Commissar Page 2

  ‘What the hell was that?’ shouted the provost beside Corporal Bukin, his voice only barely audible over the roar of air against the drop-ship’s hull. ‘Some bastard shooting at us?’

  ‘Not us,’ shouted Corporal Bukin, ‘just you,’ before the entire drop-ship shuddered violently and the restraints tightened in response, pinning the passengers hard into their grav-couches. Flint knew instantly that one of the cluster munitions must have clipped the drop-ship.

  The vessel’s engines screamed like a gargantuan beast in terrible pain and the air pressure in the passenger bay bled out rapidly. With a sudden rush a blast of ice-cold air flooded the compartment and pressure masks dropped down from the bulkheads above each drop-station. The loadmaster reached up and pulled his mask over his face and in a moment Flint had his fitted too. He took a deep breath of the bottled oxygen then looked outside to judge the ship’s altitude. The vessel shook violently as the pilot fought to bring its nose up and level with the horizon as a jagged spire surrounded by a halo of chimneys rose in the distance silhouetted against the grey sky. Flint guessed the drop zone was less than a minute away, if only the ship could hold together that long.

  Flint lifted his mask and yelled, ‘Everyone prepare for rapid disembarkation!’ He couldn’t tell if any of the passengers heard him over the roar of the wind both inside and outside of the drop-ship. The sound grew louder still as the ship levelled out. Flint took a ragged breath of the cold air and found that the pressure had equalised enough for him to breathe normally.

  As the drop-ship plunged through a rearing cloudbank it shook violently and Flint’s ears were assaulted by the deafening sound of a section of the metal hull shearing away. The shaking increased to a continuous, bone-jarring tremor punctuated by subsonic growls and high pitched, metallic wails.

  ‘Ten seconds!’ the loadmaster called out. ‘Brace for impact!’

  Flint knew the drill. He folded his arms across his chest and set his head firmly against the padded headrest. The provosts’ training had kicked in too, regardless of their outward brusqueness. But Kohlz had loosened his seat restraint and was attempting to secure his vox-set which was working its way loose of the cargo bin he had stowed it in.

  ‘Leave it!’ Flint ordered, grabbing Kohlz’ss wrist hard. At that very moment the drop-ship struck a tall rock spire and the world turned upside down. The illumination inside the passenger bay cut out, a bright spear of sunlight arcing through the small viewport. The vessel dropped what must have been a thousand metres in a second and rolled onto its side. It held its course for several seconds more before the deafeningly loud roar of tearing metal made Flint look left. A massive wound had appeared in the side of the vessel and the thrashing bodies of several passengers had already been sucked through it. There was nothing anyone else could do, either to rescue them, or to avoid a similar fate. The only possible course of action was to pray to the God-Emperor of Mankind, and hold on for dear life.

  Seconds later, the drop-ship slammed into the hard ground with bone-jarring force.

  Blinding light and the deafening screech of rending metal was overwhelming. The bulkhead right beside Flint was torn away as the drop-ship disintegrated further, bouncing along the ground and showering the interior with gravel and metal shrapnel. Flint realised through the shock and violence of the crash landing that he was still holding on to Kohlz’ss wrist and that his aide’s entire grav-couch had been torn free and sucked out of the huge wound in the drop-ship’s hull. It was only Flint’s holding on to Kohlz’ss wrist that was saving the aide from tumbling out of the breach to certain death.

  Flint hauled on Kohlz’s arm with all of his strength and pulled him back inside the passenger bay as the drop-ship continued its juddering progress along the surface. The screaming of metal reached a howling crescendo and the ship bounced one last time and slewed violently onto its side. Finally, the drop-ship came to a halt, the hull rocking back and forth a couple of times to the sound of creaking metal and scattering gravel. At the last, a shocking silence descended.

  Flint let go of Kohlz’s arm and his aide dropped to the deck on all fours. His ears were still ringing from the violence of the crash and for long seconds everything sounded dull and distant. He slammed a fist into the emergency release clasp in the centre of his restraint harness and forced himself to stand on unsteady feet. The sound of coughing came from across the deck as the surviving provosts stirred themselves. Chief provost Bukin had lit a stubby Vostroyan cigar and placed it in his mouth even before freeing himself from his restraints.

  ‘Everybody out!’ Flint barked as he looked about for the best way to exit the wrecked vessel. He was acutely aware of the danger presented by spilled fuel catching alight, damaged munitions being disturbed or plasma cell containment failure incinerating the entire troop bay. He turned to the loadmaster and saw that the man was very obviously dead, a length of spar having impaled his chest at the moment of impact. The rear of the passenger bay was a mess and the hatch leading forward to the flight deck was so buckled it was obvious that way was out of the question too.

  Hauling the shaken Kohlz to his feet, Flint made for the massive wound in the drop-ship’s flank. Shorn power conduits sparked and guttered at the wound’s jagged edge and the light pouring through it was blindingly bright compared to the dingy interior. Looking along the drop-ship’s outer hull he saw that the entire prow was staved in and there was no hope the flight crew might have survived. Bracing both arms against the ruined bulkhead, Flint pushed himself through the hole as his eyes adjusted to the glare.

  The surface of Furia Penitens was a barren waste. The ground was rocky and pitted with ancient craters, all of a reddish-brown hue. Jagged mountains rose on the western horizon and guttering thunderheads reared in the grey sky high above. Flint’s gaze tracked across the land and he saw exactly why the Munitorum had chosen such a place to construct a penal facility. It was obvious that even if any convicts could affect an escape they would be dead within weeks if they couldn’t find a way of getting off-world. To the east he saw what he first took for a towering mountain, before realising it was in fact the rearing form of the Alpha Penitentia penal generatorium.

  ‘Gather up the gear,’ Flint told the nearest man, a provost who was doubled up as he vomited away the adrenaline shock the crash had inflicted on his body. ‘I want everyone ready to move out in five minutes.’

  The provost finished his retching, then staggered back along the passenger bay, kicking one of his companions still struggling with his restraints. Flint jumped the two metres to the ground and took his first steps on the surface of Furia Penitens.

  ‘Kohlz,’ Flint called up towards the breach, his aide’s head appearing a moment later. ‘Pass down the vox-set.’

  Kohlz ducked back into the passenger bay and re-emerged a moment later with the bulky communications set. ‘Don’t know if it still works, sir,’ he called down, his voice shaky from the shock of his near death.

  ‘If it doesn’t we’re walking,’ said Flint. In a moment Kohlz had handed the vox-set down to Flint, who placed it at his feet and turned to gaze out across the windswept wastes towards the distant spire and chimneys of Alpha Penitentia. The central tower was a flat-faced keep rising hundreds of metres, its slab-sided flanks grey and imposing. Squat blocks and fluted cooling towers were clustered all around its base, each several times the size of the largest of Ministorum cathedrals.

  This place would be the making or the breaking of the newly reconstituted 77th. Its inmates had risen up against their wardens when the Munitorum had demanded a Penal Legion be raised from the population, to then be shipped out to some far-flung warzone in the Finial Sector. The 77th was the nearest available Imperial Guard regiment and Flint’s appointment as their regimental commissar had been expedited with almost unseemly haste so that he could be in attendance for their first mission. So much for the Munitorum’s plans, he thought, estimating the time it would take to walk to the drop zone if the vox-set proved inoperable.


  As Flint squinted against the cold wind he saw faint columns of smoke rising from several of the blocks; evidence, he judged, of just how widespread and destructive the uprising within the complex actually was. How much of the facility was now under the rebels’ control was impossible to tell, but a question the 77th would need to have answered as soon as possible.

  A crunching impact on the ground behind Flint signalled that Kohlz was down. In another minute or so the remainder of the section was out, Corporal Bukin’s provosts gazing slack-jawed at the distant installation.

  ‘Just like home,’ one of them said with the false bravado of one that has just narrowly escaped a gruesome death. Reaching into his fur-lined coat, the provost withdrew a small, copper flask and took a hearty swig of the contents, then stopped guiltily mid-glug as he realised Flint was watching.

  ‘Ahh…’ the provost started, before proffering the flask to Flint. ‘Rahzvod, sir?’

  Not such a bad idea, thought Flint as he nodded his thanks and took the offered flask. He’d read something of the Vostroyans’ native brew, a clear, highly alcoholic beverage peculiar to their home world. Ordinarily he’d frown on such vices, but needs must, he thought as he upended the flask.

  Emperor’s mercy! Flint fought with every ounce of his strength not to show any sign of the drink’s effect upon him. Why the hell would they drink this? The burning was like the after-effects of the inoculations the Officio Medicae administered before service on a death world. In fact, it was almost as bad as the infections those inoculations were supposed to counteract…

  ‘You like it, sir?’ the provost said, a look of genuine respect in his eyes. ‘You like more?

  Flint shook his head and handed the flask back, forestalling any further conversation as he turned to Kohlz, who was working the controls on the vox-set. ‘Any luck?’

  Kohlz’s face twisted in frustration as he held the horn to his ear then threw it down in disgust. ‘Nothing sir, its frag… It’s non-functional.’

  ‘No dust-off then,’ moaned another of Bukin’s men.

  ‘Get moving,’ Flint ordered, folding his storm coat back to reveal his holstered bolt pistol. ‘And Bukin? Keep your men in line, or else I will.’

  TWO

  Absolutio

  A piercing scream echoed the length of carceri chamber Absolutio, the vault resounding to the murder of another claviger-warden. The cry ended as suddenly as it started, a man’s death marked by a sudden tearing sound and a wet thud.

  Argusti Vahn, a convict of Carceri Absolutio, waited as the echoes faded away. A wiry-framed man in his thirties, Vahn’s eyes had once been compared to those of a feral sump-rat. His features had always been lean and sharp and since being incarcerated in this hellish place had become even more so. His hair had become matted into long dreadlocks and his arms were decorated with tattoos. Some took the form of pious script and images of beatific saints; others far less wholesome phrases and images. One of the tattoos, applied to side of his throat, was still new. It was a twelve digit convict identification number.

  To Vahn, the claviger-warden’s unseen death was an opportunity. The scream covered his footsteps as he sprinted the length of the high, steel gantry. As the sound receded Vahn ducked back into the shadows, his breathing heavy and his eyes stinging with sweat.

  Vahn’s breath sounded raucously loud in the sudden quiet. Pushing himself further into the shadows between rust-streaked conduits he took a moment to steady himself and get his bearings. The carceri chamber was a vast space with cliff-like rockcrete walls stratified by gantries and countless cell portals. Heavy generatoria machinery reared from the cold ground like rusty stalagmites or clung from the barrel-vaulted ceiling like corroded stalactites. Another scream sounded, this one more distant. Vahn guessed that the rebel convicts had moved on to carceri chamber Benefacti. A bloodthirsty roar sounded as the scream faded away, confirming Vahn’s suspicion. The murderers were moving east through Vestibule 12, away from Absolutio.

  Life in the vast geothermal penal generatorium complex of Alpha Penitentia was no easy prospect, even before the uprising that had erupted around a month ago. Now, it was a living hell. The entire complex had descended into anarchy and bloodshed and Vahn had been running ever since. That thought brought Vahn back to the present and he quickly scanned left and right to ensure no other convict-workers were nearby. The gantry was clear, for the moment at least, and the vast expanse of the carceri chamber below appeared not to harbour any immediate threats. The hunched forms of other refugees lurked in the shadows between the vast engines, ragged and desperate not to get caught up in the madness that had gripped the complex. Emerging from the shadows and passing quickly along the length of the gantry, Vahn purged the other refugees from his mind. They were weak and they would die. Vahn was getting out of this hellhole, whatever it took.

  Movement up ahead, near the portal to Vestibule 18. Vahn slowed his pace and cursed himself for a fool. He’d been crossing the vast floor of northern Absolutio and allowed himself to take the quickest path at the expense of keeping a bolthole nearby. This time, there were no shadows to melt into as the rebels showed themselves.

  ‘Speak!’ the nearest rebel bawled, his slurred challenge echoing down the vestibule behind him. Vahn studied the shadows beneath the portal and saw there, forty metres ahead, a small group of men. They were obviously rebels, for no refugee would have challenged him so boldly.

  Vahn stood his ground and held his tongue, his gaze fixed on the rebel group.

  ‘Speak!’ the rebel repeated. ‘Name your allegiance or go the way of the clavigers.’

  Vahn had no intention of meeting any such fate but the vestibule the rebels were blocking led towards the central spire. He had no choice but to pass them. If he could gain entry to the spire he could make his way to the gate hall, and then freedom. There was only one thing for it.

  ‘Absolutio,’ Vahn answered. ‘Let me pass.’

  A brief pause followed as the rebels conferred amongst themselves. Then the original speaker called out again, ‘If you’re Absolutio, what business have you in the spire?’

  Maybe the rebel wasn’t as stupid as he sounded, Vahn thought. Guessing how things would play out he loosened his stance and shook out the tension in his neck as he prepared to draw the crudely sharpened iron bar secreted in his hip pocket. Knowing he’d need to get close to the vestibule portal before things got out of hand Vahn started walking, slowly but with confidence, towards the rebels.

  ‘Stop!’ the rebel slurred, stepping forward with his cronies at his side. ‘None are allowed this way except those Strannik gives licence.’

  That made sense, Vahn thought. Strannik, a fallen noble and former Guard colonel, was the figurehead of the uprising. He’d already decorated kilometres of gantry with the corpses of the claviger-wardens and his many rivals. Any convict from Absolutio not serving in one of his gangs was automatically assumed to be an enemy and treated as such.

  ‘I wouldn’t know of that,’ said Vahn as he advanced on the group, stalling for time before the inevitable outbreak of violence. ‘Strannik said nothing of the sort to me.’

  As the distance closed Vahn got a clear look at the opposition. There were three of them front and centre and at least another three lurking in the shadows on either side of the portal. The speaker was a twisted and deformed individual with his scratch-inked tats declaring his unending loyalty to his home – the agri-world of Pan. The man’s limbs appeared grossly mismatched as if each had been grafted on, having been obtained from a different donor.

  ‘Strannik said nothing at all to you, stranger,’ the man said. As Vahn closed the other’s features were revealed. Though weasel-like in appearance, cold hard guile shone from his mismatched eyes. ‘You’ll halt right now.’

  Vahn didn’t. He continued his advance. Another, distant scream echoed through the cloying air, followed by the sharp clink of iron chains. The men on either side of the leader stepped out wide.

  Vahn st
opped ten metres from the other man. The rebel sneered, revealing a set of incongruously pristine white teeth that must have cost him a fortune in pen-scrip or other favours. He leaned his head back as if bored of Vahn’s behaviour but Vahn noted the glance the gesture was intended to mask. It was a signal to the others lurking in the shadows – be ready.

  The man fixed Vahn with a dark glare. ‘The colonel wants the likes of you penned up,’ he leered. ‘He wants you for meat, for them down below.’

  Vahn reached into his thigh pocket and withdrew the iron bar. ‘You can tell the colonel to find his meat someplace else.’

  ‘Bad choice,’ the leader sneered, then glanced towards the man at his left to issue an order.

  Vahn had closed the distance in the time it took the leader to draw breath, the iron bar raised above his head. The other man saw his mistake a split second too late and could do nothing to avoid the blow that scattered his brains and his expensive teeth across the rockcrete floor.

  Vahn barrelled onwards as the body crashed to the ground, using the momentum of his charge to full advantage. The two cronies bellowed their outrage at the death of their leader and powered after Vahn. More shouts from further behind told him the rebels that had previously held back were now joining the pursuit.

  Vahn dared not spare even a second to glance behind him as he sprinted towards the yawning portal of Vestibule 18. The rockcrete ground, ordinarily kept clear by punishment details, was strewn with the detritus of the uprising and Vahn was forced to slow his progress or stumble and fall. Moments later he was through the twenty metre high portal and plunging headlong into the shadows of the passageway beyond. Each of Alpha Penitentia’s vestibules was a corridor large enough to allow the passage of a thousand-strong labour shift or an entire squadron of the so-called ‘witches’ – armoured enforcement walkers. Most of the passageways joined the main carceri chambers, labour halls and other, secondary zones. Vestibule 18 however led to the complex’s central core, the forbidden spire only accessible to the claviger-wardens and their bonded menials. The tunnel was two kilometres in length and Vahn had been counting on being able to breach whatever barrier waited at the far end. If he couldn’t this would be the shortest and most abortive breakout attempt in the history of Carceri Absolutio and probably the whole of Alpha Penitentia.