Outside the sound had never really stopped. It came and went in waves, rising and falling, screaming and shouting, building to a crescendo before dropping down to a low murmuring. Inside, the man waited. It was close but the walls deafened the sound somewhat, dulling the sharpness of it. You could almost forget where you were.

Now the sound came through sharper, he didn't even need to look up to know the outer doors were opening. The calm measured footsteps along the floor halted when a jangling of metal sounded the keys. He looked up now. It was Haller. He'd no weapon drawn as he opened the door, but the four provosts behind him were enough insurance against that. Picked men, they were anonymous behind their mirrored visors and bulky body armour. It lent them all the individuality of a termite soldier.

“It's time” Haller said softly, stepping back. The man blinked now at the influx of light, rising slowly. He took a breath and stood straight, his shoulders squaring and his head level. His expression calm, he stepped forward and allowed himself to be manacled. Giving a curt nod to Haller, he was marched down the corridor.

He'd asked for permission to die in his uniform. It had been denied. The unspoken reason had hung tawdry, tinged with shame and embarrassment at the hearing. That he'd disgraced it and was unworthy of wearing it. The presiding panel had avoided his gaze as he'd stood there silent before them. All he wore were simple prison overalls now.

Haller walked beside him, both of them flanked by the provosts. There was a serene silence almost despite his friend's guilt. Haller had requested the duty, the last obligation he could owe a former friend.

The noise intensified as they stepped outside. The crowd had assembled, been waiting for hours. Baying for blood and wanting to see it. It was going to be televised and sent halfway across the sector, all to show how a traitor died.

He eyed the gallows dispassionately, head not high but not hung either. He was stiff and obedient to the guards commands but his stride seemed to slow now. A request had been made for a firing squad. That too had been denied.

He flinched as a projectile hit him. A scuffle broke out in the crowd as riot troopers waded inwith shock mauls and batons to quell any dissent. Behind the barriers more of them armed with assault rifles eyed the mass dispassionately, if the order came in over the comm, they'd gladly open fire into the crowd. It was what they'd been trained to do, what they'd been made do. And he'd been one of them.

The corridor had seemed a mile long. Now outside on the platforms, the distance was neglible. The final few steps seemed to just evaporate and he stood there now, acutely aware of the wire noose.

Guzman, Baumgartner, Schroe, Tanaka, the others, they'd all been shot. They had only followed orders at the end of the day. But for him, an outsider, only this public display would do. He looked up at the sky, savouring the last feel of the sun on his face. Strange how he'd forgotten how good it could feel. Or how blue and calm the sky seemed. He breathed out before dropping his head to allow the hood over his face, darkness closing in. The last thing he felt was the noose tighten before he dropped.  

"Trust me lad, I've fought on ice worlds, deserts, moons, even an asteroid once! And I'd take them all over again to avoid another day here!" - Unidentified Brunswick Sergeant on Hera.

Planetfall.

It’s always the same. No matter the detail of your briefing, whether it be a full geo-analysis and dossier compiled from a dozen sources or a cursory handwritten OpOrd missing even the planet’s name. There’s always the curiosity. Even if you’ve checked it minutely, you’re still at the same level of ignorance as any private soldier in the fleet. You have no idea what to expect.

  
Each planet is the same in that regard. It’s a mess of expectations, contradictions and past memories. You’ll have wasted hours trying to pick up the rudiments of the language and it’ll go out your head the moment you land. Getting deployed to a desert planet? Good luck, someone’s ensured the first gear to land is the polar survival equipment. Your contract says you’re needed to drill and train the local PDF? Too bad, by the time you land you’ll find the indigs are going to be slobbering over your boots looking for someone to combat that full-blown insurgency that’s broken out in the interim of your six weeks space transit. 

It’s depressing how often that last one occurs. Landing in the midst of a full-blown war is never fun. Not when you’re not expecting it.

Which is why the current drop had most of the current battalion’s officers and men nervous. Jan Blaszek was a prime example. Now they were in atmospheric orbit, he’d disdained his strap-seat and moved awkwardly along the aisle. His hands held on tight to the overhead holds, the G-force coming down hard on his knees each time the dropship was buffeted by turbulence. Still shy of thirty and at times he felt twice that age, yet Jan still presented a youthful countenance. Yet now it was furrowed in concern.

New Carthage was on paper a simple contract, relatively speaking. A planet with unusually rich ore lodes and mineral deposits, much of it was covered in mining industry and migrant workers had been shipped in from half a dozen systems to work the seams while the locals got rich off it. Naturally the conditions these gastarbeiters suffered under were far from stellar. It had been the subject of frequent committees and appeals to off-world authority, even that of a late-night feature documentry on TGN that had shocked moral sensibilities across the sector. But in the end, little changed. Once a planet kept its tithes coming and trouble minimized, the lumbering beast of the empire was happy. Afterall why would you worry about workers rights on some mining planet when there were more pressing concerns like wars to be fought or spies to be executed?

Well the attention (or lack thereof) devoted to New Carthage had come full circle to cause headaches for bureacrats and administrators both in system and out. The bungled handling of a miners strike over working conditions had escalated the conflict. On the secondary continent, it had seen nearly eighty die in riots that turned into a two day running battle. Local overseers afraid of containing the crowd with tear gas and baton charges had simply opened up on them. No wonder after that the miners had decided to hit back. Details after that were hazy but what started out as simple civil disobedience and rioting had now evolved into a full blown insurrection. Scuttlebutt had it that there was financing and supply coming from out of the system. It didnt bother Jan too much. They were being paid to go there and support local forces, if the miners hit them hard, they'd just hit back harder. Consensus amongst the rank and file was that if the planetary forces couldn't even deal with a bunch of deranged civvies, no wonder they were hiring the professionals.

 The double file of men he passed by were all combat-ready. Armoured and armed, they sat rigid with their assault rifles unloaded and clamped in place next to them. Between their legs, their packs were stored. All of them wore the standard mottled green flak armour and helmet with khaki fatigues underneath. The Timberwolves weren’t elite; they were like a dozen other line infantry units you could find anywhere. But it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

Each expression told a different story. Some were clenched in worry, others bored and indifferent. Some murmured half-forgotten prayers while yet others had almost dozed off in the long drop planetside.

“ETA. Two minutes to landing” crackled the pilot’s comm. Everyone aboard had their commlinks tuned into it, there was a near collective shock into movement. The pressure levelled off as the dropship began to take up a more level flight pattern to make the final approach.

In the cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Jussi Niemals was in his element, making all those miniscule adjustments that accounted for his six figure yearly pay docket. “Terra Prima, this is S-1138 making final approach” he murmured into his throat mike as he flicked the comm switch. The blips on his radar screen solidified and a shadow fell across the cockpit as the escorting flight from the Groundside squadron took up station.

“Osprey’s” snorted his co-pilot, letting his eyes flicker up from the instruments to check their distinctive silhouettes. “Second-hand crap, trust the Indigs to work everything on a budget”. “Still handy enough to blow us out of the sky” responded Jussi, turning to meet the gaze of a local pilot keeping pace with them. The visor stare was held long enough to be uncomfortable before he took off in a barrel roll, afterburners tearing up the sky.

“Typical natives. Always defensive that they have to kiss our arses thanks when we come to pull them out of the shit”. For once Jussi was forced to agree. “Lets just get these ground-pounders off my boat” he managed, still a bit spooked by the Osprey pilot.

He keyed the bay mike. “Courtesy of MDK Cargo Freight, you are being landed in one piece to once again fulfil your civic duty by shooting lots of holes in those who aren’t paying you. And remember, should it be too hot, dial a distress code and if it’s 9-5, we’ll be down to get you. Peace.”

It went about as well as could be expected in the cargo bay. The customary groaning from the vets who’d heard it a multitude of times to the strained smiles breaking out on the faces of the greenhorns. No matter how shit the joke, it was always welcome. Even Blaszek managed to crack a grin for a second before he switched to business.

“That’s the cue boys and girls, lock ‘em and load ‘em” he said in a deadpan tone. He didn’t have to look around to know it was being carried out. Or even double-check recruits; the NCO’s had that covered. Instead he took the last few moments of peace to take a final breath to calm the soul. The shuttle’s jets were screaming in a whine as they brought it to a smooth halt, preparing for the last drop.

“On your feet!” Blaszek snapped and with a precision that would have shamed a planetary governor’s personal guard, the files rose and turned to the entrance ramp. It was beginning its descent and the first shafts of sunlight were flickering through, the polarized glass on helmet visors darkening automatically in response. While others crouched as the craft was buffeted by crosswinds, Blaszek kept standing and merely chambered a round into his submachine-gun. The ramp wasn’t even completely down when they began bounding out. 

It was standard doctrine with most mercenary regiments on disputed worlds, land fully armed and ready for anything. Those curious may consult the MCCC Chronicle with regards to the Cunaxa Incident. A mercenary contingent on completion of their contract was brutally slaughtered while transiting for off-planet embarkation. A punitive expedition by the MCCC ensured that Cunaxa entered essa Delendum status

Blaszek was the only one not to dive out. He left with a calm, measured stride, one hand on his SMG as it hung off the strap across his chest. Instinct made him almost shield his face as stepped off the ramp, the wind being felt through the very fibres of his uniform. 

New Carthage was…well…dusty. That was Blaszek first impression with the sun struggling to burn through the haze. The

platoon had fanned out to surround the dropship, half kneeling, and half standing. As he exited, two rose to salute him, going to port arms as the Indig delegation arrived to greet them. He depolarized his visor and remained standing at ease, but let his hand ease off the SMG. 

The delegation of half a dozen marched with parade ground clarity, striding across the dusty landing zone as if the constant dust swirl or hive of activity wasn’t there. Blaszek bit back his initial distaste, he always seemed to get an allergic reaction to the sight of a starch-pressed uniform and medal-laden chest. 

The spaceport was swamped with uniforms. Other dropships and shuttles were unloading their cargos while unloaded cargo lighters took off for over-watching supply freighters. Grey-coated Indig logistics troopers were ferrying cargos in and out. More black-uniformed and heavily armed soldiers stood by, poor trigger discipline and parade ground air about them. A score of different colours pervaded his eyes; the Timberwolves weren’t the only mercenaries to be making planetfall. Gaudily clad Zouaves marched past a verbal altercation between a tan clad Aarhas Bombardier and indigs. Past them a group of Gaelic speaking highlanders were loudly disembarking from a shuttle in New Gdansk livery. 

“Captain Blaszek ?” inquired one of the officers. He had halted a few paces from the group, his eyes only on him while his entourage seemed more nervous about the armed mercenaries surrounding them. Blaszek disliked him on sight. He had an aristocratic air about him and even his very manner of standing suggested disdain of the contracted soldiers near him. Very well he’d learn.

When the shit’s been too much to handle and you call in outside help, it’s natural to feel distaste towards the usurpers. It wouldn’t be the first time Blaszek had encountered this hostility and it wouldn’t be the last. It didn’t mean he had to like it.