Commissar Yarrick

Sebastian Yarrick, the loyal commissar who had emerged from the Schola Progenium, had never been as furious as he was today. The Greenskin beasts had already breached Armageddon's orbital defenses with ease, hurling countless junk satellites and Orks down onto the planet's surface, yet Hermann von Strab, the governor responsible for the planet's entire defense and vested with supreme command, still naively believed the Planetary Defense Force could drive back the Orks.

Commissar Yarrick after being wounded; this chapter depicts Commissar Yarrick before his injury.

His military boots struck the floor with crisp, furious steps, and Yarrick drove back a governor's guard who tried to block his path with a glare fierce enough to frighten someone to death. Raising his heavy boot, he kicked open the luxurious doors to the governor's hall.

With a bang, the doors flew open under that powerful kick. Everything in the vast hall froze at the thunderous sound.

Yarrick took in the sight before him, rage surging so fiercely that he felt his veins were about to burst and his temples throbbed.

Several broad tables draped in snow-white silk cloths filled the hall. Hundreds of modified servitors flew through the air, constantly delivering all manner of dishes and drinks, replacing identical courses that had already been sampled once or several times.

The nobles and officials of the upper hive were dressed as extravagantly and vainly as peacocks in courtship. They raised their wineglasses and congratulated von Strab on his "excellent command" amid false laughter. Yet these well-mannered, hypocritical nobles had clearly had their attention drawn by the sound of Yarrick kicking open the doors. One by one, they froze with their glasses raised and turned to look at Yarrick in full commissar uniform.

Looking at the food spread across the tables—food whose names he did not know and whose ingredients he could not even identify—Yarrick felt only absurdity and ridicule. At the front, he had exhausted himself reorganizing production lines and sending as many supplies forward as possible to meet the soldiers' needs. But what had he sent them? Purified water that had passed through who knew how many filtration cycles and tasted bitter, along with flavorless ration bars.

Yet even those things were precious provisions, delivered only because fearless soldiers had charged through the Greenskins' barrage, paying with their blood and corpses. More soldiers suffered under Greenskin artillery fire in the front-line positions, rummaging through mud and ruins for anything they could use to fill their empty stomachs.

And these damned nobles—Emperor above! Yarrick truly wanted to execute these fat pigs who knew nothing but luxury and indulgence. The calories in the food any one of them consumed could feed an entire squad.

"Ah, Commissar Yarrick. What is it?" von Strab's infuriatingly arrogant voice rang through the silent hall.

"I would like to ask the Governor whether you have sent out a distress signal to the Imperium's high command."

"Are you joking, little commissar? This is Armageddon. The number of armored vehicles produced here each month would scare you senseless. Oh, honestly, I wonder whether you have properly fulfilled your duties as a commissar. I am certain the loyal Planetary Defense Force will carry out their counterattack admirably." Von Strab's insult set off a burst of laughter throughout the hall. The nobles theatrically produced little fans to cover half their faces, looking at Yarrick by the doorway with contempt.

"Do you know how dire the situation at the front has become? And you are still thinking about a counterattack!?"

"This is all part of my plan. No matter how arrogant those Greenskins become, they will ultimately fall beneath the feet of our sacred and mighty Titan Legions."

"But according to reports from the front, large numbers of Titans have also appeared among the Greenskin forces. We must—"

"You do not seriously believe those crude Greenskins can build anything worthwhile, do you? Those contraptions made from scrap metal could never shake the void shields of the God-machines."

Listening to von Strab's confidence bordering on madness, the fire in Yarrick's heart was instead replaced by overwhelming sorrow and bitter irony. If the brave soldiers fighting at the front knew their governor was such a foolish pig, he wondered whether they would turn their guns around, send him to the pyre first, and only then deal with the Greenskins.

"Since you have made your decision, I will say no more. I have one final question. How are the dishes that have been replaced to be handled?"

"You mean those? Those dishes are no longer fresh. Our glorious families and proper etiquette would never allow us to eat such spoiled, lowly food."

Yarrick glanced at von Strab's utterly matter-of-fact expression and pondered for a long while what exactly "spoiled" meant. In his mind, spoiled meant something rotten and crawling with maggots—something so nauseating that merely removing one's mask and catching a distant whiff of it was revolting, let alone eating it.

But in Yarrick's eyes, this food had merely been prepared in the kitchen and left sitting for a while, no longer as scorching hot as before. Yet von Strab and these damned nobles deemed it spoiled and unfit to eat.

Fuck the nobles! Fuck tradition and honor! Are you vermin more glorious than the warriors shedding blood on the front lines? You wretches hiding in the high spires of the hive, protected from all harm, are weaker than newborn chicks. Even the thugs in the lower-hive gangs who have done every evil imaginable stand closer to the Golden Throne than you do.

Yarrick could no longer suppress the rage and contempt in his chest. He drew the bolt pistol at his side and fired a shot directly at von Strab.

The explosive roar sent the nobles into a panic, each scrambling beneath the tables to save their own lives. The towering chair behind von Strab was blasted to pieces by the bolt round, wood splinters mixed with metal fragments showering his body. Clutching his ruptured ear, his face flushed crimson as he roared at Yarrick, "Are you assaulting a loyal Imperial official? Are you trying to rebel?!"

Seeing von Strab's ugly display, Yarrick instead calmed down. "No, Governor. My bolt pistol's machine spirit is merely a little displeased."

"Seize him! Seize him!"

At the governor's command, several guards clad in ornate full-body armor rushed out from the corners of the hall and surrounded Yarrick in his commissar's greatcoat. Compared with these guards, whose armor was elaborate, gleaming, and brand-new, Yarrick's heavy commissar coat looked like a piece of trash dug out of a donation bin.

The guards drew their high-voltage batons, which crackled with electricity and filled the air with the strange scent of lightning.

Yarrick silently drew the power sword at his waist and faced off against them.

"What are you waiting for?! If you cannot capture him, all of you will be sent to the front!"

Only under the governor's repeated roars did the hesitant guards finally steel themselves to attack a loyal Imperial commissar.

To Yarrick, their attacks were so slow and feeble. These guards, who had never experienced battle or struggled against death, had learned their skills only against unmoving dummies and simulated images. They had no idea how to kill a real enemy.

His power sword in his right hand swiftly parried the strikes of the electro-batons. It seemed these batons, crackling with dangerous current, also possessed some form of power field that kept them from being sliced apart by Yarrick's power sword.

But Yarrick's strength was still beyond anything these decorative fools could match. With a forceful shove of his right hand, he knocked the baton away, then raised the bolt pistol in his left and fired into the guard's exposed chest.

The armor might have offered strong protection against other weapons, perhaps even resisting one or two bolt rounds. Unfortunately, it was far too close to Yarrick's muzzle. The fully accelerated bolt slid from the barrel, its tiny rocket engine driving the lethal warhead into the guard's chest and blasting his armor, organs, and entrails into fragments.

Yet the armor's excellent protection still left the guard's body mostly intact, sparing him from being reduced to a cloud of blood and shredded flesh by the bolt round.

The fall of one guard was not enough to shake the others' resolve. The remaining guards attacked together, cutting off every possible route for Yarrick to evade.

Yarrick's power sword never paused. Surrounded by several electro-batons, he moved with ease, blocking each strike. Then he shifted his stance and kicked one guard flying. A gap immediately opened in their encircling formation. Exploiting it, Yarrick first cut down a guard who had no time to dodge, then spun and drove his sword through another who had intended to ambush him.

At such close range, he did not even need to aim much. With only a rough direction in mind, he pulled the trigger. Sensing Yarrick's fury, the machine spirit of his bolt pistol efficiently and mercilessly fired round after round. Blood and fragments of organs burst from gaps in the armor, splattering across Yarrick's body.

Every guard who had surrounded him lay on the ground, blood pouring from sword wounds and bullet holes. The stench of blood mingled with the aroma of food, making the nobles retch again and again. Seated in the center of the hall, von Strab stared at Yarrick with a twisted expression.

"I will throw you into the most dangerous place and let you die! Die!"

"Nothing would please me more."

After leaving behind those ice-cold words, Yarrick had no interest in speaking with these vermin any longer. Without looking back, he walked out of the hall.