Far from the woes of Apophyllion, separated by time and space, another tragic tale unfolded in the cold corridors of the heavenly void. For the men of the Imperial Vanguard, the coming days would become a nightmare.
Haylock knew this all too well, so he wanted to spend these last few hours without the company of others. Ghosts haunted him in the sounds of others’ laughter. In the hours before a jump, no one laughed except for the Ones. Those men, little more than children, always walked around like they were invincible, untested by tribulation, yet they looked down on the High Enders who were just looking forward to going home.
Not that Haylock or anyone else in the whole place had a home to go back to. He must have been sleeping in that crate for centuries before they woke him up. Anyone he might have known from the academy was either long dead or else on ice themselves. Yet, despite the centuries of distance between then and now, the homeland felt closer than ever. One more jump.
Skulking through the narrow hallways, Haylock eyed the few others haunting this part of the jump base. Veterans, every one, with at least a hand of jumps marked on their armor, but the commissars moved men around so often that he did not recognize any nametags that named the other soldiers. Perhaps it was better that way, "less attachment, less loss" one of those black-coated men had told him on his first transfer, but being forced to never see the men you considered as brothers felt like loss all the same…
Haylock let those thoughts trail away, there was no worth in thinking about men who were, in all likelihood, already dead. Yet their ghosts materialized at the end of the hallway, young men in their prime, glowing with life in those lifeless metal hallways. One of the pale faces met his and grinned, “Yo, older brother! Any tips for a handful of Ones?”
Not ghosts, but they might as well have been to the tired Ten.
“Don’t die.”
Haylock tried sidling past the boys, but they pressed their shoulders together just enough that it would have been an awkward struggle to get past them. The spokesman of this gang slapped Haylock on the back like they had suckled from the same nipple tank together and had not just met for the first time ten seconds ago.
“Now come on then! I heard you vets get a bit on the cool side, but we’re all soldiers of the Emperor after all. Blood. Honor. Glory!”
Haylock’s eye ticked, “Lots of blood maybe, but no honor and not much glory to show.”
The atmosphere dropped with the younger man’s smile and the group eyed one another as if they had suddenly encountered one of the Yabanchi on their ship.
“So you’re just going to quit out after this jump? Not going to re-up in the Stormtrooper Corps?”
“If quitting means going home, then you’re speaking sense for the first time kid. I’m out of here after this jump.” This time Haylock did not care and he shoved his way past the group of boys. They did not try to stop him again, but shouted at his back, "The commissar will hear of this defeatism!"
Haylock flapped a hand without looking, unfazed by their threat. On the eve before a jump, the commissars never bothered to hand out judgment. They knew what was coming.
There were not many places where a man could find a quiet space to contemplate when an entire regiment was unthawed at once, but before his sixth jump, a friend had shown him that the best place to catch rest was the jump room itself. Though by tomorrow morning it would be crawling with thousands of men ready to fight, Haylock was alone on the metal floor, contemplating all the times that he had stood here, from first to last.
The jump room made an impression on Ones the first time they saw it, given that it was larger than even the biggest sports stadiums of the home world's academies. It needed to be, in order to manifest the giant portals that they used to simultaneously move armies across space in seconds.
Of all the men in the regiment, the commissars were the only ones who had been on the floor of the jump room more times than Haylock. “Yet I think they are more surprised to see a soldier going for his tenth jump.” Haylock buried his head in his hands. “I’m the only one left.”
In the Imperial Vanguard, more men had never made a jump than there were veterans. Children, Haylock was surrounded by untried children who had barely graduated from one of the many Imperial Military Academies before being put on ice. Men did not grow old in the Vanguard, they died young.
The gear that each man was issued was the cheapest and most disposable that High Command’s cold algorithms told them they could spare, meaning not much. Haylock had gone from stamping around in a soft, dark, and silky cadet uniform to the synthetic and grey wool that itched if you wore it for too long. It was supposed to keep you warm, even in a hostile alien atmosphere, but when the bullet proof vests that they issued out as armor rubbed against your shoulders for too long, the skin there rubbed off with it. This was not even mentioning the stifling gas masks that each man was forced to wear, even if the planet they were jumping on had a benign atmosphere.
It was good that even if everything else had been stripped from you, a man's thoughts were still his own, or else the commissars might have heard what Haylock was thinking and shot him on the spot.
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The time was nigh, most of the other soldiers were getting their gear packed away or sleeping. Veteran jumpers did more of the latter, while the Ones were still trying their best to make sure their gear was absolutely up to standards. Haylock was one of those who had every confidence that his gear was maintained, if nothing else, so he found himself in one of the common areas, sharing the large space with only one other man.
Haylock only noticed the man because he was a One, and this particular one was fidgeting at the doorway and occasionally casting glances back the way he came. Haylock was just trying to play a board game by himself when he gestured to the younger man to take a seat with him. The kid looked like he was about to bolt, but then thought better of it and took the proffered seat.
“Thanks, I did not want to disturb you.”
Haylock moved a piece on the board and looked at the other man, “The way you were skulking around the hatch was disturbing enough. Figured I’d ask you why you’re staring at me.”
“Well, I don’t know if you recognize me.”
“Nope.”
The kid’s pale face was familiar, but it was just like the rest of the sea of pale faces that had been surrounding Haylock for nearly a decade. The One looked deflated and replied, "We may have exchanged some harsh words a few hours ago."
“I remember now,” Haylock drew out his answer and tapped the table, "You and your friends were the ones calling me a coward last night right?”
The teenager had the modesty to blush, but he did not deny it, “I am sorry for quickly spoken words older brother. I know a man who has served on nine jumps is surely no coward. Who knows, perhaps I will go ten and out too.”
“You think so?”
“More like I hope so, that’s why I’m here. You’ve been on so many jumps, I was hoping you could give me some advice beyond ‘don’t die’.”
Haylock tilted his ear to the boy and listened while rolling the dice for the game he was playing. Watching the pair of dice roll snake eyes, he motioned at them and said, “It’s like these dice. There’s a whole lot of luck involved, but you can modify your chance with the decisions you make.”
“How so?”
“Well, what wave are you jumping with? The further you are from the first wave, the better. Like me, I bribed one of the Squad Leaders to let me join his squad in the eighth wave.”
“I’m second wave.”
Haylock hissed through his teeth and must have made a face, since the kid paled and grabbed Haylock’s shoulder, “Can you help me? Maybe switch places with me?”
He tugged his shoulder away from the trembling One and cast a baleful eye on him.
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“What happened to blood and glory?”
“I’ve heard others talk since then. About the Yabanchi. I don’t want to get eaten. I don’t want to die.”
He could have told the other man that he was not going to die, that everything would be okay, but Haylock did not feel like lying.
“One thing I learned real early was to keep my head down. It's good for when the commissars start one of their surprise inspections here and it's good for when you’re out on a jump. That means never volunteer, and I mean never. Let them wait to “voluntold” you if they have to.”
“And jumping on the second wave?”
“Second wave doesn’t mean first in. See if you can convince someone else in that wave to let you scuttle to the back of the squad. Even one extra body in before you can make a world of difference.”
“I heard it is good to have some friends to watch your back. An extra rifle is better than one”
“If you have any, then I guess that’s true.”
The kid actually stuck his hand out to Haylock, bold as you please, and right in his face, "Well, I'm Tanlon. Perhaps we can stick together out there.”
Haylock stared at the hand like it was just another piece on his board game. There was no human being attached to the other end of it, just another pawn sent to die in the never-ending game.
“I don’t need to know your name.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly, you and half the cohort are going to die tomorrow.”
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The gas mask in Haylock’s hand created in him the same kind of feeling a painter would get if he mixed his reds, greens, and blues too much after spending too long in front of his work without any progress, apathy. Other emotions were boiling underneath the surface, but after having gone through the motions so many times, he naturally reverted to the one that set him at neutral.
Haylock was sitting on one of the many benches next to the armory, though there were so many men getting their weapons at once, that most were forced to sit on the ground or stand in huddles. The rifles, grenades, and gasmask were probably the only thing that cost the Imperial Army any sort of money given the elaborate and overcomplicated systems that each of them used. Despite how much he hated it, the gasmask worked as intended, as it had a series of pressure locks in place that kept it securely latched to a man’s face without leaking. Haylock had seen men scratched, clawed, burned, and gouged in the face, but never once had he seen a mask fall off without its owner intending it to. If you did see one flying through the air in combat, there was usually something still attached to it.
The rifles though? Those did earn a scowl from the weary soldier.
Holding his in his lap, he worked the action of the semi-automatic IM-3 and inspected it, even though the armorers and squad leaders had gone around several times already making sure that everyone's weapons were operational. Anyone who was not a One knew that in a perfect environment like this, such inspections were useless. In the field, any number of problems might make the overengineered IM-3 inoperative. Mud might clog up the pressure chamber, the heating coil could fry, and the magazine could jam. All of these and more had happened to Haylock and nearly cost him his life each time.
That was why the soldier was not inspecting his weapon to test its trustworthiness so much as he was reflecting on his new wave assignment.
It was the commissar, Gourke, he was sure of it. After Haylock’s ninth jump, they had gathered together all of the Nines and held a celebration for all twenty of them, so many men reaching that point was a rare occasion. Gourke himself had sauntered over to Haylock during the party, slapped him on the back and congratulated him.
“You must be honored to be one of the few who get to join the Emperor’s Stormtrooper Corps eh?” Haylock should have just nodded. Kept his mouth shut. Anything instead of what he said next.
“I’m not joining the Stormtrooper Corps.”
Perhaps the way the commissar had smiled without it reaching his eyes should have been a hint, the way the other man poured his drink and laughed too much, but for the rest of that party, the commissar had been relentless with the propaganda he was spewing.
The Emperor needs more fighting men like you. You have untapped potential. The rewards will be worth it. Haylock had been flattered, but he knew that not only was he not much of a soldier, he was mostly lucky, but getting a financial bump after the war was not worth the increased chances of getting killed that the decision offered. No, the Corps was for fanatics, the kind that had the Imperial sigil tattooed on their chests and grinned after bloody battles. Haylock was patriotic, but he wanted to just serve his time and then live a normal life until he died an old man.
The commissars had respected Haylock’s wishes, one more jump and he could go retire as a civilian, but today, as Haylock was being issued his rifle, a familiar hand clamped on his shoulder and alcohol-tinted breath whispered in his ear.
“There’s been a change in assignments trooper, you're not in the eighth wave anymore. You’re first wave.”
Alone now, weapon inspected for the twentieth time, Haylock felt like he was going to faint. These feelings usually came right before a jump, but they threatened to overwhelm him with their dark fingers. So, he did what he always did and put the gas mask on.
The mask clicked onto his face with a pop and a thrill, tightening around the muscles and bones of his face. The filtered air tasted the same, the light was the same dull yellow, but Haylock felt like he was in a different place, a different man with the mask on. Deep down he knew it was stupid, but putting it on had become a sort of ritual, a switch of his mental state that transformed the man wearing it from a weak bag of flesh and emotions to a machine that did not think or feel beyond what was needed to be done. When the whistles blew it would be the mask storming the enemy, not the man. When his rifle jammed, it would be the mask settling down to find the problem and fix it without panicking. When it came to killing, it would be the mask delivering the blow.
The man was still there, an observer behind the eye holes, but he stayed out of the way and let the mask have its way. To freeze in battle because a flight of terror seized you would mean death, so it was an easy trade.
The Mask examined the rifle again, this time not in fear, but in dispassionate study. It was operational and so too was Haylock. Studying the men milling around him, Haylock reflected on the chances that he would ever see any of them again. Ones who had no idea what they were heading into, Midders who looked even more dead inside than Haylock, and High Enders who jittered with the same nervous energy as the Ones, though for different reasons. Men with thoughts, fears, and dreams of their own, but reduced to data points by Haylock’s cold eye.
Haylock briskly informed his squad leader that he was going to the mission brief with him and the exhausted-looking Midder did not object. The poor fool was probably stuck in the same miasma of despair that had almost overwhelmed Haylock, but he had not learned how to change his face yet. Other High Enders and salty Midders had, their masks already donned like Haylock. They did not bramble in nervous groups like the others, but leaned against bulkheads or otherwise stood still and waited. In the turning of the larger machine that they were part of, there was not much more a cog could do.
The squad leader left the armory bay and Haylock followed. More men were in the hallways between, soldiers who were either waiting to be issued their equipment or waiting for the call to jump. Past the mess hall where the cooks had closed their shop and gone back to cryogenic sleep. Past the barracks where some few men slept, their only escape from the war. Past hall after hall of dull gunmetal gray bulkheads and portals, Haylock marched in the bowels of a beast that was waking up.
He was a part of it, another cell in the living organism of the Imperial war machine, one amongst thousands of millions that individually were weak, but drew their power from one another in a cascade of flesh and metal. The enemy was numerous, yet they were more so. Bombs would precede them, followed by gouts of flame super-heated into lasers that would scorch the surface into glass and purify the lands they would conquer. The soldiers of the Imperial Army knew they were weak, mortal men in a battle against hordes of inhuman monsters, but together they were strong. From where else did they draw their hope? Even a defeatist like Haylock could feel the thrill, energizing his bones and body, together with a million other screaming voices they would cast their enemy back into whatever holes they crawled from.
The Mission Room was full of men like Haylock, except for a handful of Midder squad leaders, every man had at least seven jumps under their belts. There was no preestablished officer corps that the IRA drew from, instead after a man’s third jump he was offered a squad leader position if he showed even a modicum of leadership potential. From each jump onward men would be promoted to higher level command positions, more often due to their predecessor dying than merit. At the top of the chain of command were the political representatives of the Emperor himself. Those black-coated men never jumped, never fought, but sat on raised platforms in the back of the room, smoking and chatting with one another, yet despite how much they put on an act of carelessness, their half-hooded eyes were always watching the soldiers they saw beneath them.
The weight of the rifle on his shoulder reminded Haylock that if he wanted to, he could blow away every one of those black-hearted ghouls before anyone else in the room could stop him. The commissars were not even armed with their usual pistols, it would be easy. But it would also be murder and treason on top of that, so Haylock banished the intrusive thought as quickly as it came. Too much time among the psychic units of the Yabanchi affected a mind to the point that it often warranted a quick execution, so it behooved a man to never whisper the thoughts that came unbidden, let alone act on them.
The sixty or so men in the room represented over three thousand soldiers who would be jumping in today’s assault on yet another world occupied by Yabanchi forces. Most of the other men had colorful stripes on their tunics that denoted their ranks, from squad leader to regimental commander, with Haylock being the sole exception. Given the fact that he was the only man in the regiment to have completed nine jumps, Haylock was allowed a degree of autonomy and respect by the officers, though he had no real authority to command others in battle. If they wanted him to speak up and offer advice during the briefing, then they would be disappointed. Haylock just wanted to slide by and increase his chances of surviving. If listening in on a long, boring briefing would even increase his chance by one percent, then he was taking it.
“Not that we have much of a chance.”
The regimental commander glanced at Haylock and then back toward his console. He was a High Ender himself, so he understood the pressure that was weighing down on the other man’s mind, even if he thought Haylock was a coward for not re-upping as a stormtrooper.
“Men of the Empire, soldiers, today is a chance for you to earn your pride amongst the stars.”
Haylock jerked up at the sound of someone speaking, it was not the commander like he was expecting, but Commissar Gourke's grandstanding on his platform. Cold dread poured down his spine as he listened to the political officer spout his propaganda lines to the men listening.
I'm going to die.