Sergeant Maitland Wilson, Naval Trooper.
The home world of the Iron Hands Space Marines is a harsh
one, and it was here, on Medusa, that Maitland Wilson was born.
Growing up on one of the hundreds of colossal land-trains that churn
their way across the planet's barren surface, he knew no world other
than the train's dingy corridors until he reached maturity. Life on
the caravan, virtually a mobile mining platform, was not easy, and
food and water were strictly rationed, while every member of the clan
had to pull their weight. Even as a child Maitland was no exception,
and often worked in the train's engine room with dozens of other
youngsters, squeezing into spaces no adult could reach to repair,
clean and maintain the steam-powered behemoths.
So it was the young Maitland grew up with an impressive
aptitude for machinery, and upon reaching maturity he found himself
as part of the caravan's engineering crew. A vaguely handsome youth,
he was popular among the other engineers for his intuitive skill and
easy-going attitude. It wasn't long before those around him were
treating his suggestions and advice as orders, and to his personal
amazement he found himself promoted again and again within the ranks
of the engineers. All that changed the first time he stepped out
onto the planet's surface, however. Even through the thick
protection of the enviro-suit, the vast emptiness, sulphurous clouds
swirling overhead, gave him a sense of freedom such as he'd never
felt before, the broken track that had brought him out here almost
forgotten. Maitland was one of the few Medusuans for whom growing up
in the confined spaces of the land-train's interior had not resulted
in acute agoraphobia. From that moment on, Maitland did everything
he could to ensure he spent as much time outside as possible,
enjoying the rugged brutality of the ever-shifting volcanic landscape.
The order for Medusa to form and deploy a regiment of Guard
had been a long time coming, as the Iron Hands, unwilling to see s
many prospective recruits disappear from under their noses, objected
again and again. However, the bureaucracy of the Imperium is like a
rolling train; virtually impossible to stop once it has begun, and
the order came through mere days after Maitland's twentieth
birthday. To his dismay he was conscripted without a second thought,
and found himself undergoing basic training with hundreds of
thousands of other Medusans, many of who had never set foot outside
the confines of their armoured caravans before. With such a vast
proportion of the men suffering severe agoraphobia, the Guard
hierarchy decided the regiment be specifically trained in shipboard
or room-to-room actions, fifty-thousand men from a hundred different
clan-trains specialising in brutal, short ranged combat. The Medusan
First became the Medusan Tunnel Rats, close assault troops attached
to other regiments on a platoon level, never to fight an action as a
regiment.
Maitland was different. Evaluations during training showed
him to be an natural marksman, and this combined with his unusual
comfort with open spaces led to his transfer to a loose group of like-
minded Medusans, outside of the normal Guard command structure.
These elite troops received additional training, in sabotage and
scouting techniques, and in particular in zero-g combat and spacesuit-
drills. Upon completion of their training, these couple of hundred
recruits received their postings - to the Imperial Navy Frigate
Serpentina. From that moment on, Maitland Wilson and his fellows
were Naval Troopers.
Inquisitor Thorne first came aboard the Serpentina in pursuit
of a fleeing heretic, approximately five years ago. The chaos-
worshipper had, together with a dozen fanatical followers, hijacked
an inter-system transport, taking the crew and passengers hostage.
Thorne, judging the sacrifice necessary, ordered the Serpentina's
captain to open fire on the transport. Wilson, having risen to
command a squad of troopers on board, protested that he and his men
could take the ship without the loss of a single innocent life.
Thorne was intrigued. Most would have meekly acquiesced to an
Inquisitor's orders, but this man had… not disobeyed, exactly, though
his statement could have been made with a little more respect, but
offered alternatives, while his Captain had merely sat there, saying
nothing. To the calculating mind of the Inquisitor, that spoke of
unusual initiative. Judging that the ship could always be destroyed
anyway, Thorne allowed Wilson to go ahead. The raid was even more of
a success than he had dreamed possible, as Wilson's men brought the
heretic back alive – critically wounded, but alive – with the loss of
only a single trooper and none of the hostages. Impressed not only
by Wilson's initiative but by his confidence and skill as well,
Inquisitor Thorne ordered the Guardsman be transferred to his own
service, never once thinking that Wilson might prefer to stay with
his kinsmen. After all, this was for the good of the Imperium,
wasn't it?
For five years now, Master-Sergeant Wilson has rather grudgingly
accompanied the Inquisitor on various missions across a hundred
different planets, his tactical knowledge and skill-at-arms serving
him well, though little could have prepared him for the daemonic foes
he was to face…
