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“Catch, van Calox!” the Commissar bellows, his voice devoid of the hard edge Heinrix is usually addressed with if someone talks with him at all.
Still, he flinches. He whips around in time to seize the object hurled at him in mid-air.
“What’s…?” He clears his throat. “Sir, what’s that for?”
The flask, scuffed and scratched on its side, is sealed with a green stopper. He turns the canteen in his hands. Liquid sloshes inside. Palms sweating against the metal, he glances at the Commissar. Was this a test?
“Something to celebrate. You survived your first battle, and I didn’t have to blow your brains out. I’d drink to that.”
The stocky officer, whose peaked cap dwarfs his head, grins at him and uncorks his own flask. Gaze affixed to his task, Heinrix mimics his motions. Over him, a squadron of lightning jets soars through the sky, so low and loud, he flinches again. Dropships still ferry in replacement troops. Rotor aircraft chop the air to blow up dirt, stamped solid by a thousand boots marching before. The impact of mortar shells rumbles the ground. In the distance, the fighting continues. In the camp, a bustling calm has settled between the tents. His comrades gather around campfires, whooping and elbowing each other as they queue for their rations. Heinrix scrutinises the tiny flask, then looks back up. To describe the Commissar’s expression as sympathetic would be a stretch, but his hand doesn’t rest at the holster, ready to shoot Heinrix at the first wrong move. And that must suffice. He, too, uncorks his canteen, toasts the officer, and tips it to his lips.
With a lukewarm comfort spreading from the rim to his tongue, caustic fumes clobber his sense of smell into submission. Heinrix can’t back down now. He sips. The alcohol dissipates in his mouth, stripping the enamel from his teeth, and when he forces himself to swallow, he feels the liquor eating away at his stomach lining. The taste of acetone lingers on his tongue as the stench of scorched flesh and copper lingers on a battlefield after the action. Hoping his intestines won’t liquify, he clenches his jaw. Still, his Psykana flare. He rushes to wrestle them back under control before the Commissar notices. Heat flushes cheeks and stomach. Wiping his mouth, he glances at the officer. And receives a smirk as an answer.
“What…? Sir, what is that?”
“Rotgut. The local flavour. Never had any, van Calox?”
Van Calox... The sounds roll swiftly over the officer's tongue. They aren't so swift on Heinrix's lips. Not yet. Not his last name, but he lost the right to carry his family's name after being expelled from Guisorn III. He should consider himself lucky to be considered human enough to be addressed by name again, instead of a number. The number he knows in his sleep: 031/0012/2929077. Van Calox. His new identity. Battle Psyker in service in the Imperial Guard. Somewhere in the Calixis Sector. The conscription officer thought himself funny when he came up with the name... Heinrix still fails to comprehend the joke. It doesn't matter.
“No, sir!” he coughs again, and a dribble of alcohol slops out of the canteen onto his fingers. He expects it to dissolve his flesh like acid and almost drops the hipflask. Remembering who he is talking to, he mumbles, “Thank you, sir!” Then louder, “I appreciate it, sir!”
“Let’s make sure you’re not starting to cause problems next time we’re out in the field.”
“No, sir!” He stands to attention, canteen gripped tight. “Permission to retire, sir?”
“Where’d you want to go?”
“The medicae tent, sir.” The alcohol still itches in his throat like he has swallowed a chainsword. He manages to suppress another cough. “The field chirurgeon might require my assistance.”
“Eh, don’t think the soldiers would appreciate a freak like you treating them. You stay where I can see you.” Hand on his holster, he motions with his chin to the flask. “And I want that back.”
“Yes, sir!” Heinrix steps towards the Commissar. “Here, sir!”
“No, toss it.”
Stupefied, Heinrix pauses. After the moment of stupor has passed, he chucks the canteen back, and the officer catches it in mid-air. He uncorks the stopper and tips the rotgut out—the compressed soil stains darkly, like blood seeping into the ground. In the background, laughter swells. The voices of men and women mingle, a ladle taps against a cauldron, and feet shuffle. An artificial scent, Heinrix fails to discern, wafts to him. He risks a glimpse over his shoulder. There, a group of soldiers has gathered around a fireplace; one of them ladles soup into bowls, while the others banter. Their faces glow behind battle grime. They share, and for a moment, are happy to be alive, to have survived the first advance.
“Don’t disturb them. They have earned time away from you freaks,” the Commissar remarks, voice firm but calm, friendly even.
Or what passes as friendliness towards one like me, Heinrix muses.
“Sir!”
He salutes, before clutching his hands behind his back with a force that cuts off the blood flow to his fingers. He is the freak, suffered to live as long as he proves useful, and right there in the camp, in the aftermath of his first battle, Heinrix decides he will survive by making himself indispensable. Only by enduring as long as he can in service to the Imperium may he repay the debt he has incurred by being born a freak. A sorcerer. A witch. A Psyker. And he will repay it, down to the last Throne, to his last breath, he will serve the Emperor.
The twitch of his cheek provides the one hint of the turmoil brewing behind his forehead. The clench of his fist, nails drilling into flesh until he draws blood, serves as the lone reminder of the strength it costs him to remain calm and collected. The rapid blinking, ferrying moisture away, dampening his eyes, offers the only clue to the hurt nestling in his chest. His lot in life is to stand back and observe as others share camaraderie and a meal, never part of a group, except the congregation of freaks and mutants who share his curse. And Heinrix accepts it. What else is there left to do? It is no cause for celebration.