Kill team, p.2
Kill Team, page 2
I realise I’ve drifted into the well-practiced trance state when the Colonel coughs purposefully, and I blink and focus on him. He hasn’t changed a bit, though I didn’t really expect he would have. Still that strong, clean shaven jaw, sharp cheek bones and the piercing glare of his ice-blue eyes. Eyes that can bore into your soul and burn through you sharper than a las-cutter.
‘There is another mission,’ he begins, sitting back and crossing his arms.
‘I figured as much,’ I reply, keeping my back straight, my expression attentive.
‘There is not much time, relatively speaking,’ he continues, his gaze constant. ‘You will assemble and train a team to assassinate an alien military commander.’
This surprises me. Last time out, he was very defensive about revealing the mission objectives. I guess things are different this time.
‘As you are probably expecting, the selection process will be more directed and focussed than last time,’ he says, as if he can read my mind. ‘I cannot afford the luxury of the time required to repeat the procedure you underwent before.’
I bet, I think to myself. It took four thousand soldiers and two and a half years to ‘select’ the Last Chancers when the Colonel last led me in battle.
Other than the Colonel himself, I was the only survivor.
‘This prison contains some of the most specialised soldiers in this sector of the Imperium. I have had them incarcerated here for just this purpose, gathered here in one place where I have easy access to them rather than scattered across the stars. It makes assembling a team much more straightforward, with the additional benefit that few people know they are here, and I can maintain absolute secrecy,’ he tells me, indicating the records on the desk with a sweep of his hand. ‘You will go through these files and choose those you deem most appropriate for the mission. You will then train them in the skills they do not possess while I prepare the final details of the mission itself. I will then lead the Last Chancers on that mission. Is that understood?’
‘Perfectly, sir,’ I answer carefully, mulling his words over in my head. ‘If I’m gonna choose, I’ll need to know a little more about what you’re planning.’
‘For the moment you do not. I would rather you choose men and women whose skills you value regardless of the exact situation we might face,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘Our choice of personnel will, to some degree, inform the plan of attack that I will devise. Flexibility will be the key to success.’
‘I think I get you,’ I tell him, leaning forward and resting my hands on the desk. ‘Pick a team that’ll be able to do what we need, whatever that is.’
‘Once again, your ability to grasp complex issues astounds me,’ the Colonel replies sarcastically. ‘That is what I said, is it not?’
‘Almost,’ I answer with a grin. Something then occurs to me. ‘Colonel, why use penal troops? I mean, I’m pretty sure you could have your pick of Guard regiments across the segmentum.’
‘You yourself once told me the answer to that, if you can remember,’ Schaeffer replies after a moment’s thought. ‘I can bark orders, I can make men do what I want, but for my missions that is not enough.’
‘I remember now,’ I say when the Colonel pauses. ‘You want a team that has nothing else to live for except succeeding in the mission. It was in Deliverance, wasn’t it? Yeah, I remember: give men nothing except life itself to fight for and they’ll be the best fighters ever.’
‘You learnt that well,’ Schaeffer says pointedly.
‘Well, I’m still here,’ I reply with a bitter smile.
There are two hundred and seventy-six military personnel in the prison. It takes me just over a week to go through their records, sitting down with one of the vincularum scribes to read me out their details. I never did learn my letters, there wasn’t really any need for it. I see the Colonel once in that time, to tell me that I’ve got three more days to make my choices. To begin with, I didn’t know where to start. The Colonel’s briefing was so vague, I found it difficult to picture what we could be doing. I spent the first day just sitting and thinking, something I’ve had plenty of opportunity to do in recent months. I figure that about ten or so good fighters will be enough. My experience from Coritanorum tells me that on the Colonel’s missions, if you can’t do it with a few well-trained men, then an army isn’t going to help.
So I go through all the records with the adept, trying to make some more sense by dividing them up by expertise, previous combat experience and, almost as important, why they’re in this prison. There’s all kinds of dregs in here, but all of them are ex-military. That’s not too surprising, considering the Colonel’s purpose in life. But there’s something particular about this bunch of convicts. They’re all specialists of one kind or another. There’s pilots, snipers, infiltration experts, saboteurs, engineers, jungle fighters and cityfighters, tank crews, artillery men, storm troopers, pioneers and drop troops. Like the Colonel said, he’s gathered together some of the best soldiers from across the segmentum, and they’re all here for me to choose from. So what am I looking for? How do you pick a team of expert soldiers when I’ve got a whole company of them to choose from? What could I look for that would set some of them apart from the others?
With only two days left to decide, my frustration is beginning to build. I need an angle, some way of picking out the best of the best. I begin to appreciate more why the Colonel did what he did for the last mission. I start to understand that perhaps dragging four thousand men and women through hell and back and seeing who survives is the only way you can really find out who has that warrior instinct; who the fighters and survivors are, and which ones are just cannon fodder, destined for a bullet to save the life of a better soldier. Perhaps I should just get them to fight it out, pit them against each other and see who walks out.
Then I have a flash of inspiration from the Emperor. Perhaps I can’t put them through a few battles to see who comes out on top, but I don’t have to physically eliminate the weak links. It’s halfway through the night when I send the guards to rouse the adept. I pull on my new uniform, kindly supplied by the Colonel. I slip into the plain olive shirt and dark green trousers, pulling the belt nice and tight then step into my boots. I can’t tell you how good it feels to wear tight, solid combat boots on my feet after months of being barefoot. It makes me feel like a soldier again, not a prisoner.
I make my way to where the Colonel outlined my task and wait for the adept. A few minutes pass before he gets brought into the audience chamber, sleepy and confused.
‘We’re going to talk to all of the prisoners,’ I tell him, grabbing the first couple of dozen folders from the desk and thrusting the pile of records into his arms.
‘All of them?’ he asks wearily, eyes bleary, suppressing a yawn.
‘Yes, all of them,’ I snap back, pushing him tottering towards the door. ‘Who’s first?’
Juggling awkwardly with the shifting pile of paperwork, he looks at the name on the top folder.
‘Prisoner 1242, Aphren,’ he tells me as we wait for the elevator. ‘Cell thirteen-twelve.’
The guard is asleep on his feet when we step out of the lift onto the thirteenth floor, leaning against the wall. I give him a push and he falls to the ground, a startled yelp escaping his lips as he bangs his head on the floor.
‘Wake up, warden!’ I shout at him, dragging him to his feet.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks dizzily, rubbing his eyes.
‘Open cell twelve,’ I tell him, grabbing his collar and dragging him towards the cell door. ‘And you will address me as lieutenant or sir, I am an officer!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbles, the keys jangling in his shaking hand as he puts them in the lock. As he swings the door open I push him to one side.
‘You, in here,’ I snarl at the clericus as I step into the cell. He follows cautiously. The room is just like all the others, cramped and bare with a pallet on the ground along the wall opposite the door. The man inside is already on his feet, fists balled and raised. If ever a man could be described as big, it’s this guy. He’s easily half my height again, with shoulders like an ogryn’s and biceps bigger than most men’s thighs. He’s wearing just his prison trousers and muscles ripple across his chest as he clenches and unclenches his hands. He’s got a broad face and small eyes that are too close together under a heavy brow. I doubt he could count to ten, even using his fingers.
‘You gonna try and hit me?’ I ask casually, closing the door behind me and leaning back against it with my arms crossed.
‘Where did you just drop out of the warp?’ Aphren snarls back, taking a step forward. The adept makes a panicked squeak and backs into the corner. ‘You can’t just barge in here, I’m entitled to six hours sleep a night. Prison regulations say so.’
‘Prison regulations say I’m not allowed to kill anyone here as well, but that didn’t stop me,’ I tell him in the same off-hand tone.’
‘You’re Kage, aren’t you?’ he asks, suddenly less sure of himself. ‘I heard about you, you’re fragged in the head.’
‘I am Lieutenant Kage of the 13th Penal Legion, the Last Chancers, and you better remember that when you address me, soldier,’ I remind him. The Colonel told me he had reinstated my rank when he gave me the uniform, which was kind of nice of him.
‘Do you expect me to salute?’ the prisoner replies with a sneer.
‘Read it,’ I say to the clericus, ignoring Aphren. The adept visibly pulls himself together and clears his throat in a pompous manner.
‘Kolan Aphren, ex-drill sergeant of the 12th Jericho Rangers,’ he begins in a monotonous drone. ‘Seven years’ service. Three campaigns. Arrested and court-martialled for brutality of recruits. Sentenced to dishonourable discharge and five years’ hard labour. Sentence converted to life imprisonment, order of Colonel Schaeffer, 13th Penal Legion.’
‘A drill sergeant? I could’ve guessed,’ I say to him, meeting his angry gaze with a cold stare of my own. ‘Like beating up on the new guys, eh? You’re no good to me, I need a real soldier, not some training camp bully. Someone who’s fought in a battle.’
‘Why you little runt!’ he bellows, hurling himself headlong at me. I side-step his clumsy charge and ram his face into the metal cell door. He drops like a stone. I pluck the record from the adept’s grip, smiling inwardly at the look of horror on his face, and toss it onto the bed. ‘You can pick that up later when we’re done,’ I tell him, rolling the unconscious Aphren out of the way with my foot and opening the door. ‘One down, two hundred and seventy-five to go.’
‘Erik Korlben,’ the clericus reads out in his monotone voice. ‘Ex-master sergeant, 4th Asgardian regiment. Three years’ service. One campaign. Arrested and court-martialled for insubordination on the field of battle. Sentenced to thirty-five lashes, dishonourable discharge and ten years’ imprisonment. Sentence extended to life imprisonment by order of Colonel Schaeffer, 13th Penal Legion.’
Korlben is short and stocky, with a thick mop of red hair and bushy eyebrows. He sits on the edge of his bed, gazing blankly at the floor, hands in his lap. Everything about him says dejected and broken, but I give him a chance to prove himself useful.
‘So you don’t like taking orders, Korlben?’ I say, scratching my head. ‘Bit of an odd choice, joining the Imperial Guard.’
‘I didn’t ask to join,’ he mumbles back, not looking up.
‘Oh, a draftee,’ I reply slowly. ‘I bet you must be plenty fragged then. Dragged into an army you don’t want to fight in. Then slammed up in here to rot for the rest of your life. I guess the Emperor really doesn’t like you, Korlben.’
‘I guess he doesn’t,’ he agrees, meeting my gaze for the first time with a bitter smile.
‘How’d you like to get out of here, maybe even go back to what you did before?’ I offer, studying his reaction. ‘It’ll mean following more orders though.’
‘I would like that a lot,’ he nods slowly. ‘I don’t mind following orders – unless it’s on a suicide charge to storm an enemy bunker.’
‘Well, Korlben, that was the wrong answer,’ I tell him viciously, slapping his record out of the adept’s hands. ‘You won’t be seeing me again.’
‘Gavrius Tenaan,’ the adept mumbles sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open. We’ve been at it solid for the last thirty-six hours straight, going back to the Colonel’s audience chamber and picking up more records when we run out, stopping only twice in that time to grab something to eat and drink. He’s swaying on his feet, on his last reserves of energy. Weakling. Just like most of the inmates here.
Only about half a dozen or so have impressed me so far, the rest have got serious discipline problems, or are cowards, or would probably kill me as soon as look at me. ‘Ex-marksman, Tobrian Consuls. Thirteen years… service. Six campaigns. Arrested and court-martialled for firing on Imperial citizens without orders. Sentenced to hanging. Sentence… sentence overturned to life imprisonment by order… order of Colonel Schaeffer, 13th Penal Legion.’
Tenaan is a wiry man, in his early forties I’d guess. He has a grizzled, thin face and a cold, distant edge to his eyes, like he’s not really looking at me. He’s sloppily stood to attention, fingers fidgeting with the seam of his fatigues.
‘You like the killing don’t you?’ I say to him, cocking my head to one side and giving him the once over. ‘I bet you used to be a hunter, before joining up.’
‘That I was, sir,’ he drawls back. ‘Used to hunt deer an’ such in the mountains. Then they came an’ said that I could shoot orks if I wanted to, and that seemed like a good offer.’
‘So how come you shot non-combatants?’ I ask, wanting to hear the story in his own words.
‘They was in my way, sir,’ he replies in a matter-of-fact tone and a slight shrug. ‘They shouldn’t a been there.’
‘How many?’ I prompt, knowing the answer was in the records, but wanting to keep him talking. This guy had some potential.
‘I don’t remember exactly, sir,’ he replies slowly. ‘I think that time it was a dozen or so, I think.’
‘That time?’ I ask, surprised at this admission. ‘How many civilians have you shot?’
‘About fifty odd, by my reckoning, sir, mebbe a few more,’ he nods, inwardly confirming this tally.
‘Fifty?’ I say incredulously. Okay, so my bodycount makes that look like spit in the sea, but at least I was under orders. ‘You’re too trigger happy, even for me.’
‘Sorry to hear that, sir,’ he apologises and gives another slight shrug.
With a grateful sigh, the adept drops the file and stumbles out of the cell and I follow him out.
‘How many does that leave us with?’ I ask him as we walk back to the elevator. He glances down at the small sheaf of papers left in his hands.
‘Eight, lieutenant, there’s eight you haven’t rejected,’ he tells me wearily, handing the documents to me.
‘You’ll be needing those,’ I tell him, tossing the records back as I step into the lift. ‘Have them mustered in the audience room tomorrow after breakfast, and inform Colonel Schaeffer that I will meet him there. I’m off for some sleep.’
My eight ‘recruits’ are lined up in the chamber, standing at ease, each of them with their eyes fixed on me. All of them are curious, it didn’t take long for the rumour to spread that psycho Kage was talking to everyone and offering a way to get out of prison. But other than that, they don’t have a clue what’s going on. One or two of them shuffle nervously under my gaze. The door swings open and the Colonel strides in, wearing his full dress uniform as always.
‘Attention!’ I bark and they respond sharply enough. It’s one of the reasons they’re here, they’ve still got some measure of discipline left in them.
‘What have you got for me, Kage?’ the Colonel asks, walking slowly up the line and eyeing each of them in turn.
We start at the left of the line, with Moerck. He’s tall, well proportioned, handsome and smart. His blond hair is cropped short, his face clean-shaven, his eyes bright. He stands rigidly to attention, not a single muscle twitching, his gaze levelled straight ahead.
‘Ex-Commissar Moerck, sir,’ I introduce the Colonel and he nods, as if remembering something. ‘An odd one, I’m sure you’ll agree. Commissar to a storm trooper company, Moerck here has an exemplary history. He left the Schola Progenium with a perfect record. He has been cited for acts of bravery ten times. After five campaigns, he spent three years on attachment to the Schola Progenium training commissar cadets before being granted his request to return to battlefield duty. He has been wounded in action seven times; on three occasions he refused the offer for honourable discharge and a return to training duties. In short, sir, he is a genuine hero.’
‘Then remind me why he is in a military prison, lieutenant,’ Schaeffer says sourly.
‘The commissar and his storm trooper company were participating in a night drop attack, as part of an anti-insurrection operation on Seperia,’ I tell the Colonel, dredging back the details I spent most of last night committing to memory. ‘The attack was a complete success: the enemy camp was destroyed, all foes eliminated with no prisoners, as ordered. The problem was, they had the wrong target. Some departmento map maker had mixed up his co-ordinates and our hero here led his men on an attack into the command camp of the 25th Hoplites. They wiped out their entire general staff. Without loss, I should point out,’ I smile at Moerck, who has remained dispassionate throughout the sorry tale. ‘To cover their own hides, the departmento charged the entire company with failing to carry out orders, and they were drafted into the penal legions. That’s when you came in and transferred the hero here. A genuine mistake, and probably the only innocent man in this whole prison.’
