As the raindrops thinned, nothing but silence settled over the trench.
Ozone-scented shell casings left behind by the rebels, scraps of torn Imperial uniforms, and cooling blood mingled with the mud, forming grotesque violet puddles. Without relaxing our firing stances, we silently watched the bluish heat rising from the tips of our barrels.
"Is... is it over?"
A low, trembling voice came from the corner of Second Squad’s section. It was Dorn.
The rookie from an agri world had spent the entire first engagement bowed over the trench floor, unable even to bring himself to wipe the blood spattered across his gas mask filter. When the cheers announcing the enemy’s withdrawal gave way to silence, he slowly raised his upper body, squinting as though he had been granted salvation.
"I lived... Emperor, I lived..."
"Hey, farm-boy rookie. Don’t lift your head yet."
Lazar issued the warning low through a puff of smoke, but Dorn, still caught in panic, seemed incapable of hearing a thing. He pulled from inside his uniform a small pouch of agri-world soil, grimy with dirt, along with a rosary. Drunk on the relief of having survived, he stuck his dazed face over the trench parapet.
It was his last mistake.
Booom!
A single dull sniper shot shattered the silence.
The instant the shot rang out, Dorn’s head burst apart with a grotesque sound, leaving nothing behind. Brains, blood, and bone fragments sprayed across the trench wall and the lenses of my gas mask.
Dorn’s headless body crumpled forward without strength and plunged into the muddy trench floor with a splat. The pouch of agri-world soil he had held to his chest burst open, and the dry dirt of his homeland trickled out across the bloody water.
"Sniper! Heads down, all of you!"
Sergeant Yakov shouted, pressing himself tight against the trench wall.
But nobody panicked and screamed. Talia simply wiped the droplets of Dorn’s blood from her gas mask lens with a gloved hand, while Brix clicked his tongue and lowered his barrel.
"Bloody idiot. Might as well have advertised to the snipers in No Man’s Land that he wanted them to kill him."
Lazar spat and walked over to Dorn’s corpse. There was not the slightest trace of grief on his face. Without hesitation, Lazar searched Dorn’s uniform and pulled out two lasgun power cells still retaining a faint warmth, along with an intact gas mask filter.
"Remaining charge is wasted on a dead man anyway."
Lazar tossed one of the cells he had taken at me.
"Take it, rookie. You burned through plenty of charge in your cells earlier too."
I looked at the power cell in my hand. It was still damp with Dorn’s blood, an energy cell that had not yet discharged and gave off a lukewarm heat. Just as defective parts were picked out in hive-world factories, people in the trenches were no more than consumables—once they died, their remaining components were immediately stripped clean before they sank beneath the mud.
Without a word, I shoved Dorn’s cell into a pocket on my kit. My fingertips trembled coldly, but I was learning down to the bone that if I wanted to survive in this mud, I had to steal even the warmth of the dead and wear it for myself.
Then dull, rhythmic bootsteps began approaching from the far end of the trench. They were not the battered boots of Guardsmen. They were the sound of smooth, heavy leather boots studded with iron nails.
The air in the trench began to freeze more bitterly than it had when the artillery landed.
As the sound of rough, studded leather boots crushing through the mud drew closer, Second Squad’s men stiffened as though by prior agreement.
The figure who came around the trench corner wore a pitch-black coat with red lining hanging from it. A black officer’s uniform, a heavy bolt pistol at his waist, and a red officer’s cap. He bore the chilling authority that only the Emperor’s direct enforcers could possess: Commissar Vorkov. Behind him followed Lieutenant Varen, the young commander of Fourth Platoon, wearing new flak armour not yet marked by a single bloodstain, his face drained white.
"Attention!"
At Sergeant Yakov’s sharp command, the soldiers hurriedly placed both hands over their chests to form the double-headed aquila and saluted. I too placed my trembling hands over my chest and lowered my head.
Commissar Vorkov stood tall and swept his cold gaze over the entirety of Second Squad’s trench line. His eyes settled upon Dorn’s corpse, crumpled on the muddy trench floor with its head blown away. Around the body, the rosary and agri-world soil he had dropped were soaked through and clotted with blood.
"Sergeant."
Vorkov’s low, dry voice broke the silence.
"Yes, Commissar!"
"What is that corpse?"
"It is rookie Dorn, killed moments ago by a surprise shot from an enemy sniper."
Vorkov slowly walked over and prodded Dorn’s corpse with the toe of his leather boot. It was a merciless, indifferent gesture. He bent down and picked up the rosary buried in the mud with a gloved hand, then clicked his tongue in contempt and threw it out of the trench toward No Man’s Land.
"He raised his head without even identifying the sniper’s position. A death with no value beyond reducing the enemy’s ammunition count."
Vorkov took his eyes from the corpse and looked down at each soldier’s face in turn. Dented gas masks, flak armour caked with mud, and eyes trembling with fear.
"Platoon commander."
"Y-yes! Commissar!"
Lieutenant Varen, standing behind him, flinched and brought a hand to his temple.
"Is this the standard of the platoon you command? Men who lose their wits at the first bombardment and charge, and fools who get their heads blown off by a single sniper?"
"M-my apologies! The rookies’ level of training is still..."
"Excuses are unnecessary."
Vorkov quietly unfastened the belt securing the leather holster of his bolt pistol. At the precise metallic click, Lazar and Talia’s shoulders twitched almost imperceptibly. When that leather holster opened, it meant someone was about to get a hole in their head.
"The Emperor’s patience is infinite, but the Imperial Guard’s supplies are finite. Any man who attempts to abandon the line out of fear, or harbours needless defeatism in his heart, will be executed here in this trench."
Vorkov came to a stop directly in front of me. I could smell rich leather, ozone beneath it, and the chill scent of death. The Commissar stared intently at the muzzle of the lasgun held against my chest.
"You. Rookie."
"Yes, Commissar!"
I shouted, forcing my trembling jaw still.
"How much charge remains in your cells?"
"I-I recovered rookie Dorn’s remaining cells as well... I have three cells in my possession!"
I hastily pulled out the warm, bloodstained cell I had shoved into my kit pocket and showed it to him. Vorkov silently looked down at the blood-smeared cell, then for the first time, raised the corner of his mouth in a grotesque smile.
"Good. You know enough to take supplies from a comrade’s corpse. You meet the minimum qualifications of a consumable."
Turning away, Vorkov gave his cold orders to Lieutenant Varen and Sergeant Yakov.
"Do not remove the corpse. Bury it where it lies beneath the mud. It will serve as a warning to the remaining rookies. And at 03:00, organize a patrol along the edge of No Man’s Land and locate the enemy sniper."
"Understood!"
Vorkov disappeared toward the other end of the trench, the tails of his greatcoat fluttering behind him. Once he was gone, the members of Second Squad released the breaths they had been holding all at once and slowly collapsed against the trench walls.
I blankly stared at the bloodstained lasgun power cell in my hand. The true terror that had threatened my life until just moments ago was not the enemy shells or the rebels’ knives. It was the iron-blooded commander of the Imperium behind us, ready at any time to put a round through the crown of our heads.
"You saw that, rookie?"
Lazar muttered, spitting deeply onto the trench floor.
"That’s our side. So if you don’t want to die, keep your eyes wide open during the 03:00 patrol."
Over the trenches of Sector Gamma-9, now buried deep in darkness, cold, heavy mud-rain began to fall once more.
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