Seventh Retribution (Warhammer 40,000) by Ben Counter

Author:Ben Counter [Counter, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2013-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

K-Day +15 Days

Classified

Three hundred troops stood to attention, as they always did for ten hours per day, unmoving, unthinking.

General Seven walked up and down the ranks. He inspected the troops once every two hours for signs of physical degradation, equipment disrepair or the various physiological ailments that tended to hamper the effectiveness of a mind-wiped soldier. Nervous systems were particularly at risk. Repeated mind scourging and reprogramming shortened the life of nerve clusters and certain areas of the brain. Malcoordination and tics were particularly dangerous signs.

There were no anomalies that cycle.

‘Seven here,’ said the general in response to the vox-chirp in his ear.

A series of code chirrups sounded.

‘I acknowledge. Time query.’

The response suggested a time span of between two and four hours.

‘Thy will be done,’ said General Seven. Like his men, General Seven lacked a name or discrete personality, but was capable of much more autonomy of thought than the majority of the troopers. He had to be trusted with leading them as well as fighting, and for that reason had many more of his original faculties intact.

‘Landing detail!’ he ordered. ‘Clear the landing pad and stow the defence cannon! Docking clamps and refuelling made ready! Hundred-man protocol detail, full dress. To your duties!’

The men of the Officio Assassinorum broke up into work teams to prepare the landing pad, a circle of rockcrete studded with docking clamps and maintenance access hatches. Scarfinal Island protected the pad well, being the relic of a volcanic eruption that had left high, deadly basalt cliffs and peaks surrounding a large central depression. Overhead clouds of seabirds wheeled and screeched as they flitted back and forth between the ocean feeding grounds and the nesting caves among the cliffs. There were few other sounds, for the troopers did not speak unless it was strictly necessary.

They had once been judged by the Temples of the Officio Assassinorum, these men. Some were death cultists picked from the many deviant churches of the Emperor. Others were the hereditary offerings of famous bloodlines, who were bound to hand over their most martially able offspring to the agents of the Imperium. A few had even been psychopaths chosen from Imperial prisons, whose skills and temperaments made them ripe for training.

But they had all failed. The great majority always failed – some were killed during their training, others were deemed too dangerous to live. Those that were intact were scrubbed clean of their memories and placed in the blank uniforms, devoid of name or rank, of the Officio Assassinorum’s own army.

The Damnatio Memoriae descended from the overcast sky, parting the clouds and the ocean spray, driving away the flocks of seabirds. It was a plain black craft of an ungainly shape, with an asymmetrical, blocky nose and great flaring engines. It was small by the standards of war-craft, easily able to fit onto the island’s small landing pad, but it was ancient even by the standards of the finest Imperial spaceships and hence was faster and more reliable that almost any other craft in the service of the Emperor.

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