Ciaphas Cain: Sector Thirteen Read online

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  Sector Thirteen

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  SECTOR THIRTEEN

  Sandy Mitchell

  OF ALL THE worlds I've visited in my long and discreditable career, I suppose Keffia stands out as one of the most pleasant. In the abstract, at least; we were there to fight a war, don't forget, so there was plenty to keep the mind occupied, but in the main I look back on my years there through a faint haze of nostalgia.

  Being an agriworld, the landscape was almost completely rural, so my overriding impression was one of endless plains of lush greenery cut across by isolated roads, which occasionally intersected at quaint rustic villages where nothing much seemed to have changed since the Emperor was in short trousers. The climate was pleasant too, the small ice caps trickling clear fresh water into all three continents from large polar mountain ranges, while the narrow equatorial band was mercifully free of any landmass worth fighting over. There were a few small island chains, where tiny inbred communities fished and grew tropical fruit, but they were too insignificant to have attracted any enemy attention and were ignored by our side too after the initial sweeps.

  All in all I was pretty pleased with life. My inadvertent heroism on Desolatia a couple of years before had won me a little notoriety among the Imperial task force, and I'd been able to capitalize on that quite nicely. Even after all this time there were still sufficient senior officers and Administratum functionaries wanting to shake my hand to keep me comfortably occupied attending receptions and seminars far from the fighting, so that I frequently found myself away from my unit for days on end. A deprivation that Colonel Mostrue, our commanding officer, bore with commendable fortitude, I have to say.

  Even while I was at my post things were hardly onerous. The 12th Valhallan Field Artillery were parked well behind the lines, as you'd expect, so I'd had little occasion to face the enemy directly. Indeed, since we were engaged in a protracted campaign to cleanse the planet of a genestealer infestation, there was seldom anything to fire our guns at in any case. The war was a subtle one for the most part, of counter-insurgency and surgical strikes, with the enemy seldom massing in numbers sufficient to justify an artillery barrage. The occasional exceptions to this were renegade units of the local Planetary Defence Force, which would turn out to be riddled with 'stealer cultists with depressing regularity, and turn their guns on the Guard or the local units sent to deal with them until our overwhelming superiority in numbers and firepower had their inevitable effect.

  Like most agriworlds, Keffia was sparsely populated by Imperial standards. This made our job of cleansing the place both easier and harder than it might have been. Easier, in that cities were few and far between (I think there were no more than a dozen on the entire globe), which meant that the dense concentrations of population a 'stealer cult needs to really take root and hide in were absent, but harder in that the cult had instead become attenuated, spreading its tentacles widely in small pockets of infestation rather than remaining sufficiently concentrated to root out and destroy in a single strike. The upshot of all this was that we'd been forced into a protracted campaign, cleansing the world province by province, one brood at a time, and we'd already seen three winters come and go since we'd arrived here.

  Some, of course, found the slow pace of the campaign frustrating, not least my crony and closest friend in the battery, Lieutenant Divas, who, as always, was chafing at the bit, eager to get the matter over with and move on to the next war.

  'We're making progress,' I told him, uncorking the bottle of well-matured amasec which had somehow found its way into my kitbag after the last round of handshaking and finger food I'd been dragged off to. 'Both the northern continents are completely clean already.'

  'But they were only ever lightly infested to begin with,' he rejoined, finding a couple of teabowls in the clutter on my desk which Jurgen, my aide, had failed to tidy up before disappearing on some mysterious errand of his own. 'The majority of the 'stealers were always down south of here. You know that.'

  'Your point being?' I asked, pouring the amber liquid with care.

  Divas shrugged, looking uncannily like a bored child getting tired of the current amusement.

  'I don't know. We could be here for years yet, if something doesn't change.'

  'I suppose we could,' I agreed, trying not to sound too pleased at the prospect. That would have suited me fine, my adventures with the tyranids on Desolatia striking me as more than enough excitement for one commissarial career. (Had I but known, of course, it had just been the prelude to a lifetime of narrow escapes from almost certain death. But back then I had yet to develop the innate paranoia which was to serve me so well in my subsequent century of running for cover and shooting back when I couldn't avoid it. The prolonged period of relative quiet had lulled me into a false sense of security, which a few years later would have elicited nothing more than a vague sense of waiting for the other boot to drop.) So, as I poured the drinks I had little inkling of the fact that the turning point of the entire campaign was no more than a few hours away, and that once again I would find myself caught up in the middle of events over which I had not the slightest control.

  The irony was that I'd had my chance to avoid it, but at the time I thought I was being remarkably prudent in not doing so. You see, Colonel Mostrue had never quite shaken the feeling that I'd been less than honest about my supposed heroism on Desolatia, when my attempt to save my own neck had inadvertently stumbled across a swarm of 'nids which would otherwise have annihilated us, and my subsequent panicked dash back to our own lines had drawn them neatly into the killing zone of our guns.

  He'd never said anything directly about it, of course, but after that he made a point of creating subtle opportunities for me to prove my mettle, which generally amounted to nudging me in the general direction of trouble and looking out for any overt sign of reluctance to put myself in harm's way again. Luckily my side trips away from the battery had limited his opportunities for such amusements, but on a couple of occasions I'd been left with no alternative but to tag along with a forward observer unit with every outward show of enthusiasm so as not to undermine my fraudulent reputation.

  As it turned out, these little expeditions hadn't been nearly as unpleasant as I'd anticipated. On each occasion we'd taken some fire from the cultists as soon as they realized we were sitting out ahead of our own lines calling in their positions to the battery, but to my well-disguised relief the subsequent barrages had taken care of that before they got close or accurate enough to be a real nuisance. To all intents and purposes they'd remained a distant threat, despite the occasional las-bolt putting a dent in the sandbags protecting us. Indeed, in all of these minor engagements I had never even seen the enemy close enough to tell whether they were true hybrids or merely their human dupes.

  All that was about to change, though, when the colonel stuck his head into my office the morning after my chat with Divas.

  'Commissar,' he said, nailing me with those ice-blue eyes, which always seemed to see a lot further into me than I was comfortable with. 'Do you have a moment?'

  'Of course,' I responded, with every sign of politeness, ignoring the faint throbbing of the amasec hangover I'd brought into the room with me that morning. 'Can I offer you some tea?'

  'Thank you, no.' He moved aside hastily as Jurgen began to pour an extra bowl. I'd known he'd refuse, of course, which is why I'd offered. My aide was a splendid fellow in many respects, not the least of which was a singular lack of imagination that he compensated for with a deference to authority and a literal-minded approach to following orders which simplified my own life in many ways. But he was hardly the most preposs
essing trooper in the Guard, and apart from his habitual untidiness, his spectacular body odour meant that visitors were loath to linger in his general vicinity, certainly not for as long as it would take to drink a bowl of tanna leaf tea. (One of the few Valhallan habits I've picked up from my prolonged association with the natives of that icebound world, by the way. It's made from a plant that grows in the caverns there, and it has a faintly bitter aftertaste I find most refreshing.)

  'As you wish.' I sipped at the fragrant liquid, and raised an eyebrow in polite enquiry. 'How can I help you?'

  'There's a briefing about the deployment of the garrison troops this afternoon at brigade headquarters,' Mostrue said, clearly fighting the impulse to back away from Jurgen.

  Unlike the iceworlders I served with I had my office and quarters open to the sweet spring breezes, instead of air-conditioned to the temperature of a meat locker, and he clearly found the relative warmth mildly uncomfortable, not least because it let my aide's distinctive bouquet flourish (another good reason for leaving the windows open, of course). 'I thought you might like to attend.'

  And get palmed off on some risky reconnaissance mission to the battlefront as soon as we were there, no doubt. But I couldn't simply refuse; inviting me to observe the peacekeeping arrangements for the newly-cleansed continents on behalf of the Commissariat was a courtesy, at least on the surface, so I thought I'd better just accept, go along, and hope I could find some excuse to hang back when the danger presented itself.

  I was just opening my mouth to agree, inwardly cursing the colonel, when Jurgen unexpectedly came to my rescue.

  'Begging your pardon, sir, but if you're going to be leaving the battery you'd better reply to the Custodes first.'

  'The Custodes?' Mostrue's eyebrow rose, in slightly exaggerated surprise. 'Have you been up to something I should be concerned about?'

  Quite a bit, as it happened, but I wasn't about to tell him that. Instead I picked up the dataslate with the flashing red ''Urgent'' icon Jurgen had placed on my desk, and which I hadn't been able to face looking at through the hangover until the tanna tea kicked in, and glanced at it briefly.

  'Not this time.' I smiled too, so we could both pretend it was a joke, and nodded to Jurgen. 'Thank you for reminding me.' I turned back to the colonel. 'A few of our gunners are in civilian custody. It seems they got a little over-exuberant in one of the local hostelries last night.' I sighed, with carefully feigned regret. 'So pleasant as this little trip of yours sounds, I suppose I'll have to stay here and sort things out.'

  'Of course.' He nodded soberly, always a sucker for the ''duty first'' routine, and for once I didn't have to stretch it. Discipline in the battery was definitely my responsibility, so I had the perfect excuse for sidestepping whatever little inconvenience he'd been planning to drop on me.

  Of course, if I'd known what sorting out that apparently trivial little piece of paperwork would lead to I'd have gone with him like a shot and taken my chances; but then I'd never have cemented my reputation as a bona-fide hero, and the war for Keffia would have taken another turn entirely.

  THE NEAREST VILLAGE to our artillery park, Pagus Parva, was about twenty minutes away, or ten the way Jurgen drove, so I had little time to enjoy the fresh spring air as it wafted in across the kilometres of open fields that lined the road. I'd become quite familiar with the place in the past few months, so I was already well aware that it was somewhat larger than its name implied. It was the bureaucratic centre of the region, sector 13 on the maps of the continent we'd been supplied with by the local Administratum, so boasted a handful of civic buildings as solid and imposing as the temples and libraries of far larger settlements.

  In peacetime it had been home to some two thousand souls rather than the handful of hundreds in the surrounding villages, most of them engaged in supporting the scattered farmsteads which clustered around it in some way, but the upheaval of the war and the arrival of so many Guardsmen in the area with pay packets in need of emptying had almost doubled the population. It goes without saying that most of the new arrivals were supporting the war effort by maintaining morale among the troopers in ways which didn't entirely meet the approval of the long-term residents. Or, for that matter, the local Custodes, which had tripled its manpower over the last few months. That had sounded pretty impressive until I'd realized all it meant was that the sector sergeant had been joined by a couple of resentful beatpounders from the provincial capital, who had clearly been selected on the basis of whoever the authorities there had felt the city was most able to manage perfectly well without.

  The sergeant herself was another matter entirely, as I knew quite well, having taken care to establish good relations with the local Custodes as soon as we were deployed in the region, and to my pleasant surprise this had developed into rather more than a simple working relationship. Wynetha Phu was a solid career officer in her mid thirties, about a decade older than I was at the time, with a full figure which looked quite good in uniform (and even better out of it, as I'd discovered on a couple of occasions). She was good at her job, knew most of the locals by sight if not by name and reputation, and had turned down the chance of promotion to more challenging duties in the city at least three times that I knew of because she enjoyed the sense of being part of a close-knit rural community. Despite our friendship, she eyed me coolly as I entered the Custodes post from which she exercised her stewardship of the scattered hamlets and villages of sector 13.

  'You took your time,' she said. I shrugged, smiling cordially for the benefit of her subordinates, who were slouching around the place trying to look busy, and advanced through the colonnaded entrance hall of the sector house towards the high wooden counter, which barred the public from the working part of the building.

  'I know. My apologies.' I adopted an expression of resigned good humour. 'They keep us pretty busy in the Guard, you know.'

  'I can imagine, if the ones we've got downstairs are anything to go by.' She prodded the rune, which retracted part of the counter, having recognized her thumbprint, and recoiled slightly as Jurgen followed me through the gap. The nearest constable's jaw dropped visibly as the gap closed behind us with a faint squeak of un-oiled runners. 'Who's this?'

  'My aide, Gunner Jurgen.' I performed the traditional back-and-forth hand gesture, which has accompanied informal introductions since time immemorial. 'Jurgen, Sergeant Phu of the Custodes.'

  'Pleased to meet you, miss.' He threw her a sloppy salute, which wasn't strictly necessary, what with her being a Custodian and all, but to Jurgen a sergeant was a sergeant and that was that. Besides, she appreciated the courtesy, and reciprocated with a nod.

  'Likewise.' The pleasantry was reflexive, but Jurgen smiled broadly anyway, curdling the expression of the constable even more, if that were possible. Wynetha appeared to notice him for the first time. 'Larabi. Go and collect the commissar's men, and sort out the charge sheets.'

  'Ma'am.' He acknowledged her order with a manifest lack of enthusiasm that would have got any trooper in the Guard a stiff talking-to at the very least, and slouched off in the direction of the cells.

  'You'd better go with him,' I told Jurgen. 'Make sure they behave themselves.'

  'Sir.' He trotted off behind the constable, who seemed to move a little faster as his new companion approached, leaving me alone with Wynetha. I'd been hoping for a little friendly conversation, even a mild flirtation or two, but her mind was entirely on business that morning, and I had to make do with a smile and the offer of a mug of recaff.

  'Let me guess,' I said, as I scanned the dataslates and let them read my thumbprint to confirm that I'd taken charge of the recidivists in the name of the Commissariat. 'Drunk and disorderly, lewd conduct, and a couple of brawls.'

  Wynetha's mouth quirked with what looked like genuine amusement.

  'You obviously know your men well,' she said dryly. She sipped her mug of recaff.

  'I know these ones a bit too well,' I said, scanning the five names which, between t
hem, made up a good 10% of my workload. That might not sound much to you, but in a battery of over three hundred Guardsmen it was a pretty impressive achievement in its own way. 'Hochen, Nordstrom, Milsen, Jarvik,' and I raised my head to stare disapprovingly at the leading trooper as the small knot of men emerged sheepishly from the cells, 'and the inevitable Gunner Erhlsen.' He grinned at me with the abashed expression I'd become all too familiar with over the last couple of years. 'Tell me, Erhlsen, are you planning to make latrine orderly a full-time career?' He shrugged.

  'We serve the Emperor as our talents direct,' he quoted, eliciting a handful of sniggers from among his compatriots.

  'Where you're concerned, he delegates to me,' I riposted. The Custodians looked a little surprised at the informality of the exchange, but I felt no obligation to enlighten them. Erhlsen had saved my life back on Desolatia, picking off a tyranid gargoyle, which was swooping on me from behind, and was under the fond illusion that I cut him a little more slack as a result. In actual fact he was completely mistaken about this, but I did nothing to disabuse him (or anyone else) of the notion, being keenly aware that if the rest of the troopers believed that looking out for the commissar's welfare would rebound to their own advantage I stood a much better chance of enjoying a long and successful career.

  I swept an evaluating eye over the little knot of troopers. 'All right, Nordstrom. Who started it?'

  Of all of them, Nordstrom was visibly by far the worst for wear. The others might have been hung over still, but were at least able to function. Jarvik and Hochen had to hold him up between them, and he seemed to focus on the sound of my voice with a visible effort.

  'I'm not sure, sir,' he managed to slur after a moment. 'Start what?' Milsen and Erhlsen exchanged glances and sniggered. If anyone had more clearly been in a brawl I had yet to meet them. Nordstrom's knuckles were bruised and bloodied, his face showing visible contusions, and as his torn, unfastened shirt swung open I caught sight of a dressing patch at the bottom of his ribcage.