Hi all. This is a one-shot 40k story I wrote back in July for a fiction competition on 40k Online. I was trying for an entirely different tone and style, as you'll soon see. Now, what happens when you write a sotry in a new, entirely experimental format and submit it to serious competition? A resounding 'meh'. Anyways. Here's Morning.
Disclaimer: Warhammer 40, 000 and the Warhammer 40, 000 Universe belong to Games Workshop.
Whump.
Whump. Whump.
Whump. Whump. Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump.
Deeet.
You wake up, mumbling incoherently as your dreams slip away into the frigid fuzz of wakefulness.
Deeet.
The alarm. Morning. Ugh. You hit it lazily, sitting upright in the dim half-light. A flash outside lights up the thick blast curtains over the small windows. Just another morning.
Whump.
Stumbling to your feet, you stagger your way into the washroom. But something's wrong. Why is it so cold? Something's missing. There's an absence of sound, and the frost on the walls- the heater! Dammit all, it's broken again. Still blinking sleep out of your eyes, you stumble over to the wall heater, fumbling for the anointed wrench on the small table next to it. Mumbling the Prayer For Awakening A Recalcitrant Machine Spirit, you strike a rune on the dented side of the heater. The wrench bounces off the scuffed metal planting with a whong. There's a moment's hum, then the heater coughs to life and begins to spew warm, damp and incredibly stale air. Three times you've taken it down to the depot, now. It still isn't working. But that can wait 'til later. Shower now. Warm. Aahh. Slightly more awake, you enter the kitchen. Your mother has left a day ration in the jury-rigged toaster. It may taste like tuber mush, but at least it's warm tuber mush. Devouring the slightly crispy lump of reconstituted protein, your breath fogs in the still-cool air.
Another flash.
Whump.
Your alarm reads 0745. Time to go. Combat pants (you remind yourself to get that hole in the knee patched), standard-issue undershirt, rumpled, jacket, scarf, fingerless gloves (still slightly damp, dammit), hat. You pull the ear flaps snugly down, settling the slit-lensed snow goggles over your eyes. Boots? The detachable liners have dried to tolerable levels. At least they're warmer than the air. All set? You've got your wallet, your dataslate, pocket chron... all set. You step outside, resettling the blast curtain across the door. The blazing sunshine blinds you momentarily, even through the lenses of your goggles. When your eyes clear, you take in the blue, cloudless sky. Throne, but it's a nice day. With any luck, the walk will wake you up completely. Beyond the snow-covered lump that is your home, the Shuvghovods at Position Thirteen open up. Just another morning.
Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump.
Vreeeeeeeee.
Unprotected by the soundproofing in your home, you feel the full brunt of the high-velocity shells passing over. As you always do, you turn to watch them. Your breath steams through your scarf. The mountainside stretches out before you, five hundred kilometres of snowy stone, dotted with the grey lumps of artillery emplacements. You can see the Hive in the distance. The horizon beyond it occasionally shines with the flash of fighting. Above, a Pioneer lifter rumbles its way further up the mountain, a bundle of girders slung under its wallowing belly. Its straining pulse jets belch streamers of condensation. But it's time to go. You set off along the well-trodden path, cleated boots scraping along the steel grating. Around you, Encampment Thirteen comes to life. A scout car buzzes past, throwing up slush from its bubble tires. You recognize the unit markings of one of the soldiers, and wave. He salutes back, cheerfully, the dirt and grime of his uniform contrasting with the beaming smile on his sunburned face. The roadway opens up, and you stand in the market. It's crowded. Tuesdays. Resupply days. Fresh goods, shipped down from orbit. It's a zoo. You should have planned for this. But that's all right. You'll be okay if you're late. You've got Literature first. Your teacher will understand. Still, time for a shortcut. You cut left, cutting down an alleyway. If you remember right... Yes! There's a maintenance ramp up to the ring wall. You climb it, boots scraping unpleasantly against the untreated concrete. The guard at the top lazily waves you by. The nearest active front is a day's drive away, as the shell flies. Just another morning. It's safe.
The top of the wall is far colder than you'd expected, and you hunch forwards, hands in pockets, wishing that you'd dried your gloves a bit more. Your hands are freezing. The frigid wind buffets you, thin, blowing crystalline snow stinging your slightly exposed neck before you adjust your scarf to cover the cold spot. You pass small clusters of soldiers, hunkered down against the wind, their weapons stacked around them. Just a normal morning on the wall.
You've reached the auspex tower. The exit ramp beneath it should lead... yes! Jogging slowly to warm up, you follow the curling ramp downwards, past the guards, and back onto the road. The market is away to your left, still as crowded as ever. You're about to cross, when a tank comes out of nowhere, its massive treads churning up mucky snow, engine belching smoke. You throw yourself backwards, yelping, and receive a face full of dirty snow for your troubles. Cursing under your breath, you pick yourself up. You try to clear some of the muck off, but it's a futile effort. You add 'muddy jacket' to your list of minor irritations this morning. But school's only half a block away, so it's not too bad, right? And at least it's warmer down here than it was on the wall.
The guard at the school door gives you a strict nod of acknowledgement, and then marks your name on his dataslate. At least you're within tolerable time limits. You've heard what happens to people who miss school. It's military-funded, after all. And the Army takes schooling very, very seriously. But you're okay. You'll make it. No sweat. Entering the building, you seek out your locker, checking your chron as you do so. You'll make it. Barely. Your friend A- goes by, greets you briefly. Hello, how're you doing, did you watch the picts last night, and so on. Same as always. She's got Math first. Lateness isn't an option for her. Giving a cheery wave, she's off down the corridor, scratching the back of her buzz-cut scalp. But you can't worry about her. Off comes your jacket, your hat, your scarf, your gloves, your boots. Your locker is near a heater panel, so with any luck the gloves and jacket will be reasonably dry by this afternoon. You're just pulling on your indoor shoes when the floor gives you an almighty wallop across the face and your ears fill with
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
You try to stand up, but the
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee
Is too great, and you feel something warm on your face, and it's blood, but there's no pain, only the
Eeeeeeeeeeeee
You look up, and see sky where the roof should be. And you see the warning lights flashing, and a voice in the back of your mind screams AIR RAID, and you know you need to get out, but the
Eeeeeeeeeee
Is in the way. You stagger to your feet, swaying unsteadily. The room seems to be shifting, but you're fairly sure it's just you. Your hearing returns, slowly, as you feel the large gash in your forehead with growing horror. That's a lot of blood. You should see a medic or something. A- stumbles down the hallway towards you, clutching her wrist. What's going on? Air raid? We've got to get to the shelters! She reaches into your locker, holding her injured hand close at her side, and, wincing, ties your scarf around your forehead. To slow the bleeding. It itches. One of the guards stumbles in from outside, his face cold as ice. He tells you to get to your stations. You protest, trying to push past him. His sidearm roars, and a floor tile millimetres from your foot explodes. He repeats his order. You've got no choice. You and A- turn deeper into the building, picking your way through the dust and debris that once composed the roof. There only seems to have been one impact on the school. Probably a stray missile or bomb. Or something. You hear and smell the flak tower before you reach it. The air is filled with the
Vroooosh-vrooosh-vrooosh
Of missile engines, and the incessant
Crumpcrumpcrumpcrump
Of exploding flak in the air. Behind that, you can hear the chatter of lighter flak emplacements, and the roar and whoosh of low-altitude jet engines. It's so loud. The air is filled with acrid smoke; the biting, choking sulphur of spent missile fuel. A- stifles a cough. You've reached the emplacement. D-, N- and K- are already there. You can't see J- anywhere. He had mentioned being rotated into spotting duty, hadn't he? So he'd be up top, right? The gunnery chief, the man who normally oversees the armoury, waves you over to your assigned post. They're already at work, the familiar faces of those you've trained and drilled with your entire life. They'll probably end up being your gun crew, later. If you ever make it to later. For now, you settle into the rhythm that's been drilled into you. Haul the rockets from the hatches in the floor, hands clasped over the thick safety buckles to ensure they don't bump anything. Slot the rockets into the tubes on the elevator trolley, one at a time. They slide in with a satisfying thump, and you tighten the holding bolts into place with a thick pair of pliers. Once each trolley is full, you push it into the elevator, which rises automatically up into the loading systems in the missile decks of the flak tower. You repeat the process over and over and over and over. There is no time; only the billowing smoke from the missile exhaust ports above, and the drill. Grasp. Lift. Slide. Lock. Shove. Grasp. Lift. Slide. Lock. Shove. Over and over and over. Dimly, in the conscious portion of your brain, you hear the continuing thunder of the flak. Now there are explosions of a different pitch; the sound of downed planes hitting the ground, bursting into flowers of flame. It's a sound you've only heard twice before. And a sound you hope to hear many, many more times in the future. It means you're winning. That the work you're doing is helping to destroy your enemy, one missile at a time.
But now there's something different. It's gotten quieter. The distant flak guns have silenced. The alarms have changed. Now they're chiming the all clear. The flak tower's emplacements let off one last
Vrooosh
And then fall silent. You hear a triumphal whoop, screamed from high above you in the firing gantries of the tower. You and your gunnery team unload the missiles, placing them in the panniers that will shuttle them to the armoury below the school. Once the work is done, you slump against the wall, exhausted. You wipe congealed blood and sweat off your brow. The bleeding seems to have stopped. A- slumps down beside you. Her face is covered with soot and black grease, and she's still cradling her pained wrist. She tells you you look like shit. You tell her the same. She laughs tiredly. Then a soft
Whump.
The guns have opened up again. Everything's going to be okay. You're still alive. Just another morning.