Passing through the trenches, he could not help but again be overcome by the noble sacrifice of the soldiers. Many millions had died today, seizing the field from the Archenemy in a heroic last minute push. Behind him stretched the wreckage of that assault, corpses of men and machines stretched from horizon to horizon, and the minor tactical gain that it had bought was now irrelevant. Many more would die in only a few hours, succumbing to wounds both mundane and otherworldly, this men were lucky, they would not know the terror of a true defeat to the Archenemy. Overhead the roar of shuttles mingled with the distant echoes of artillery, the last gasp of what he knew to be a dying beast. Already he could hear the horns of the enemy host, shaking both the mountains and every-man's resolve. They would come with their fell God-Machines, they would finish what was started, that is, if there was anyone left to face them by then who still was capable of resistence.
Finally he arrived in his section's bunker, stooping down to fit into the small dugout. Immediately he was greeted by the sight of an obviously dying man, the young boy's ashen lips and complexion giving it away as much as the blood soaked bandages around his abdomen. Hunched over the boy was the Medicae, or what passed as a Medicae in these dark times. Clearing his throat, the officer softly said, “Medicae Stevens, could you gather the men outside?” Slowly the Medicae raised his head and replied, “He was only fifteen. They're sending us fething children!” As if sensing the tension the other ten members of what once was a thirty man platoon emerged from the other small chamber in the dugout and slowly sat around the officer. Openly weeping, the Medicae went back to being hunched over the dead boy quietly muttering prayers to a distant and uncaring god. The other men said nothing, unable or unwilling to interrupt the testament of a simple faith in the Master of Mankind.
The Officer waited for a moment before sitting on an upturned ration-crate. He lit himself another Iho-stick before passing the slightly water marked pack around to his men. They all smoked quietly for a moment, knowing that this breach of the otherwise rigid formalities associated with the Planetary Defense Force meant that the news must be grave indeed. Finally the officer tossed his still smoking Iho-stick onto the pressed dirt floor and said, “Well men, we're fethed! Headquarters has just told me that despite our victory here the Archenemy has broken through in the lowlands. Not only is the entire defensive line compromised, but a new string of risings in the Hive Cities of the Coastal Zones point to a clandestine network so vast that we've only just scrapped the surface. Normally this would all be highly classified, Vermillion Level or some such fethery, but the arrival of what can only be described as the largest Archenemy Fleet this side of Cadia in system has meant that come sundown none of us will be alive to say anything that the Damned don't already know!”
Despite the distant artillery and the still approaching wail of the heretic army, absolute silence reigned. Each man's face betrayed the weariness that comes with prolonged combat, more than one betraying nothing short of pure terror. They had fought the hordes of the Archenemy for months, finally breaking their backs in what was thought to be the all-out final offensive in this theater. Instead of a well earned victory, they had just been informed that their comrades in arms on other fronts had proven less than stalwart and for this they would all die. It was then that they began to notice the lack of an Imperial insignia on their Officer's uniform, but no man present would dare comment on it. Despite being brave soldiers of the Planetary Defense Force, they too felt abandoned by the very distant God-Emperor and his Imperium. For months they had bled and died in their own Imperial Soil, yet relief had not been allocated to their little world.
Slowly the first of the men reached up and also tore off his double headed eagle, followed by another and another, until all but the Medicae stood metaphorically naked before the void. Paying him no mind, the other men of the section and their Officer rose and exited the stinking dugout. Forming a rough semi-circle before the small opening the men either slung or discarded their weapons knowing that at least for the moment their days of soldiering were over. The Officer discarded his saber but elected to retain his laspistol, stuffing it into the large pocket of his trench coat which he had recovered from the section's position. Stiffly he raised an arm and shouted, “Go where you please men, I'm sure I'll see enough of you in Hell.” Lighting his last Iho-stick, the Officer placed his peaked cap on his head and set off into the bowels of the Imperial Trench Network.
Every few meters he could see other sections melting away, the Officers spreading the news of their impending doom. In the distance the Heretic Army continued it's advance, triumphant Titans now visible as little men on the extreme horizon. Booming warhorns had fully replaced the sound of artillery and the only aerial craft were setting off in the opposite direction of the advance. Shaking his head at the utter futility of retreat, the Officer hoped that he could find a truck or groundcar to take him back home. It'd be nice to die on his own estate, or at least it'd be preferable to dieing in this great heap of human blood and shit. With a hand on his laspistol in his pocket, the Officer advanced on a group of two men who were busy loading a battered truck with all manner of supplies. It was obvious that the chain of command had already broken down as one of the men quite obviously flipped the safety switch off of his lasrifle when he became aware of the Officer's presence. Smiling in what he hoped was a disarming manner, the Officer raised a hand and said, “Easy now men, I'm just looking to catch a ride.” The first of the men laughed and pointed off to the horizon while saying, “Might try them, they'll likely take you where you need to go.” Mimicking a laugh the Officer replied, “Well I'd like to get there alive, or at least with my corpse in one piece. Where are you two headed?” This time the second man answered with, “Somewhere near Grozgorod. I worked in the foundry before the War, Feadev Memorial Plasteel Foundry Number Four. He, was on Munitorium-Farm type tending Grox and growing Hybgrain.”
The Officer nodded, quite sure that he had won over the two men. Just as he began to relax, he spied that they both still had their Imperial Icons and whatsmore, the second man's lasrifle was heavily marked with what looked like devotional carvings. Not only was this against PDF procedure but it also demonstrated that these men were likely to not take kindly to the ragged hole in his tunic where the symbol of the God-Emperor ought to be. Holding his coat a bit tighter, the Officer considered that these men could very well be intending to continue fighting the invaders. Internally he laughed bitterly, it was admirable in a way the foolish loyalty of the lower classes. After months of continuous combat the Officer was more than happy to say “Feth-all.” and drink amsec in his library until the enemy came and killed him, such was the proper mentality for a dignified son of the aristocracy such as the Officer.
In the time it took the Officer to smoke an Iho-stick he bummed off of one of the men, they had secured a great number of Munitorium crates full of Emperor knows what. Both of them smiled widely as they worked, looting the Regimental Stores seemingly heedless of the overwhelming Archenemy force bearing down on them. Finally after grabbing what was either a crate of munitions or spare field caps, they fixed the tailgate in place and fired up the battered Planetary Defense Force truck. The gears scrapped in protest as the first of the two, the agricultural worker, drove as if he suddenly remembered the horde of fanatics sweeping across the now defenseless northern plateau. All the while the Officer and the foundry worker smoked, nervously puffing out the white pungent smoke that is associated with the poorest quality Iho, the two did not talk.
They drove this way for several hours, passing many signs of the impending Imperial defeat. Already the millions strong PDF had largely melted into the population. Some towns they passed through were completely burnt out, through whether this was due to rioting on the part of Heretical Agents or frightened citizens was anyone's guess. In some places they found small groups of soldiers, resolutely digging fighting-holes and preparing anti-tank ditches, but those were rare instances and they would prove futile before the mighty army that the Archenemy fleet had disgorged upon this already blighted world. Coastal Hive-Cities were visible, colossal pyramids that housed billions of Citizen-Workers, employed by the gigantic production plants that saw trillions of sets of Flak-Armor stamped and shipped to Imperial Guard Units across the Segmentum. Aside from the Flak-Armor production facilities the planet was also home to significant mineral resources used to make Plasteel, resources that could easily be turned to making the relatively crude-yet-effective armored vehicles that the Archenemy preferred.
Smoke rose into the air from more than one of the gigantic hives, marking either the presence of Heretical Rebels or terrified rioters. The Officer paid it no mind but the two soldiers could speak of nothing else until they neared the relatively small yet strategic city Grozgorod. Here there were no obvious signs of struggle and it also seemed like they were the first of the survivors to return. Carefully they pulled the truck into a depression outside of a small village that the two soldiers appeared to hail from. Casually they readied their weapons but the Officer could see the hands shaking on the agricultural worker. Slowly the two turned to face the Officer and with a start he realized that he'd have to discard his trench-coat. Sliding off the thick jacket he turned away from the two men to seemingly draw his laspistol, in reality concealing the desecrated uniform.
Nodding the foundry worker placed a hand on the shoulder of the agricultural worker and said, “Right Sergei we'll stop by your mother's house. If her and your father are ok we'll hide some of these toys here beneath the floor of Ms. Bezeva's shed. After that we'll take the truck around to Rabotalo and place the rest in the agreed upon location.” Turning to address the Officer the foundry worker continued, “Sir, I think it'd be best if you led the way being an Officer and all.” Nodding the Officer stepped in front of the two men and led the way towards the small cottage indicated by Sergei. Small and square, the cottage was a standard prefabricated building, one of the untold millions that had been built and placed by the Departmento Munitorium when it had seized the planet for direct administration. The old governor had been a despot and while that was not against Imperial Policy, he was an inefficient despot to the point that the famously slow to rouse Munitorium had decided to seize the world, execute the governor, and install a technocrat to manage things.
This had led to the construction of both the production plants as well as a vast and many considered failed network of Munitorium Managed Farms, farms that were in theory supposed to be more efficient then the old private holdings of the locals. Over the doorway was a small freshly carved aquila evoking a muffled snort from the Officer. While he may not be a heretic in any real sense, he couldn't help but recognize the absurdity of the situation. Here the Archenemy was bearing down and these simple people were still carving praises to their God-Emperor in their homes. This forced a realization upon the Officer, he already was saying, “Their God-Emperor” implying that he no longer was his own.
Sergei knocked on the door before bursting in. There was a few tense moments as the foundry worker and the Officer stood outside, voices reached them from the interior and the Officer was about to conclude that the soldier had entered the wrong house when Sergei stuck his head out and shouted, “Sasha Alexandrovich, come in! Bring his Lordship too.” Sasha smiled and gestured, no doubt unaware that the Officer really was a Lord, or at least the son of a Lord. Luckily for the Officer, Sergei and Sasha were eager to hide the munitions and so the family reunion was mercifully short. The scene was repeated at Sasha's home before the two unloaded the rest of the truck and turned it over to the Officer. Without a second glance he drove off, heading farther north to the still largely feudal Temperate Polar Forests.
Watching the battered truck roar off down the dirt road, Sasha and Sergei smoked another Iho-stick before lugging the heavy crates into a thicket not far from Sasha's home. The foundry was not far, and the entire Rabotalo district was built upon the ruins of it's predecessor, an ancient Coal Plant. Beneath the thicket behind Sasha's home was a small network of basements and crumbling foundations, the only relic of the old hab-blocks that belonged the engineers of the Plant when it had been more than a half forgotten memory. In these damp but secret chambers the two men hid the crates that they had managed to requisition from the now extinct Regiment's supply depot. Upon exiting their new subterranean lair the two smoked a final Iho-stick before Turning for home. Either man had no idea what would happen when the Archenemy came, but until that time they were determined to live. Both of them knew that in the coming days their fidelity to the God-Emperor of Holy Terra would be tested, and both of them also knew that it was quite likely that in his service they would die.
The Hive-City of Chorgorod was in flames. What had started as a small riot in the poorer sections of the city as news of the collapse of the front had spread quickly became an expanding crisis as Arbites Precincts had fallen to hordes of rioting civilians augmented by groups of PDF deserters. Chairman Roman Rodionovitch Barkov himself was absent, withdrawn to his chambers where he claimed to be praying for the strength to lead the shattered remnants of the Imperial Government in Izurba. Reports were flooding in meanwhile of heroic last-stands, dishonorable routs, and sacrilegious betrayals as the once considered mighty PDF quickly returned to the populace or in some cases went over to the Archenemy. In the place of the venerable but withdrawn chairman, General Leonardo Spada had assumed overall control of the fleeing PDF, freshly arrived Imperial Guard, and smoking ruins of civil society.
Located near the Ghoul Stars, Mir was not a strategically located world. As one of the outlying but strategically important planets in the Zolotoi Sector, it was regarded as the entry-way into the Vek Sub-Sector. The loss of Mir to the Imperium would mean that heretics, xenos, and the foul supernatural creatures of the Ghoul Stars could methodically pillage one of the few enclaves of Imperial Power this far to the Galactic Northeast. Twenty worlds of the Exactis Prima tithe grade and near fifty of those below made up the Vek Subsector, it's loss to the myriad xeno races or it's conversion to the dominion of the Archenemy would be a disaster for the Imperium of Man in this late hour. It was for this reason that Leonardo Spada knew that the defeat that was rapidly unfolding was simply unacceptable.
Without any significant military reserves aside from the newly arrived yet un-deployed 234th Armored Regiment, General Spada knew that it would be impossible to confront the advancing host head-on. Already the Coastal Hives, those that weren't dark or in the hands of madmen, could detect the gigantic energy signatures of advancing god-machines. Even one of the enemy's titans could easily smash the petty remains of the PDF and the Heretical Guardsmen that made up the millions strong host had proven themselves far-better soldiers. As the minutes turned to hours and the reports grew increasingly grim, it was obvious that there was only one option left, quit the cities and withdraw to the northern territories. The far north-pole was a cluster of Munitorium managed Manufactoriums and if the General was lucky he could muster enough retreating elements of the PDF to augment his lone Regiment for the long defense of the final industrial sector on the planet that was not in-range of the Archenemy.
Grim faced the General gave the final order of the Central Council of Hive Cities of Mir which was relayed to the Astropathic Choir, though it was unknown if they still existed,
+All units retreat to the Northern Pole. If unable to disengage sell yourself dearly to the Archenemy. Heretics and Traitors will be dealt with in time. All Imperial Forces, the world of Mir requires assistance, Archenemy forces have broken the lines and will soon hold the world in it's entirety, the enemy fleet is strong as is his host. We will hold as long as possible, through the Emperor's might and by faith in him we may last long enough for salvation. Praise him. -General Leonardo Spada.+