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Pt. I

The Medic
Hafla Van Koskovo
289.M38

“Hermann Karrel,” she muttered, reading the corpse’s name from its dog tag, “you have served the God-Emperor well, and your soul is hereby commended unto Him, preserver and destroyer of the ice and of all things. Let your body become as ice, and your soul as joy. Let your spirit never know hunger, even though it is many, many miles away from your home. With these words I end your life, and begin your happiness.”

She had memorised the funeral rites. All medicaes were obligated to know them, although almost every Truskan could recite them from childhood. They often came in useful on long hunting expeditions onto the Far Ice.
Her mind flitted back to her first real expedition. She’d been fourteen. She and her family had travelled from Shevmar and onto the southern tundra, miles out even from exotic Hjellsmar or Kavken-Allam. Her father had been a huntsman, venturing past the limits of civilisation in search of the megafauna that lived in the spaces that humanity could not live in; Myrkadon, Drashigs and so on. She’d shot her first Myrkadon on that trip. Only a small one. It was the last one she’d been on before her sister had been called up.

She shook away the memory and glanced up at the man’s comrades. What a way to die- a heart attack, days before the offensive. And here was she, running from the support trench to make sure it wasn’t another virus-weapon.
Four concerned faces stared down at her.
She sighed. “He’s dead, if you hadn’t guessed.”
“Bet it’s me gets to be sergeant-primus next.”
“Shut up, Klasken.”

She marched back to the support trench, boots squelching in the thick mud where duckboards
had been raised. She nodded praise to the dugout-shrines erected by the resident troops. Shells
with crude images of the Emperor roughly engraved stood in cubbyholes, festooned with printed
purity seals and small signs of devotion. Things of value.

Chocolate. Lho-sticks. Picts of family members.

A man had been found stealing from one of the shrines a few weeks before. She’d cheered as he’d been tied to the barrel of a gun carriage during firing exercises. Capital punishment was generally exceedingly rare in Truskan regiments, and such a brutal method was reserved solely for the cardinal sin of shrine-thievery.
She needed a new tunic. Hers was ripped. And woollen. She’d missed the handing out of the nylon waterproof versions. They didn’t have the red trim of the natural fabric types. She’d miss that. It’d be more than worth it, though, to stop herself getting drenched whenever she went outside. She’d ripped it falling over, dragged by her medi-kit. Ungainly thing. And the offensive was rumoured to be scheduled for later in the week. She hated trying to fight with the thing. Still, at least she only had it and a laspistol; not like the poor sods given medical duty in infantry squads, who had to wrestle with both the kit and a lasrifle.

Pt. 2

The Sentry
Kalve Van Harkelov
289.M38

“Hello? Anyone out there?”
A whine and buzz from the vox. Harkelov sighed, resigning himself to another night of cold recaff and half-empty lho boxes.
A voice came through.
“Yes? Who’s that? Box Six?”
Harkelov leaned over and picked up the heavy receiver. He recognised the voice.
“No, I got Seven. It’s cold in here. Not like you lot with your sentinel’s heating. Lucky sods.”
“You’re far too bitter, Kalve. Just the start of your shift, isn’t it? I’ll get Verna over to pick you up in a few hours.”
Harkelov chuckled. “Ha! You’re a gem, Geren.”
“As long as you promise not to get too eager; the cockpit’s smaller than it looks from outside, remember. Neither you nor Verna wants to have to explain to the cogboy or the officer-politinik about the mess, and I certainly don’t.”
“I make absolutely no guarantees. And he gets angry if you call him that, remember- he’s a commissar,” Harkelov switched to a crude impression of the man, “and commissars are to be afforded respect!”
A laugh-crackle of static came out. “Alright. I’ll tell her now. One minute.”
The vox dipped out.
Harkelov smiled to himself. He had Verna. Things weren’t too bad.