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The Price of Duty – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

The Price of Duty

By Matt Smith

The forest was warm but a cool breeze brushed at his face. The sun was bright, but shaded by the thick canopy, which allowed only thin beams of light to reach through, like the Emperor’s fingers reaching from the heavens to bless the ground. Jasper Nevin couldn’t help thinking it would be a nice place to go on a relaxing stroll or bring one’s paramour for a romantic picnic.

At least, it would be if he weren’t being shot at. Las-fire struck the wide colossoak tree he was sheltering behind and Nevin flinched with every impact. He had been hiding here for several minutes. He had been separated from his unit when they had been ambushed. Stun grenades had left him disoriented, and by the time he had come to his senses there were no allies in sight. Now he was pinned down and unable to find a way out. He grew frustrated. He was a graduate of the schola progenium of Grundus V, for Emperor’s sake, but for all their talk of duty and discipline the schola progenium could never truly drive the fear from a man, never truly prepare him for war.

Jasper Nevin was a commissar, and he was afraid.

He dared a glance out from behind the trunk. He couldn’t see anything. A shot hit the colossoak, stripping bark, and Nevin snapped back into cover. He fired back blindly with his laspistol. His shots were weak next to the incoming fire. They were quiet and dull and where they struck trees they left only faint burn marks. The weapon was old and poorly maintained, the powercell recycled more times than even the most generous Munitorum guidelines allowed. It whined low, drained, as more loud sharp cracks snapped back. He tried to reload the pistol but his hands were shaking. His fingers felt numb and unwieldy.

He heard footsteps. They were swift and light. He couldn’t tell how many there were, or which direction they were coming from – only that they were getting closer. He fumbled the powercell into place and dared another look out of cover. He spotted something, a figure in green hooded overalls covered in off-cuts of foliage. It moved assuredly between the trees. Nevin fired and the figure dived away. Nevin ducked back, then looked around the other side of the trunk. He caught a glance of a second figure clad like the first. It fired on full-auto from the hip as it moved, the shots spraying wildly. Nevin dropped to one knee and returned fire. A shot struck the attacker in the abdomen and it stumbled clumsily before falling on its face.

Before Nevin could relish his success, a third attacker stepped out ahead of where the second had fallen, and fired. Nevin only just managed to get out of the way before the shots buzzed past. He noticed he was panting and tried to control his breathing. This was how he was going to die: alone, at the hands of rebel logging workers on what was supposed to be a simple garrison duty before he’d ever even seen a xenos or a heretic.

No, that wasn’t how the story of Jasper Nevin would finish. He’d trained too long for such an ignominious end. He was a commissar and he had one weapon left at his disposal: righteous authority. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and pronounced: ‘Workers of Verdine Two logging station Primus Delta Twelve, I am Commissar Jasper Nevin! You stand in defiance of the ordained edicts of the Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Mechanicus! By the authority of the Commissariat, the Officio Prefectus and the Emperor Himself, stand down and–’

More las-fire cut him off. Nevin glanced out to see how long he had left. The approaching figures had once more blended into the forest but when he looked away he saw another. It was halfway up a tree directly ahead of him, suspended from a utility harness, the kind the workers used to strip high branches. He had a clear sight line. Nevin threw himself forwards onto his face as a spray of las-fire chewed up the tree where he had been sat a moment before. More fire from behind kicked up tufts of dirt around him. With the rebel sniper in play he could no longer hide. Survival instincts that had previously rooted him to the spot now lent strength to his legs. He got to his feet and ran. Las-fire chased him every step of the way, and he fired back desperately over his shoulders. He tripped and fell. More shots whined overhead and Nevin rolled onto his back, firing at random as he tried to regain his footing. He saw something move between the trees and snapped off three more shots before his pistol whined low again. The pursuer stepped out of cover. His lasgun was held at his hip, finger on the trigger as he walked calmly towards Nevin.

There was a flash of movement from the shrubbery surrounding the base of the nearest colossoak. Before the rebel labourer could react, a hand was clamped over his nose and mouth and a knife had been driven up under his ribcage. He let out a muffled splutter and blood seeped between the fingers across his face. He slumped as the blade slid free, dripping crimson. The wielder crouched, wiping the knife clean on their victim’s overalls with one hand while snapping off a series of gestures with the other. Nevin heard the distinctive snap of a single long-las shot, followed by a cry – and a moment later, a dull heavy thud. He hadn’t seen the shooter; he was still looking at the warrior who’d saved him.

Captain Rosario Vargass, ‘Viper’ among the soldiery, was powerfully built. She stood half a head taller than Nevin and her hair was a dark buzz cut. She wore a red bandana, a dirty white vest and jungle camouflage fatigues that showed off the tattoos that ran down both her arms. She was the commanding officer of B Company in the Catachan 64th. Nevin had been assigned to her upon his allocation to the regiment. In his time with B Company, he had found her to be a brutal, sometimes terrifying combatant. Beyond that, she had proven to have a keen strategic mind and an easy, natural leadership style that Nevin admired and envied. She stayed crouched unmoving in the undergrowth. In the sudden stillness Nevin heard a muted cry only a short distance to his right, followed by a sharp crack to the left. He didn’t know if it was snapping wood or breaking bone.

Captain Vargass finally moved in a swift, hunched walk towards him. ‘Get up,’ she snarled, not deigning to look down at him as she yanked up on the shoulder of his storm coat. He could smell the blood of the dead labourer on her fingers. There was movement all around them as one by one, four more Catachan troopers made themselves known. Captain Vargass stood up straight and Nevin quickly pushed himself to his feet, brushing dry dirt and leaves off his coat.

‘Your assistance was most timely, captain,’ Nevin said in a clipped tone, trying to establish an air of authority.

Vargass turned and stepped so she could whisper to him. ‘You should be careful, commissar. It almost looked like you were running away.’

Nevin stepped away and made a show of checking and reloading his pistol. ‘Merely withdrawing to a more defensible position, captain.’

‘I was referring more to how you ended up out here in the first place,’ Vargass replied, loud enough that the squad could hear this time.

‘Oh.’ Nevin cleared his throat and looked away sheepishly for a second before catching himself and snapping his gaze back to the captain. ‘I got disoriented during the ambush. These damn trees all look the same,’ he said.

‘At least none of them look like sucker trees,’ one of the troopers said. The others laughed.

‘You’re lucky that Vandien saw which way you went,’ Vargass said and nodded her head past him.

Nevin looked back over his shoulder at Trooper Vandien. He was Vargass’ adjutant and one of the youngest in the regiment, roughly Nevin’s age but noticeably taller, with a thick, dark beard. He returned Vargass’ gesture respectfully.

‘My thanks for your vigilance, Trooper Vandien,’ Nevin said.

The trooper fixed him with a cold stare for a long second, then looked away.

‘We all enjoyed your little speech about the authority of the Officio Prefectus,’ said Vargass drawing another low rumble of laughter from the Catachans. ‘How did that work out for you?’

Nevin turned back to her and forced an easy smile. ‘Unsurprisingly the rebels failed to recognise Imperial authority,’ he said.

‘Well, it helped us find you, at least.’

‘The Emperor protects,’ said Nevin.

‘Captain,’ another of Vargass’ command squad said. ‘Did you see this?’ It was the scout, Romaro. She was hunched down over the fallen labourer Viper had killed.

‘What is it?’ Vargass asked as she made her way towards her. Nevin followed unbidden. When he reached her, Romaro was prising the dead man’s fingers from his lasgun.

‘Well, captain, when the rebellion began the labourers were practically unarmed. They were fighting the overseers with forestry equipment and their bare hands. Any firearms they had were old personal items, a few autopistols and stubbers.’

‘We knew they had managed to arm themselves,’ Nevin said.

Romaro shot him a sideways glance and kept speaking to Vargass. ‘We thought they had managed to get hold of some cheap lasguns, but nothing like this. Look.’ She unslung her own lascarbine and laid it down next to the dead man’s weapon.

The guns were near identical. The clearest difference Nevin could see was in their condition. Romaro’s lascarbine, like his own pistol, looked aged. Where metal was exposed it was beginning to rust. Thick clumps of ash and dirt filled its crevices and the casing was badly cracked to the point that it was hazardous to use. By comparison, the labourer’s weapon was brand new. Captain Vargass took the labourer’s rifle and unslung her own, which was in no better condition than Romaro’s.

‘How did these upstart woodsmen get access to brand new military-issue lascarbines while we’re out here fighting with whatever is barely working after Scarda?’ Captain Vargass asked.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-686-9

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