13th Legion

THREE

BAD LANDINGS

The feeling in the cell is even tenser than normal. Everybody's shaken up by what happened on False Hope, the memory of our fellow Last Chancers being eaten by the god-plant fresh in our memories. To make matters even worse, there's been no sign of the Colonel for the past three weeks. Talking to the rat­ings, it seems he disappeared on a rapid transport two days after we left False Hope orbit, taking Hopkins with him.

Not wanting to think about the future, determined to leave the past behind, I try to lose myself in the day-to- day drudgery. I've had to reorganise the men again: there are only forty-seven of us left. I've made an ad-hoc command squad out of Franx, Kronin, Gappo, Linskrag, Becksbauer and Fredricks. The odier men are organised into four squads, with Poal, Donalson, Jorett and Slavini as the sergeants. Everyone's getting really shaky now; I need the calmest heads in charge if I'm ever going to survive this whole mess. With less than fifty of us left, we're a below-strength platoon, not even a full company of men. There's an unspoken feeling floating around the unit, a feeling that the end is getting very close. Roughly three thousand nine hundred and fifty Last Chancers have died in the past two and a half years, I can't see forty-seven of us surviving the next bat-de. Not if the Colonel comes back.

The thought of the Colonel's not returning doesn't leave me too optimistic either, I can't help feeling he's dumped us. There are too few of us to do anything useful that I can think of. I mean, given time the Departmento Munitorum can muster reg­iments numbering thousands of men, so what can four dozen Last Chancers do? In my gossiping with the ratings I've also learnt that we're heading to a system called Hypernol for re-supply. On the face of it, diere seems nothing particularly odd about that. On the other hand, I can remember some of the

men, dead now, who had been drafted in from a penal colony in die Hypernol system. The Colonel leaving and us being shipped to a penal colony - coincidence? I don't mink so. He's left us to rot, I'm sure of it.

I'm not the only one to add two and two. As usual, Franx and Gappo are sitting with me during the sludge- eating gala they call meal time, a few cycles after dropping back into warpspace, some three weeks after leaving False Hope.

'Can't believe that's it/ Franx says vehemendy, his voice a ragged whisper since his infection on the deathworld. 'Four thousand men dead, all over? Just like that, all finished? Doesn't make sense. What have we done? Fought in a bunch of wars, lots of men have died, but we haven't achieved anything. Can't believe this is the end/

'You think there's some grander scheme?' laughs Gappo. 'Don't be naive! We're just meat in the Imperial grinder, noth­ing more/

ЛЯш do you mean?' I ask the ex-preacher, slighdy disturbed at his words.

'Sitting on a prison hulk or in some penal colony, we were just dead meat, carcasses hanging from the body of humanity/ he replies after a moment's thought. 'We're all criminals, according to the Colonel, who have wasted our chance to serve the Imperium. It doesn't matter if we live or die, as long as we're doing something useful. So they give us guns, put us into a war and let us hurl ourselves at the enemy/

That's stupid, too/ argues Franx, shaking his head. 'If we're such a waste, why bother sending us anywhere? Why not just kill us? Men are hung and beheaded and shot, all punishments listed in the Codex Imperialis. Having a naval transport at our beck and call is unheard of. Those resources don't come cheap, somebody owes the Navy/

That isn't normal, I'll grant you/ Gappo concedes with a thoughtful look. Then again, we've all heard the Colonel. He genuinely believes in our Last Chance, in giving us an oppor­tunity to save our souls from Chaos by allowing us to serve the Emperor again/

'Can't see how the Colonel has enough clout to have a Navy transport seconded to us/ counters Franx, wagging a finger at Gappo. 'For all the Colonel believes in his mission to save our souls, I don't think it's enough of an argument to convince the

Lord Admirals to give him a ship that can carry stores for fifty thousand fighting men, to ferry around a few hundred. Logistics don't make sense/

'It's not just logistics, though/ I tell them, looking at Gappo then Franx. 'If you knew this was going to happen to you, would you have still defied the cardinal or let your men revolt against your superiors?'

'Not sure/ answers Franx, gnawing at his bottom lip in thought. 'Never really thought about it/

'I know what you mean/ Gappo exclaims excitedly, as if he's just stumbled on some secret truth about the galaxy. 'It's the deterrent, you're saying?'

We've been in twelve war zones now/ I remind them. 'How many other regiments have we come in contact with? There were at least thirty on our batdefront on Ichar IV; there's the Perditian Outriders from Octo Genesis, the Choreks at Deliverance, and about another ten from other places. They all saw or heard about the dirty jobs we have to do, the massive casualties we suffer. I know for a fact that if I'd seen this com­ing, my knife would have stayed firmly in my belt that time/

'Still doesn't explain why there's a few dozen of us left/ Franx argues, his voice rasping and quiet. Gappo's about to answer back but Franx holds up his hand to stop him. He takes a sip of his juice before continuing. Throat feels on fire... Anyway, it would make sense to round up convicts as we travel. Four thou­sand men are as much a deterrent as fifty, much more useful military force/

'So perhaps that's where the Colonel's gone/ I suggest with a smug smile. 'He's gone ahead to the penal colony to organise some new recruits. They'll be waiting for us when we arrive/

'I don't know which would be worse/ Gappo laments, look­ing thoroughly miserable again. 'Getting locked up in a prison somewhere for the rest of my life, or dying on a battlefield/

'I want to go down fighting/ I tell them firmly. 'Whether the Colonel's right or not about my immortal soul, I want to die doing something that's worth a damn. I joined the Guard to fight for the Emperor, I ain't gonna rot in a cell, be sure about that/

'With you on this one, scarface/ Franx laughs. 'Give me a gun, a googly-eyed alien to shoot it at, and I'll die a happy man/

* * *

It's another twenty cycles before we drop from warp space into the Hypernol system. The tension and