Backstory: Hammers of Man, Part III

Part III: Duty

I kept waiting for the hammer to fall. For the cold metal of a bolt pistol to be pressed to my head, and my miserable existence snuffed out for all time. Through the interviews with the Commissar and the techpriest I expected at any time my sentence to be meted out. When it didn’t happen, I began to realize that death wasn’t my fate at all, at least not today. Halfway through a monotonous speech by the techpriest, I started and sat up straight in my chair.

“...OPTIMAL OPERATION OF THE FACILITY WILL NECESSITATE THE UTILIZATION OF MULTIPLE NON-SERVITOR ENTITIES WHICH-”

“Wait.” 

The techpriest looked up, and again, for a face with so little capacity for human expression, he did an impressive job of looking annoyed. 

“Are you going to kill me?..” I asked suddenly, and his head tilted slightly at the suggestion.

“YOUR TERMINATION IS NOT CONSIDERED NECESSARY FOR THE CONTINUATION OF FACILITY OPERATIONS AT THIS TIME,” he droned. 

“Then why the hell am I still here? Just let me go!”

“YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF THIS FACILITY’S LOCATION AND PURPOSE HAS PROVEN TO BE AN OPERATIONAL SECURITY RISK, ONE WHICH I SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN. AS A RESULT, YOU AND YOUR ASSOCIATES HAVE BEEN CONSCRIPTED TO OPERATE AS NON-SERVITOR ENTITIES IN FACILITY 01001000. MAY THE OMNISSIAH BLESS YOUR DAY.”

“Non-servitor…” I was pulled to my feet by a guard and rushed out of the room before I could ask any further questions. 

I was brought to a room where a large group of people stood silently. I recognized them as the men who I had contracted to work on the construction of the camp. Along with some were their wives and children as well. Some of them looked at me with questioning glances, while others stared daggers, knowing what was coming. The Commissar proceeded to explain to us (in Low Gothic that we could actually understand) that we were now permanent residents of the camp, and were to maintain and operate the facilities. A few of the detainees began to shout their protests, some of the women wailing in sorrow. The Commissar endured the initial tirade with silent patience, but when one of the workers made as if to strike him, he caught the blow and put the man to the ground. In a blur, he pulled his gilded bolt pistol and turned the protester's head into a bloody stump. 

“Any other complaints?!” he bellowed. The group stood in wide-eyed silence.

“Good.” He holstered his smoking pistol and began to pace in front of the room, hands tucked behind his back. 

“My name is Lord Commissar Boris Lievanov. During the duration of your stay here, I will be the final authority on discipline in Camp H. Tech Adept Gallus here will be in charge of giving you your labor assignments. Follow your orders to the letter, and we won’t have any issues. Fail to do so…” he trailed off and glanced down at the headless corpse strewn on the floor.

The next several months were grueling. While most Rusovian employers stick to light or indoor duty during the sweltering summer months, Techpriest Gallus and Commissar Lievanov seemed not to have been notified of this custom. I lost a quarter of my men in the first month from heat stroke alone. As well built as the camp was, there was no shortage of startup issues. From lighting failures to issues with sewage capacity, my workers and I were kept busy each day.

We operated the kitchens, we cleaned and repaired the cooling systems. More civilians were pressed into service to operate the ceramite forges, which worked around the clock to create the Primaris Marines’ (for that is what I found them to be called) armor. And all day every day, the Marines trained.

It was hard not to be impressed by their stature and skill, and in watching them train, I came to pity whoever would dare to oppose them. Their firing was accurate, they overcame obstacles with ease. In hand-to-hand combat, they struck with precision and fierceness. And surprisingly, their physical prowess wasn’t the only thing that made an impression on my crew. 

In their interactions with the workers of Camp H, the Primaris were cordial and respectful. They listened to the issues the laborers were having and did their best to help resolve them. They even pitched in and assisted the workers when they needed it. I’ll never forget the sight of Lieutenant Rav, waist deep in sewage, ordering his men to lift the heavy steel drain pipes while my crew did their work. 

While we chafed at the responsibility of working in the camp initially, over time we generated a respect and a camaraderie with the Marines of Camp H. It is a bond that lasts to this day, although we had little inkling then of what the future would hold for us.