# The Emperor Protects - Uncut



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

This short story was my entry into the 2010 Fiction Competition here on Heresy Online. It had, however, originally been a 5,900 word story rather than the 5,000 word version that is currently posted in order to meet the competition's requirements. After having read through both versions, I found the first to be a much more compelling story overall, and thought you all may feel the same way. So, I hope you all enjoy the 'writer's cut' of _The Emperor Protects_, and as always, C&C are welcome!

The Emperor Protects​
*An Account of the Dalmian Crusade*


The silence was deafening.

They had been sitting, waiting, for over six days now. Not once had they dismounted from the Chimera. Not to use the bathroom, not to eat, not to sleep. The smell, the very air itself, was suffocating; a rancid aroma that gagged the throat and stung the eyes. Waste fermented in the stifling heat. Impenetrable darkness swallowed the man, making it all but impossible for him to see the rest of the squad crammed in the back of the track. Someone hacked a cough, followed closely by the wet splatter of phlegm being spat upon the floor.

Antony Enzo grimaced. _Fek this fekking planet._ Incredible boredom, the utter inability for physical activity ground down on him. Nothing messed with a Guardsman’s mind more than imminent action. A quick reaction force, that’s what the colonel had said. The regiment had to be ready to roll out within two minutes and, rather than trusting the competency of his men, had them standby until the order was given. Apparently six days of wallowing in your own crap was worth saving the extra thirty seconds for a man to cinch his trousers up, but he was a private, who was he to judge? _Right._

Six fekking days. _Seriously?_ Slightly unnecessary. During the extensive briefings on the plan of attack, contingency plans of attack, and fekking _alternate_ contingency plans, the brass had made it infinitely clear that the assault would not commence until a week after zero hour. Luckily, the possibility of “early initiation” was still significant enough to warrant nearly two thousand men having to sit in their excretions. Lighting his wrist chronometer, his frown deepened. _One hundred forty five hours._ Make that _seven_ days. _Damn it._

Larillan Battle Group One Sixty-Four Nineteen had made planet fall three months before. The Planetary Defense Force had screamed a plea for aid to the stars, as another system of the Dalmian Cluster was besieged by the forces of Chaos. Across the globe, heretic insurgencies had overwhelmed the ill-equipped and poorly drilled PDF troopers, and the Larillans had answered the call. _That’s where we come in: purge the heretic._ The combined arms battle group, along with other supporting Guard elements, had been systematically clearing each of the towns clustered along the western seaboard, either completely exterminating the tainted population or liberating the embattled and oppressed loyalists.

The ground shook with a tremendous blast, the first report of an opening barrage by the Larillan Nineteenth. More shots followed, massive shockwaves shuddering through the Chimera. The Basilisks had opened fire, potent Earthshaker shells being propelled towards the target to unleash their ungodly destructive power.

Static burst into life through the vox casters in the rear, the voice of the Colonel crackling, “Sons of Larilla, Operation Swift Fury is a go, commence movement to Objective Six Four Beta.” His stern voice overflowed with confidence even through the distortion, absolute surety dripping from every word. The Larillan never faltered, never halted, never accepted defeat. Advancing with reckless fury, they would strike fast and without mercy.

Enzo smirked in the darkness, _at least that’s what the colonel would say._ The grunts, the poor bastard infantrymen who had been stuck in the back of the Chimeras for over a week, would stumble out of the rear hatch. Stiff legs and sore back, limping from their thighs chaffing from fatigues soaked with excretion. _Without mercy indeed,_ he mused, _the fekking smell will kill the heretics before our lasguns will._ It was not that he felt no pride in serving with the Imperial Guard, far from it in fact. He loved it; the excitement, the training and the camaraderie were all something he had never experienced as a smelter in one of Larilla’s many processing plants. But the _suck,_ at times it was overwhelming.

A whine filled the vehicle, the massive turbines of the Chimera slowly grinding into activity after its prolonged inactivity, a predator finally pouncing on its prey. Another laughable metaphor brainwashed into him during Indoctrination. _Ah, the memories._

“This is Secundus Alpha One, acknowledged,” the crew chief barked. “Let’s go, fekheads, time to rock and roll!”

Without warning, the rear lumiglobes illuminated the dismounted soldiers with a dull red glow. Although the hazard lights were dim, having sat in darkness for seven days had opened his pupils, and the sudden shock of luminosity was blinding. Tears ran down his cheeks from his clenched shut eyes.

“Throne, a heads-up would be nice,” he muttered.

Lurching, the Chimera finally moved, the tracks along the vehicle finding purchase in the loose sand outside. A rumble rose from outside, as the dozens of tanks and transports of the battle group spurred into motion, an inexorable tide of men and armour. Rattling shook the vehicle as it progressed, a shaking which quaked him to his very core, massive vibrations that made his teeth chatter and his stomach queasy.

The Basilisks barked again, their deadly payloads launching into the sky.

While he hated the suck, he loved the rush. Heart fluttering, head swimming, _this is it._ The blasts, the rumble, all of it gave him meaning. He loved the Emperor, and he loved his job. Wallowing in his own crap, though? Not so much.

“All right numb-nuts, you know the drill!” Sergeant Fiorenza bellowed beside him, vying with the roar of the turbines and the treads for aural superiority. “We get to the objective, Embeetees’ll be blowing the whole place to hell!” Of that Enzo had no doubt; the crews manning the main battle tanks from the First were not known for their discretion. “Kill anything that moves! First platoon’s got the streets, we’ve got the buildings. Enzo, take point with your team, I’ll be right behind you. We clear everything down the road, make sure if anything is alive when we get there it’s not when we leave.”

The track bucked as it sped over a hill, bouncing the men in the rear around like rag dolls. The sludge of urine and feces slapped against Enzo’s boots, the sudden disturbance releasing an incredible stench, filling the airtight vehicle with nauseous odors. Leaning forward, Private Cirazza retched violently onto the floor, splashing vomit onto the sergeant’s trousers.

“Are you fekking kidding me? You seriously just puked on my damn pants,” Fiorenza pulled his pant leg tight, trying to see the bile. “Granted, I’m already neck deep in me own s***, but I don’t need none of yours!” He slapped Cirazza’s head into the wall, his helmet clanging against the hull. “Arse.”

Dust began billowing into the Chimera, the clouds billowing from the advancing armoured column being inhaled greedily by the vehicle’s air circulation unit. Normally, the breeze would be welcome in the sweltering heat, but the airborne particles seemed to cling to the smell. Breathing the rancid particulates in created an incredibly unpleasant taste to accompany the stench. Enzo saw the Guardsman sitting in front of him smacking his lips, trying in vain to get rid of the flavor of crap, piss, and dust.

Enzo’s thumbs-up sign was mirrored with a rude gesture, the middle finger on the man’s right hand extended, silently saying _fek off. Ah, the suck._

Sergeant Fiorenza was still swearing at the sick private, slapping him and punching him ineffectually, the restraints from his seat’s harness preventing him from doing any real harm.

Finally breaking off from his furious, albeit futile, assault, Fiorenza continued his last minute briefing, “Throne, where was I?” The dust mixed with his own sweat had formed a cake of mud on his face, which cracked as he frowned. “Oh, right. Enzo, you’re my las sponge! Cover the left side of the road on point, my team will trail ten meters back. Same road layout as Six Four Alpha, streets all converge to the chapel.” The vehicle rocked again, tossing the men side to side in their shock-seats. “Dammit, learn to drive up there! Fekheads!”

He turned his perpetual scowl back to his squad, “We’ll be hitting from the northwest, just head towards the buildings and even you dolts will get it right! Intel from the Lord General says this cesspit is crawling with loonies, so get ready for a fight.” The sergeant cocked his head, listening to his company-command frequency vox-piece. “The lieutenant says we’re five minutes out. C’mon, you bastards, strike fast!”

“Strike hard!”

*****

The rumbling advance of the vehicle slowed, the racket of the treads replaced by ground-shaking explosions. Demolishers from the First Armoured and the Bombards from the Nineteenth had begun their volleys in earnest. Enzo allowed himself a quick smile, remembering the incredible destructive capabilities those weapons were unleashing.

His mind wandered back to the previous assault, a near-flawless execution of armoured power hammering the traitors into oblivion. It had been his first taste of battle, both exhilarating and utterly terrifying. Never before had he felt so alive, so close to death or damnation at every corner.

Slowly, the constant thunder of artillery began to lighten, the order to lift fire had been given as the armoured fists had passed the minimum safe range. While the Colonel certainly did not value the individual Guardsman, he still did not seem too keen on the idea of blowing them to pieces with their own Earthshakers. 

With an abrupt jerk, the Chimera stopped in its tracks.

“Drop ramp!” Sergeant Fiorenza was already standing, having swiftly unbuckled his restraints. “Lock and load! Move your arses! Go go go!” To emphasize his point, he racketed his lasgun, and pointed towards the egress point of the track. Clumsily freeing himself from his seat, Enzo stood, shouldering his lasgun and checking the charge. _Full up_. 

He noted with disgust the sudden moisture seeping through his sleeve underneath his carapace armour. Foolishly, he had rested the stock of his weapon in the puddle of filth surrounding his feet. _Talk about bad luck._ The other Guardsmen followed suit, performing last minute prayers to the spirits of their weapons and pleas to the Emperor, hoping that this fight would not be their last.

With a screech of metal on metal, the ramp swiftly dropped, slamming into the thin dust in a puff of smoke. A slice of pale moonlight illuminated the floor of the Chimera, casting shadows off the clumps of feces and vomit spotting the floor. _Fekking. Gross._

“For Larilla! For the Emperor!” As one, the squad ducked their heads and ran towards the exit of the vehicle, each side peeling off to find cover in the buildings flanking the road.

Enzo felt the stiffness in his legs, the week of inactivity paying its toll. Smoke billowed past him from a hundred fires as he awkwardly stumbled along, praying to the Emperor for the blood to flow to his legs. He felt something in his knee pop and a stab of pain shot down his calf. Risking a glance back towards his platoon’s Chimeras, he grinned at the sight of awesome power.

Two Leman Russ main battle tanks rumbled swiftly through the roiling smoke, their arrival marking the closure of the gap between the armoured and infantry columns. Knowing what was to come, Enzo had to fight the urge to watch. Both fired simultaneously, sending a cloud of shrapnel and shattered wood flying past the running men. Keeping his head down, Enzo felt pellets of broken rock pinging off his helmet. A third tank appeared between its sisters, lowering its massive main cannon, letting loose with a hellish blast.

Flattening himself to the ground, shrapnel flew over his head. Someone was screaming, not having reacted quickly enough to the explosion. He risked raising his helmet for a look, catching a glimpse of one of his squadmates on the ground, writhing in agony. His leg had been severed below the knee and lay meters away; the stump squirted blood in irregular spurts into an expanding puddle below him.

Enzo’s ears were ringing, an almost mind-numbing peal which dulled everything else. Finding his way to his hands and knees, he recovered his lasgun, which he had lost in his panicked dive. Glancing around, he caught sight of his squad leader, the grizzled veteran on his feet and waving the men towards the heart of the village.

Sergeant Fiorenza was shouting, barely discernible over the consistent tone echoing in Enzo’s head. He could barely make out the words over the din, “Let’s go fekheads, the best first aid is to kill the enemy! Forget his sorry arse and advance! Forward!” Without looking back, the man charged ahead and disappeared into the smoke.

Finally gathering both his bearing and his wits, Enzo followed suit. The ten other members of the squad joined him, hugging the side of the neat row of buildings. The three Leman Russ battle tanks pressed on, pacing alongside the beleaguered Guardsmen. Heavy bolters roared endlessly, decimating any possible firing points along the multi-level hab units stretching down the road.

Maintaining his quick yet cautious pace, Enzo’s eyes darted from alleys to rooftops. No sign of movement, _yet._ If this town was anything like the last, it would not stay that way for long. His pulse hammered in his ears as the insistent ringing faded. His dozens of kilograms of gear weighed him down, stifled his breathing. Fiorenza was halted at a four way intersection, kneeling against the near wall. The sergeant beckoned him over, an impatient scowl marring his features.

Running in a crouch, Enzo caught up to the man.

Fiorenza’s scowl deepened, “Enzo I swear you aren’t worth the boots you’re wearing. I told you to take point.” His gaze travelled up to the column of guardsmen swiftly closing on their position, armoured phantasms floating in the mist. “First team, on Enzo. Clear the linear danger area,” meaning the intersection itself, “Make sure no cultist heavy weapons teams are taking advantage of a good choke point, no point getting killed yet.”

Glancing backwards, Enzo quickly counted his men as they knelt along the walls. He was one short. “Sarge, we’re down one.”

“Congratulations, I’ll let your mum know you can count. Get the fek moving! Third squad is coming up on our left, be ready to push out.” He checked the charge on his lasgun, a habit borne from years of experience. Enzo did the same; as much as he disliked the sergeant, the Emperor would not smile on those who went to battle unprepared.

He shifted on his knees as the tanks abruptly stopped, awaiting for the rest of the dismounts to catch up. More men became visible as they sprinted towards the opposite wall. Still more advanced down the middle of the street, spread in a squad line, lasguns held at their hips.

Their vox-unit crackled, “Fiorenza, we’re in position. Ready to move on your signal.” Third squad was ready to keep pushing towards the center of town, kneeling in a line.

Using a method his mother had taught him as a child, Enzo took three calming breaths in an effort to gain back physical control. His stomach was not cooperating, it felt as though it was about to jump out of his throat. His heart beat rapidly, he could feel the blood coursing through his veins, throbbing behind his eyes. Inching slowly, lasgun held to his shoulder, he peeked past the corner.

Nothing, only the dancing shadows cast from the flickering, burning structures. His lungs suddenly burnt, he’d been holding his breath. “All clear, Sarge.” He stepped into the abandoned streets, half expecting a hidden shooter to send a las round through his head. “Jippetti, cover me!” He took off running, crossing the street rapidly, clattering to a stop against the opposite side.

_Fek this fek this fek this_. Something moved ahead, a spectre twitched. “Doorway right! Ten meters ahead,” he called back. The whispering at the corner now seemed silly as the tanks rumbled to life, letting loose another trio of blasts to rocket down the street. A three story building, marvelous with its marble façade, burst like a melon.

“Holy Throne! Back the fek off!” Damned tankers were getting too close, endangering the infantry advancing unprotected on foot. _Well, on the bright side I don’t have to clear the building.
_
Sprinting forward, he saw to his dismay another threshold just past the first. _Fek._ “First team, clear right! On me!” Cirazza ran in a crouch ahead of him, squaring himself to the door and bracing his shotgun to his shoulder. Jippetti pressed his chest to Enzo’s back, squeezing his shoulder to signal that the team was ready.
_
“Go!”_

Immediately the shotgun blared, blowing the simple doorknob clear out of the door. Cirazza kicked the door, swinging it loosely on its hinges. Enzo pressed in, slamming the door open against the wall and hugging his body against it. The room was wide, perhaps ten meters. “Long room! Window left! Door front three meters!” Instinctively, he called out every detail he possibly could, preparing the men behind him for their lightning entry.

He leaned back against the door, ensuring that anyone behind it was trapped and incapable of raising a weapon to fire. “Low table left, chair corner!”

Jippetti was on his heels, peeling to the right upon entering to avoid congesting up the doorway, the “fatal funnel.” Following his team leader’s example, he was also shouting out anything he saw, “Bookshelf right! No contact!”

Asin and Illyian were last, curling left and right, scanning the room for any side of cultists. It was deserted. Cirazza remained outside, training his shotgun through the portal in case fek-all happened and the enemy tried to escape.

Enzo waited a moment, taking a few steadying heartbeats before continuing the battle drill. “Status! One up!” Each man was required to call out, according to the order that he had entered the room, to aid the team leader in situational awareness. If one of the member’s missed his call, well then, something was awry, to say the least.

“Two up!” _Jippetti, good._

“Three up!” _Asin._

“Four up!” _ Illyian._

“Five up!” _Cirazza from outside._

_Six? Damn, Camacho._ He had been the man to lose his leg, now likely dead from blood loss alone in the burning streets. _Bad way to go._

“Room clear, stack left on the door!” The men filed around the room, forming a line again on the left side of the portal. _This is going to be a long night._

*****


----------



## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Luckily, the tanks had seen fit to blow most of the buildings to oblivion, saving the dismounted Guardsmen gallons of sweat and hours of labour. Oddly, though, the town had, up until now, been completely deserted.

As the attack plan had dictated, Enzo and his squad had converged on the center of the town, painstakingly clearing each alley, hut and mansion. The few homes that they had searched had been well-maintained; no rotting food still sitting on the table, no garments strewn about rooms, and no blood spattering the walls. It was as though the entire population had disappeared after thoroughly _cleaning_ their homes. _Fekking weird._

Sergeant Fiorenza had been, as always, a slave driver, pressing his men to work quickly and efficiently. _Strike fast, strike hard_. They had been the first to arrive in the center of town, kneeling in the shadows cast by the rubble of a once glorious mansion. They had waited no more than an hour when the other elements began to congregate outside of the last structure in the village.

The chapel was aglow, a grandiose edifice of granite, crafted over a span of hundreds of years by the cares of the once-pious citizenry. It was beautiful, in a way, the gothic magnificence of the architecture a shadow of the cathedrals back home. The last building in town to be cleared, it was also the den of the heretics within. Although no sounds emanated from the structure, shadows were dancing along the stained glass windows aligning the sides. They were here, they _had_ to be.

Hatred filled him, a desire for retribution not only for their heinous act of turning their backs on the light of the Emperor, but for defiling the purity of their own place of worship. It was unthinkable to even imagine how a human being could fall so low.

Guardsmen rushed in from all directions, dismounted infantrymen beginning their preparations for a massed assault and the battle tanks preparing to obliterate the building from the face of the planet. Orders had apparently not yet been given as to whether the Colonel wanted to clear the church or demolish it.

Sergeant Fiorenza gathered his men around him in a circle and knelt to the ground. “Okay fekkers, this here,” he withdrew his combat knife and scratched the outline of the chapel into the dirt, “is the church. The main entrance is here.” Etching a notch into the outline, he indicated the thick doors gracing the façade. “We won’t be using that one, too obvious and as much as you’re all more or less useless, I’m far too pretty to die.” Private Asin snickered, only to be backhanded by the sergeant. “That’s the Emperor’s honest truth, arse.”

“Men of Larilla, assemble around the _Swift Strike!_” Vox casters shrieked Commissar Hinzer’s voice over the courtyard, piercing through the thrum of activity.

Fiorenza stood up, kicking dirt over the sketch he had drawn. “Right, boys, you heard the man. Get your arses over there!”

Enzo hurried over to the ancient Conqueror, having been commandeered by the battalion commander for the purposes of the mission. His Baneblade would have never made it through the narrow streets. For the sake of minimizing collateral damage to the town’s infrastructure, the _Death Strike_ remained behind the front lines, in the care of the battle group’s support personnel. _Well the armour and artillery kind of defeated the purpose on that one._ The town had still been blown to hell, but, as the sergeant says, _it is what it is._

Major Anton stood on the front slope of the tank, arm casually slung over the main cannon tube. Enzo liked the man considerably; his easy manner and approachability had made him a favourite amongst the men. He talked to them like they were people, not cannon fodder. A refreshing change, especially for a tanker. His constant half-smile had won him more battles than any of the hard-bitten bastards that filled the ranks of the First.

Hinzer stood beside him, deep black greatcoat billowing behind him in the breeze. His icy grey eyes were hidden under the shadow cast by the brim of his commissarial cap. The man seemed perpetually wrapped in shadows, his inner intensity and pure force of will managing to snub out any light around him. The man was, if nothing else, _professional_. He stood, one hand curled in a fist and the other holding his bolt pistol, across the tank from the major.

They were a study in contrasts, the easy-going officer and the cold-hearted commissar.

“Men of Larilla, your Emperor has called upon you today for a harrowing task,” Hinzer spoke first, his zealous voice echoing from the shattered buildings and the stone chapel. “Today you must face your darkest fears yet again,” his tone was steady, completely unwavering, unerringly confident, “You must cast aside these trepidations and conquer them before they can conquer you. Steel your hearts, and you shall not be found wanting in His eyes. Whatever comes, know this: you are the dogged warriors of the Emperor, and you will not fail!”

Despite their dislike for the man, he could turn a rousing speech. There was no applause, but Enzo could see several heads nodding with approval. Without so much as a smile, the commissar leaned across the cannon, passing the hand-held vox caster to the major.

“Boys, seems like we’ve made a mess!” Anton grinned as he spoke, eliciting a cheer from the assembled Guardsmen. “It’s been a clean sweep so far, but don’t let it fool you,” he paused a moment, lowering his voice and taking on a somber tone, “These heathen bastards have holed up here, of that I’m certain. Don’t let the fact that it’s been easy so far get you sitting on your trigger fingers.” 

He held up a piece of parchment for theatrical effect, there was no way anyone could see the print scribbled upon it. “Heretics have overrun this village, have thrown aside their vows of fealty to the Emperor of Mankind. We have cleared it thus far, and now we are left with one final task,” another pause for dramatic effect before sharing the final decision, the plan of attack, “And while I know the First would do a lovely job of leveling this pretty little church,” a roaring cheer built up from the men of the Sixty Fourth, “Our footslogging brothers get the pleasure!”

Thrusting his clenched fist into the air, he shouted, “Men of Larilla, strike fast!”

“Strike hard!” The response shook the ground.

*****

Enzo stood across from Cirazza, the younger man bracing his shotgun against his shoulder. They were waiting, again, for the command; six hundred guardsmen were arrayed around the building, ready to breach the doors and the windows in a furious show of the Emperor’s vengeful fury. His heart was beating again, the anticipation filled him along with the terror.

The deserted town had done only fueled his trepidations; the fear of the unknown was overwhelming. Anything could lay within the chapel, and each of those varied possibilities ran through Enzo’s mind, each more terrifying than the last.

Standing behind him, chest pressed against his back, Sergeant Fiorenza listened intently to his vox bead. As soon as he squeezed Enzo’s shoulder, he would signal Cirazza to shoot the lock off the- _Oh s*** he squeezed._

“Go!” He braced himself as Cirazza squared himself to the door and blasted the handle with a single, deafening shot. “Go go go!” He veered to the right, smashing through the now loosely-swinging door. His lasgun was immediately in his shoulder, held at the ready.

Pan left, then right, clear…_Holy Throne._

The smell was the first thing that hit him, not the sickly sweet taint of Chaos, the odor of decay and corruption, but of _incense._ There was the odor of hundreds of humans in close proximity, the stink of sweat and of fear, but not the now-familiar reek of the followers of the Dark Powers.

The threshold opened directly to an upper gantry, dozens of other Guardsmen were pouring through the doors and shattered windows lining the walkway. Below them were hundreds of pews, all arrayed before the pulpit at the fore of the enormous room. Torches lit at the end of each row cast flickering shadows along what was beneath.

The entire population was there. Men, women, and children, all kneeling in prayer, chanting as one. At the pulpit was the town’s priest, bellowing a sermon to his assembled congregation.

“Fan out! Fan the fek out!” Veering to the right, he ran to the balustrade and took up a firing position. _God-Emperor, there’s hundreds of them._ They did nothing; no one looked up, no one so much as moved. They just kept kneeling there.

“It is written, in those last days, that He will visit his Holy Wrath upon the Faithless, the Alien, and the Mutant!” The priest roared from his dais into his amplifier, his words echoing through the chamber.

Looking around, Enzo saw that the rest of the Guardsmen were as transfixed as he. Hundreds of them lined the upper tier and more poured in with each passing second. They were frozen, unsure as what to do.

“And He will take the Faithful into His embrace! Hold them to His bosom while He rains destruction upon His enemies!” _ Fek he just keeps going._ The preacher had not yet even glanced at the soldiers filling the chamber.

Enzo recognized the sermon. These were not the words of a heretic, of one who had been lost to the insanities of the Ruinous Powers, these were the words from the Lectitio Devinitatus. _These people are not heretics. Fek._

“Sarge, these people,” Enzo stammered.

“I know.” For once, Fiorenza’s voice was soft, the hard edge was gone.

The stream of Guardsmen slowed to a trickle as Commissar Hinzer and Major Anton strode through the primary entrance. Anton’s expression was one of pure shock; he too had expected a nest of decadence, not the pious in sincere supplication to the God Emperor.

Enzo watched as Hinzer racketed his bolt pistol, the fire of fanaticism bright in his eyes. He nodded deferentially to the major, knowing his role was not in command. “Major?”

Anton was visibly taken aback for a moment, staring at the scene in complete disbelief. “Intel, they said that, what the _fek_ is going on?”

Finally, the preacher took notice of the Sixty-Fourth’s arrival. “Men of the Emperor’s Sword, we lay ourselves before you in judgment in these, the Final Days.” He stepped down from his platform, striding down the central aisle with a stiff but confident gait. The major and the commissar simply stared, Anton in fascination and Hinzer in contempt.

Hinzer snapped his attention back to the stunned major, “Your men await your decision, _Major._”

Cirazza whispered into Enzo’s ear, “What the fek is going on?”

Jumping a bit at the sudden intrusion, Enzo scowled, “Someone fekked up, that’s what.” Looking back at the assembled worshippers had still not moved, all were genuflecting towards the dais and the bronze aquila hanging above it. “This must be the wrong town or something, I don’t know.”

“Shut your damn yappers,” hissed Fiorenza. The old bastard had found his rancour again. “I’m sure we’ll be back to blasting chaos loons before you know it, just shut up.”

“Roger, Sarge.”

Turning his attention back to the rear of the chapel, he saw Major Anton talking furiously onto the vox. “Six Four Primus, this is One One, sitrep to follow, break.” The man was flustered, his voice high, “dismounts have secured the chapel, however there seems to be a discrepancy, break.” He visibly was taking deep breaths between the breaks in his transmission, gaining composure to keep his voice steady and professional.

“There are no cultists here, intel was wrong,” he rubbed his eyes with his free hand, “I say again, the people here are_ not_ tainted.”

The vox caster’s external speakers were not on, making Enzo incapable of eavesdropping on the other end of the conversation. He felt his heartbeat quicken, this is unreal.

“Sir, with all due respect,” the major’s voice was raised now, indignation filling his every word, “I don’t _care _what the analysts fekking say, I’m _staring_ at them. This,” he was cut off as the priest, bowing before him, grabbed onto his hand, pressing it against his craggy cheek. “Sir, I can’t do that.”

“And His faithful children will look to their saviors, and feel great gladness, for they have passed through the eye of the needle and been found worthy,” the priest’s voice was quiet yet managed to fill the entire chamber with its power. “We thank you, Champions of the Emperor, Guardians of man—”

His words were cut short as a single gunshot blew the man’s head apart, spattering brain matter and skull fragments over the major and the commissar. The latter held his smoking bolt pistol out, having just executed judgment over the old man. A wisp of smoke wafted through the air, mingling in with the haze of the burning incense.

Enzo felt a leaden weight sinking in his stomach. Revulsion filled him, _this isn’t happening. We’re here to destroy the uprising and protect the people._

“Major,” Hinzer’s voice was cold, barely a whisper, “the Colonel has given his order.”

_No no no._ His service in the Guard was something in which he took great pride. He _protected_ the innocent. _Not this. Throne, no. Please, no._

The echoing report of the weapon was replaced by a new sound, the moaning of the people. They knew what was about to happen, what their final judgment had been.

Anton turned to the Commissar, laspistol in hand. “Commissar Hinzer, what in the hell have you done?” Blood dripped down his face as he gestured towards the villagers, “These are _not_ heretics. They are loyal!”

_No no no_. Collateral damage, the accidental deaths of civilians during military operations was one thing, but this was outright _murder. _

Hinzer slowly shook his head, “Major, the Colonel has _clearly_ instructed you to continue with the cleansing of Six Four Beta.” He cast his gaze about the assembled Guardsmen and parishioners, before turning his icy stare back to Anton. “There is no interpretation of the matter, _issue the order._”

Anton holstered his sidearm, defiance filling his eyes. “I will not.”

“Very well,” voice calm, the commissar casually lifted his bolt pistol and shot the major in the head.

Horrified, Enzo could do nothing but watch as the torso slowly toppled, spurting bright arterial blood onto the polished wooden floor. The corpse twitched uncontrollably, spraying blood onto the commissar’s shining black boots. _Throne no!_

“Men of Larilla! Your Emperor has called upon you!” Commissar Hinzer’s voice trembled with zeal, overflowed with fervor. “You shall not be found wanting! Execute these heretics!” His bolt pistol was held in the air, no one doubted what the man would do if they, too, did not obey. “These are your orders!”

_This is murder, this is wrong._ Agony filled Enzo, he was torn between his duty to the Emperor and his fear of retribution. The pit in his stomach was blossoming into a black hole, its gravitational pull inexorably drawing in his conscience, his righteousness. _His purity._

An echoing discharge of the bolt pistol ended another hesitant Guardsman’s life.

A woman broke ranks from the rest of the worshippers, falling to her knees and crawling towards one of the soldiers. Dressed in rags, her pitiful figure looked up, pleading to the man for deliverance. Instead, as a natural reflex, he pulled the trigger. 

The lasfire began in earnest, as years of training ingrained into their very souls took control, firing in response to their fellows in a disciplined volley.

The moan was replaced now, by screams. Enzo squeezed his eyes shut, wincing at the never-ending flashes of red. _The screaming…_

Without knowing how, he realized that his trigger well was depressed, his weapon bursting in fully automatic fire into the helpless mass below. _Oh God Emperor no._ The wailing, the terror, infiltrated him, burrowed into him. Despair gripped his heart, but he could not let go of the firing stud. _What am I doing?_

The volleys of lasfire seemed to last an eternity; an endless chorus of spattering fire in atonal symphony with the agonized cries as the Sixty Fourth poured shot after shot of energy into the thronging mass of flesh and fear.

As abruptly as it had started, the firing stopped as lasguns ran dry.

Enzo’s finger was still pressed down, painfully so, on the trigger. He could not will his eyes open, _would not._ The screaming was gone. He felt tears streaming down his face, the tears of a damned man, of a murderer. _What have I done?_

The silence was deafening.


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