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Catachan Devil – Extract

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Chapter One

TORVIN

Trooper Ted Torvin was not in good spirits for war. He hadn’t been in good spirits since he’d received the official notice of his tithing some – what was it now? – five months earlier.

Congratulations and blessings of the Emperor upon you, citizen. By glorious providence and Divine hand, you, along with 50% of the population of your hive subsector, have been drafted into the Skadi Second Infantry Regiment of the Astra Militarum. You are called upon to serve the most Holy Emperor of Mankind in defence of the Imperium and humanity. Be thankful and give praise that your life will now have meaning alongside the billions of others who fight valiantly and die with distinction to maintain the purity and safety of the glorious Imperium. Through battle you shall live forever in the Emperor’s eyes and the light of the Golden Throne shall shine on you eternal.

One month after being tithed, Torvin had been shipped off for eighty days of basic training on Skadi’s moon of Edda and then had endured almost two months in transit through the warp aboard the Imperial Navy transport Shadow of Radiance.

Now he had arrived on another world, an idea that seemed absurd or at least like some kind of elaborate ruse. Yet the fact was undeniable. The pressing wet warmth that permeated even here, inside the thick stone walls of an Ecclesiarchy chapel, was a heat and humidity that never occurred on Skadi, which was far enough from its star as to be perpetually in icy winter. Still, even with the inescapable alien heat; even after flying over the dense jungle, seeing it spreading away in all directions in myriad shades of green such as he had never imagined; even with the constant smell of damp ground and decaying vegetation, so thick he felt as if he were drinking it in through his nose – even with all that, he didn’t feel like he’d travelled to a planet far, far from his own.

Conceptually, he knew he stood in the upper levels of Karoo City on the jungle world of Gondwa VI, but it didn’t quite feel real. It didn’t feel as though he’d been uprooted from the only home he’d ever known and deposited light years away. It seemed to him as if he’d remained perfectly still and the entire galaxy had pivoted around him.

Torvin looked around at the richly adorned chapel. It was a long space of alcoves and echoes. The rows of intricately carved wooden pews had been stacked against the walls to clear space for an entire Astra Militarum company to roll out their sleeping mats. Both the task force headquarters unit and the Skadi Second Infantry had occupied the vast Ecclesiarchy building soon after their arrival on Gondwa VI. The priests of the Adeptus Ministorum had praised the troopers of the Skadi Second and blessed them in the name of the Emperor with chanting and incense, but their scowling faces made it clear they were less than pleased with the Imperial Guard commandeering their place of worship as accommodation.

With its stone walls, high arched roof and enormous frescoes, the chapel was immediately familiar to Torvin. It was much like those on Skadi and, he imagined, much like those on countless other Imperial worlds. The focal point of the building’s design was the huge stained-glass window at the far end of the long space. Stretching from the floor to the cavernous roof, it depicted the Holy Emperor adorned in golden armour, His head rimmed with a halo of light and a flaming sword in His hands. Perhaps it was the familiarity of that image that made Torvin feel as if he could somehow still be at home; everywhere across Imperial space the Emperor was there, the great unifier of them all.

Despite all that was familiar, there were many depictions around the chapel Torvin did not recognise: saints and martyrs native to Gondwa VI or the surrounding worlds. Names he did not know but whose deeds, he was sure, the children of Gondwa VI could recite by rote. One wall bore an impressive fresco of the thick green jungle, and striding out of it were enormous figures in blood-red armour: Space Marines of the Adeptus Astartes. Had those true angels of the Emperor once set foot upon this planet? The thought that he was on a world where the Adeptus Astartes had fought was enough to convince him he was indeed far from home. Nothing like that had ever happened on Skadi. He wasn’t on his frozen backwater any longer.

Around him, the troopers of his platoon sat on their bedrolls or stood putting gear into their packs, preparing equipment, delicately cleaning their lasguns in readiness. They chatted cordially. Some even laughed. How could they laugh at a time like this? When they were awaiting word about their orders from command. When they were waiting to learn how and when they would be sent out into the unknown jungle to engage the orks.

Slow-witted savage animals who somehow understand how to piece together the most rudimentary and barely functioning technology. Stupid, unsophisticated and lacking all but the ability to charge straight to their deaths at the hands of stalwart Imperial Guardsmen. They may seem imposing at first glance, larger than a human and more muscular, but appearances are deceiving. Their muscle is more plentiful but still weaker than a human’s, and though it may seem improbable from their size, do not shy away from them even in close combat as a human is stronger and can best them with a bayonet to the throat.

That’s what their briefing on the greenskins had said, but immediately after it had finished, as they filed out of the briefing room on board the Shadow of Radiance, Torvin had heard veterans of the regiment, as few as there were, chuckling and speaking to each other.

‘Stupid is right,’ one of them was saying, a corporal Torvin didn’t know, ‘but I sure as Throne won’t be lettin’ any of ’em get close enough that I have to stab the bastards.’

‘I know,’ another of the grizzled few answered. ‘I saw one of the greenies, half its jaw missing and all, grab hold of Trooper Hafden’s arms and rip them off still holding his lasgun. Hit them from a distance, I reckon. Las right between those red eyes from as far away as possible.’

‘Weaker than a human,’ the corporal continued, muttering as they moved away, ‘that’s some gold-plated crem right there.’

It was well known that from the time a new Imperial Guardsman arrived on their first battlefield, their average life expectancy was little more than fifteen hours. Torvin knew he would be tossed into his first battle soon and could just about hear some enormous clock ticking down the minutes to his inevitable doom.

He stared down at his equipment, laid out on the stone floor before him. He knew he’d humped all this down from the drop-ship but it suddenly seemed like a lot and he wasn’t exactly sure how to fit it all back in his pack. Torvin looked up and saw Frent, the vox-trooper from his squad, screwing a long antenna onto the vox-transmitter he would carry as part of his load. Not far away, a heavy bolter team was loading metal boxes with lengths of belt-fed ammunition. At least he didn’t have to heft around all that gear too. Take the small mercies, as his father would say. Though, a large mercy would be more welcome, like if the orks just decided to give up and leave Gondwa VI. From everything he’d heard about the greenskins, there was no warping chance that would happen.

‘Oi, Torvin.’

Torvin turned to see his squad’s corporal, Algarn, approaching. Algarn was a tall, thin man with a face all sharp lines and angles, and the white hair common to their icy home world.

‘Yes, corporal?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m packing my gear ready to move out,’ Torvin said. ‘Like Sergeant Troovey ordered.’

Algarn looked at his laid-out gear and empty pack. ‘You know you got to fit all this gear in your pack, trooper?’

‘Yes, corporal,’ Torvin said. ‘I was just making sure I had everything first. That’s what they told us to do in basic training.’

‘Right,’ Algarn said, looking at Torvin’s shiny new kit, carefully arranged on the floor, ‘and you’ve got everything, do you?’

‘Yes, corporal.’

Algarn sniffed. ‘That so, is it?’

‘Yes, corporal,’ Torvin said, but he was suddenly less sure than he had been a moment ago. ‘I think so, corporal.’

‘Got all your kit then do you?’

Torvin had now progressed to completely unsure. ‘I…’

‘We’re more’n likely heading out to shoot some orks, you know that don’t you, trooper?’

‘Yes, corporal.’

‘And what, by the Throne, are you going to shoot them with, Trooper Torvin?’

‘Uh, my las…’ Torvin’s voice trailed off. ‘Oh.’ He looked around, saw his lasgun still propped up near the door where his squad had left their weapons. It was the only one there.

‘Yeah,’ Corporal Algarn said. ‘Gonna need that to dispatch the Emperor’s fury ain’t you?’

‘Yes, corporal,’ Torvin said.

‘I know I told all you new recruits that looking after your socks and boots is even more important than your lasgun,’ Algarn said, ‘but that don’t mean you can leave it behind.’

‘Yes, corporal. Sorry, corporal,’ Torvin said, his face growing hot as he moved off to retrieve his weapon.

Torvin carried his lasgun back to his equipment, chastising himself for being such a fool. The punishment for misplacing a rifle during basic training had been seventeen lashes. Back then, the instructors had drilled it into every recruit: if you want to be one of the few that survives those first fifteen hours, you better remember your training; the Emperor blesses those that remember their training.

Torvin placed his lasgun down beside his pack where it would be impossible to forget it again. Then he began stowing away the rest of his equipment, wishing as he did so that he could stow away his fear just as easily. Everything the Astra Militarum had determined he needed to be an effective instrument of the Holy Emperor’s will went into the pack: lasgun maintenance kit including sacred cleaning oil and cloth freshly blessed by the tech-priests; two spare lasgun power packs; three days’ worth of nutrient-rich synthetic food rations; The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer; one roll of toilet paper; water canteen; holy purifying tablets; two pairs of socks (spare); one undershirt (spare); two pairs standard-issue underwear (male, spare); one raincoat; Guard-issue medi-pack including blessed tonics (small); sleeping bag and canvas tarpaulin; razors (x2); shaving foam, toothbrush and toothpaste; and a mess kit including plate, cup, bowl and the combination spoon, fork, knife generally referred to by the troopers of the Skadi Second as a FRED – a Fragging Ridiculous Eating Device.

The rest of his equipment, including his helmet, flak armour and webbing – containing another lasgun power pack, utility knife, bayonet and primary water canteen – he placed to the side, knowing he would need to don these prior to moving out. Last of all, he took out the only thing he carried not issued to him by the Astra Militarum: a small printed pict. He wasn’t sure whether he was permitted to carry it with him out on a mission, but he was going to. He couldn’t leave it behind. He’d only been a trooper in the Astra Militarum for two months but that had been long enough to learn many important lessons from the veterans: never volunteer for anything; troopers exist to hurry up and wait; if it isn’t yours, don’t touch it; and the only time it’s good to ask for permission is when you want the answer to be no.

He’d seen other troopers with personal items such as talismans hanging from their belts or tucked into their helmets. Some had images of saints or other iconography threaded onto the dog-tag chains around their necks. There were some with picts or letters from home, but these were few and far between. Letters were rare for the simple reason that most of the working population of Skadi could read only the barest amount necessary to do their jobs –for most that meant knowing how to read the shift clock in the mines – and they could write even less than that. Picts were even rarer than letters because it was only wealthier families that could afford a picter. Torvin was just going to follow the lead of the other troopers and assume he could carry the pict with him as long as it was kept hidden, particularly whenever Commissar Redvin was around.

He looked down at the image in his hand. Melina. She smiled back at him from the past. Torvin had never known anyone who smiled as much as Melina. Most people on Skadi had never smiled a day in their life. Though to be fair, life in the mines beneath the ice never gave anyone much of a reason to smile. But Melina smiled. On their icy home she had been his source of warmth. They would have been married last week. Now they would never be married. Even though he kept repeating the mantra that his training would keep him alive, Torvin had the sinking feeling that his fifteen-hour life expectancy would more than make sure he would never see his home world, let alone Melina, ever again.

‘Fourth Platoon, bring it in.’

The thunderous voice of Lieutenant Olga Gernson, Torvin’s platoon commander, boomed out from her heavyset frame, bouncing off the stone walls of the chapel like the blast of a frag grenade. Torvin saw her striding down the length of the nave wearing her helmet and flak armour, which only served to make her seem more massive than she already was. The troopers of the Skadi Second – even those not in her platoon, since her reputation was almost as big as her stature – called her Olga Ogryn because how anyone, woman or man, could grow that monstrously large without some hint of abhuman in the family, no one knew. Of course, no one would say this to her face or within earshot of an officer, or worse still a commissar, but there was no doubt she knew of the name and didn’t seem too concerned. Torvin quickly slipped his pict of Melina into his shirt pocket.

‘I said, bring it in, troopers,’ Gernson roared again, apparently dissatisfied with the lacklustre pace displayed by her platoon. Fourth Platoon moved to meet her where she’d stopped, taking a knee around her. This was it then, Torvin supposed, they were about to get the assignment the platoon had been promised. They were about to head out for glorious battle in the name of the Emperor, and Torvin’s clock was about to start ticking.

‘Right,’ Gernson said, ‘hurry up and get your kit squared away, we’re about to move out. Our first operational objective will be to hold Outpost Four, a watch station on the approach to Karoo City. We’ll be relieving a local militia, maintaining a presence there and engaging any greenskins sighted because it’s a vital location for tracking enemy movements. There have been orks spotted in the area. Apparently, this planet’s magnetic field is a bastard on comms and any monitoring is shot to crem because of that. Plus, all these blasted trees they’ve got here make it Throne-damned hard to see from orbit. So it’s old-fashioned boots on the ground to keep a lookout for the enemy. If we see them inbound, we send up a signal flare and then we start killing xenos.’ Gernson turned to Sergeant Troovey. ‘I expect the platoon to be boots out in one hour.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Troovey replied.

Gernson nodded to him and then turned her gaze back to the troopers of Fourth Platoon. ‘Carry on, troopers,’ she said before walking away. Torvin had half expected some words of encouragement or support, but he supposed that was it. He returned his attention to packing.

‘Here ya go.’

Torvin looked up from his equipment to see Corporal Algarn. He was holding out a data-slate. Torvin took it, turning it to look at the screen.

DEPARTMENTO MUNITORUM FORM 87390-B/MSG

CORRESPONDENCE REQUEST

‘You and the other newbies got a chance to write home if you want,’ Algarn said. ‘Tell anyone that cares you’re about to see combat for the first time, that you’re thinking of them as you fight for the Emperor. Whatever. I don’t give a crem what you write, just hurry up about it.’

‘Thanks, corporal,’ Torvin said.

‘Just hurry up.’

Torvin looked down at the data-slate. He immediately knew it was Melina he would write to, but he suddenly didn’t know what to say. He looked up to see Algarn still looming over him like a dark cloud. It was even more difficult to think with the tall, perpetually annoyed corporal hovering overhead.

‘Could you just give me a minute, corporal?’ Torvin asked. He watched Algarn’s eyebrows raise and immediately regretted the words.

‘Warp no, trooper,’ Algarn said. ‘I’m not giving you a Throne-damned minute. I need you to write whatever soppy crem is going to gush out of your green-arse face to your rich mummy and daddy so that I can get the other fodder around here to do the same before we move out. Throne-damned “give me a minute.” I’ll give you my boot up your standard issue, Torvin, that’s what I’ll give you.’

‘Sorry, corporal.’

Torvin looked back to the slate. Note that all correspondence is monitored and reviewed, it read. Any information about active operations will be redacted. Any heretical or blasphemous content will also be redacted and may be grounds for punishment up to and including death.

He filled out Melina’s details in the recipient section of the form and then wrote a quick message. With the warning that everything he wrote would be read, he obviously couldn’t tell her about the fear that had gripped him knowing that his life was very likely to end within the next day. Even leaving out his fears, nothing he wrote would be sufficient to explain the hole that had opened in him after losing her. He scribbled something down, constantly aware of the ever-present impatience of Corporal Algarn. Reading back over what he’d written, his message seemed particularly inadequate. My dearest Melina, I hope you are well. I am very likely soon to face the orks in battle. It is thinking of you that keeps me strong. I will miss you always. Ted.

They seemed such hollow words but there was no time for anything more; Algarn was already holding his hands out and clicking his fingers for Torvin to hand back the slate. He filled out his details at the bottom – name, rank, serial number – and then submitted the message.

Trooper Torvin, T. your request for correspondence has been submitted. The Departmento Munitorum will forward message once a servo-skull at your relevant regimental headquarters has checked and approved form X7132bDe/P01. Expect message receipt at destination between three and seventy-two standard weeks.

Corporal Algarn snatched the data-slate from Torvin’s hand and moved off to find other recruits who had yet to see it. Algarn obviously considered this a pointless exercise. He must have been ordered to get the unit writing home from someone up the chain of command. When he was younger, back on Skadi, Torvin had once overheard one of the nobility talking about the message he’d received from his brave daughter, who had been tithed and was fighting some alien menace elsewhere in the galaxy in the name of the Emperor. He remembered quite clearly how her father had said she’d spoken of the glory of war against the abhorrent alien and how she’d felt the Emperor at her back. Torvin wondered now whether she’d actually felt the same as he did: alone and afraid, but not wanting to admit as much in any monitored correspondence. It suddenly seemed obvious to him that messages home from the Astra Militarum were not at all for the troopers on the front line. They were to make everyone else feel safe and proud.

Torvin finished closing up his pack and placed it ready beside his webbing, armour and lasgun. He wandered over to where a group of other troopers from his squad sat speaking to each other. They had all completed their soldierly duty of hurrying up, and now came the waiting. Trooper Ernest Norsten, Trooper Freya Gorm and Trooper Henrik Gernt, like Torvin, were all freshly minted Imperial Guardsmen, having been tithed at the same time and completed their basic training together.

‘Has she even seen combat before?’ Trooper Norsten was saying.

‘Who’s that?’ Torvin asked, trying to catch up on the conversation.

‘Lieutenant Gernson,’ Norsten answered. ‘She’s all blast and bluster but no one seems to know if she’s actually been in combat.’

‘None of us have,’ Gorm interjected.

‘Yeah,’ Norsten said, ‘but we’re troopers, she’s a lieutenant – be nice to know our platoon leader knows something about what to do when the crem starts flying.’

‘So why don’t you go on and ask her then?’ Gernt said; the implication that this was a terrible idea was obvious.

‘Crem no,’ Norsten said, ‘I don’t have a bastard death wish. She’ll probably snap me over her knee.’

‘Yeah, so she can probably do the same to the greenskins,’ Gorm said. ‘She’s the lieutenant either way so what does it matter?’

‘I hope we find out quickly,’ Norsten said. ‘I hope the orks attack when we’re holding this outpost because I can’t wait to kill some xenos. I’m going to snuff a dozen I reckon.’

‘Yeah, all right.’ Gorm rolled her eyes. ‘You’re sure to be a hero of the Imperium.’

‘Maybe I will,’ Norsten continued. ‘They’ll be remembering my name on Skadi. We ain’t got many heroes but they’ll be remembering me. Norsten the Ork Slayer. Probably get two dozen if I can get to the front rank. Can’t wait.’

Norsten turned to Torvin, who had been quietly listening. How Norsten had the audacity to say Lieutenant Gernson was full of bluster while he sat there talking about becoming some legendary war hero was beyond him.

‘What about you, Torvin?’ Norsten asked. ‘How many orks are you going to slay?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Torvin said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He had done little but think about being in combat with the orks and how he might survive, but he hadn’t thought at all about how many of the xenos he was going to kill. He’d just assumed the answer would be zero.

‘Haven’t thought about it,’ Norsten echoed to the other troopers around him. ‘Everyone’s thought about killing xenos.’

‘Sure,’ Torvin said. ‘I’ll probably kill some orks.’

‘Don’t sound very sure about that,’ Norsten said. ‘Are you some kind of xenos-lover?’

‘Norsten!’ Gorm jumped on him, her voice a harsh whisper. ‘Don’t even joke about that.’

‘Maybe I’m not joking,’ Norsten said. ‘I’ve seen Torvin moping about, and I saw this too.’

Torvin was too slow to react when Norsten lunged forward and plucked the partially exposed pict from his top shirt pocket.

‘Hey!’ Torvin called, trying to grab it back, but Norsten had already turned away and was looking at the pict of Melina.

‘Who’s this then?’ Norsten asked. ‘This the reason you’re afraid?’

‘Give it back, Norsten,’ Torvin pleaded. ‘It’s important.’

Torvin grabbed at the pict again, but Norsten moved it out of range of his grasping hand.

‘First tell us who she was.’

Torvin sighed. ‘Fine, her name is Melina. Now give it back.’

‘Your girlfriend?’ Norsten asked.

‘We were supposed to get married,’ Torvin said. ‘Now let me put it away.’

‘She’s cute. Nice smile,’ Norsten said. ‘Shame you’ll never see her again.’ He looked at Torvin. ‘Why do you bother carrying this? You’re an idiot if you think you’re ever getting back to Skadi. Let me help you get in the mood for war.’

Norsten grabbed the pict with both hands, making ready to tear it down the middle. With a reflex action Torvin jumped at Norsten, slamming him back against the cold, hard stone of the chapel floor. Straddling him, Torvin grabbed at the pict, trying to pull it free of Norsten’s grasp. Perhaps because he’d caught Norsten by surprise, Torvin managed to rip the pict free. He squeezed it in his fist as he pulled his arm back ready to punch Norsten square in the face. He never had the chance to follow through as a large boot struck him in the side, kicking him off the shocked Guardsman.

‘What’s this Throne-damned crem, troopers?’

Torvin rolled over, winded by the blow. He looked up to see the boot was laced to the foot of Sergeant Troovey. Troovey, second-in-command of the platoon, was a man almost as large as Lieutenant Gernson and there was no question about whether or not he’d seen combat during his Imperial Guard career. He was one of the few grizzled veterans who’d been transferred from other regiments to join the newly formed Skadi Second Infantry. His face was criss-crossed with scars and his eye had long ago been replaced with an augmetic after it had been torn from its socket by some multi-limbed, thick-shelled xenos on a faraway world.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Torvin stammered.

‘Did you just call me sir?’ Troovey asked. ‘I’m a sergeant, not an officer. Don’t call me sir, I work for my Throne-damned living. Now, you gonna answer me? What the crem is going on?’

It was Norsten who jumped in. ‘Torvin here was getting worked up because I was telling him he’ll never get back to Skadi, sergeant. We were talking about killing orks and he doesn’t seem to want to, he’s acting a coward.’

As if that word were a beacon calling out across the universe, Torvin saw someone even worse than Sergeant Troovey approaching: Commissar Mave Redvin. Like all commissars, Redvin wore a black peaked cap adorned with a shining gold aquila. Her polished breastplate was adorned with a decorative skull and, over that, her black greatcoat with gold epaulettes and red lining hung down to swish around her feet as she walked with slow, purposeful steps towards them. Even Sergeant Troovey remained silent as she approached.

‘A coward here is there, sergeant?’ Commissar Redvin asked when she reached them.

‘Not in my platoon, commissar,’ Sergeant Troovey said. ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘What’s the concern then?’ Redvin continued. ‘Your platoon is about to move out, we do not need a breakdown of discipline before you’ve even left.’

‘No, commissar,’ Troovey said, turning his attention to Torvin and Norsten. ‘These two are just so keen to start fighting greenskins they’re taking it out on each other.’

Commissar Redvin looked at Norsten and Torvin. ‘Well, troopers, you make sure you save your fighting’ – her eyes fixed on Torvin with an almost supernatural sternness – ‘and your bravery, for the enemy.’

Torvin swallowed. ‘Yes, commissar,’ both he and Norsten said, in almost perfect unison.

‘Good. Carry on, and good hunting,’ Commissar Redvin said as she turned to walk away, her greatcoat swirling out behind her. ‘The Emperor protects.’

‘Sergeant, I–’ Norsten said once Redvin had moved away to inspect the rest of the troopers around the chapel, but Troovey quickly interrupted.

‘Shut your crem hole, last thing I need is a commissar up my arse.’ He pointed directly at Norsten’s face. ‘You listen good. No trooper really knows how they’re going to react until the crem starts flying out there, so you save your accusations of cowardice and just worry about pointing your own lasgun where it needs to go. Now finish packing your gear.’

‘I’m already fin–’

Sergeant Troovey glared at Norsten.

‘Yes, sergeant,’ Norsten said.

Sergeant Troovey walked away and the troopers sat in silence. Torvin wondered whether Norsten was right. Was he a coward? He’d never considered himself a coward before he was tithed but since then it hadn’t seemed far from the truth.

Back on Skadi, after he received his notice of tithing, he’d considered taking Melina and running away with her. It wouldn’t have been hard to vanish in the labyrinthine squalor of the lower hive. But he couldn’t ask that of Melina, and he didn’t want to live as a deserter either, constantly knowing the Arbites would be searching for him. The punishment for desertion from a tithe was death on sight. If the choice to be a deserter made someone a coward then the truth was simple: Torvin was too afraid to be a coward. He looked at Commissar Redvin strolling down the lines and the troopers all around her quieting down, standing taller, looking like strong soldiers of the Imperium. Perhaps that was the irony of the entire Astra Militarum, he thought – every single Imperial Guardsman is too afraid to be a coward.

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* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.