The troops Regara saw pacing the grounds wore Departmento Munitorum grey. Their kit and posture suggested storm-troopers. It seemed a little excessive.
Ossika looked up from his desk where he‘d begun compiling reports and logs concerning the depot’s current logistical situation. He was currently occupied with filling out the Volpone’s billet papers. ‘That’s the issue, I’m afraid – too many troops with too much time on their hands. We had a string of break-in attempts before I had to increase the guard rotations.’
Regara turned on his heel, a deep and unimpressed frown marring his face.
An open tiled floor led to Ossika. The Munitorum officer’s desk and series of wall-mounted file cabinets were the only furnishing in an otherwise austere and spartan room.
It wasn’t to Culcis’s tastes. He and the two aides waited silently, halfway between Regara and Ossika in the middle of the tiled floor. The room’s only other occupant was a slack-faced lex-savant, lurking in the penumbral gloom like a ghoul. Culcis hadn’t seen it move since they entered. The Volpone had removed caps and helmets, and enjoyed the cool air from the recyc-units. Culcis wanted to run a hand through his fair, close-cropped hair but officer doctrine forbade it.
‘How many break-in attempts?’ Regara asked, stalking up to where Ossika was hiding behind his desk.
‘In the last month?’ Ossika leafed through a raft of data-slates. It took him a few seconds to find the report he wanted. ‘Sixteen.’
Regara’s expression hardened to rock. ‘And the brawling, the discontent I observed as we entered camp?’
More leafing. This time it took Ossika a little longer. When he’d unearthed what he wanted, he answered, ‘Again, in the last month...’ He trailed off, deciding to show the Volpone major instead.
Regara scowled as he read the data-slate. ‘Unacceptable,’ he whispered. ‘This is unacceptable,’ louder this time, with a barb in his tone directed at Ossika. ‘Who is in charge of discipline at this facility?’
‘I am.’ The quiet hiss-clunk of a closing door made them all turn to see the commissar who had just entered the room.
He wore a long black storm coat, buttoned to the collar. His peak cap carried the Commissariat iron skull icon and a thin film of the ruddy mixture currently dirtying the Volpone’s uniforms. He was thin, and looked like a sliver of darkness. Glare-goggles fastened over his eyes only added to the mystique.
Culcis noted, despite the dingy confines of the chamber, the commissar didn’t take them off.
‘Arbettan,’ he said, saluting the major. ‘Lord Commissar and sworn prosecutor of the Emperor’s will.’
‘Your charges are in disarray, commissar,’ answered Regara, dispensing with protocol.
‘Men off the line will occupy themselves as they will, major,’ Arbettan replied. Behind him, almost lost to the shadows, lurked two bulky-looking cadets. Culcis could tell by the bulges in their frock coats that they carried side arms. Probably bolt pistols. ‘Disorder and discontent are inevitable,’ he went on. ‘But rest assured, my men and I have the situation in hand.’
‘Commissar Arbettan has been at Sagorrah for several months, major, and done an exemplary job,’ offered Ossika unhelpfully.
‘And the explosions,’ Regara countered, ignoring the toadying Munitorum clerk, ‘are they “in hand” also?’
Ossika started to answer, ‘We believe there are insurgents–’
Arbettan cut him off. ‘The outlying townships are riddled with cultists. Sanguinary tribes, most likely. We theorise that some are infiltrating Sagorrah and committing acts of sabotage against some of the smaller, less well-guarded wells.’
‘Blood Pact?’ Culcis ventured.
The commissar turned his fathomless black gaze on the lieutenant. ‘Intelligence suggests no. A minor off-shoot is the insurgents’ probable orientation. It is under control.’
‘The pillars of incendiary that almost downed some of my gunships suggest otherwise, commissar,’ said Regara.
Like a lamp-house but with its light extinguished, Arbettan swung back to face the major. ‘Like I said, just minor wells. I suspect the Archenemy is trying to sabotage the fuel reserves and impede the Imperial war effort. So far, their attacks have been negligible. Patrols are tasked daily with the rousting of the outer slums beyond our borders. We’ll find the head of the insurgents...’ Arbettan’s slow smile made Culcis think of a death-adder, ‘...and cut it off.’
Regara’s expression suggested he didn’t entirely believe the commissar.
‘Now,’ Arbettan continued, ‘if you gentlemen will excuse us, I have private business to discuss with Mr Ossika here.’ He looked to the Munitorum officer. ‘I assume all is in order?’
It was obvious to Culcis that Arbettan was throwing them out. He saw the tic of consternation in Regara’s cheek and the tightening of his jaw as Ossika pushed the Munitorum facsimile of the billet papers towards the Volpone major.
‘Signature, if you please, major.’
Regara eschewed Ossika’s neuro-quill, instead accepting his own pen from Speers. He signed quickly, his script flat and functional.
‘I’ll need a ratified list of men and materiel also,’ Ossika added as the Volpone were leaving.
Regara didn’t turn around. He made sure to glare at Arbettan before he left, though. Culcis stayed behind a moment after the others to hand the list to Ossika then he too departed.
As he exited, he noticed the two cadets behind Arbettan relax. Though it was hard to tell for sure in the half-dark, Culcis swore their hands had been resting on their side arms.
The Volpone officers returned to their billet a short while later. The Salamander command vehicle, this time bereft of Ossika, took them back down the approach road to the bastion and, after a few kilometres, to what appeared to be a disused stockyard.
Regara’s headquarters were located in a deserted gatehouse. The other Volpone officers occupied similar structures radiating out from that central one. There wasn’t enough room in the actual buildings for all the troops, but Ossika had supplied the 50th with a sizeable pitch. Most of the men and their sergeants bunked in tents just beyond the stockyard’s footprint.
‘Even the wine is off,’ moaned Drado, sipping at his fluted glass with a disdainful sneer. He tipped it onto the sand – such waste was equal to a week’s pay for most Guardsmen – and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
Culcis had long lost his appetite for alcohol. Like Drado, he sat in a well-appointed officer’s chair at the threshold of the billet. And also like his aide, he agreed the wine tasted bad. For such a rare vintage, it was like sipping copper-filtrate. Instead, he was occupied with watching Sergeant Pillier putting Eighth Platoon through its paces on the makeshift drill-yard.
Every man was wearing full combat regalia, packs and helmets despite the heat. They moved fluidly to Pillier’s orders, precise and efficient. Culcis swelled with pride. Truly, the Volpone were the finest body of men in all the segmentum, perhaps the galaxy. And yet... they had not earned the glory they desired or believed they deserved. It was the nature of war, especially a war like that raging across the Sabbat Worlds, to chew up men of honour, to spit on glory and grind it to paste in the great machine. The Volpone were just one of many. For some in the regiment, it had been a hard lesson to learn.
‘And my boots are scummed to all hell and back,’ a narked Drado continued. He gestured to his footwear, which was gummed with clods of ruddy sand. ‘Have you ever experienced such a foul desert as this one? It’s uncivilised.’
‘I’m more concerned by the failing discipline in camp,’ Culcis admitted as Pillier’s men conducted an expert bayonet drill. He had several disciplinary reports sitting on a small table between them. Drado had purloined them on their exit from the Munitorum bastion. Culcis doubted they’d be missed. The reports made for grim reading. Summary executions and all classifications of violent misconduct as laid out in the Primer were at alarmingly high levels. Suicide and desertion rates were also climbing. Lassitude could have detrimental effects on fighting men, the lieutenant knew that as well as anyone, but the level of disorder hinted at in the parchment papers he was half-reading seemed abnormal.