Cover by Ryan Barry (@9monkeys)
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Games Workshop. This is fan-produced media.
This story is being written in chunks. Chapters will be uploaded as they are produced and changes will be made throughout the process. Enjoy.
5
Command NCOs were appointed as serzyhata to make up for loses, including a handful of young officers. Runners passed down the order: the Marshals gave themselves three days to rebuild the 365th’s command structure, recall furloughed personnel, and gather suspects.
When the train was clear of corpses and rifles Aleks found the time to return Sylva her paper and pen. By then cadets were ordered to form up outside on the salted avenue. The process was slow, the cadets slowly flowing out to avoid a stampede. Coats and ushankas were doled out, most if not all of them bloodied or punctured. Serzhyata waiting outside segregated them by branch to form four rows facing the station in a column.
Once Aleks left the Lord Commissar with a salute he rushed back into crowd where Polina and Maks waited. “Okay. Ready.” They were close to the doors from the platform before they entered the staggered flow. “Uh, what was I saying?”
“About waiting?” said Polina.
Maks was on the other side of her, listening with the occasional glance.
“Right. I can see you again after three months. Vitalik told me it does not feel very long if you think about it as going from one meal to another.”
She squinted. “What?”
“I have not a clue. Something he always said. Maybe it will help.”
Polina nodded. “I’ll give it a try.” The sudden shift to outdoors distracted her for a moment. “Can I write to you from the barracks-”
“It counts as fraternization,” added Maks quickly as they descended the wide steps.
“Oh, right,” she said feigning surprise. “I forgot.”
“After the first three months you can,” he said with a smile. “I will find you on Receiving Day, after Graduation, and then get together back home. Everyone: Roman, Anatoly, Saulius, and you Maks. My mother would love to meet you,” he said with a laugh.
Were it not so cold, Polina would have blushed. She stammered, failing to talk and walk down the steps. “That would be nice.”
On the avenue the boys were sent to the left and girls to the right. Aleks and Polina faced each other, standing on the point in which the branches divided. He did not know what to say as she waited for him to speak, her lips curled inward.
“Um… I am very glad you survived, Polly.”
She cracked a crooked smile. “You as well, AK.”
After a nervous laugh Aleks was about to say more before Maks stepped in and shoved the two into each other. “Hurry up and hug before we get yelled at.”
Their arms moved into something like an embrace.
“I will find you on Receiving Day,” he said walking backward. “On my honor.”
“I-I’ll wait for you,” she said as Maks pulled them apart and guided Polina away.
“Take care, AK,’ said Maks before they disappeared with the girls.
Aleks waved at their backs before stepping in among the boys.
“In case it isn’t obvious, he likes you,” said Maks. “Plain as snow is white.”
Polina glanced at her. “I’ve never been around boys until now.”
“Well, he’s terrible at talking, but he is sweet. Not as sweet as my Roman. At Bragation, the boys always helped him, but AK could never keep a girl to save his life. Perhaps he’ll change when you see him again.”
“Why couldn’t he… keep a girl?”
“Roman told me he didn’t seem interested in them. Every conversation he made or attempt to court didn’t go anywhere. I never saw it for myself, but I could always imagine based on how he is. He’s still awkward, but seemed to want to engage with you, unwieldy as he was.” Polina stared at her as they walked, eyes wide with a shallow smile. She opened her mouth to say more before Maks took a firm grip of her wrist and pulled. “Stay beside me so we end up in the same platoon.”
Training platoons were organized into four squads of fourteen cadets each, managed by four serzhyata. Each platoon was counted out manually and sectioned off. Once everyone was organized the platoons waited at parade rest for Dyatlov and Konstantyn to descend the steps with their standard bearers at their flanks, colors uncased.
Their bearskins snug on their heads, they came to a stop some paces in front of the column. In normal circumstances, the adjutants would call them to attention. That duty fell to the serzhyata, the order echoed down once the Marshals were visible. On the avenue they came to attention and pivoted to each other before shaking hands.
“Good luck, Aer Marshal,” he said curtly.
“You as well, Marshal,” she replied.
With an about-face the couple separated and marched down to the middle of their halves of the column, bearers at their right. They moved at parade step, throwing out their legs straight and throwing back each arm before it bent across their chests. Once in place, the Marshals faced the cadets before shouting, “Left, face!”
The column pivoted as one. It was almost perfect with pockets of delayed or reversed cadets before they corrected themselves. Dyatlov watched the hazy silhouette of Konstantyn before he heard her shout, “Mark time!”
“Mark time,” he echoed.
The column began to step in place, most of them perfect while newcomers had no idea what they were doing. The front platoon of female cadets was the first off, followed by the next and next at equal intervals. A path of crushed salt formed in their wake, stomped ever finer.
The bunker-like structures of Camp Tarkovograd rose up around them, squat and featureless even up close. Most where built of blocks while others were cast long ago. Frost clung to their broad sides and mounds of snow sat on the roofs. In the alleys and spaces between the snow formed valleys or piled to the clerestory windows.
Parade-step was the custom in the presence of a Marshal or the colors. Serzhyata called the cadence, a simple ‘left-right’ rhythm. For what seemed like an hour they marched under amber lamplight down the avenue. By the time they neared the barracks sector the foundlings had gotten the hang of it, but it was wearing Polina ragged.
She was deep inside the formation beside Maks. Her lower back ached from standing straighter than necessary. She did not try to hide her discomfort. On the move she learned to skip her feet to get back in step with the girl in front of her. It was the most walking she had ever done in all her fifteen years.
“You get used to it,” whispered Maks, loud enough to reach her.
“I hope so,” she replied, obvious strain in her voice.
The barracks were directly across from the parade field, its total expanse obscured were it not for the street lamps on the opposite avenue, lined with more barracks. Each structure was built with a thick spine that ran to the back like a longhouse. On either side of the spine at the front was a door with a light and number above, the very first barracks starting from one to two, right to left. Across the avenue at the edge of the salted asphalt stood rockcrete posts thick as tree trunks. There was a space of five meters between each one, tall as a man with an iron ring fixed below the top facing the field. Around them rose a berm of dirty snow that ran the length of the avenue.
Two platoons would peel off from the column and claim a half; two platoons per building. Polina glanced at the platoons before Maks corrected her. Eventually her platoon would claim their barracks while the remainder of the column marched on.
When the last of her platoons found their barracks, Konstantyn and her bearer stood by between the buildings as Dyatlov’s half passed by. The serzhyata called eyes-right before they passed in front of her, prompting Konstantyn to salute. The Aer Marshal held the salute until Dyatlov arrived, stepping out to join him.
*
Through a short hall past the serzhyata dorm, laundry room, and latrine the heart of the barracks opened up. Two-stack racks stood against the outer wall beneath the clerestory windows, evenly spaced with a radiator placed every seventh rack. Each rack had two footlockers side by side at the foot with a narrow locker on either side at the head. The opposite wall, the spine that divided the barracks, was etched with faded graffiti. Up close they were sketches rendered with standard issue charcoal pencils. They were random names, dates, crude battle scenes, icons of Saint Nadalya and Guilliman, and even what may have been portraits of cadets.
A lone serzhyat posted her self inside before the platoon entered and barred the way to the racks. As they came in she ordered the cadets into a tight block in a small open space before the first rack and sit facing the latrine wall. She and two more serzhyata gathered in a line on the wall before one more came from the hall with a stool in one hand. She sat it down in front of the line and removed her bearskin.
She looked ancient, but moved like a young woman, and bore stripes and a star on her sleeves. Her hair hung in a forelock down her face before it was tucked behind her ear. The women behind her removed their own skins and held them upright in their left hands.
From an inside pocket the Sergeant Major produced a crumpled carton of cigarettes and a flip lighter. After lighting she took a long drag and blew smoke to the ceiling. She held it up to her right for the first serzhyat in line to take it. “Most of you know what these stripes mean?” she asked turning to show her arm.
“Yes, Serzhyat,” they replied, shouting so loud and suddenly that Polina flinched.
She was not alone.
“That’s right. I’m supposed to be their boss at headquarters where the food is better,” she said gesturing the line behind her as the women shared the cigarette. “But because too many non-coms were hit, we’ve run out of hands. So, here I am.” She paused to take a drag and pass it back. “By order of the Aer Marshal…”
*
“We have three days of mourning starting tomorrow,” said the Staff Sergeant, pacing before the male cadets in front of the serzhyata, wearing the mustache and long coat of a kossak. One of them was Gunitsky. “Other than eating, our only duty for seventy-two hours is nothing. What you lot experienced should not have happened. At least, when it happened to us, you could shoot back.”
Aleks and the other boys followed him with their eyes as he paced. He failed to notice Gunitsky.
*
“Tomorrow, after breakfast, you’ll receive your training clothes. The schedule being what it is, you’ll have to remain in your uniforms until then. They’re filthy things, but thank the Omnissiah you’re not one of the men. If you knew the kind of training they do, you’d be happy to have a womb.”
*
“We have been right where you are, as our fathers and their fathers were,” said Staff gesturing the line behind him. “I expect all of you to conduct yourselves to the same standard you have been taught at voyshkola outside the barracks. Inside, we are going to take it easy on you. We are old, tired, and want to get this done. Unless we are late to formation, foul up an exercise or you embarrass us in front of command, we will have no reason to go as hard as we have been ordered.”
*
“Once we’re through, we’ll be spending fifteen years together in the void. Between battles, it’s only natural to let your guard down. You start seeing your immediate superiors as equals. They start to look like blood. That being said, for now, you will refer to us as you’ve been instructed.”
*
“And I expect the same respect we give you in kind. Is that understood?”
“Yes, serzhyat,” replied the cadets with a shout.
*
The dorm was as much an office as living quarters. There were four bunks, one in each corner with the bed on top and a small desk underneath. Beside the threshold into the hall a hat rack held the women’s bearskins. On the back wall a cogitator was bolted under the window, the machine’s wiring feed through a sealed metal plate at one end of the glass. A line snaked from the platoon bay to the machine where the cadets typed on a brass keyboard, their names rendered in green Cyrillic on the flickering screen. A corporal with hawkish features and cropped golden hair stained with blood leaned to the side of the cogitator, peeling through a clothbound novel.
When it was her turn, Polina reached an empty line titled ‘НОМЕР УСЛУГИ’ and turned to Corporal. “Uh, this Cadet doesn’t have a service number, Serzhyat.”
The woman’s grey eyes stared her down a moment then nod to another line facing those entering the dorm.
Polina did not recognize them, but saw the same dour look in their eyes, guilty of being a reject with no real family name. A couple held their chests as if to protect their vitals. The one at the end looked over as Polina approached before casting her eyes down. The feeling of being out of place magnified standing beside them. The line of cadets was at parade rest as they waited, giving them time to look at the foundlings. They said not a word, but with each minute Polina felt smaller and smaller.
*
Aleks briskly walked along the line back into the platoon bay. Most of the cadets were in or around their racks in various states of dress. Boots were placed atop the footlockers with overcoats hung on the steel corner posts. Aleks walked until he found a bed that had only one coat and pair of boots. On the bottom bunk a boy laid curled with his bloodied kurtka as a blanket, his build wide and face rigid.
“Hey? Is the top taken?”
The boy shook his head without opening his eyes.
Aleks hung his coat and placed his boots before climbing the frame. He stopped when he noticed how red his hands were. Getting down he looked at them from front to back, pulling his ruined sleeve up to see more stains. Beneath his nails it was as dark as rust. He pulled off the tunic and undershirt to see red up to both elbows and on his chest. As he stared at the stains, his rackmate looked up to see what was going on.
Taking in a breath Aleks knelt at his claimed footlocker to retrieve a towel and a bar of green soap. He was about to leave when the boy spoke.
“I would not. You will only get dirty again after getting dressed.”
Aleks met his gaze, his expression flat as his tone. “I just… I just want the blood off.”
His rackmate said nothing and lay back down.
*
When the line cleared out, a dozen foundlings in two lines stood in the dorm. Corporal leaned against the bunk across from them, still reading the novel. Minutes went by before Sergeant Major walked in.
After an exchange of words she turned her to the foundlings. “Stand at attention.” Corporal stepped around to adjust them before returning to her position, holding the book under her arm. “Tomorrow, you’ll get your service numbers then your training uniforms. The moment we learn to read, firstborn are taught to memorize their numbers before they can write their own names. You lot do not have the luxury of time, so after you get your number, commit it to memory as if your life depends on it. Without warning, my instructors will test you and if you fail,” behind her, the Corporal rested her hand on the whip coiled on her belt, “you can imagine. Understand?”
“Yes, Serzhyat-“
“Louder,” snapped Corporal before they repeated.
Sergeant Major spoke over her shoulder. “Get them out of my dorm.”
“Aye-aye, Sergeant Major.” Corporal did not have to say more to get the foundlings moving, her raptor features doing most of the work. They walked fast, avoiding cadets on the way to the back of the platoon bay. “Fill in starting from the rear. No gaps.”
On the way she did not see Maks snatch Polina by the wrist and stop behind her. “Pardon, Serzhyat.” She turned about. “Permission to rack with this one?”
Corporal squinted. “What for?”
“The Cadet saved this Cadet’s husband on the train.”
She looked at Polina, her cheeks red. “Is this true, Otvergat?”
Her wide eyes closed slightly. “Th- this Cadet helped protect the Cadet’s husband during the ambush… Serzhyat.”
Fear got a hold of Polina as Corporal stared her down. Speaking in the third person and referring to herself by rank proved more confusing than arduous. The long wait made her think she had done it wrong.
Suddenly Corporal twisted round, making Polina flinch. Under her breath she counted the foundlings as they settled into their racks. “There is enough for a squad,” she said facing Maks. “Get yourself a team leader from the regulars and they are yours, Cadet. Make our jobs easy and there will be rank in it. Understand?”
“Yes, Serzhyat.”
Polina waited for Corporal to leave before speaking. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to-“
“You did nothing. Don’t worry.” She stepped forward so the other foundlings could hear. “Hey!” They looked her way. “Did they show you how to stand at attention?”
“Not really-“
“A little-“
“No-“
Maks held up her hand to silence the rest. “After dinner, we’ll start there.”
*
The ancient curtain wall of Tarkovograd stood over the camp behind the haze. It was a gutted bulwark, its innards hollowed out into apartments and penthouses with landing pads along the battlements. Behind the wall the city itself was a ruined blacked out colony of the exiled masses.
The upper most penthouse looked down upon the camp through a slanted bank of windows framed between steel beams. Below the camp was visible through the haze as a grid of amber lights that mapped the avenues. The interior was a simple layout dominated by a dining room in the center with adjacent rooms at the sides with one pair of master rooms. The décor and styling was a facsimile of the Pyotrograd estates, plaster molding stuck to the walls like rivets on a tank and wallpaper with visible seam lines. Even the floor was false, pained in black and white squares with lines ground out to create the illusion of grout.
In the small foyer a row of six maids in long green and grey ruffle dresses stood to one side in silence, their faces down and hands clasped at their midsections. Their hair was pulled back into buns sealed in bonnets, but upon closer inspection their faces bore the signs of past criminality. Woses and cheeks were pocked from piercings, hands and neck patched with pale skin where tattoos were removed, and heavy bags under their eyes from sleepless days on illicit substances.
When the doors opened the maids curtsied as one. Dyatlov and Konstantyn passed them and stopped short of entering the dining room, dropping thick green duffle bags on the floor.
“Welcome, Master and Mistress,” said the oldest maid as they stood straight. “We are here to serve.”
Konstantyn faced them as Dyatlov scanned the dinning room. “We have no need for your services. Report to your sotnik.”
“I’m afraid we have no choice but to-“
She had no time to finish when Dyatlov quickly turned and drew his laspistol. The maids fell over each other, shrieking as they clamored to door. The Marshal kept a steady aim before they were gone and Konstantyn locked the door. He holstered and pushed one of the foyer tables in front of the doors. She took his spot to observe the dining room just as Dyatlov joined her.
They looked at each other once and removed their field jackets, revealing sleeveless grey under shirts, and pulled off the suspender straps. They worked around the outer wall, pulling down paintings and removing light bulbs from fixtures, returning them after finding nothing. The chandelier was so complex they ignored it as husband and wife turned over the long table and every chair. Nothing with a drawer was safe, each one dumped onto the floor.
The kitchen was next, built into the corner of the window bank. The pantry, well stocked though it may have been, was emptied, and the various cabinets cleared out. The refrigerator was spared, at least. Using knives they found in a closet the couple worked each room. Mattresses were sliced open and night stands turned out before the bathrooms were raided, pulling down mirrors and checking fan vents and showerheads. Dyatlov and Konstantyn said nothing the whole time, communicating with simple gestures.
Sitting against the toppled table in the dining room they were content that there were no bugs or traps; ones they could not find. Their rest was short before pillows and blankets were gathered into the spacious, completely tiled master bathroom. Rather than ruin their makeshift bedroom with moisture, the couple went to one of the guest bathrooms and bathed together.
Under the gravity shower and fan they could finally speak. Blood dripped from Dyatlov’s face as Konstantyn helped comb scabs from the hair around the graze in his temple, baring his teeth when there was pain, his head bent down.
“You should’ve asked for staples at the very least,” she said.
“I was busy helping. I’ll be forced to change styles like you want.”
“Fair point. I could change it now if you prefer.”
“Later, my love.” When she was finished Dyatlov unbound Konstantyn’s braid to slowly comb through it. She leaned her head back with her eyes closed, the gentle tug making her heart beat faster. “Symon will sweep everything. He’ll have the proper equipment. He’ll make sure its safe for Dmytro.”
Konstantyn sighed. “I don’t wish to entertain that man for long.”
“We won’t. I swear. He’d rather be anywhere else. If we’re lucky, you and I and your father will conclude things within the next seventy-two hours and the next six months will proceed as they should.”
“Have you considered the punishment for the rogues’ families?”
“Yes.”
Konstantyn waited for a complete answer that would not come.
When he finished he turned her around and handed her the comb. She was delicate with his red beard, pinching groups of strands before running the teeth through to avoid pulling on knots. As she worked he stared down at her and gently held her waist. His touch made her hesitate and when he squeezed tighter Konstantyn pulled his lips to hers by his beard.
*
In the master bathroom they laid upon the makeshift mattress, Dyatlov on his back and Konstantyn holding his hairy chest at the side, his hand on her shoulder. In the blackness he stared at the ceiling while her eyes were shut.
“It’s been a whole day,” he whispered. “Not a month. Not a year. A single day. Like I’m back on rotation, stuck in a turret again.” She groaned back. “Do you think it’ll be worse now that we’re in charge?”
She was slow to whisper back. “Kyrlenko described being a leader as waiting for something to happen; you sit on your hands until the Adjutant tells you what changed. It’s all waiting. We wait for the line to move forward or back. We wait for our people to die fast or slow.” She shifted to rest her head on his arm. “That would make days feel like millennia.”
Dyatlov moved to put his face to hers. “Together, perhaps they wont feel so long.”
“Winning would help too.”
He smiled. “Indeed.”
She let out a slow exhale. “I changed my mind. Dmytro should be with us on tour. Father will have to settle for my niece. He can groom her into the next Tsarina. I’m not leaving our son behind.”
“Haven’t had one of those in a while. After today, I want him closer as well. I especially don’t want Mother anywhere near him.”
“Nor I. After what she’s done to your nephew.” Konstantyn shook her head. “Poor boy. Dealt the worst hand imaginable.” She paused, trying let sleep take her when there was yet one more thing on her mind. “Did you see Yillyana?”
Heat rushed to his chest. He was not about to lie to his wife, but he was not going to speak the whole of the truth if he could. “She passed away not long after we departed last tour. I left the block so quickly I didn’t ask the cause. Forgive me, I’m ashamed to admit I wept in an alley next door-“
“No, no, my love,” she said holding his head and kissing him once. “I know how much she meant to you. I still remember the days we played together; you two were so close. Don’t ever deprive yourself of that memory, that feeling. That girl deserved better than such cruelty.”
Dyatlov put his arms around Konstantyn. “We lived inside a dream.”
*
The morning haze was thinned out when the platoons marched to the chow hall in their bloodied uniforms. Squads were organized the night before with cadets in leadership roles, each file set from tallest to shortest behind the leader. The tables in the hall were arranged to segregate the sexes, rows laid out in strips with an unbroken column down the center where the serzhyata ate. They were allowed to talk while the cadets had to eat in silence. With only a spork they subsisted on cans of starch and nutrient gruel. Exiles working the kitchen received the cans and utensils as the platoons filed out.
Marching to the quartermaster the sky above was filled with the roars of engines. No one could help but look up to Valkyries marked with white stripes and medium landers crossing to the airfield and the curtain wall. The landers carried black Chimeras with an Imperialis Fist in white on the sides and featureless bulk containers secure in their claws, a few of them similarly marked.
From the Valkyries the streltsy disembarked before field crews in green and grey set about post-flight maintenance. The landers quickly dropped their cargo and landed elsewhere. Streltsy were the first to reach the containers and walk their precious mechanical kobards onto the tarmac, petting and speaking to them. The old men were dressed for battle with armor equipped to their long coats while the robot equines carried the implements of their trade. The black Chimeras sped to the nearest open hangar and off loaded their grim passengers.
With cyber mastiffs at their heels and shotguns locked to their backs, the Arbitrators ordered the field crews to the marked containers. With cargo haulers and lifts they pulled out the frosted corpses of the hetmanites that ambushed the train. Their cloaks were petrified into the shape in which they laid. With them boxes of pistols and carbines were carried into the blackness of the empty hangar.
The handful of Valkyries that flew to the wall climbed through the low clouds before settling upon the landing pads. At the one directly above the penthouse Dyatlov and Konstantyn waited at the foot of the steps. The standard bearers were at their flanks, colors cased, all of them standing at ease. When the ramp of the aircraft slowly dropped they came to attention and saluted.
Nearly five decades since that day on Dumat Square, Nikolai had become the spitting image of his father. A long white mustache crossed his face with a short point sticking out of his chin. Like the streltsy he was dressed for battle with a bronze cuirass embossed with the Firstborn emblem and chainmail over his thighs. Over his shoulders hung the black leather overcoat reserved for formal occasions. His weapons hung at his hips, a basket hilt saber and laspistol. In his metal right hand he carried the baton of the Tsar while his left held the small hand of Dmytro Dyatlov.
The boy was eight, wearing the uniform of a cadet beneath a dark blue overcoat. Behind them was the standard bearer of the Tsar, an old man with a bionic eye wearing no armor with his field coat, carrying the same kind of saber and a bolt pistol. Behind them the Arbitrator Magistrate walked with a pack of six mastiffs with varying degrees of cyber enhancement. The eagle crest atop his sallet was transverse with black bristles protruding from its wings. A short cape fluttered in the wind below a mantle of dark fur on his shoulders. An enlarged golden spauldron showed brightly on his left shoulder, embossed with the Imperialis Fist.
Nikolai stopped at the top of the stairs and saluted back, touching the baton to his brow, and let go of Dmytro. “Go see your parents, boy.”
The Marshals leaned in to embrace him off the stairs before he reached the bottom.
“We’re so happy to see you, son.”
“But you saw me the day before last, Father.”
“We’re happy every day we see you, angel,” said Konstantyn.
She let go while Dyatlov shifted his arms to carry Dmytro. “I’m too old to be carried.”
“No you’re not.” The Marshals stepped to the side for the Tsar to walk between them, the standard bearers joining together on the walkway. “We have the locations of all three sichi, but our penthouse needs to be swept once more. We may have missed something.”
“I leave that to you, Magistrate,” said Nikolai over his shoulder.
The Arbitrator nodded back.
Konstantyn’s mouth twisted before speaking. “Grandfather wants to meet us at the airfield. He’s going through evidence personally.”
“Very well. I will be boarding with my men. Do not tell your NCOs.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the Marshals.
As he went on, Dyatlov lagged behind to set down Dmytro. “I suppose you are too old to carry,” he said with a groan. “Walk with your uncle and don’t look the mastiffs in the eye.”
“I know, Father.”
He watched Dmytro move around the bearers and take the outstretched hand of the Arbitrator Magistrate. Dyatlov met the red visor of his sallet. “Symon.”
“Piotr,” he said.
*
In the dining room the Marshals stood to the side while Symon tapped the buttons of his wrist mounted scanner beside the over-turned table. His mastiffs pranced between rooms, panting and probing with their noses as their mechanical eyes swept every nook and cranny. Dyatlov watched him while Konstantyn had her arms crossed toward the foyer.
“Suspect pheromones in the master bath.” She snapped her head to the Magistrate as Dyatlov rolled his eyes. “Trying for Son Number Two? At your age?” Konstantyn reached for her pistol before her husband held her back, shaking his head. Symon let it settle before adding, “Mother asked of you.”
“What did you tell her?” he asked bluntly, knowing what to expect.
“That you were killed.”
Konstantyn scoffed aloud. “You cantankerous blackguard-“
Dyatlov pulled her. “It’s a jest. It’s a jest.”
“Of course it is,” said Symon. “She would have died of grief shortly after.”
He shrugged. “Well, perhaps you should have.”
Konstantyn looked at him before Symon snickered in a brief fit that betrayed his grim stoicism.
With a sharp whistle he called the mastiffs to the dining room. The beasts assembled in a row and sat, each one panting as they waited for their master. “The penthouse is clean. No bombs, no surveillance, no poison unless you count cleaning supplies,” he said joining the Marshals and showing them the screen.
Dyatlov fingered the screen as Konstantyn asked, “What do you know so far?”
“Slightly more than you; details of which I cannot share. I assume you have not ruled out your own? My understanding is Piotr’s promotion caused quite the stir among the older bastards. Tell me, who was not on the train?”
“Furloughs and retirees. No one of consequence-“
Symon pulled his arm away and stepped closer, filling Dyatlov’s face with red light. “Everyone is of consequence, brother. Everyone. And they always show who they truly are with the slightest pressure.” He stepped back. “I will need the names of these furloughs and retirees so I may sanction inquiries back home. If you had a plan to recall any of them, belay it.”
“Adept Raslonikov will give you everything,” said Konstantyn. “He should be down stairs at headquarters.”
“If you have your own suspects, come to me first.”
“We will, Symon,” said Dyatlov.
The Arbitrator Magistrate looked over his shoulder and made another sharp whistle. The mastiffs pranced to the foyer. “The Tsar and I will be waiting in the hangar.”
The Marshals watched him leave when Dyatlov spoke up. “You didn’t ask about Slava.”
Symon’s hand was firm on the handle, but did not turn it. “I do not have to. His name was not on the casualty list.”
“Would you like to see him? I know where he’s bunking.”
“It’s no trouble,” added Konstantyn.
For a moment Symon could not move, holding onto the handle before he turned it.
After the last mastiff left, Dmytro came in, his ushanka and coat in hand, his hair red. He beheld the organized wreckage of the dining room as he joined his parents. “Did Uncle Symon do all this?”
“Oh, yes he did,” said Konstantyn moving over the place a hand on his shoulder.
“Want to help us clean up and make it look good for Grandfather?” asked Dyatlov.
“Yes, sir!”
*
The training uniform was a dark blue double-breasted jacket with a fur collar and matching suspenders. The ushanka had its ears fixed down with an integrated cowl. Underneath everything they wore a long sleeve grey body suit of thinner material. The cadets received three sets of the uniform and seven of the underclothes and underwear. They were given out according to their service numbers, which included their measurements. Foundlings had to be measured when getting their numbers.
At the barracks the serzhyata had no problem sleeping between meals, but the cadets were restless. Venturing outside was restricted to the parade field and had to be in groups. Those inside made conversation or played games with the standard issue dice and cards in the footlockers. The only books available was the Primer and Treatis Elatii, written by Saint Nadalya with several litanies, aphorisms, and psalms of the Cult Mechanicus in the latter half. Cadets that smuggled their own books peeled through them while looking over their shoulders.
Aleks spent part of his day looking over the disjointed mural on the spinal wall, slowly pacing from end to end. Eventually his interest was piqued and returned to his rack. Directly across he noticed an empty spot close to the floor. A moment’s stare later and he was sitting cross-legged before of the spot drawing an outline of a Firstborn lasgun.
Polina, however, had very little time for leisure. She and the foundlings were determined to perform up to the standard of legitimate cadets. After finding a team leader in a cadet named Katrya, Maks walked them through basic marching and standing drill, teaching them to walk like firstborn. The platoon bay was not big enough and walked them outside, performing movements on the avenue with the crunch of salt under their feet.
After lunch Maks gave them a break. The foundlings settled in, none daring to approach and mingle with the regulars. Maks and Katrya discussed a lesson plan while Polina used her time to read more of Symovich’s journal.
Vostroya is special.
We follow both strictures of the Imperial Cult and Cult Mechanicus. We are beholden to the belief that the Emperor is our protector against the darkness of the Adversary and the corporeal form of the Machine God, the Omnissiah. He is both our god and messenger to a god. Throughout my travels, I found both beliefs permissible within the Imperium, but never on the same world.
There is a tenuous middle ground I hesitate to mention, this Cult of Guilliman. I have heard rumors he is worshipped within the Apparatek and Firstborn. It calls to mind the March of 145th Host, martyring themselves in his name. There is no denying His Avenging Son made Vostroya what it is today, but there are many who would question the purity of his worship. I shall not put further thoughts to paper for fear of that this journal may be used to implicate me.
Ironically, our faith is binary, the language of the acolytes of the Omnissiah. Followers of one Cult comingle with those of the other. Back home, however, I am reminded that one supersedes the other in affairs of state. The abbeys of the Schola Progenium are provided many resources to bring up those left behind by the Imperium. In His name, the abandoned are fed and taught to be worthy servants.
On Vostroya, the abbeys are left to fend for themselves. Little funding is provided to maintain operation at an acceptable standard. All attention is given to the voyshkoli that bring up the firstborn and the manufactorum that maintain the Tithe. The Schola Progenium is but a receptacle for reproductive refuse.
But in our cruel circumstances, we press on. With what little we have, I shall make it my solemn duty, in His name, to raise these forgotten angels. I shall accomplish more with less.
*
The giant door to the hangar was open to keep the smell at bay. No respect was given to the dead, placed on tarps on the floor in long rows. Arbitrator Investigators wearing black tabards of the Imperialis Fist peeled the frosted clothing away and examined the recovered weapons on tables to the far side.
The rogues were indeed hetmanites, baring all the hallmarks of a cultural style synonymous with their southern counterparts, the same adopted by the kossaks. Nearly all of the corpses had a long mustache and wore their hair bald or with a forelock. Headgear consisted of slumped bearskins half the size of those worn by the Firstborn, some with a circular crest above the brow with a pinned feather. Beneath the cloaks and furs their kaftans and baggy trousers were damp, the otherwise bright colors muted tenfold. Cloth belts where further secured by a leather one that carried a sheathed khanjali between shell loops and magazine pouches. All of them carried more magazines and bullets in bandoleers and chest harnesses.
Flanked by four hetmanites in green and silver field coats with fur mantles and shakos with cowls, Hetman Platov stood at the tables. He neared the age of one hundred fifty, two-thirds of that spent in the position of Hetman having won every election. The cold and juvenant treatments kept him looking like a spry seventy-year-old.
He was hunched over the table, his head and shoulders weighed down by the slumped bearskin, a long white beard, and thick coat draped on his shoulders. From the table he picked up one of the archeo-revolvers. It was a heavy, elegant piece of mechanical technology. Across its iron and brass frame and hexagonal barrel filigree was dug out with artistic precision. On the curved handle a round bas-relief portrait showed the profile of a woman Platov knew from a time long before his.
With a youthful smoothness the Hetman half-cocked the archeo pistol and thumbed the gate behind the cylinder. The giant shell was sat in place with a pitted primer before he turned the cylinder to the next and the next until he came upon a live round. Platov fingered the ejector tube to push the round out. His other hand caught it and brought the round to his eye to read the rough Cyrillic in the bare lead bullet.
“That is evidence, Hetman,” said Nikolai.
Platov laid the pistol down as he turned and tossed the round to the Tsar. “Loaded evidence.”
He read the bullet and raised an eyebrow. “Slurs.”
Behind him Dyatlov and Konstantyn stood by. Symon met with them upon arrival, but lingered in the background looking at the screen on his wrist.
“Come, Valeria. I cannot see you around that blowhard you call a father.”
She could not stop herself from smiling as she approached, Dyatlov in tow. The Hetman groaned in her embrace. “Good morning, Grandfather.”
“Morning, sapling. It shakes my bones every time you leave.” When she let me go, he reached out a hand to Dyatlov. “Thank you for keeping her alive, Piotr.”
“We kept each other alive, Your Honor.”
“Indeed,” said Platov reaching for the pistol and placed it in his hand. “They reloaded on the move. Carried plenty of bullets to do it several times over.”
“Did they?” Dyatlov kept hold of the pistol and turned to the closest corpse. He left Konstantyn to stand over the frosted man. “Look at them now.”
“Is that an uncommon tactic?” she asked.
“Only if you are desperate and they were desperate to put as many shots on you as possible.”
“Explain,” said Symon, standing at the Tsar’s side.
Platov’s brow furrowed at his tone. “Cavalry attacks are charges and chases. The main weapon is the saber or lance, but pistols and carbines are used to soften a target as you close in or to harry them. Reloading at full gallop is unnecessary when you have a sword at your hip. The real fight is with blades and none of them have any save for riding knives.”
“That lends further credence to the assassination theory,” said Konstantyn turning to Nikolai. “They had no intention to board or engage in melee. They meant to attack and leave once ammo was spent and knew exactly which cars to focus fire.”
The Tsar nodded. “Were you able to confirm their affiliation, Matvei?”
“Check the belt buckle on that one,” he said looking to Dyatlov.
The Marshal used his foot to turn the body, unnecessary though it may have been. Konstantyn came to stand by him. “It’s the head of a steppe owl.”
“Sich Neiper. Valeria, check the other one at your right; the wrist.”
Konstantyn knelt and pulled the cloak away. Chained around the gauntlet glove was a round medallion embossed with a leafy stem. “A potato leaf?”
“Don. That pistol you’re holding has the profile of Hetman Ekaterina in the grip, the first woman to be elected, also from Sich Don.”
Dyatlov showed Konstantyn the pistol when she returned.
“What of Azov?” asked Nikolai.
“I was here all morning and found no sign. What of your men, Magistrate?”
Symon tapped his scanner. “Sich designation is not included, but every corpse is a convict that lists no next of kin in this hemisphere. They completed their sentences in the past ten to thirty years.”
Nikolai pulled at the pointed hair of his chin. “I suspect they were chosen because they had no familial affiliation. No innocents would be punished if they were ever caught-“
“Then we punish the sichi themselves.”
Everyone turned to Dyatlov, Konstantyn’s eyes wide.
Platov’s scoff sounded like a chuckle. “That’s quite strong, boy. The punishment dictates immediate family of the perpetrators-“
“These rogues did not extend to us the courtesy of discrimination, old man,” he said stepping closer. The bodyguards closed in around the Hetman. “Your own granddaughter was beside me when we tried to fend them off. We lost even more children as we tried to save them, and tended every corpse ourselves. The time for half measures is over.”
For a moment all eyes were on the Marshal. No one said a word before Platov looked to Nikolai with a hard grimace. “I will not sanction any action within the Hetmanate without conclusive evidence. Don, Neiper, and Azov must be proven complicit in totality before they can be punished. If not, you know what will happen, Nikolai.”
The Tsar held his stare. “What would you like to do, Marshal?”
He cleared his throat. “We prepare now, leave tonight, and pay each sich a visit in the morning. Symon and I will take Don and Neiper, and Valeria-“
“Will provide over-watch,” said Nikolai. “We have an entire fleet of Valkyries and Vultures for her to utilize. I will deal with Azov myself.”
“Father, I must protest-” started Konstantyn before Nikolai held up his hand.
Dyatlov nodded. “Very well. We’ll arrive in force, but at peace and humbly request access to the sich registry. If the names of the rogues appear, we use the landers to bring every villager here as our prisoners.”
“And we will demand access, in the name of the Lex, not request,” added Symon.
Dyatlov looked at Platov. “Does that meet with your approval, Hetman?”
He had not taken his eyes off Nikolai until he answered. “It does.”
*
The victims were laid out on cots when the exiles prepared them the night before. Their families arrived early that morning, today their only day to see them outside of coffins. Those that were cadets had been dressed in the red and gold field uniform of their chosen branch occupation. All that was missing were their bearskins.
Small huddles crowded around the corpses, crying or holding their cold hands. Minor Techpriests and their servitor thralls walked between the cots spurting binaric blessings with their hands clasped, waving incense braziers that kept the smell at bay. Some parents begged them to personally bless their child with a touch to the forehead that left a smear of black grease. Skull-faced cherubs slowly glided above with lumen globes, bathing the hangar in golden light. Tethered to their feet hung parchment with illuminated paintings of Guilliman and Saint Nadalya.
Nikolai and Konstantyn walked among the bodies, pausing when the families gave respect. They left them a few words before moving on. Dyatlov was by himself as he waited for Sergei.
He stood by as the old Master looked down at Vita’s corpse with Aleks’s parents beside him. Vita’s mother, Aer Captain Sasha, knelt as she quietly cried with his hand pressed to her cheek. Slowly Sergei noticed Dyatlov and left his family with the aide of the walking staff. The Marshal was about to speak when the old Master produced a challenge coin with the Ultima circled by a laurel wreath.
*
The storage closet was packed with cleaning machines to vacuum and polish the floor. There was just enough space for them to face each other.
“That’s a bold claim, Sergei.”
“Bold, but not without merit. Artur was the loudest to protest your appointment, speaking for all of the Masters. Bold men make bold moves. ”
“The man is not shy about running his mouth, but I doubt he’s mad enough to use hetmanites to ambush a train carrying not only himself, but his daughter and grandson on top of true firstborn. The man would’ve dueled the Tsar before taking that kind of risk.” Sergei pulled his beard down once as she watched Dyatlov’s mouth twist. “I won’t lie, I have my suspicious. My brother advised me to give him names.”
“Then give him Artur, Piotr. Let him see what we cannot. If that codger is innocent, then your honor and his remains intact.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Do not surrender to doubt; you will only prove them right. I was the only Master to see past that mask upon your face and it was my word that convinced the others to concede.”
Dyatlov stared at the dirty floor, pacing himself to meet Sergei’s eyes. “In Guilliman’s name.”
“In Guilliman’s name,” he smiled before taking his hand off. “There is another matter I wanted to discuss regarding my grandson Aleksei.”
*
When night fell the light posts lit the camp. Activity outside was reduced to pockets of cadets exercising or playing on the desolate parade field. The groups made sure to self-segregate if they encountered anyone of the opposite sex.
In Polina’s barracks Sergeant Major read a book as she laid in bed. The other serzhyata kept to themselves in their own way. All of them, however, looked to the doorway when Mila stepped in with a green duffle bag over her shoulder.
“What a bunch of lazy louts you are,” she said dropping the bag.
The women got up to greet her, Corporal giving her a hug while Sergeant Major remained in bed. “Found your old face, Pavlychenko?”
She shook her head. “Needed another. The other was crushed on the train.”
“I reckon you scared the kids without it.”
“They were plenty scared already.”
“Indeed.” Sergeant Major closed her book and sat on the edge, feet hanging off. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Mila pulled from her coat pocket a folded paper and passed it to Corporal who passed it to the Sergeant Major. “The Aer Marshal wants me to replace one of you.”
She opened the paper and read as she spoke. “Seems odd for her. Since when does she micro-manage? Do you know why?”
Mila shrugged. “She is a Konstantyn. Probably has something to do with your otvergati. I read in the roll call you have a whole squad’s worth.”
“Indeed,” she said before balling the paper. “One of the regulars is tutoring them.”
“I made her squad leader,” added Corporal.
“That’ll help,” said Mila before clearing her throat. “So, who wants to help at the hospital in my stead?”
*
Polina was in the middle of the squad as Maks and Katrya led them squad out. They were passing through the hall when Mila stepped out. The girls greeted her as they passed. Polina did not notice who she was until Mila grabbed her out of the line. The others did not say anything as she was walked back into the platoon bay. Girls at their racks watched silently as Polina pressed her back to the latrine wall with Mila close enough to feel her body heat.
“Calm down, Symovich,” she whispered. With a glance over her shoulder the girls quickly turned away. “Are you wearing the medal?”
“Yes, Serzhyat,” she whispered back.
“Let me hold onto it until after Graduation. It’s for your own good.”
She stammered. “I don’t understand. Is it… heretical?”
“Of course not. It’s a very special commendation you shouldn’t have. I understand it’s sentimental, which is why I can keep it safe better than you can. Do you really want to risk losing it in a surprise inspection? Or when a girl rifles through your kit?”
Polina glanced to the side then back. After a moment she swallowed and reached behind her neck to untie the leather cord where the cog and thunderbolts hung.
Mila looked at it once in her hand before slipping the medal into her pocket. “On my honor, you’ll get it back in six months. Carry on, Cadet.”
“Yes, Serzhyat.”
She watched Polina briskly walk to the hall before looking over her shoulder to the girls once again turning away.
*
Aleks stood straight with his arms stretched to his sides. His rackmate stood to the side, looking ahead to track the snowball. Another pair of boys was roughly fifteen paces ahead. Aleks watched the ball arch toward him and curve right back onto the field a few meters short of his position.
He put his arms down. “Did you see it?” he asked squatting to form a ball.
“The wind is too strong or he threw too high.”
“For sure it is windage.”
He stood and drew back his arm before throwing toward the boys, one of them standing in a similar tee-pose. He aimed to the left of him and watched the ball drop close in front. Aleks pointed and looked at his rackmate.
The stout cadet nodded before they traded places to assume the tee-pose. “You want to be an artillery man? Mortars? Seem to know your ballistic physics.”
“Not really, but I chose heavy weapons as my branch occupation. The auto cannon was my favorite back at Bragation.” He waited for the opposing snowball to land at his bunkmate’s feet. “The way it works, each part moving in tandem with the other, and how pressure levels affect performance. It is all just-“ he paused when the other boy was hit besides the intended target, “beautiful.”
“Apologies,” he shouted before trading spots. “I went to Kutuzov. Going to be a tanker like my uncle.”
“That is quite the school, I hear. Forgive me, I do not think I asked your name.”
“You did not, but it is fine. Dyatlov. Slava Dyatlov.”
Aleks spoke as he prepared his ball. “Are you related to the Marshal?” he asked before his throw fell short, making him scoff.
“He is my uncle,” he answered moving into place. “I just met him, but Grandmother told me stories about his battles when I was a child.” The opposite ball landed behind him to the side. “I want to be just like him,” he said flatly.
Slava began his turn when they noticed the boys moving their way, hands up. They went down when the pair closed in and one of them pointed behind. Aleks and Slava turned to a distant line of cadets that was Maks and her squad. She and Katrya led the foundlings through a set of star jumps and not a single one could get it right nor stay in sequence.
The boys stifled their laughter, afraid it might carry on the wind.
“What’re they doing?” asked one of the other boys.
“Probably messing with each other,” said Aleks.
“Staying inside must have gotten to them,” added Slava.
The other boy watched with his hands cupped around his eyes, staring at the squad. “They’re girls.”
They turned to him as one then back.
“You can tell?” asked Aleks.
“Look at them,” said Slava.
“I’ve seen girls dance and they aren’t that uncoordinated,” said the other boy.
“Those’re girls. I mean it.”
“How do you explain the tall one?” asked Slava.
“I met a tall girl on the train,” said Aleks. “Maybe that is her or another one?”
“Maybe they’re foundlings. They wouldn’t know how to perform a star jump to save their lives.”
The boys continued to stare as a distant rumble grew louder. Everyone on the parade field stopped to look up, some coming out of the barracks. Flashing beacon lights cut across the sky through the clouds with stab lights probing ahead. None could see what was making all the noise, but they knew and wondered where they were going.
Glossary of Terms
Apparatek -the political body of Vostroya
apparatik (plural ‘appartiki’) -a member of the Apparatek
grom (plural ‘gromy) -grenadier
kossak (plural ‘kossaks) -cavalry branch of the Firstborn
otervgat (plural ‘otvergati’) -reject, nameless
Obnovlenye -time of renewal
serzhyat (plural ‘serzhyata’) -trainer
sich (plural ‘sichi) -clan village
sotnik (plural ‘sotnika’) -work chief
streltsy -retired serving firstborn
Vostnovit -when diminished Hosts are folded into others
voyshkola (plural ‘voyshkoli’) -war school’
Recommended Viewing/Reading
Union of Salvation, directed by Andrey Kravchuk
The Admiral, directed by Andrey Kravchuk
War and Peace, directed by Sergei Bondarchuk
Waterloo, directed by Sergei Bondarchuk
Mongol, directed by Sergei Bodrov
Enemy at the Gates, directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud
Come and See, directed by Elem Klimov
The Duelists, directed by Ridley Scott
Always with Honor, written by Pyotr Wrangel
CT's Work 