It’s uncivilised.”

  “I’m more concerned by the failing discipline in camp,” Culcis admitted as Pillier’s men conducted an expert bayonet drill. He had several disciplinary reports sitting on a small table between them. Drado had purloined them on their exit from the Munitorum bastion. Culcis doubted they’d be missed. The reports made for grim reading. Summary executions and all classifications of violent misconduct as laid out in the Primer were at alarmingly high levels. Suicide and desertion rates were also climbing. Lassitude could have detrimental effects on fighting men, the lieutenant knew that as well as anyone, but the level of disorder hinted at in the parchment papers he was half-reading seemed abnormal.

  “Arbettan doesn’t strike me as soft. So why is there so much disorder in the ranks?” Culcis recalled Nacedon, the feeling in his gut as the Blood Pact had closed on them, the sense of something… wrong. These were men but they were also something more and less than that. It was hard to define but he felt it at Sagorrah, too.