Imperial Creed, page 2
‘On Mistral?’ Seroff asked.
‘Anywhere,’ Rasp answered. ‘Everywhere. But today, yes, on Mistral.’
I ran through questions in my mind, examined angles. I applied the lessons of my mentor. Assume the hand of political manoeuvrings, even and especially where none seemed present. What was the context lurking behind the rebellion? Why would Rasp be uneasy? He had been here before. That was an interesting piece of data. What did that tell me, then? A possibility dawned. ‘Is Baron Lom known to you?’ I asked.
The corner of Rasp’s mouth twitched. He was pleased. Not just with his student, I think, but also with the opportunity to speak further. ‘I have met him twice, and then only briefly,’ the lord commissar said. ‘But I was impressed. The family has a storied history of service in the Imperial Guard. I believe that certain off-shoots have even produced some inquisitors.’ He had continued to stare at the far wall as he spoke, but now he finally faced us. And there was the hard, unflinching, evaluating gaze. It was perhaps the most visible expression of the qualities that had made him pre-eminent among commissars. Nothing escaped those eyes. Nothing was beyond their judgement. When I was pinned by that gaze, I knew to listen to his next words as though my soul depended on them.
‘Heresy has no respect for reputation or family,’ he said. ‘I have seen it take root in the heart of individuals who had, until that very moment, been so free of taint as to be saints. No one is beyond its reach except the Emperor Himself. No one. So I do not suggest for a second that Baron Lom is somehow above suspicion. But…’ The finger held up again, emphatic as an enforcer’s power maul. ‘But… the fact remains that Lom’s profile is not the usual one for a heretic. And the political waters of Mistral are of the very murkiest.’ He clasped his hands behind his back. ‘So, fellow commissars, my final command before we head into battle – eyes open. Always.’
Down below, Granach had finished his address to the regiment. The phalanxes turned and began to march into the drop-ships. It was time to go.
2. Saultern
He never liked the descents. Buckled into his seat, held in place by the impact frame, he was just another egg among a hundred others, waiting to be smashed if the landing went wrong. And every drop felt like it was going wrong. There were no viewing blocks in the passenger hold of the drop-ship, no way to tell when the ground was coming up or what was happening outside. The journey from low orbit to ground was a prolonged violent shaking in a metal box. All of that was bad. The worst, though, was the helplessness. He understood that the immobility was necessary to prevent a broken spine or worse, but his instinctual reaction was to revolt against the perceived imprisonment. For the length of the descent, he had no agency. His life was in the hands of forces beyond his control, beyond even his knowledge, and he wasn’t even granted the illusion of having a say in his survival or fall.
Logan Saultern, Captain of Third Company, 77th Mortisian Infantry Regiment, liked this descent even less than the dozen other drops he had taken. That was because he was seated opposite a commissar. The man’s name was Yarrick, and the fact that he was young as political officers went was no comfort to Saultern. He had those commissar eyes. If anything, he was worse than the usual watchdog. His stare was direct, unwavering, unblinking, and did not move until he had seen whatever it was he wished to see. Yarrick didn’t look at Saultern for long. One glance, not much more than a second, and that was it. Saultern watched the commissar eye every other trooper visible from his seat. Yarrick favoured a number of them with an evaluation at least twice as long as Saultern’s.
He was so caught up in parsing what that might mean that, for once, Saultern barely noticed that the drop had begun. He withdrew into a sty of bitter self-loathing. That’s how much I’m worth, he thought. A quick oh-it’s-you and then we move on. He had no illusions about his ability to command, just as he had no illusions about how he came to be a captain. The last of the great mercantile families had long since fled the decaying, played-out Aighe Mortis, but the children of some of the more clandestine relationships remained.
Occasionally, a flare-up of paternal guilt or some other sudden excess of sentiment would lead to random acts of largesse and the bestowing of favours. That had been Saultern’s luck. Swept up by the last founding, his training had mysteriously been redirected to the officer class. He didn’t even know what faction of old Mortisian money had ties with him. He didn’t care. What mattered was that he had no business being an officer. He had survived the streets of Aighe Mortis by being as nondescript as possible, and he resented having that camouflage stripped away. The men he commanded made him uneasy. The sergeants terrified him. One, Katarina Schranker, was a veteran sergeant. Covered in the tattoos and scars of dozens of battlefields, her grey hair shorn to stubble, she made him feel like his actions were being watched by a compact tank. He had muddled through his missions until now, but he had been part of rear-line reserves in minor engagements. This time, he and his company were being sent out in the first wave. Intimations of mortality fluttered in his chest. Yarrick’s lack of interest was further confirmation of his approaching demise. He knows I won’t be around long enough to matter, Saultern thought.
The landing was a violent jar. The captain’s teeth slammed together, and he bit through his lip. Blood poured down his chin in a humiliating rivulet. The bow of the drop-ship opened, becoming a ramp the width of the hull, while the impact harnesses retracted. Cursed, kicked and howled at by sergeants, men and women leapt up from their seats, grabbed their packs and pounded down the ramp into the early morning light of Mistral. Yarrick was among them. Saultern had no idea how the commissar had moved so fast. One moment he was sitting there, impassive, then Saultern glanced down to wrestle with unbuckling his straps, and when he looked up Yarrick was gone.
Saultern hurried to catch up. He wasn’t the last out of the drop-ship, but was still far enough back from the main body of soldiers for his uniform to feel like a costume, not a mark of rank. Then, as he descended the ramp, he encountered Mistral’s weather, and for a few moments all thoughts of shame and inability were swept away.
Mistral’s rotation was very rapid. Saultern knew this. He also knew that the planet’s days were only eighteen hours long. He hadn’t realized what one of the other consequences of the rotation would be. He hadn’t counted on the wind. It rushed at him from the west as he left the shelter of the drop-ship. It almost knocked him over. Close to a gale force, it threw him off balance, pushed and kept pushing. Its howl was a mournful white noise. There were very few gusts, just a constant battering, a stealing of breath and of sound. Everything else was muffled. Even the Leman Russ tanks rolling out of the next ship to the right had lost the intimidating power of their engines’ roar. Saultern’s vision was reduced, too. He had to squint to keep his eyes from watering. Each step was a struggle to move forwards in a straight line, and not stumble sideways. How do I command in this? Saultern thought. Throne, never mind that. How do I fight in this? It felt as if the wind were blowing through his head, rattling concentration. He clutched his cap, as if to keep what sense he could make inside his skull. He reached the bottom of the ramp and looked around.
The regiment was disembarking on a wide plain that extended south and west to the horizon. Its tall grasses bent and whispered eternal obedience to the wind. To the east, the land rose until it became a mountain chain whose peaks had been weathered into distorted columns and agonized claws. To the north were low, rolling hills. Into those hills was where the regiment was headed. That was where he was supposed to lead.
Waiting at the base of the hills were the locals: small contingents sent by the loyal barons. Altogether, they didn’t appear to Saultern to add up to much more than a company. There were enough family liveries and colours to make the Mordian Iron Guard look drab. These men were parade soldiers, Saultern thought. They were nothing but plumage. They looked as ridiculous as he knew he was.
He saw Yarrick standing at the head of his company. For a moment, Saultern thought the commissar had already deemed him unfit and removed him from command. But the commissar was not charging into the hills. He was standing still, waiting. Saultern felt the man’s eyes bore into his soul from hundreds of metres away. Still clutching his cap, he ran forward, shoving his way through lines of mustering soldiers, until he reached Yarrick.
‘Captain Saultern,’ Yarrick said. The greeting was clipped, formal, as iron-spined as the man who spoke. He saluted.
‘Commissar.’ Saultern returned the salute.
‘Are you ready?’
Saultern wasn’t sure, at first, that Yarrick had spoken. The words were so soft; how could he have heard them over this wind? But the commissar was watching him, waiting for a response. He was horrified to hear himself answer honestly. ‘No.’ He waited for the bolt shell that would terminate his command.
Yarrick did not move. His expression, such impassive stone for a young man, did not alter. He spoke again, still quietly, projecting his words over the wind to Saultern’s ears alone. ‘Are you willing?’
‘Yes.’ To Saultern’s surprise that was the truth.
‘Then lead.’
The two words were an absolute imperative. Saultern could no more disobey them than arrest Mistral’s rotation. When his full consciousness caught up to his actions, he was marching up the slope of the first hill, his company behind him, Chimeras on either side, the tanks of Colonel Benneger’s 110th Armoured Regiment chewing up the terrain ahead. The wind battered him from the left, while a stronger wind, given a shape in cap and coat, stalked at his shoulder and held him to his course.
3. Yarrick
It was easy to despise Captain Saultern. It would have been too easy to dismiss him. I hadn’t expected the strength of my office to be needed so soon. Shoring up a quailing officer before the first shot had been fired was a bit much. The first shot could easily have been my own, putting down a coward. I’m not sure what made me pause long enough to think and look clearly. It might have been Saultern’s absurdity. I do know that what saved him in the end was his honesty. Whether he intended to speak as he did or not, he did not dissemble, and to speak that one word, no, to a commissar, took courage, even if it was of an unconscious kind.
Rasp wanted me to keep my eyes open at all times. To be a good political officer meant having a deep understanding of actions and consequences. So he taught, and so I believed. His views were not shared by all the members of our order. There were plenty whose approach began and ended with merciless disciplinarianism. Rasp, however, was a lord commissar. Achieving that exalted rank meant being more than a blunt instrument. Seroff and I were privileged to receive his wisdom. We were learning that being a commissar meant reading currents.
It meant seeing what was really before me, not what I expected to see.
So Saultern was still drawing breath, and, for the moment, behaving like a captain of the Imperial Guard. Was sparing him wise? I still had my doubts. He was convinced that he was unfit to lead. If he was correct, was I condemning troopers to a needless death by leaving them in the command of an incompetent? I was trusting my instinct, which was telling me that a man with so few illusions about himself was less likely to act stupidly than an officer with delusions of superiority or, Emperor save us, a belief in his own immortality.
I had made the decision. I would accept the responsibility for it and for its consequences. I would learn from what followed. That was the only way, Rasp said, to fulfil one’s duty, to become a commissar in the truest sense possible. Observe and learn. Observe and learn. The mantra spun through my head, a resolution and a comfort.
Observe and learn.
We crested the hill. Beyond it, the land dropped sharply until it was well below the level of the plain. We descended into a valley only a few kilometres wide. The two linked Vales of Lom were an oasis in Mistral’s desert of wind. Here, in these deep, sheltered declivities, the topsoil was not blown high into the atmosphere at the first hint of cultivation. Better still, rich nutrients carried on the winds for thousands of kilometres ran into the wall of the Carconne Mountains, and accumulated on the valley slopes. The vineyards had first been planted there twenty centuries ago, and the amasec they produced was the finest in the subsector. It was at least as big a factor in the Lom fortune as the family’s industrial holdings.
The wind diminished as we moved lower down, but suddenly became shrill. It keened. Then I realized I wasn’t hearing wind. Two of the tanks exploded ahead of me. The grey air was stained with the black teardrops of incoming heavy mortar shells.
My mantra changed.
Fight or die.
CHAPTER 2
THE GOLDEN VALES OF LOM
1. Rallam
War, General Allek Rallam had opined more than once, did not have to be complicated. Stripped of all distracting inessentials, it was no more than a simple exercise in arithmetic. ‘Whatever force the enemy throws at you,’ he explained whenever and to whomever he could, ‘hit him back with that plus more. That’s all you need. Don’t come babbling to me about fancy-named gambits. Bunch of sad old tinsel covering up the fact that you don’t know what you’re doing, or don’t have the salt to get it done. The plus-more is all you need. Nail the bastards with your plus-more.’
Today’s assault was a perfect example, one that he looked forward to shoving into the face of that overthinking bookworm General Medar the next time they met. Medar would have to appreciate the conditions: the heretics confined to a clearly delineated geographical location, nothing coming in from the outside to add any variables to the demonstration. The territory of Lom consisted of two long, narrow valleys bounded by hills to the west and south, and to the east and north by the Carconne mountain range. There was only one practical route in, and that was from the south, driving the spear tip of his plus-more over the lower hills, down into the first of the valleys.
Inside his Salamander Command, behind the rear lines of the advance, Rallam leaned over the hololith table. Black icons of his forces were updated in real time as they moved over the three-dimensional representation of the topography. The enemy’s positions were still speculative, appearing as translucent red. Rallam considered his opposition: one deluded aristocrat and the forces he could muster to his aid, backed into valleys with no easy retreat. Laughable. Barely worth the expense of the fleet’s travel to this system. His regiments would roll over Lom and his heretics, crushing them like ants beneath the blade of a land crawler, scraping the ground free of their filth. And then he would have a tale with which to beat Medar over the head.
Two Leman Russ icons vanished. The vox chatter erupted. Rallam looked up. The noise leaking from the vox-operator’s headphones sounded like screeching static. Lieutenant Jakob Kael, Rallam’s adjutant, spoke briefly to the operator, then joined Rallam at the table.
‘Well?’ Rallam demanded.
‘Mortar fire, general. Griffon shells, from the sounds of it.’
So the enemy had some heavy ordnance vehicles. Well, now. Rallam thought about that for a minute. Really, he couldn’t say that he was surprised. Mistral did produce artillery vehicles along with infantry for the Guard, after all. To be expected that the heretics would find a way to get their clutches onto some choice equipment. It didn’t change a thing. Not one. Too late to make any modifications to the main thrust of his strategy, anyway. His forces were committed.
He had a sudden mental picture of Medar laughing. He could hear the man’s supercilious, more-educated-than-thou chuckle, saw him tapping the side of his nose the way he did when he really wanted to grind someone’s gears. Rallam shoved the image away. ‘The advance continues,’ he told Kael, then addressed the vox-operator. ‘Get me some Lightnings over those Griffons. I want those hills levelled if that’s what it takes, but the advance does not stop.’
2. Yarrick
Every battlefield becomes an outpost of hell. Between the churning of tank treads, the trampling of boots and the cratering of artillery, the longer conflicts last, the more their landscapes come to resemble each other. But they do not all begin as devastated grey. It can be easy for soldiers to forget this, as they move from zone to zone, seeing nothing but eternal struggle, ruined cities, and ravaged, bleeding earth. They are reminded, though, on those occasions when they are present for the birth of war, when they are in the vanguard and arrive on the field of battle that, for a few precious moments, is still only a field.
I saw that on Mistral. I don’t know if I can call it a privilege. I saw the Vales of Lom before they were destroyed. I saw the vineyards. The vines were huge, their grapes hanging several metres from the ground. They were planted in rows so regular and groomed they resembled oil paint brushstrokes. Their leaves were a deep yellow so rich that it graced the eye in the same way the amasec of the grapes would bless the tongue. I can imagine standing on the floor of the valley, looking up at slopes that had been transformed into art. I imagine the pleasure it would have been to take in this sight, and how restorative the memory of such an experience could be. I can imagine these things, but I don’t know them. I never experienced them. I was among the last to see Lom’s beauty, but there would be no recollection in tranquillity of those images for me. When we witness the destruction of beauty, it is the destruction that we remember, that will forever remain the defining impression of a location. The beauty that came before becomes nothing more than the prologue to horror.
The shells walked the line of our forces. Geysers of earth and bodies shot skyward. Smoke rose from the slopes on either side as the Griffon mobile mortar platforms fired from camouflaged positions. A terrible hail fell, rocking the ground with concussion and flame. There was no shelter. There was no hiding from the mortar barrage. There was only speed and retaliation.
