Chapter 15: Harvesting the Dead
The charnel pit was divided into two grim sections.
One side was the Secessionist cemetery. The rebel dead were at least afforded the dignity of a cloth shroud and a crude wooden marker. They were traitors to the Governor, but as Kian watched a rebel priest mutter a prayer over a body, he realized they still clung to the Imperial Creed. They hadn't turned to the Ruinous Powers; they simply wanted a life where they weren't taxed into early graves.
If they actually win this war and stop the Tithe, Kian mused, the Departmento Munitorum won't care about their reasons. They'll just send the Imperial Guard to level the entire planet.
The other side of the pit was the mass grave. This was where the PDF soldiers were dumped. They had been stripped of their flak armor and boots, left in nothing but their stained undershirts. In the 41st Millennium, even a dead man's fatigues were too valuable to bury.
Kian fashioned a makeshift rebreather out of a scrap of cloth and descended into the pit. The stench of decomposition hit him like a physical blow, thick enough to taste. It smelled like the very breath of Nurgle.
He didn't waste time. He moved from corpse to corpse, searching for Imperial Identity Slates—Dog Tags. Standard PDF issue consisted of two metal tags on a chain. Kian took the secondary tags and left the primaries around the soldiers' necks. If the PDF ever retook this ridge, they'd at least be able to identify the remains.
Within minutes, his pockets were heavy with the jingle of thirty-eight silver-gray tags.
"Oi! You down there! What are you doing?"
Two rebel sentries stood at the lip of the pit, their autoguns leveled at Kian's head.
Kian didn't panic. He held up a handful of the metal tags, then patted his pipe-shotgun. "Mining for lead, brothers! These tags are high-grade plasteel alloy. Melt 'em down, and they make perfect buckshot for a smoothbore."
The rebels lowered their weapons. In the Secessionist ranks, industrial precision was a myth. Their "pipe-guns" were often little more than metal tubes that fired whatever scrap you could jam down the barrel. They nodded, satisfied with the explanation.
"Don't take too long, Scav," one of them called out. "The corpse-trolley is coming back in ten minutes. If you're still in the pit, you might get buried with 'em."
Kian scrambled out of the trench, his lungs burning for fresh air. By the Throne, that smell... I'm going to need a gallon of sanctified oil just to scrub the scent of the Sump out of my pores.
As he trekked back toward the Imperial lines, he spotted a field of leafy green plants. He knelt and dug with his knife, unearthing a cluster of fist-sized brown tubers.
"Agri-tubers!" Kian grinned.
In the "Extraction" mindset, you never leave a map with an empty bag. He spent the next hour digging like a frantic grox, filling his backpack with nearly twenty kilos of potatoes.
The future master of a Sector, starting his empire by stealing potatoes from a rebel farm, Kian thought with a smirk. Typical.
Hours later, under the cold light of the moons, Kian approached the PDF perimeter. He didn't try to sneak in; he knew the Auspex nets would have picked up his signature miles ago. He sat on a stump two kilometers out and waited.
Sure enough, the roar of a multi-fuel engine soon filled the air. A Chimera Armored Transport thundered across the field, its searchlights pinning Kian to the spot. The hatch popped, and Lieutenant Rudolphson peered out.
"Take me to your camp, Lieutenant," Kian shouted over the engine's growl. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I smell like a plague-pit."
"Civilian contractors aren't allowed in military zones," Rudolphson replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
"I'm not a contractor, I'm your lucky charm," Kian countered. He reached into his pouch and shook the thirty-eight dog tags. The silver jingle was music to the Lieutenant's ears.
Rudolphson's eyes widened. He signaled the driver. "Lower the ramp."
The Chimera rattled into the PDF base—a sprawling complex of trenches, bunkers, and heavy stubber nests. Kian watched the soldiers as they passed. The PDF lacked the iron discipline of the Cadian Shock Troops. Men were drinking illicit amasec, gambling with ration cards, and the sounds of "unauthorized fraternization" echoed from several tents.
"I thought this was a military zone, not a hive-brothel," Kian joked.
Rudolphson's face soured. "They're planetary militia, Voss. Most of them are lucky to know which end of the lasgun the light comes out of. Be grateful they aren't shooting at us."
They entered the Lieutenant's command tent. Kian immediately spotted a small electric heater in the corner. He sliced a few of his stolen potatoes and laid them on the hot coils.
"Fresh tubers," Kian said, as the smell of roasting starch filled the tent. "A gift from the rebel front."
He then reached into his pocket and dumped the thirty-eight PDF dog tags onto Rudolphson's map-table.
"Thirty-eight families get their pensions today," Kian said quietly. "Now, let's talk about my payment. I'm tired of using a pipe-shotgun that's more likely to explode in my face than kill a heretic. I need Bolter rounds or Armor-Piercing slugs. And I need them now."