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To knock, or not to knock?

Kaldhyem Chernev pondered the question. He wasn’t a man normally given to introspection, but this was…different. Special. First impressions made an impact, and that impact could mean a great deal in the time to come. His instructors had made that clear, and if they hadn’t done enough, reviewing the records of his predecessors certainly would have. So…

“Warp with it,” he growled, pushing open the wooden hab door. “I’m their bloody Commissar, aren’t I?”

A dozen or so sweaty Guardsmen looked up as a blast of humid air swept over them. Chernev earned a number of curious looks and enough salutes to keep him satisfied, if not happy, but none of the soldiers left their seats. They were gathered around a large table, evidently engrossed in some sort of dice game. Chernev made a mental note to keep an eye on such behaviors. A useful outlet, but it carried with it the potential for trouble.

“You troopers would be…” The Commissar’s gaze swept over the few bits of flak armor some of them deigned to wear, even in base and in this heat. They bore regulation markings, along with a whole host of informal graffiti, slogans, and tally-marks. Damned ill-disciplined frontier worlders. I ought to have guessed. “Second squad of second platoon, B Company?”

“Right first go!” A cheerful voice burbled at the far end of the table, where a small, rotund figure fidgeted with a trio of dice. “Plus a couple of sentinel jocks from Reaper Squad. Plus me.” The ratling snapped off the best salute Chernev had seen yet. “Corporal Morik Wibrim, abhuman auxiliaries, twenty-first regiment of the Dustfallen Harvestmen in the Emperor’s most glorious an’ renowned Imperial Guard. You the new Commissar, then?”

“Ye-eess…” Chernev eyed the Corporal doubtfully, unsure whether the ratling was making a joke at his expense or not. “The only assigned Commissar, it would appear. There doesn't seem to be many senior Commissariat staff available for the duty.”

He waited. Someone coughed. Everyone in the room managed to look him in the eye at least once. The Commissar shifted his weight. Perhaps, he thought, a different tack was called for.
“I understand,” He said, voice carefully level. “That you’ve taken over the duty of monitoring and cataloguing our logistical concerns, Corporal?”

Wibrim blinked. “Sorry, wossat?”

“I mean to say,” Chernev patiently backtracked. “That you’ve been watching our supplies. Ever since Commissar Vendt’s attempt at the duty was cut short by that...enemy action.”

“Oh, aye.” The ratling replied solemnly. “Bad business, that. Bloody rebel sharpshooters. Must have been layin’ for the poor sod half the day.”

“Damn shame his records got lost during that raid on Aldhem District,” A woman with a las-burn down the side of one cheek added, punching Wibrim lightly on the arm. “Poor little guy’s been scampering to get some kind of order out of it ever since. Pity. Vendt was so thorough.”

“So I’m given to understand.” The Commissar flipped through a mental file. “Not unlike the regiment’s last Commissar, I take it? Last after the incident on Verlax Diem, I mean.”

The squad exchanged glances. Finally, the woman spoke up again. “Oh, Langerton? Nah, not all that thorough, as such. Man was mad for discipline, though. Decided he needed to put some real backbone in us all, y’know? Not all that shy about a little enforcement.” She grinned. “Went out like a hero, didn’t he, Sarge?”

A huge man with a shaved head and a face like carved granite nodded, slowly. “Yup. Hadn’ta been for him pushing me out of the way of that brain-bug’s witchery, I’d have been a smear in the jungle. All in the debriefing.”

“Yes. I’ve…perused a number of debriefings. Thoroughly.” Chernev’s face twitched, just once. “This conversation has been most gratifying. Would you troopers be kind enough to direct me to the regiment’s senior command?”

“Oh, the officers? Off ‘avin’ a bevvy in the old aitch-kew.” Wibrim chirped helpfully. “Big building, center of camp, can’t miss it. I’d go straight t’ Colonel Thorne if I was you. I’m sure she’s real eager t’ get acquainted.”

“Likewise.” Commissar Chernev touched his cap, lightly. “Er…as you were, then.” He spun on his heel, a little stiffly, and strode back out. The hot, tropical wind stirred his coat lightly as he left. For a moment, there was silence.

“Well, Fraggins?” The woman said. “What d’you say?”

Wibrim studied the dice in his hand a moment, face screwed up in concentration. “Seems a sharp enough cove. I give ‘im…three weeks local.” He grinned suddenly, tossing the polished cubes across the table. “Assuming the poor bastard gets ‘isself clear of the Colonel!”

Chernev paused, the roar of laughter reaching him even a few meters down the muddy track.

“Well,” he muttered, mopping his brow with a sleeve. “That could have gone worse.”