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I've been off this site for a while, and have just started writing some more fiction surrounding an original character of mine, an Ensign by the name of Trafford Bissette, of the Harakoni Warhawks "The Helldivers" regiment.

He's been a recurring character in a number of pieces of fiction I've written purely for myself.

I'm in the process of writing this piece, purely for fun.

Here's the first part, which I'm planning on updating as the inspiration strikes.

So, here it is. Part one.

Feel free to critique as you see fit.

RECON

Part 1: Shadows

I lean on the cold, Durasteel rim of the sink, staring at my reflection in the Mirror. My razor, poised against the flesh of my right cheek, feels dull, cold. I look tired. I am tired. And sick. Sick of everything. I stand, stock still, for what feels like an age. Staring. Unblinking. As I stare, my reflection changes, blurs, into a warped parody of a face. I see dark holes where my eyes should be. My mouth becomes a red slash across my face. Dull horror begins to slide in to my mind. A dreadful fascination, and a question; what would happen if I just carried on staring? I continue staring. The face changes again. Now, it’s not my face, but his. Leon’s. A terrified face, screaming, burning. Flesh blackening, falling off. Then bone. Screaming all the time. A stain on the clean brilliance of the glass. I feel my body swaying, swaying, as though in a strong wind. How long has it been now? A minute? An hour? A day? Or the life age of the universe? Who, what am I? How did I get here? How did it come to this? I don’t know. I can’t answer. Have I died? Was I ever alive?

A muffled sound comes from my right. A minor distraction; I ignore it. Staring. The sound comes again, louder. Irritation comes, now. If I’m irritated again, I’ll find that sound and end it. I bare my teeth. The sound, loud now. A name. My name? My ears tune in.

“Bissette!” A voice. I’m back in the room, my mind wrenched from within the depths of the mirror. I whip around, teeth still bared, towards the voice. A man. A soldier. A soldier I know. Hornett. That muppet Hornett calling me again.

The man called Hornett, who is standing not five feet from me, briefly recoils back, a look of shock on his face. “What?” I ask, my voice a threatening monotone. My anger, very real, is held back on a hair trigger. There he is, standing there, in his black uniform. Black Tunic. Black Jodhpurs. Silver piping. Two silver Lieutenant’s Bath Stars on each shoulder. Lieutenant Hornett. I flex the fingers of my left hand. I’m sick of this man and the constant crap he gives me. My face clearly shows it.

A flash of anger crosses his face. Seemingly emboldened by my lack of movement, he spits back; “That’s Lieutenant to you, Ensign Bissette! He takes a step forwards, the forefinger of his right hand jabbing. Quick as lightning, I make a lunge for him. Didn’t even think it through. Even quicker, a large, burly body comes between us, blocking me and the punch I was in the process of throwing at Hornett’s right eye. My fist goes high, instead knocking Hornett’s black Beret off his head. Large, strong hands grapple with me, restraining me. It’s Jerold Holte, one of the other Ensigns. “Bissette, no, Bissette!” He’s shouting in my ear. I struggle wildly, thrashing in the strong man’s arms. Spittle flying from my lips, I bellow incoherent rage. I can’t help myself. I’m able to wriggle free, launch myself at Hornett. He’s ready. His left fist flashes out, smashing in to my mouth. I taste metallic blood. But I don’t feel it. I fall upon him, grappling him to the floor. My head butts in to his face once, twice. I feel one of his hands grab me under my jaw, forcing my head up. The other flicks up, taking me in the throat. I gasp for air as my windpipe narrows. Heavy weight on my back. Holte again. This time, he takes me in a choke hold, dragging me to my feet. I thrash again, but there’s no getting out of this one. He’s too strong. My sight starts to go dark. Hornett staggers to his feet, his right eye already swelling and darkening . I hear Holte in my ear “Now calm…the hell….down!” My thrashing subsides, then stops. Holte waits for my arms to drop, then relaxes his grip. Hornett fixes me with an enraged glare, pointing a finger in my face. “I’ve had it with this crap, Bissette” He shouts, before storming out of the Subaltern’s dorm, leaving his beret lying forlornly on the floor.

Holte lowers me on to a nearby bench, before releasing me completely. I’m calm , now that most of the air has been choked out of me. I take huge lungfuls of air, trying not to pass out. Holte takes me

by the lapels of my tunic, face incredulous. “What the hell was that, Trafford?” He asks, familiarly using my first name. Not that he’s got a right to. He barely knows me. “Couldn’t help myself. I dunno what came over me”, I admit. “I was just shaving, and I drifted off to Emperor knows where”

I glance around the room. The other officers, all four of them, are stood motionless, shocked. Eamonn Rhodes, Max Dohlmann, Trevor Endicott, Rayner Aust. Just stood there, like they’ve never seen a fight before. They’re all the same rank as I am, but you’d never guess. They’re senior to me, their commissions predate mine. They treat me like an outsider. Like an upstart. Like they’re better than me. Holte’s the only one who’s made any real effort to get to know me since my promotion. I guess he, at least, deserves an answer. “I can’t explain it, Holte”, I continue. “I just find myself, I dunno, drifting away sometimes, these past six months” I don’t mention the face I saw. His face. Holte crouches down in front of me, concern on his big, angular-jawed face. “Trafford, you need to get some help, mate. Book yourself in to sick bay. Get yourself psycho-analysed. Whatever. You lost it, man. You were gone. You head butted Rowley damn Hornett” , he exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief. “And you know where he’s gone. Straight to the Captain.”

“I know”, I reply, holding my head in my hands. “But there’s nothing wrong with me. This has all been going on since Akkadium. It’s just nerves. Combat Fatigue. I dunno.”

Akkadium. Damned Akkadium. I get a flash, a vision of falling, of diving. Of AA fire shrieking past my face. Men being hacked out of the sky by tracer. Screams. I shake my head to clear it.

“Look, don’t worry about me”, I continue. “I’ll go square things with the Captain”, I finish, getting unsteadily to my feet, wiping the blood off my lips with the back of one hand.

“You had better, Bissette”, remarks Aust, now stood lacing up his boot, one foot up in a bench. “I’m growing tired of these outbursts”. I don’t like Aust. Good friend of Hornett. And I hate that plummy accent of his. Man’s an aristocrat, and shows it. “This dorm was perfectly peaceful before you arrived. Now, it’s bedlam.” He leans slightly towards me. “Don’t think you could ever replace Lieutenant Vane, Bissette. You’ve filled a dead man’s boots through sheer good fortune”. In my mind’s eye, I see Vane’s death. Akkadium again. I see the bolter shell, clearly meant for me, instead ricochet off of a piece of rubble. See it strike him in the gut. An explosion. Blood. A strangled cry. Stillness.

“Listen, Rayner”, I reply, staring hard. “I’m really not having a good day. The last thing I need is you balling me out any more than I’m about to get balled out by Captain Vincennes. And we’re Soldiers, Rayner. Harakonis. We fight. We die. People get replaced. I replaced Vane. I know you liked him. I didn’t choose to get promoted. But get used to it, because I’m not going anywhere”. I stand abruptly, making Holte step backwards. I snatch my beret off my nearby bunk, and cram it on to my head, before stalking out of the room. Silence from behind me.

I walk briskly down the corridor, it’s austere metal walls glinting dully in the harsh, electric light given off by the overhead glow-bulbs. I reflect on how much ships manufactured on Harakon differ from the ships of the Imperium in general. I guess because they’re newer. I can’t think of one more than a hundred years old. They’ve got none of the Gothic architecture, spires, domes, or crenellations of some of the much older vessels I’ve seen. Which is just as well, because those old ships really unnerve me. Too big, too venerable, too sad. This one, the Spirit Of Harakon, is less than 20 years old. The Troopship has only been involved in a few campaigns. But it’s seen its fair share of combat already. As I walk, I can hear and feel that the engines are still not powering right. Their beat’s all off. Vibrating like a palpitating heart. The after effects of a strike from the Nova Cannon back on Akkadium. In the six months since that fight, the Tech Priests have been struggling pretty much constantly to fix them. They haven’t managed it, though. The ship can’t reach more than two thirds warp, so I’m told. Plus, we’ve involuntarily dropped out of Warp altogether a couple of times in the last few weeks. The second time was right in the middle of the Van Santen Asteroid belt. Ship was only saved by the port side gunners, who were clearly on the ball that time. Some rapid Lance Battery fire had shot up an asteroid bigger than a titan, which had, apparently, come within two miles of annihilating the ship’s Bridge.

The ship’s crowded, too. More so than usual. As well as two regiments of Harakoni, the 23rd “The Hunters” and my own, the 19th “Helldivers” we’re playing host to two heavily depleted regiments of Elysians. The Elysian 8th “The Swords Of Arrald” and 75th “The Deuces” had been all that had been left when their own troopship, the “Light Of Elysia”, had been destroyed over Akkadium. I’d heard that more than twenty thousand Elysians had lost their lives that day. The 8th and 75th had only survived because they had been the first two regiments deployed from the ship. Their luck had only partially held, though, as they’d really been through the grinder planetside. I sympathised with them. They’re excellent soldiers, and, like us, are one of only a handful of regiments in the whole Imperium specialising in Airbourne drop deployments. I’m glad that at least a few hundred of them made it. For the first few weeks after my promotion, the other Ensigns and myself had had to double bunk with some junior subaltern officers from the Elysians. Not together; the bunks were far too small for that. We’d had to “hot bunk”; take it in turns sleeping.

Also, we have two companies from another regiment I’d never heard of aboard. The “Royal Cazadores”, they’re called, from some planet named Espiritu Santo. Whatever that means. I’ve no idea why they’re aboard; we picked them up on Attu some weeks ago. Haven’t seen any of them yet. But then, I’m not surprised. They’re billeted down in one of the cargo holds, with the cereals and grain, for lack of space.

As I round a bend in the corridor, I pass Hornett, stalking the other way. He shoots me a venomous glance as he passes, but says nothing. He’s obviously just come from the Captain’s office. I stop by the office door, which, unusually, is closed. Captain Vincennes mostly keeps it open. I press the chime button on the door’s left side. “Come”, sounds his gravelly voice from inside. The door slides open, revealing the Captain sitting at his desk, facing the door. Sat in the chair opposite, with his back to me, is what can only be another officer, if his uniform is anything to go by. The man turns towards me, revealing a tanned face, long, black moustache, and what looks like a large, brown coloured Lho Stick hanging out of the left side of his mouth. The Lho stick is giving off an aromatic fume which doesn’t smell altogether unpleasant. He flashes me a grin, revealing two rows of almost perfectly white teeth.

“Bissette”, says Vincennes in a neutral tone. His face isn’t showing any emotion, but the huge scar down the left side of his face is bright red, which only ever happens when he’s really pissed off. Usually, it’s more of a dull, blue colour. He’d picked that up some years ago, on Agrea. Shrapnel from a Frag Grenade had almost sliced his head clean in two; some medical orderlies had held him together for three hours before he could be evacuated for treatment. Although the surgeons had done a fantastic job of cobbling him back up, the scar remained as a memento.

“Not now”, he continues, before I can say anything. “Go and wait in the mess. Come and see me in half an hour”. I start to open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with a look.

I turn on my heel, and make my way to the deck below. I find the 19th Regimental Mess Hall, and sit down at an empty table. I glance around. For a hall which can hold the entire regiment, some 2000 men, it’s pretty empty. But then, it’s 21:00; many of the men will be at recreation, or, if they’re sensible, in bed. There can’t be more than a few dozen soldiers in here, sat at various tables in groups of three or four. The room’s so large, I’d have to shout for the nearest soldiers to hear me, even though it’s quiet.

I’m approached by an elderly, white-coated orderly, stained with food from the day’s four meals. “What’ll it be, Ensign Bissette?”, he enquires. I know this man. Have done since I joined this regiment twelve years ago.

“A mug of Chaff, please, Larkin. Stick a couple of extra spoons of Smalt in this one, if you would. I could use it today”, I reply with a lopsided smile.

“I see”, he says, a knowing grin on his face. “Dropped in the crap again, did you?”

“I’ve never climbed out of the crap, mate. As far as I can tell”

“The best soldiers never seem to, Mister Bissette” he re-joins, taking a mug from his metal drinks trolley, before pouring steaming hot, thick Chaff from a large, metal canister. He drops three big spoons of sweet Smalt from a tray into the mug, before giving it a long stir. He hands the mug to me. “There you are, sir. Get that down you. Put hairs on your chest, that will”, he smiles.

“I’m 34, Larkin. I’ve had hairs on my chest. They’ve been burned off a long time ago. They’re not coming back. You know that”.

“That I do, Sir, that I do. But, you never know, do you? I’ve made that Chaff extra strong. I fermented the pods myself, for three weeks! Really gets the flavour going, I find. Try it”, he laughs.

I take a sip. It’s malty, thick, and flavoursome. It’s also rather spicy, almost making me gag. Luckily, the three spoonfuls of smalt quiet the heat a little, preventing me from bringing the dark blue liquid back up again.

“Good, eh?” Larkin observes, watching my face.

“Effing hell! I manage, after a pause. That’s the stuff”

“Glad to hear it, Sir. You take a load off, and enjoy that, now” he says, before he ambles off, pushing his trolley.

I take another pull from the mug, enjoying the drink, and trying to calm myself down in preparation for the crap I’ll be walking into in twenty minutes.

As I gaze into my mug, lost in my own thoughts, I feel a tap on my left shoulder. I glance in that direction, finding that there’s no one there. Turning to my right, I see that the officer I’d seen earlier in the Captain’s office is stood just behind me. The man’s grinning from ear to ear, clearly thinking he’s some kind of damn comedian, having made me fall for the oldest wheeze in the book.

“Can I help you….sir?” I ask in an irritated tone, being in no mood for this kind of crap.

“I doubt it, but I might be able to help you”, he returns in a rich, accented, mellow voice, filled with amusement. “May I take a seat?” he asks, politely. I see he still has that smoking, brown thing in his mouth.

I sigh in irritation, lean back, and spread my arms wide “Go ahead”, I return, in what I hope is an aggrieved tone.

If the officer notices the tone, he ignores it, as he gracefully seats himself opposite me, with another smile. He’s a handsome man, I observe, with a twinge of annoyance. A devil with the ladies, no doubt.

After observing me for a few seconds in silence, he puts out a hand. “Commissar Raul Dregara, 1st Royal Cazador Guard, to his Most serene highness, King Carlos Juan Valdez of Espiritu Santo”, he introduces himself. I reluctantly take his hand in my own “Ensign Trafford Bissette, First Battalion, Company 'K', 19th Drop Regiment, of Harakon”, I reply, in a slightly surprised tone. I’ve never met a Commissar before. I’d seen a few, in action, and had heard of their fearsome reputation, of course.

“Ah”, he says, noting my surprise. “Of course, you Harakonis don’t have Commissars, do you? Goes back to the Hegerion Concordat, no?

“True. Uh…what do I call you?” I answer, feeling a little nervy. These men are dangerous, so I’ve heard.

“Well, I’m a Commissar, Ensign. I fall outside of the regimental rank structure. I am coequal in rank to whomsoever I am speaking, unless I deem it necessary that I become superior. Right now, I am speaking to you. You’ve not yet given me any reason to pull rank, so we may speak as equals. I don’t know you yet, so you can’t call me by my first name. You aren’t both familiar yet superior to me, so you can’t call me by my last name. That just leaves my rank. Call me that” He grins, as though acknowledging the overly complex way he’s just explained this to me.

“Right…Commissar” I reply, slightly cautiously. His familiarity is unsettling. “You can just call me ‘Ensign’, then. It’s a junior officer’s rank, just below Lieutenant. Some regiments call them Second Lieutenants. I don’t know any other Regiments that use it. Just us. Uh…is that alright, Commissar?” I’m still a little nervous.

“Listen, whatever you’ve heard about us, I assure you, it’s only mostly true”, he says, almost reading my mind, with a disarming grin. “Don’t worry, we’re not all trigger happy avengers, nor frothing disciplinarians. Besides, if I can’t relax in the company of a Loyal Harakoni officer such as yourself, where can I?” He smiles again.

I can’t help but offer a small smile in return, despite myself; the man has an almost palpable aura of charm about him.

I also notice that his uniform is immaculate. It’s not the usual sombre black of a regular Commissar, but a rich, dark, lustrous maroon colour. He’s wearing a tunic, fastened by gold coloured buttons with a crest of some kind embossed upon them, and close-fitting dress uniform trousers of conservative cut on his lower half. I note that there is gold piping running up the outside of either leg. He’s wearing dark brown, glossy, leather knee length boots, too. Worn over his Tunic is a dark brown cross belt, also in leather. I see that he’s wearing some sort of cape over his left shoulder, which is Black. His uniform is completed by a Commissar’s peaked cap, also in Maroon, with the symbols and sigils of the Commissariat upon it. Finally, I see that, strapped to his belt, in a leather holster, is what appears to be an Auto Pistol of a kind I’ve not seen before. Overall, it’s a gorgeous uniform which makes mine feel rather inferior.

“You’ve noticed my sidearm, I see”, he observes, following my gaze.

He draws the weapon from its holster, before placing it upon the table. He’s evidently proud of it. I see that it has an odd, almost bizarre look. The grip is wooden, brown in colour, straight, and rounded at the end, almost like a broom-handle. The body of the weapon is gunmetal black, heavily blued, boxy in shape, with a slim trigger, and a rectangular-shaped magazine mounted underneath. The barrel is some 8” in length, with an iron sight mounted at the end. The hammer at the rear has a curious, curved shape to it. Embossed on the body of the Pistol, just above the grip, is a word, which appears to say “Mauser”. There seems to be an inscription, in a language I can’t read, along one side of the barrel.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing towards the Pistol.

"Be my guest, Ensign. But, have a care. It's loaded, and there's one in the chamber. Safety is on. A Commissar's sidearm is always ready." He grins genially.

I heft the weapon in my hand. For an Autopistol, it's pretty heavy. I say as much.

"It's made of Steel. Unlike most other sidearms. Yes, it's heavy, but it's accurate and hard-hitting. I craft the ammunition myself; Nine Millimetre ammunition is practically impossible to come by anywhere. I have been unable to determine what substance was originally used to propel the bullets, and so I use modern propellant. It's almost certainly more powerful than whatever was originally used. Therefore, I have had the barrel and frame reinforced, to handle the overpressure. I tip the bullets with Trillium. They will pierce Carapace armour at fifty paces."

I'm impressed. I haven't ever seen a Pistol like this one before. I look the inscription on the barrel over.

It reads:

"A mi amigo, el Teniente Coronel Miguel Dregara, por sus años de leal servicio. Gen' Francisco Franco, julio de 1938."

I frown, not understanding the strange language.

Dregara catches my look.

"It is an archaic form of the language of Espiritu Santo, Ensign. The inscription translates into High Gothic as 'To my friend, Lieutenant Colonel Miguel Dregara, for his years of loyal service. Gen' Francisco Franco, July 1938'. I have no idea what it refers to, or who Francisco Franco was. I do know, however, that this weapon has been in my family for generations"

"What do you suppose the '1938' part means, Commissar? A serial number? Surely not the year?"

"I doubt it, Ensign. That would make this weapon more than 40,000 years old, and possibly among the oldest objects in the Imperium. It would be priceless! The very thought!" Laughs Dregara.

I carefully hand the weapon back, suddenly filled with a strange sense of respect and age at having handled it. Dregara carefully re-holsters it.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Asks Dregara, nodding at my mug.

“It’s called Chaff, Commissar. It’s a popular drink back on my world”, I answer.

“May I?”, he asks again, nodding at my mug.

“Be my guest”, I return, pushing the mug towards him. This should be good. I smile inwardly.

Dregara removes the thick Lho stick from his mouth and takes a mouthful of Chaff. He swallows, with some difficulty. If I was expecting a big reaction, I’m disappointed. The Commissar goes quite still, staring straight ahead, for some twenty seconds.

“What do you think?”, I ask, not without a little amusement. Chaff is certainly not a drink for the faint-hearted.

“…it tastes like spicy, blue ordure, Ensign”, he declares with a sour face, startling a laugh out of me, despite my mood. “What the hell is this stuff made of?”

“It’s mostly made from the fermented seed pods of the Chaff bush, Commissar. The bush’s leaves, roots, stems, everything, are various shades of blue, which is why the drink’s also blue”, I explain. “We often add a sweetener called ‘Smalt’ to it, which is a mix of Sugar and Malt. I’ve been drinking it all my life, but I hear it’s considered an acquired taste to off-worlders”.

“Well, I’ll take you at your word on that, Ensign. But for now, I’m thinking that if I never taste that stuff again, it will be too soon” He takes a metal hip flask from his top pocket, before swigging from it. “To take away that damned aftertaste”, he explains.

I catch a whiff of whatever he’s just sipped. It smells aromatic and sweet, like nothing I’ve smelled before. “So what’s that you’ve just drunk then, Commissar?” I ask.

“We call it ‘Vino Tinto’, or ‘ Red Wine’. It’s an alcoholic drink made with the fermented juice of a fruit we call an ‘Uva’, though others call them ‘Grapes’. It’s not found in many parts of the Imperium, so I’m told. Perhaps you’d like to try it?” He asks, proffering the flask towards me.

I take a sip of the rich, red coloured liquid. It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. It’s rich, full-bodied, astringent yet mellow, and strongly fruity. I hand the flask back to Dregara. “That’s the straight goods, Commissar”, I say, with genuine respect.

“Rio Cortez, ’07 vintage. It’s one of the better ones. And, I might add, made by my family. I carry a small quantity of the stuff wherever I go, for emergencies”, he answers with a smile.

We have alcoholic drinks on Harakon, too, or course. But they tend to be very much of the quaffing kind, and certainly nothing, that I’m aware of, approaching the obvious sophistication of the “Wine” I’ve just tasted.

“So! I understand you’re due to receive a ‘dressing down’ from your Captain, Ensign?”, declares Dregara, leaning back in his chair, and abruptly changing the subject.

“Something like that” I reply, morosely.

“On Espiritu Santo, striking a superior officer is a beating offence, of course”

“A beating offence?”

“Yes. If found guilty, the offending party is beaten by his squad-mates, using sticks, for however long is judged appropriate by the man’s commanding officer. Despite how it sounds, the punishment is meant for the entire squad. After all, if discipline and respect among the squad is so low that one of them would strike a senior officer, then, so the reasoning goes, the whole squad deserves a lesson”, he explains, arms spread wide for emphasis.

“It’s up to the Captain, Commissar”, I answer, somewhat tersely. Dregara’s familiarity is beginning to grate on me.

“So why did you do it?” He asks, pointedly

“I don’t see how that’s any of your goddamn business, Commissar” I say, feeling my face colouring. I’ve got a temper. I’ve always had one. I don’t care if he’s a Commissar, now. He’s got no business prying into my head. It’s not like I can drop in any more trouble. Dregara quickly proves me wrong.

His genial expression drops from his face like a rock. He leans threateningly towards me, eyes now boring into mine.

“I don’t care for your tone, nor your crude choice of words.” He says, voice dropping several octaves. “I can assure you, I do not ask irrelevant questions. Nor do I waste my time bandying idle chit-chat with low ranking subalterns like yourself without good reason. Do not take me for some genial, foppish spiv, idly passing the time of day for the good of my health. I am where I am, speaking with you, because I have chosen to be here, and so doing. I asked you a civil question. I expected a civil answer. And I can assure you , Ensign”, he says, leaning so far forwards that his face is inches from mine, “that, despite the fact that a Commissar has no nominal authority over your regiment, that my word still carries significant weight. Especially in matters of discipline, and fitness for duty”. He lets that one hang for a few seconds, before abruptly smiling once more, and leaning back into his chair. “So! I ask again; why did you do it?”

I feel anger and fear rise up in equal measure. What possible reason can this man have to be quizzing me like this? He’s got nothing to do with me. Yet he’s seemingly got me trapped, with some unknown force of authority backing him up. What can I do? I don’t think I can argue. Dregara’s demeanour brooks none of that. I’m not scared of him; I know how to fight. I’m worried about what might happen afterwards. And I can’t very well walk off; he’ll just follow me. And how to frame my answer? I hesitate.

“I….was daydreaming, Commissar” I manage.

“Daydreaming.” He says, in a monotone. It’s a statement, not a question.

“I was shaving. Looking in the mirror. I just…drifted off. I don’t know why. I…saw some things. Frightening things. Lieutenant Hornett startled me. I guess I reacted badly”, I trail off, unwilling to continue.

“I see”. He concludes. “And has this happened more than once?” He sounds concerned. Worried, even.

“Yes”, I answer, honestly.

“For how long?”

“Uh, for some six months, now”

“Since Akkadium? I’ve heard all about that. Your regiment was badly mauled, no? Significant losses?”

“…yes.” I say, my voice catching slightly.

“You lost someone close to you”. Again, a statement, not a question.

“….screw off, Commissar” I reply, quietly, my eyes downcast. I don’t even care about what might happen next, now. I’m not ready to talk about this. Not by a long shot. If Dregara wants to go bitching to the Captain or whoever, let him. I raise my eyes and fix him with a defiant stare.

He fixes me with a level, appraising stare for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s about to do something dramatic. Instead, he sighs resignedly.

“I thought so. So it goes with those who fight. We strive so hard to maintain our bodies, our weapons, that sometimes we forget to maintain the mind.” He gives me a knowing, sympathetic look. “You should check yourself in to the apothecarium. You need to speak to somebody. You’re no use to anybody, with your mind being the way that it is. Particularly not me”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, alarmed. No use to him? What the hell?

“I’ve said too much on that score, Ensign. I want to get back to your mental health. You’re suffering, I can see it. Don’t think that I can’t. I’ve been a soldier for more than twenty years. I make no exaggeration when I say I’ve seen it all. I hate to see good soldiers throw everything away by not paying mind to their minds” He smiles. Probably at his own wit.

But now, I’m really confused. Why would this man, from a foreign regiment, with no authority of command over me, care about me, or what’s going on in my head? I say as much.

“That’s for your Captain to tell you”, he replies, looking at his holo watch. “Speaking of which, I suggest you go and see him; your half an hour is almost up”

I check my own watch. Three minutes left. “crap”, I swear under my breath.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure”, he finishes. “Oh, and you can thank me later” he adds.

“For what?” I reply.

“I said at the start of our conversation that I could help you”

“And how have you done that?” I ask.

“You’re feeling a little better, aren’t you?” he answers

Despite myself, I find that I am, in fact, feeling a little better, for some reason. Shaking my head slightly, I leave the grinning Commissar in the mess hall, and make my way up to the Captain’s office.

The door’s still closed. That’s not a good sign. Captain Vincennes tends to keep it open. Reckons it makes him more approachable. I press the chime button at the side of the door again.

This time, the door just opens, revealing the Captain, still sitting at the desk, staring at me in the doorway. “Come in. Sit”, he says, indicating the chair on the opposite side of the desk, where I’d seen Dregara sitting. I do as I’m told.

He fixes me with a level gaze. I can still see that his scar is a ruddy red colour. He must be furious. He’s good though; conceals it brilliantly otherwise.

“So”, he begins, evenly, his hands loosely folded on the desk in front of him. “Would you care to explain why my first Lieutenant has a black eye?”

“I--” I begin

“Actually, sod it. I already know why” He interrupts me, holding up his right hand. “Nothing you can say will excuse you, Bissette. This is the second time you’ve been in here in the past six months now, being spoken to like this. How many times do you think I’ll tolerate this kind of behaviour before I do something drastic?” He asks.

I make no answer. I’ve probably had two more chances than anyone else would have got.

“I’m disappointed, Trafford.” He says sadly, shaking his head. “I promoted you as Vane’s replacement, over others more senior, because I really thought you had something in you. Something to offer, as an officer. The fact that you pulled me down, just as that explosion went off, was just the icing on the cake” He says, with a half-smile that quickly disappears.

I remember a chunk of shrapnel the size of a fist missing his head by inches. Akkadium again.

“But instead”, he continues, “You’ve become an insubordinate, violent thug, it seems. You’ve neglected the men, and your duties. You haven’t bothered to bond with your fellow officers. You disrespect Lieutenant Hornett, your direct superior. You openly brawl with him, going so far as to strike him. And, I might add” he points at me, “You also look like hell. Look at you. Your uniform. It’s unwashed, covered in fluff, shabby. You’re only half shaved. In short, you, Trafford, are a disgrace”.

That hurts. Leroy Vincennes, a man I’ve fought under for five years, has always been an affable, easy going sort. Oh, he’s got some steel in him, alright. Wouldn’t be such a good officer, otherwise. But hearing that, directed at me, coming from him, hurts. It hurts me, not to mention my soldier’s pride. Much more than I thought it would. I hang my head, saying nothing. There’s nothing I can say. He’s right.

“Now”, he continues, his voice softening slightly, “I will put you out of your misery. Lieutenant Hornett has, by some act of supreme benevolence, informed me that he will not be pressing charges against you. I think he’s mad. If it had been me, I’d have seen you broken back down to trooper. Or just shot you down like a Dog”, he expounds, staring hard. I know he means it.

“Obviously, your arse now belongs to him. I can’t say I’m not a little impressed by the way Lieutenant Hornett has gone about that, but there we are. Clearly, he’s more interested in the cohesion of the company than you are. Perhaps you should have thought about that before you head-butted him”

My head hangs even lower. Pride, defiance, anger; it’s all gone out the window. I’d expected a severe punishment. I guess I’d prepared myself for it. Maybe I’d been looking forward to it. Being shown mercy feels much worse, somehow.

“…yes, sir”, I manage to say, meekly, my voice catching involuntarily. My mind’s awhirl.

“As it happens, however, you’ve not escaped entirely”, he continues, as though I hadn’t spoken. My head snaps up. What’s he playing at?

“There’s a matter that’s come to my attention over the past couple of days, which requires addressing. A deployment, actually. I’ve been planning it out with Major Hobrow, and, together, we’ve worked through the personnel roster. I’d been considering the final officer’s spot. In a way, by coming to my attention today, you’ve volunteered yourself for it. Well done” he finishes, wryly.

“Sir?” I ask, incredulously. One minute, he’s berating me, the next, he’s sending me out on some deployment?

“Don’t sound so surprised, Bissette. You’ve known me long enough by now to know how I operate. I want two things understood, though. Firstly: When you return from this deployment, you will report to the sick bay for psycho-analysis. I believe you’re suffering, mentally, and I think it’s high time you took responsibility, acknowledge it, and get it sorted. Secondly: I will be in command of the deployment. I will be watching you very closely. If I find your performance wanting in any way, then I will be forced to rescind your promotion. You were an outstanding Trooper, you were an excellent Corporal. So far, you’re making a lousy officer. I’ve promoted you twice. I can, and will, demote you if I feel the need to. There’s no need for an appraisal meeting. Your head-butt removes the need for that. Do you understand? ”

That hits me in the gut like a sack of excrement.

“….yes, sir”, I manage, weakly.

“Now, to business. You may or may not have noticed that there’s a planet beneath us” He begins.

I hadn’t. Probably too wrapped up in myself to have noticed much outside of my own mind.

“The ship inadvertently dropped out of warp, two days ago, thanks to the engines malfunctioning again. We’ve come across a planet which, to be blunt, shouldn’t be there. Or, at least, nobody noticed it before now. It’s not on any of the charts, at any rate. It’s got the navigators worried, apparently. Not only that, but we’ve detected some signals coming from the surface. We can’t make them out. They just sound like dots and dashes, so I am told. General Scole has been in conference with the ship’s Captain all day so far. They’ve agreed that the planet needs to be investigated, and the source of the signals found. We’ve been volunteered for it. We’re going to make a landing in the morning. Full briefing at 07:00.That’s all for now, Bissette. Go clean yourself up, get some sleep, and pull yourself together. And that’s an order. Dismissed.”

I stand, and salute. He doesn’t even see; he turns his head away and begins typing something up on his desktop Cogitator. Probably about me.

Very cool begining, looking forwards to reading more.

Good start,I hope the story continues.

Part 2: Reflections

I leave the Captain's office, the door sighing shut behind me. I stand, morose, out in the corridor for a few minutes. People pass me; soldiers, ship's crew, porters, servitors. Occasionally, I feel their eyes on me. I barely notice. What the hell am I doing? How did it come to this? To me, going from being a "rising star in the regiment" (the Captain's words, not mine) to teetering on the brink of mental collapse and demotion? I shake my head, reflecting on how fast everything's fallen apart. Actually, not quite, I correct myself. I still have my rank. I haven't gone crazy yet. If I don't mess up tomorrow, I might still have a shot at redemption. It's going to be hard. Very hard. But maybe this dressing down was the kick up the arse I needed?

I reflect back on some of the things the Captain said. The part about neglecting the men, in particular. He's right there, too. I haven't bothered to speak with them for...how long now? Weeks, probably. The company went through Akkadium with me. My old squad, apart from poor Rigel, are all still alive. And have I bothered to ask how they are? How they're holding up, recovering? No. I hadn't even thought to talk with them. I've been so wrapped up in myself, my own problems, it didn't even cross my mind. They probably think I'm some kind of arsehole, a newly-promoted arsehole too full of himself to bother with the common soldiery anymore. I shudder at the thought. I've known officers like that before. Possibly being thought of as one makes me cringe.

That's it. I'm doing it.

My head snaps up, I start walking. Not to the crew room where the company spend their leisure time, but back to the Subaltern's dorms to straighten myself out first. No way I'm going to see the men, looking like crap.

I stride back in to the dorm, to find it empty. I return to the mirror and the sink, my shaving gear still on the side. I resist the urge to stare too long into the glass. I don't want to zone out again; I've got a job to do. As quickly as I can without cutting myself, I shave the other half of my face. I look down at my uniform. The Captain wasn't wrong; it does look awful.

Sighing in annoyance at having let myself go like this, I stalk over to the cupboard next to my bunk. Punching the code into the electronic lock, I open it. I've got three other sets of uniform in there. Two of them look as bad as, if not worse than, the one I'm wearing. The third I haven't worn yet. Like the other officers, I've been issued four sets of uniform. Also like them, I rarely wear the fourth set, keeping it immaculate for parades, or more formal occasions. Yes, we have a dress uniform too, but they keep those back in inventory for as a when needed. They're much too expensive to be kept in some grotty locker.

Looks like I've got no choice. I haven't the time to clean my other working uniforms. The fourth set it is, I guess.

Quickly, I strip off my old uniform, making a mental note to have it cleaned and pressed for another time.

Thoughtfully, I look at my clean uniform, hanging up on the door of my locker. It's certainly one of the smarter regimental uniforms I've seen. The tunic, of a modern, conservative cut, trimmed in silver piping , fastened with silver buttons, goes well with the black breeches. I look at the silver piping running down the outer legs; it isn't frayed at all; that's usually the first part of the uniform to become worn. I unclip the single, silver Bath Stars denoting my rank from the shoulders of my old uniform, and dog them to the new. Strangely enough, my black beret, of which I have only one, is in pretty good condition. But then, how much wear is something that just sits on one's head really going to take? I check the smaller, silver coloured Bath Star mounted on the brow of the Beret. It, too, is pretty much fine.

I can see my reflection in it. Odd. I look much older in this reflection than when I first caught sight of a newly promoted me, only a few months ago. When the pain of loss was still newer, keener. When I still thought of....of him as still being alive. I remember when I first met...him. We'd been partnered up in unarmed combat training, all those years ago, back on Harakon. On "Jubilee City", the orbital training facility. He'd broken two of the fingers on my left hand, before I'd laid him out with a straight right he hadn't seen coming because he thought he'd won. I catch myself half-smiling at my reflection. That's the first time I've done that in a long time.

I examine the thought, handling it carefully, like a live grenade. No. It's not safe to mess with too much. Certainly not now. I banish it to the back of my mind. The half smile slips from my face. Not now. I turn towards the full length mirror I keep hanging on the inside of the door of my locker. Funny. I actually look pretty good, now. Uniform clean. My angular face shaven. Sandy hair neat under my beret. I almost look like I've pulled myself together. Almost. I still have dark circles under my eyes. Nothing I can do about that now, though. At least my black Leather boots look ok. They're tough things. Short of stepping on a Frag Mine, nothing is going to ruin them. I pull them back on.

I close the locker door, and turn on my heel to leave the dorm, still (mercifully, perhaps) empty.

Striding out into the corridor, I see it's as busy as ever. A hive of activity. I don't know why, but the sheer number of people who can cram in to a ship this size always surprises me. How many? I'd heard that a fully manned ship of the "Majestic" class, like this one, can accommodate more than 90,000 crew and soldiers. I'm guessing that the ship is holding at least a third more than that, now, what with the Elysians, the Royal Cazadores, and the new Harakoni recruits aboard.

New recruits.

I'd forgotten about them. Harakoni regiments only ever reinforced themselves from Harakon itself. Unlike most other Imperial Guard regiments, who often replaced losses from any nearby world. There was a whole arm of the Harakoni military, known as "The Promissory" whose job it was to monitor the whereabouts and status of each Harakoni warship and battle group. Even a deployment of company size was monitored. Losses were reported back to The Promissory, who would replace them in due course, using the fastest ships they could lay their hands on. These ships are known as "Lighters". I don't know why. I'd been shuttled out to the Spirit Of Harakon on a lighter myself, with forty others, all those years ago. Along with...him. The ship has been my home ever since.

As far as I know, there are only about twelve of us left from that intake. Three of them are in my old squad. Tessar. Aurochs, Stenson. We've been through a lot together. A pang of guilt strikes me that I've been neglecting them this long. I should have done better.

Not to mention the nineteen new recruits who have been inducted into my company, company "K", to replace our most recent losses. I haven't even met them yet. The other Ensigns, Lieutenant Hornett, the Captain; they would have made a point of going to introduce themselves on day one.

Not me, though. I cringe inwardly again. Of course they'll know that there's an Ensign who hasn't bothered his arse to meet them yet. What must they think of me?

Mentally, I kick myself. I won't make that mistake again. I hurry my pace.

I stand in front of the doors of company K's Crew Room.

My hand goes towards the activation panel which will slide the durasteel double doors open. I hesitate, psyching myself up.

The "Crew Room".

An incongruous word, conjuring up images of a small, enclosed, cosy space for a few mates to sit around a blazing log fire, quaff ale , and tell ribald, improbable stories of battles and conquests with women.

While this was partly true; the room is indeed designed to be as comfortable as possible, it's anything but small.

It's rectangular in shape, some 250 feet long, and 100 wide. The whole company, 300 men, give or take, can be accommodated here. There are Ten more rooms like this along this section of corridor, five to a row, opposite each other. There are sliding doors between the Crew Rooms, so that, if need be, the rooms can all be opened in to one another. The men's bunk alcoves line the walls on either side of the room, with recreational items ,tables, equipment racking and the like in the space between rows. The men spend most of their down time in their Crew Rooms, when they aren't in the mess, training ,or out on deployment.

They are rowdy, lively places most of the time. It's this aspect of the room I'm about to enter that's got me most worried. That, and the reception I'm worried I'll get. I almost don't press the button.
I'm just thinking about walking away when I notice some troopers from company "L", from the Crew Room next to ours, come around the corner in the corridor and see me by the door. I can't not go in now; It'll look pretty gutless if I'm seen hesitating to go in to my own company's Crew Room. The men rip off casual salutes towards me as they approach, which I resignedly return.

Damn it.

I press the button, and the doors open. I step through them into whatever awaits.

Any thoughts, ideas or critiques welcomed.

Part 3: Reconnections

Immediately as I step through the door, I'm greeted by what looks like about two thirds of the company doing whatever it is troopers do when they aren't doing anything else.
Some are sat, playing cards, talking, or gaming, around tables in the centre of the room. Others are sat or lying on their bunks, reading, playing video games, or just snoozing. Still others are stood about in larger or smaller groups, talking, listening to music, dancing, or just having a laugh.

With a slight note of annoyance, I see two soldiers midway down the room shoving each other in the chest whilst gesticulating and shouting at one another. It will escalate to blows any moment. That is, until Sergeant Major Radnor Ganch, who is sat playing cards with Corporal Molov, notices, which I expect he'll do in about a nanosecond. Head whipping around in the direction of the proto-fight, he does. "ORRIN! GALLUP!, PACK THAT IN!", he bawls across the hubbub. The two troopers pause mid-shove, before abruptly remembering that they each have business on opposite sides of the room from one another. Good to see at least some things never change.

I feel a twinge of apprehension as I clock Lieutenant Hornett stood in the far corner of the room, talking with Ensigns Endicott and Aust.

Ensigns Rhodes, Dohlmann and Holte are stood in a group of three just off to my right.

All this happens in a few seconds as I pause at the door. I had expected and feared that the room would go quiet as the men noticed me enter. Thankfully, this doesn't happen. There's a definite quietening down as I'm seen in the doorway, though. That's not good. The almost imperceptible ripple spreads to the back of the room, where it reaches Hornett and Aust, both of whom turn their heads in my direction. If Hornett's expression is anything to go by, he's still angry with me. Aust looks like he's smelled a turd, which is the expression he usually wears whenever he deigns to notice me.

No going back now.

I step gingerly in to the room, trying to pick out my old squad. Third squad's bunks are, I remember, about a third of the way down the room on the right. I see them all sat around a table, playing Dominoes. Aron Tessar has just won a hand, as I see him grin, before sweeping a few silver thrones off the table into his hand, evidently having won the pot.

"Bissette!" A voice comes from my right. It's Holte. He walks towards me, face a curious mix of surprise and concern. "I didn't expect to see you in here" he says quietly, discreetly, as he nears. I doubt anyone else heard. He holds out his meaty hands in greeting, as though about to embrace me. Despite myself, and knowing that there will be people watching the interaction, I hold out my own hands in response. I cross my arms over, my right hand gripping his right wrist, left hand to his left wrist, while he does likewise, in the traditional Harakoni greeting. Three quick, firm pumps up and down, and it's done.

"Neither did I, Jerold", I admit.

"What happened with Vincennes, then?", he asks.

I'm still not really comfortable with Holte being so familiar with me; I've certainly not encouraged it over the past few months. But he's persistently affable, seemingly impervious to my frostiness. He's clearly trying hard to get on with me. I sigh inwardly as I decide to tell him.

Holte shakes his head in mock disbelief. "I can't believe you got away with that", he admits. "I thought you'd be demoted at the very least."
"So did I. I guess he likes me, though I don't know why" I say with a wry, lopsided grin.

"You'd better make sure you don't screw this chance up then, mate. If you think you feel like crap now, then how much worse will it be feeling like that AND being demoted?"
I hadn't thought about it that way. Now that Holte's mentioned it, yes, that would indeed be far worse than this. Thanks, Holte.

What I say is:

"Mmm".

That's the best I have right now.

"So, I see you've tidied yourself up, man" Pipes up Rhodes, his strange, bluish, bionic eyes flashing in amusement. His family's rich. He'd been born blind. Nothing the doctors could do, apparently. So, his parents had paid to have them removed and have bionics fitted. They're so well made that they look almost natural. Unless you looked closely, you'd never tell. The only other thing that gives them away is the fact that they're startlingly blue ,and tend to give off an ambient light in darkness. He's also annoyingly affable, and prone to throwing slang about.
He claps me on the shoulder and grins. I don't grin back.

"Didn't exactly have much choice, did I?" Either that, or I'd have ended up on another charge"

"Well, it's good to see, bud. Guess you aren't such a damn ass-hat afterall?" He grins again. He's really trying hard with me, too. Better smile back. Shows good form.

"Wow, that's scary", he recoils in mock horror. "Did you practise that to scare the enemy, or what?"

I guess the smile wasn't as convincing as I'd hoped.

"Sorry, Eamonn ,but I'm not really in the smiling mood right now. I'm trying, though" I shrug apologetically.

"Well, it's a start", he drawls with a grin.

Glancing off to my left, I catch Tessar's eye as he looks my way. I see mild surprise on his face. He puts up a hand to wave me over.

"Got to go, gents. My old squad needs me" I excuse myself. Holte and Rhodes nod in acknowledgement.

I like that atmosphere of the quarters aboard the ship, maybe a bit of more sensory description would breathe life into the scene. If soldiers are smoking/chewing or drinking alcohol on their down time, or just managed to get some more interesting rations from somewhere. I look forwards to further expansion, nice slow start.

This is it. They're all looking at me. My company. My men. MY men.

Slowly, I walk over. They must see the look on my face. The apprehension. Emperor. I'm nervous. I swear under my breath.

"...sir" begins Tessar. They all stop what they're doing. Stand. Salute.

"At ease, for the Emperor's sake" I say. They relax, somewhat. Except the newbies. They remain rigid.

"It's been a while, sir", Tessar continues.

"It has, mate, it has, I admit. I'm...sorry, I've been going through some stuff" I continue, lamely.

Tessar drops his eyes.

"We all have, sir. Akkadium was tough"

"It was", I agree. "Ok", I address the new recruits. "At ease, I insist".

Thankfully, they obey.

It goes about as well as I'd expected. The old squad relays to me all the usual trials and tribulations of troopers everywhere. Discipline too tight. Punishments too harsh. Food not good enough. I listen intently. I'd missed all this, I realise. The rigmarole of it all. The mundane details. It's comforting, somehow.

Before long, we're laughing. It feels good.

"You're all aware, of course of the deployment tomorrow?" I ask. They nod. "I want you all to get a good night's rest. It looks like a standard recce, but we need to be ready for anything", I finish.

"We're always ready, sir", pipes up Aurochs. Good, dependable, professional Aurochs.

"I know you are, mate" I smile. "Well, I'm going to catch some zeds myself, now. I want you all bright and breezy in the AM, ready for the briefing. It's 07:00, and if I see any dragging of heels, just know that Ganch will be on you like a Lynxhound" I grin.

The squad all laugh. They know I'm serious.

I take my leave, and head back to my bunk. Whatever the morning brings, I know, at least, they'll be behind me. Why did I leave it so long? There wasn't anything to be worried about. There's a pang of guilt as I lay my head down.

I fall instantly asleep. But then, there's the dreams.

There HE is. Falling through the sky. Towards Akkadium. Flak fire stitching the clouds. A hit. A scream.

...It's mine.

In an instant, I'm awake again. I glance over at my holo-clock. 06:30. Time to dress. Hopefully, nobody heard me.

Thankfully, as I draw aside the curtain of my bunk, the officer's dorm is empty. Damn. Last awake again.

Quickly, I swing myself off my bunk and dress. No time for breakfast. I grab some "C" rations from my locker. Effelberry bake. I scarf it down as I walk briskly to the briefing room three decks above. I check my watch as the doors slide open. 06:59.

All of the company officers are seated within the auditorium. Usually, this room can accommodate more than one hundred officers. Today, there are only the officers of company K. Vincennes looks up as I enter. Taps his watch reprovingly. Great. A small black mark against me before we've even started.

I see Commissar Dregara, resplendent in his uniform, sat next to the Captain. He offers me an ironic smile by way of acknowledgement.

I plump myself down next to Holte, who grins affably. "Made it by the skin of your teeth, mate"

I offer a lopsided smile by way of acknowledgement.

Major Hobrow is stood up on the podium, along with an Enginseer whom I don't recognise. The man is dressed in the usual tech-garb: Rust red cowl, steely mechandrite manipulation tentacles. Four of them. The works. Looks more Octopled than man. Some kind of archeotech pistol at his hip, too.

I barely have time to settle, before Hobrow starts his briefing.

Part 4: The Briefing.

"Now", Hobrow begins. "As you all know, we have been suffering somewhat from malfunctions with our warp engines. It's no secret that our warp transit has been interrupted a number of times on our journey back to Harakon, and resupply. This particular malfunction is nothing unusual in that regard. What IS unusual, however, and something which you cannot have failed to notice, is the fact that we appear to have transited into the orbit of this planet"

He indicates the planet in question with a flourish of his laser pointer, at the image which now appears in the pict screen above him.

"As you may also have heard, through the usual scuttlebutt, this planet does not appear on any of our star charts, which is a concern. It is a concern, because it lies upon a well-travelled warp run, and does not appear to have been noted by any previous starships.

I have been in consultation with our Navigators, and have been informed that it is possible that this particular world lies within a 'warp pocket', the existence of which I have not previously been acquainted, and which we appear to have come across through pure chance.

Furthermore, and as you are again no doubt aware of, we have been in receipt of interstellar communications from said planet. We have checked these communications against our database, and they do not match anything with which we are aware of at this time. As far as we can tell, however, they are not of Xenos origin, but, rather, human. We can say this with some certainty, since they seem to conform to definite human patterns. In short, they consist of numerous dots and dashes, and appear to conform to an ancient Human form of communication known as 'morse code'.

Unfortunately, we have not been able to determine the content nor meaning of these communications as yet. In addition, we are receiving platetwide redouts indicating infrastructure, energy signatures, and other information indicating some form of civilisation either does, or has formerly existed here. We cannot determine why this may be so, since, as I have said, the world is entirely forested, without any clear signs of settlements, roads et cetera. This has been most puzzling.

It has also, thus far, been impossible to ascertain whether there are any life forms upon this world. In fact, it has not been possible to ascertain anything meaningful, since our scans cannot seem to penetrate the atmosphere of this planet at all, owing to some form of interference which confounds our sensors. However, visual observations have determined that the planet, which corresponds roughly to the size of ancient Terra, blessed be it's name, consists of three major continents, and a large quantity of oceanic water. It is thickly forested, and is no doubt host to a rich diversity of life, none of which has been detectable owing to said interference"

Hobrow has the pict screen zoom in on a continent to the left of the screen.

"This is where we have determined the signals to be emanating from" He indicates what appearsto be a large clearing within the forests. "We cannot say whether this is a settlement, or otherwise. What we can say, however, is that all of the vegetation of this planet, including the oceans identified, is of a dark grey, or black colour. This represents something of a revelation to the tech adepts on board, since it will have been the first time, that we are aware of, that such observances have been made.

Again, as those of you who are well-travelled will no doubt be aware, vegetation of all manner of colours has been encountered by mankind, but not black. This has been, to put it mildly, quite exciting to various members of the Mechanicum on board. It has been decided that a deployment will be attempted, both to identify the source of the signals which I have outlined, and to study the flora and fauna of this world. Your company has been earmarked to carry out this reconnaissance.

It has been determined that the atmosphere of this world is breathable, but nothing will be left to chance. You will be issued with full rebreather kit, triple rations, triple ammunition allowance, and the support of your entire company. Insertion will be by Valkyrie; we cannot be certain of the suitability of your Grav-chutes. The landing zone will be here" He indicates a point some few miles from the clearing which he earlier pointed out.

"The atmospheric interference is very strong around the source of these communications, and so we have identified an area of rocky heathland, more sparely forested, some fifteen miles from the clearing. We believe that it will be safer for the company to deploy from here. Your role, then, will be to form up around this area, set up a perimeter, and forge towards the clearing, the coordinates of which will be downloaded to your personal cogitators. Should anything of value be obtained, you will forward said information back to the ship, and we shall formulate a more in-depth plan of action from there."

"Be aware, however, that it is highly likely that two-way communications with the ship may be spotty at best, again owing to the interference. Your personal communicators may also be affected when communicating to the company. Enginseer La Hanche here" - he indicates the robed man - "will accompany ypu to the surface with his team, and set up a communications array at the landing site in the hopes that this will be sufficient for comms with the ship."

"A team of botanists and other scientists will accompany you, since it is felt that this is a highly important opportunity to study this world and its possible denizens during the course of the deployment. I would ask that you treat these staff with the respect that they and their officers are due, and see to it that no harm befalls them; they are irreplaceable until our journey is completed."

"Rounding off the personnel within the deployment will be Commissar Dregara and a detachment of 30 of his Royal Cazadores. He has requested, and been granted, permission to do so for training and morale reasons. As you may be aware, the Cazadores are considered an elite regiment, and their assistance, not to mention their highly novel tactics and weaponry, will no doubt be of great assistance should the deployment run into trouble."

"This concludes the general briefing. As always, the fine details of the deployment will be worked through by yourselves, in keeping with Harakoni military doctrine. You have been given the tools and the means with which to bring this deployment to a successful conclusion. I trust to your own initiative to make this happen. Dismissed."

Part 5: Preparations.

Along with the other officers in the auditorium, I stand, salute the podium, and leave the room.

Sergeant Ganch and the other NCOs will, by now, have mustered the company in the deployment bay, and be overseeing weapons, armour, rations and other kit being issued.

Holte and Rhodes fall in to step with me as we walk towards the armoury.

"What do you think of the plan, Bissette?" He asks.

"I can't really say", I admit. "I've never come across a situation like this before. A whole, missing planet? Black vegetation? Mysterious, weird signals? The plan seems fine. But then, they always do until they start meeting resistance" I shake my head and smile cynically. "I don't know. On the one hand, it might all go to plan. We might stroll in there, find a few mutated squirrels and discover that the signals are being given off from some broken-down cogitator owned by a drunken, lonesome moonshiner. On the other....well. We might all die horribly."

I grin at Holte, seeing his face go from a wry smile to a worried frown in an instant.

"What?" I ask. "You're not really that worried, are you?"

"The universe is a big place, Trafford. With a lot of unknowns. We don't know anything about this place. There could be anything down there"

He's staring at me. I realise he's genuinely looking to me for support. Reassurance. Why? It's not like I've earned the right to be the one to offer reassurance. But, there's something endearing about it.

"Look. We've got the men. We've got the training. We've got the firepower. We even have a detachment of strange-looking dandies with us, backed up by a crazy Commissar. If things go sideways, that nutter will probably charge his pretty boys right into it, while we can do a quick fade. We'll be fine." I grin wolfishly.

Holte cracks a smile.

"Well, when you put it that way, I guess it couldn't be that bad", he chuckles.

"By the Emperor, you're a cold bastard, Bissette", chimes in Rhodes. You can't actually mean that?"

"Maybe I do," I admit. "They look like asphalt soldiers to me." I look at him challengingly. He takes the bait indignantly.

"Well, I've been talking to some of them. They say they're the best. That they faced off against the flesheaters on Hyperion. Ran out of ammo. Dregara held them in line, they say. Without ammo, using bare hands and bayonets. Dregara won the laurels over it. That's pretty hardcore, man. Tough hombres."

"Hombres?" I scoff. "What's that?"

"It just means 'man', man. They use it to describe someone whose worthy of respect"

Was that a reproach he just fired off?

I stop abruptly, forcing him to halt next to me.

"I don't trust anyone I've not fought next to, chum", I say, in a low tone.

"One of their NCOs, Ruiz, he's a real stand up guy. Doesn't piss about. A veteran. I reckon they'll do just fine" he says, bionic eyes flashing at me.

I concede the point.

"I guess we'll see then, won't we?" I sigh. "I just hope they don't trip over their capes and hold us up too much"

We continue walking, in thoughtful silence.

Before long, we arrive in the armoury. Sure enough, there they are. The company. 300 men, all bustling about. Kitting up. Weapons clanking. Armour strapped on. Helmets rammed on to sweating heads. Ammo lockers slamming. Grenades dropping in to satchels. NCOs shouting, ordering, swearing. A hive of activity.

I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It's always been like this. The anticipation. The excitement. And yes, the fear. Always the fear. My old friend, crawling, slithering up my spine. To tenderly wrap his cold, clammy claws around my mind.

"Here I am", he whispers.

"Are you up for it, son? You want to do the bloody Tango with me again? You got the minerals? Can you take me on? You can get out, you know. Just say the words. 'I can't hack it'. Turn around. Walk out that door. Tell the Captain your mind's all screwed up after all. Your career's finished, anyway. You know it. I know it. Go back to your bunk. Lie down. Sleep. Landa will forgive you. He's there, waiting. Akkadium? He died there. YOU died there. Go, join him. He'll look after you"

I shake my head. Landa? Aarald? Is that you?

I can feel my head pulsating. Palms sweating. My breathing slows. I could do it. I could save myself. All this? What's it for? Some stinking hole of a planet that doesn't even have a name? Why put myself through this?

"Trafford?" A voice of concern. A hand on my shoulder. It's Holte."You ok?"

"What?", I hear myself ask through the murk. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine." I shrug his hand off. "Let's get this done."

I grit my teeth, decision made.

"Let's get this done," I repeat.

I open the locker. My battle gear stares back at me. Tan coloured helmet, visor flashing. My carapace breast and backplates, scuffs, scrapes, dents marring their tan hides. Elbow pads, gloves, forearm plates, thigh guards, greaves, boots. There's my Hellgun power pack, its power cables looking like two writhing tentacles. Hello, Hellgun. There you are. How long has it been since you were powered up? Who was the last nefarious enemy of the Emperor you put down? I don't know. Whose counting? Well, me, actually. At first. Lost count at eighty. How many more since that? Beats me. How are you doing, pressure suit? Saved my arse more than once, haven't you? Your black skin's fought off some heat, hasn't it?

Almost in a dream, the old, familiar weight of my battle gear settles itself against my body, piece by piece. Strapped on tightly. I pick up the Hellgun, plug him in. Heft his weight. What's your name again? Ah yes. 'Rymond'. Dad. When was the last time I thought about him? Months ago, probably.

There I am, on the spire. There's dad, hefting his slug thrower.

"Son", he says, "Those Vapour wyrms are tricky bastards. You think they're going one way, but then they bend, like a flash. Those teeth? They'll take your arm off before you can blink. Key is, to watch for the bend, wait 'till they whip back towards you. Under their neck? There's no armour there. One slug'll see to him. Pop him there, he's done. Now, watch me. Like so. See? Easy. You do this, you're a man. Now, let's go. You'll earn your manhood yet."

I got one, of course. In the end. Fifth time trying. Got the scars to show my failure the first four times.

Him and mum were so proud when I earned my cadetship. How they'd wept. Dad had never made it. Didn't make the cut. He'd gambled everything on me. Made my success atone for his failure. Poured everything he had into me.

"You're my greatest achievement", he'd said. "Everything I am, and more, is in you. Now go. Make me and your mum proud." He'd given the PDF salute as I boarded the lighter. So long ago. I feel tears prick at my eyes at the thought. If he could see me now, what would he say? I don't want to think about it. I reckon, in my heart of hearts, that he'd disapprove. All the fights I've been through? All the lives I've taken? The doubts, the terror? I know myself that bravery has had nothing to do with my still being around. Blind luck, more like. Being that bit faster than the scum trying to kill me. If I ever saw him again, being what I am now? Could I look him in the eye? I just don't know.

But I can't dwell upon it. I'm here. Now. My men need me. I don't know what's to come. I hope I can face it with bravery and strength.

My jaw locks as I plug the power cables in to my weapon. The familiar hum as it powers up is like a preface to the end of time. Each of the lights on the left side of the housing flash amber once, twice, three times, then settle in to green. It's ready to mete out death again.

I flick the internal switch of my helmet. The inside of the visor flashes for a moment, before the targeting reticules line up where I'm pointing the gun barrel. They'll turn green when I've got a shot. I glance about the armoury to ensure its calibrated. Range, windage, trajectory readouts all flash by in a second. Target co-ordinates for the drop load wirelessly into the on board cogitator in a quick sprint of gothic.

Automatically, I turn to Holte, whose locker is next to mine. A signal to check that my equipment's all connected and working correctly. He runs his hands over the power cables, the fastenings, the grenade satchel. His eyes flick over the pressure suit, checking for damage. He turns. I do the same for him. All good. Rhodes is next.

Together, the three of us make our way over to the launch bay, where the rest of the company is paraded in perfect lines. All three hundred of them. I feel the familiar pang of pride seeing them so. Holte, Rhodes and I take our positions in front of our own sections. Mine is in front of 3rd platoon. My men. Thirty three of them. Twelve of them are new. I can see it a mile away. Their uniform and equipment is pristine. Their bearing, nervous, despite trying to conceal it. I make a mental note of each one, telling myself I'll stick close to these men, to get them through this without incident.

I glance down the line. Rhodes, Holte, Aust, Dohlmann, Endicott, all standing in their allotted positions. The Sergeants and NCOs chivvying, shouting, prodding troopers into correct positions. And Vincennes, prowling up and down, making last minute checks on equipment and giving out words of encouragement.

"Company!" Bellows Sergeant Major Ganch, "Atten-shun!" Three hundred boots snap together in perfect unison. "Stand at-ease!" They all relax fractionally.

It's then that I glance to my left, and see the Cazadores marching in to the launch bay. I can barely believe my eyes. They're dressed as though on a parade ground. Rich, maroon tunics. Burnished gold breastplates, brown, knee length leather boots buffed to a rich shine. Gold, crested helmets and faceplates, with rectangular, red-lensed vision slits. And red capes. Damn capes. That's before I notice the Halberds strapped to each man's back. Halberds? How on Terra are they going to be any use in a forest?

Their firearms are a vision of polished gold and silver; Las-repeaters, by the look of them; three barrelled, and designed for sustained, heavy fire.

And, at their head, looking for all the world like he's trying to win the "best dressed dandy" competition, comes Dregara. Well, he's won that one hands down, by the look of him. Resplendent in his Commissar's uniform, breastplate mirror smooth and unblemished, positively glowing golden. He has strapped to his side an elegant power sword, impeccably, like an old world Sabre. The sidearm I'd admired so much earlier snugly sitting in its rich, well-oiled holster. And the cap, pulled down low over his eyes, like the Imperial Guardsman I'm sure he thinks he is.

They march right past the end companies, towards me. Oh no, Emperor, no. Please.

Dregara calls a halt, and the Cazadores stop on a penny, before, as one, turning to face us. To face me. I feel a sinking feeling.

Vincennes wanders over, a half smile on his face.

"I thought I'd attach the Cazadores to your platoon, Bissette, he grins. You might need the extra manpower, and I know you're just itching for a challenge. Let's see you meld their combat doctrine with ours like the professional I know you are", he finishes with a flourish towards the beautifully uniformed men.

If this is a joke, I'm definitely not laughing.

"Sir, I-" I try.

"No, no, they're definitely with you, Bissette. No mistake. I'm trusting you to guide these men without fuss. I'll be watching." He grins again and strides off before I can even try to protest any further.

"Greetings, Ensign,", drawls Dregara, the ever-present Lho stick hanging out of one side of his mouth. "It seems you and I will be together for quite some time", he grins sardonically.

"It looks that way, Commissar," I say, resignedly.

"How do you want to play this? Shall I place myself under your command, or shall we handle our men separately on this little sojourn?" Dregara asks mischievously.

"Respectfully, Commissar, I'll handle my own men, if you wouldn't mind. I think it's better if you command the Cazadores, but watch for our manoeuvres, and listen out for my commands before relaying them to your men. It would be better if you were to follow my lead, and go from there", I suggest, with some hesitance. I've not fought with another unit attached so closely to mine before. This is new territory for me.

"Very well then. But, have a care. My men's combat modus operandi is somewhat different to yours, as you can see. We prefer close assaults as opposed to commando-style sniping. Just try to bear that in mind when you start moving us around", he grins.

"I will," I return, before turning back to my platoon. Damn it.

I notice a few of my old squad giving me knowing looks as I turn to face them. Tessar, Aurochs & Stenson. All three of them. I roll my eyes theatrically at them. There are a few words I want to say to the platoon before we jump off. They need saying.

I catch Sergeant Morris's eye and nod towards the men.

"Platoon, 'shun!" He shouts. They obey.

"At ease, platoon," I say. They duly relax somewhat. "I know I've not been around a lot for some time," I begin.

I glance sideways at Morris, who is staring. He clearly thinks this is a bad idea. I plough on anyway.

"Truth be told, Akkadium knocked me sideways. In a lot of ways. I know the same goes for a lot of you. I guess we all lost friends there. I did, too."

I can feel myself choking up. The tears are close. I suppress them. The name that I can't say is on the tip of my tongue.

"Corporal Landa. Aarald. He was a good man. I know that many of you liked him. He was my friend."

This time, I really do choke. Now, I can't help a few tears rolling on to my cheeks, where I allow them to stay. I'm not sure what kind of reaction that was going to get from the men. What I didn't expect was the collective softening of expressions I now see among the old hands in the platoon. They're on side.

"Before we go in to this, I want you all to think about the others we lost. I remember them all. I...allowed myself to get too wrapped up in it. I made a mistake. It took me to a dark place. I neglected you. All of you."

My jaw tightens.

"That's on me. But I want to tell you that I'm back, now. I won't make that mistake again. Where you go, I go. I don't know what's waiting for us down there. But there's nobody I'd like to find out with more than third platoon."

There's some murmurs of assent from the men.

"Sir?" calls out Stenson, softly. I look over at him.

"We're with you, too. We understand. I'm glad you're back."

More positive murmuring, followed by a few whoops. Stenson begins clapping. Within moments, the whole platoon, and, after a pause, the new guys, are all clapping too.

I realise that I should put a stop to it as I glance sideways at the other platoons of the company, who are all looking at us. But this feels good. Cathartic. I clap along with them, now grinning ear to ear.

"I'm glad to be back with you bastards, too. Let's get this job done. First round of beer is on me!"

They all laugh and cheer boisterously. I catch a look from Vincennes at the far end of the bay. He has a lopsided grin on his face.

"Right then, that's enough of that. Mount up," I smile.

"Company K!" Bawls Ganch again. "Mount up!"

As one, we turn, and march to the waiting Valkyries.

As always, critiques / comments / suggestions welcomed.

Part 6: The unknown

Securely strapped in to the jumpseat of the Valkyrie, I close my eyes. This is always the worst part. The mind-bending feeling of weightlessness as the craft drops out of the ship and screams down through the atmosphere of a planet.

I check the comm-net connection of my helmet, tune it in to the chatter of the crew. I can hear the pilot and co-pilot going through their pre-drop checks.

I glance about the compartment, seeing the faces of the platoon, bathed in the red light of the craft's interior. To a man, they're going through last minute equipment checks.

I see Tessar checking one of the new guys over. Edison, I think his name is. I catch Tessar's eye, nod approvingly. He nods back.

*Third platoon, brace for launch*

comes the comm from the pilot.

Here we go. I close my eyes.

And there it is. My stomach has been left aboard the ship. My guts, sucked out of the top of my head.

The cabin vibrates furiously, the insane G forces assert themselves as we enter the planet's atmosphere. I open one eye.

The veterans are handling it like the professionals I know they are. Edison is vomiting quietly into a sick bag he produces from one of his pockets. It was the same with me my first time, too. He'll learn. Eyes screwed tight, breath held. That's the way. Until the vibrations stop.

I feel the craft level out, the vibrations easing. I start breathing again, open my eyes.

*Three minutes to drop site*

I count them off in my head.

A couple of heavy thuds, a grinding sound as the landing pads find purchase on the ground, a lurch, and it's over.

The safety harnesses lift from our bodies automatically.

"Out! Out! Out!" Yells Morris.

The men leap to their feet before the landing ramp hits the ground, turn, and exit the craft at a run. I'm last off. Twenty seconds: Not bad.

"Form up!" Orders Morris.

I glance left and right as I leave the Valkyrie. The other landing craft have landed in more or less a straight line, the other platoons charging out on to the black, stony ground. Within two minutes, we're deployed in a fighting line, by Platoons.

I see other landers making planetfall. That'll be Enginseer Lahanche and his men, the Botanists, ground crew, technicians, and other staff. They deploy immediately behind us for protection.

A red coloured, sleek craft of a design unfamiliar to me touches down to my left. The gull wing hatches at the prow swing upwards, and I see Dregara and his Cazadores exit in billows of swirling capes and gold. They form up quickly, and march to take position at third platoon's side with creditable aplomb.

I see the first and second platoons immediately move to form a perimeter around the landing site, Hellguns levelled at the treeline all around, alert for any opposition.

"Third platoon, to your duties" orders Morris.

They move like a well-oiled machine. Within fifteen minutes, we have ourselves a secure position. Tents, collapsible barricades, even a field kitchen are set up to pre determined timescales and patterns to offer maximum efficiency and defence.

Heavy weapons are sited in: Crew served Heavy Bolters, Autocannons, Missile Launcher & Mortars, covering the approaches. It's all done with laser precision.

Half an hour later, and we're all set.

*Platoon commanders, to my position for final briefing* comes Vincennes' voice over the comm-net.

It's then that I notice it, now that the noise from the deployment has died down. There's been no resistance. No alerts called. But it's more than that. It's silent. I pause as I sniff the air. There's a tang in the breeze I can't quite place. I concentrate. There it is. Mould. The air smells mouldy. I glance skywards. There are clouds in the sky, but they're sad, grey. The wan, yellow sun of this world shines fitfully through them with a slightly unwholesome light. I glance down at my equipment belt, making certain my rebreather is there. For some reason, I feel the urge to put it on; sure, the air is breathable, but it feels like my lungs aren't happy to be doing it.

I shake the ominous feeling, and head over to where the other officers are standing in a circle.

I approach the group of men quickly.

I can see that Vincennes has a tablet cogitator set up on a small trestle table. Holte, Rhodes, Hornett, Dohlmann, Endicott, Dregara and Lahanche are all craning their necks to see the screen.

"OK, everyone. So far, so good. As you've no doubt noticed, there's been no sign of any resistance nor other problems. The technicians report that the perimetre is up and running. If a small army attacked us now, I'm confident we could make a convincing fight of it.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that the planet wide interference that thwarted the ship's scanners has reared its head again.

The advance platoons I sent ahead, including Aust's light company, have reported that, after about a mile or so, their comms began to break down. Their last update was that they had found something important at the forest's edge, before their comms broke up completely.

Don't worry, they're fine; our optics can see them deployed in line to the east. My guess is that, the further away we get from the LZ, the worse the comms are going to become.

To that end, I'm going to keep at least one Valkyrie up in the air as a way to maintain comms. That's not going to last forever though; of course, they'll need to retain enough fuel to get us back to the ship once we're done here. The longer this drags on, the more difficult it's going to be to stay in touch.

If it gets to the point that we have to ground the Valkyries, then we will be forced to communicate visually, using flares. Don't use them unless in an emergency. You pop a flare, that means you're in trouble, and reinforcements will be sent to your last known position.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you how difficult this is potentially going to be". He points down at the cogitator.

"The source of the signals is, as you know, some fifteen miles eastwards. We've landed near as we could to the edge of this heathland, but that leaves five miles to the forest's edge, plus a ten mile trek through it until we get to where we're going. Now, ten miles is a mere stroll under normal circumstances.

However, the forest now appears to be extremely dense, and its going to be a tough slog. My best guess is that it's going to take at least as long to travel the remaining ten miles as it would to cross thirty in a straight line.

I will take the first company, and will act as spearhead. Lieutenant Hornett will remain at the LZ. He'll be in command here, and act as resource manager.

Holte, Bissette, Rhodes, you will bring second, third and fourth companies and act as our support. Commissar Dregara will, by prior arrangement, accompany Bissette's third company.

Commissar, I'd respectfully request that you defer to Ensign Bissette's direction where possible. However, I leave it to your judgement, should you deem it necessary, to take your men in hand in an emergency and lead them as you normally would.

The remainder of the company will remain behind to act as our strategic reserve, and to maintain the LZ in case things go sideways.

By my reckoning, we have some nine hours of daylight remaining today. I want to be at least two thirds of the way to our target before then, so that we can get this thing wrapped up, quick time. I don't like this planet, and I'm sure the feeling's mutual. I want out just as soon as we can."

Really enjoying this. Not much to critique. I mean you've got a sensible amount of commas and they're correctly placed grammatically speaking it's all good and it makes sense. I know I suggested more sensory description before, but I've since come to the line of thought that its sometimes unnecessary filler, especially in some writing styles. I think you have hit a good balance.

Story and world building wise it's great. Everything is nailed down and you don't dwell on anything that doesn't need dwelling on.

Really love the mental side of things. This guy is a human being and he's seen some gak. As a writer you've handled the character's PTSD and anxiety really well and with respect.

I look forwards to reading more.

Thanks for the feedback mate.

As someone who has suffered with PTSD, and is essentially a navel-gazing, reflective introvert, Bissette is basically me.

I'm writing him as though it were me going through these things. How would I react to the situations he's presented with?

In terms of writing style, I've read a lot of works by Lee Child, creator of Jack Reacher. In particular, his story "Killing Floor".

That story introduced me to Child's writing style. Clipped, impactive, to the point. He paints his words sparingly, filling in just enough to get a strong feeling of time and place, leaving the rest to the reader's imagination to fill in the blanks.

I like it. I'm trying to channel him as best I can here. Hopefully, it's working.

I'm determined to get this one wrapped up. Let's see how it goes!

Big, big twist coming up.

Looking forwards to it mate.

Part 7: The advance

The other officers and myself return to our respective companies to muster them for the advance.

Thankfully, Morris, being the experienced, efficient Sergeant that he is, already has the company standing to for when I return.

I brief him on the deployment plan.

He sniffs the air suspiciously.

"I don't like this, sir", he opines. "I've never come across a world like this. The air is absolutely rank. I feel as though my lungs are seriously unhappy about breathing at the moment" He finishes with a grimace, unconsciously echoing my earlier thoughts.

"I know what you mean", I agree. "None of the instruments indicate anything toxic in the air though. Nonetheless, I'm keeping my rebreather close at hand. I suggest you and the men do the same", I warn. I watch as he strides off to disseminate the message to the other company NCOs. The men duly unbag their respirators and strap them on to their belts. Glancing sideways, I see the other companies doing the same. Good.

The Cazadores' own helms seem to incorporate rebreathers of their own, so appear slightly better prepared than us.


Dregara says something to his men that sets them laughing. Holte and Rhodes' companies obviously overhear, since the laughter spreads to them too.

A couple of my company start sniggering as well, which I silence with a look.

Dregara, seeing this, swaggers over to me. I wince inwardly. I don't know why. Its not like I have any particular dislike of the man. There's just something about his easy authority, and the way in which others seem to naturally gravitate towards him, that rankles me.

"No harm in a little levity, surely, Ensign?" He enquires easily.

"I'd prefer my men to be focussed on the task at hand, Commissar," I reply, a little more tersely than I'd planned to. I'm nervous. Hopefully I don't show it.

"I just shared a little anecdote with my company", he continues, as though I hadn't spoken.

"I was telling them about how I once led a company on Ocampas prime, a world of less than a million humans, and positively overrun with wildlife. Particularly birds. One of the largest species of which was known as the Drylat Bird. I had put my hat down, upside down, on a rock while I used the latrine. When I had finished, I picked it up without noting the obvious change in its weight from when I left it. I went to address my men, and put the hat back on. It was then that I became aware that one of those infernal birds had crapped in my hat. The contents of which poured all over my head".

Despite myself, I grin. The thought of this immaculately dressed, proud man with crap running all over his head is actually pretty funny. That he shared this with his men, and mine, when, clearly, we'd have had no idea otherwise speaks for the quality of his character. Almost against my will, I feel myself warming to him somewhat.

"Leading men is about more than discipline, Bissette." He declares. They have to identify with you, and, dare I say it, like you. You will find them so much easier to lead when they get to know you, too." He finishes with a slightly admonishing tone.

Point taken.

"Fair enough, Commissar," I concede.

I'm about to continue, when the camp loudhailers bawl out.

"ADVANCE COMPANIES, PREPARE FOR MARCH!"

"We absolutely must continue this conversation another time, Ensign," Finishes Dregara, turning on his heel and striding back towards his men without further word.

"Company! Atten-shun!" Bawls Morris. They snap to. "Right face" As one, they turn. The other companies move off at a fast march, skirmishers breaking off left and right to cover the flanks. "By the left, quick-march!" We move off at the quick march of the Warhawks: ten paces marching, ten at a jog. The Cazadores fall in immediately behind us, their breastplates and Halberds clanking, weapons strapped tightly to their chests.

We clear the outer defences of the encampment quickly, and move out into the heathland. I take my position at the front and to the right side of the men as they march.

Before long, we've covered half the distance between the camp and Aust's company. My men are handling the pace like the soldiers I know they are. However, I can hear huffing and puffing from the Cazadores, who begin to fall behind.

Dregara jogs up beside me. He's looking a little flushed.

"This is quite a pace you're setting here, Ensign", he breathes.

"Can't hack it, Commissar?" I say good naturedly, and not without a little irony.

"I most certainly can", he returns, with an air of wounded pride. "But my men are heavy infantry. Heavy. That's the operative word there. They are not accustomed to this pace.

"Well, this is our pace, Commissar. We have a pretty tight schedule, and we've only come two and a half miles!" I say, checking my pedometer.

"You're going to have to slow down unless you want an exhausted rabble on your hands, Ensign", he rejoins.

I shake my head, irritated.

"Fine", I reply. "Company! Slow march!" I order. Immediately, they break their pace. Morris shoots me a querying look. I indicate the Cazadores with a backwards jab of my thumb. He shakes his head in acceptance as the company slows.

Dregara returns to his men with an irritated look.

Before long, we're some way behind the other companies, who pull ahead rapidly.

I catch sight of the Adeptus mechanicus contingent at the rear. As I watch, they overtake the Cazarores, and then us, LaHanche at their head.

"Do try to keep up, Bissette", he jibes as he passes, his mechanically enhanced voice sounding amused. He's not panting. He has bionic legs, of course.

"Piss off" , I return under my breath.

We arrive at the rendezvous point a full ten minutes after the other companies, some of whom, I notice, regard us with amused expressions.

3rd company falls in, while I once more join the other officers and Vincennes, who are stood together.

"Good of you to join us, Bissette", says Vincennes, wryly.

Great. Another black mark against me, I think to myself. There's no point in offering explanation; anyone with eyes can see that my men are perfectly fine, and that the Cazadores are a panting mess. Nonetheless, I feel as though I should have left them behind. It was my sense of responsibility that made me hang back with them. I hope that Vincennes can understand that.

"Aust, can you repeat for Bissette's benefit what you've just told us?" Asks Vincennes.

Aust, who is holding something in his hands, turns to me, his face betraying his continued disdain. He holds the object up.

"My scouts found this, half buried in the soil nearby" he says in his plummy accent.

I look at the object closely. It's a helmet. More specifically, it's a Power Armour helmet. An Astartes Power Helmet, seemingly Mk2 if my guess is correct. It's badly damaged, much of the faceplate having been torn away. I see that it is silver coloured, with an emblem painted on the right side. The emblem appears to be a black coloured, Adeptus Mechanicus cog, inside which is a red heart, broken in two. We have a good knowledge of Astartes colours and insignia in the Warhawks. We have worked alongside Astartes many times. I don't recognise this insignia at all. I say as much.

"And neither do any of us, including Enginseer LaHanche here", States Vincennes.

"That is correct, Captain," agrees LaHanche, stood nearby. "My databases include every detail of every insignia and uniform currently, and formerly, used across the entire Imperium. This insignia is unknown".

"What does this mean, LaHanche?" Asks Vincennes.

"Nothing beyond the fact that it is unknown, Captain," drones LaHanche, unhelpfully. "Although I have never encountered an unknown design such as this, it is not beyond the realms of possibility that a few designs were not uploaded to the database. Though it is highly unusual, not to mention troubling, that it is so. The databases are extremely detailed, and being updated second by second at all times."

"Sir!" A trooper of Aust's company comes jogging over, evidently agitated.

"What is it?" Asks Vincennes.

"We've found something a few hundred metres this way" the man indicates with his hand. "You'd better come and see"

Together with the other officers, I follow the trooper up a small, rocky hill, on top of which is what appears to be a jagged, haphazard pile of boulders. Only, upon closer inspection, it is not a pile of rocks. It's a battletank. A destroyed battletank.

"Here", points the trooper.

As we approach it, I notice other objects lying nearby. What I had originally mistaken for rocks, covered as they are in black, tendril-like growths, are, in fact, man made objects. Dozens of them. Armoured bodies, wargear, destroyed vehicles of all sizes. I look out across the heathland, suddenly recognising the regular, man made quality of many of the objects which we had previously passed without a second look. My blood runs cold. It's the remains of a battlefield.

Clearly, the others have arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously.

"How could we not have realised this sooner?" Vincennnes asks, almost to himself.

"Our scanners should have picked all of this up," opines LaHanche. "This world seemingly affects them to a far greater degree than we realised. They revealed nothing but natural landforms across this entire plain. The fact that all of these objects appear, to the casual eye, to be nothing but rocks upon the heathland, simply compounded the false readings"

"But how?" Asks Vincennes. "Our scanners are the most up to date, well maintained devices we have available, anywhere"

He's right. As an elite formation, no expense was spared by the Imperium for our outfitting.

"I have no answer for you, Captain. I find it most perplexing. Even my own scanners were foiled. Even now, they continue to register nothing of note," answers LaHanche.

I pace slowly towards the wrecked vehicle. It's an immense battletank, with a rounded, domed turret. Two huge guns, mounted side by side, droop forlornly over the right side of the wreck. Pitted with age, rust, black growths and almost unrecognisable, it sits forlornly in the weak light.

Traces of yellow and black paint remain upon its flanks, with the turret being the same silver colour as the helm which Aust is still holding. The same emblem, barely visible, apparent upon the vehicle's prow.

"A Fellblade", declares LaHanche, stalking up beside me.

"A what?" Asks Vincennes, clearly unfamiliar with the word.

"A Fellblade battletank," clarifies LaHanche. "Formerly used by the old Astartes Legions and by some Imperial Army units in pre-Imperium times. Now an exceedingly rare sight in Imperial inventories, I have never seen one prior to now". He finishes.

"There's more here, sir", pipes up Rhodes, stood a dozen metres away. He points to a pile of detritus at his feet.

We cross to where Rhodes is indicating.

It's a pile of armoured corpses, again, covered with the black growths and the wear and tear of time upon them. To call them corpses would be quite an overstatement. Many of the suits are empty, their human contents having long since been consumed by microorganisms. Some remain complete and sealed, Emperor knows what cocooned within. Some of them are adorned with the same yellow, black and silver colours as the helm and the tank, with the same emblem adorning their pauldrons.

However, I notice two corpses with a new livery. These corpses are armoured in suits of cerulean blue legs, silver torsos, arms, and helms, and cerulean blue power packs. The faded emblems upon their pauldrons are that of a halved, black and white visored helm, within a white coloured Mechanicus cog, surrounded by a yellow coloured crescent moon design.

The two factions appear to be locked together, as though wrestling with one another in combat. Uneasiness begins to steal over me. I glance left and right. I see the same emotions etched upon the faces of the others.

"This insignia is also unknown", declares LaHanche, indicating the armoured forms. "This is highly irregular. I have no records whatsoever of either the insignia nor livery of these Astartes". A hint of doubt is obvious in his tone.

"A scan of the isotopes present within the material of the suits indicates that they are very ancient," He adds.

"How ancient?" Asks Vincennes.

LaHanche is silent for a few seconds, evidently calculating.

"My readings indicate at least ten thousand years, with a small error of approximately one hundred years either way. Which is bizarre. After such a period of time, I estimate that Imperial power armour, not to mention adamantium, such as this battle tank, should have degraded in to little more than metallic dust, and dispersed in to the atmosphere when left in the open for such a lengthy period of time. There should have been almost no traces left. There must, therefore, be some quality of the atmosphere of this planet which has somehow preserved it. Fascinating." He concludes.