Broucheroc, No-Man's Land
Dawn brought the mud-soaked realisation that I was not dead, even after I had willed the powers that be to accept my lame body after it had beaten the fifteen hours. You did it, James. You proved them wrong. You won.
"Mum?" I rasped. Underneath my fractured body armour, the blood-soaked dressings I had stuffed against the wound in the small of my back bulged. Half-submerged in the sticky grey mud, I gouged out handfuls of the stuff, lifting my head up from the mess that dragged me down like a quagmire. Muck dripped from the rim of my steel pot. I blinked, wiping my chilled face against my shoulder, the stained cotton damp with mud and moisture.
Memories of the lander, the flight to the trenches, the Vardans, Sergeant Chelkar and the officer; the latter of whom led me and others in to no-man's land, came flooding back. The contact with the Ork warparty scattered us. There had been no pain when I had taken the slug, just a quick loss of feeling in my legs and the ground rushing up to gather me in its embrace. Now, I was a disembodied torso with only my head and arms. Throne of Terra, where are my legs? I prodded two lengths of meat that stuck out behind my body. Rolling on to my back, I tried lifting my leg, even wiggling my toes. Pressing a blood and mud-stained glove to my mouth, I held back a sob. My spine? Please, no.
Well over the western horizon now, the sun's rays crept over the uneven mounds dotted with barbed wire, half-submerged tank traps, and the bodies of greenskins killed in the previous days' fighting. Boots and arms stuck up at bizarre angles; the product of rigor. Severed limbs, torsos and heads coated with dried blood. Arm over arm, I hauled myself through the mud. If I beat the fifteen hours and I'm still here, why can't I beat death too?
I bellied towards a mound of recently thrown up mud that provided cover from the east. Pressing myself against the slope, I risked a look over the top. Ruined buildings dotted the uneven skyline, looking something like a mouth filled with broken old teeth. How far is that. Three, four-hundred yards?
I turned to the west, wondering how far away the Ork lines were. My hobnailed boot slipped on a soft piece of mud, whereupon I slid backwards down the slope, landing in a shallow pool of icy water. Cursing quietly, I wiped my hands on my jacket and spat on the ground, dragging my body out of the water. The thin, dehydrated globule of spit ran down the slope and found a home in one of the many tiny holes gouged in the mud before trickling down to become one with the muddy water. No use hiding here. I need to get back and tell the sergeant what happened. Head east, James. Two dead limbs trailing behind me, I cut channels through the muck with my gloves, using the temporary handholds to pull myself along, a slithering, mud-spattered adder in body armour and hard cover. Debris from the lander was scattered everywhere. New holes had been dug by both sides' artillery. Twenty, thirty feet wide in some cases and without a drop of water to speak of. I scrambled in to one such crater, rolled down the slope and climbed the opposite side just high enough to put my face to the rim. Just outside my reach lay a dead Vardan. Edging out of the crater, and keeping as low as possible I reached out to grasp the dead man's leg, pulling on it. I managed to shift him only after hauling backwards on both ankles. Both sides of the Vardan's greatcoat rode upwards, exposing flared breeches and tall leather boots. The lieutenant! What was his name? The smooth leather slipped out of my grasp when the officer grunted.
"Ssh. Beg pardon, sir. Got to be quiet now," I breathed.
"Who?" the lieutenant croaked.
"Larn, sir."
"…Larn."
"Sorry, sir. I'm pulling you down in the hole."
"Take off." The lieutenant bit down on a moan. Blood had spread from a foot-long gash in his side, turning the dark grey of his greatcoat black.
"Can't, sir, sorry."
Groaning, I got ahold of the lieutenant's knees and brought him over the lip and down to rest upon the slope. Panting, I flopped down on to my back beside him.
"God-Emperor, I'm sorry for hauling you poor boys out here," the lieutenant slurred, removing his fur hat and placing it beside himself. "Damn foolish idea."
Boys? Pimples and freckles stood out on the lieutenant's face. Bareheaded, his bright red hair stood out boldly from his chalk-white skin. "Mmm. You listening to me, young Larn?"
The lieutenant's soft, white gloves gathered up the dried creases on my sleeve and held on. "Yes, sir, I'm listening."
"Return my maps, identity tags, and letter to battalion headquarters. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you hit?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"Me back, sir. Can't walk. Can't feel anything below the waist."
"What?"
"'Ere." I removed my six-inch Triplex-pattern bayonet from its sheath and prodded my right thigh. "Nothin', sir. Can't feel nothing."
"I'd be careful where you stick that, Private." The lieutenant smiled. "A very important part of your body there…"
"The – the…"
"Fem – femoral artery. God-Emperor, what did they teach you in training?"
"Femoral artery?"
"Yes, that's it. It gives blood to your leg. There's one in each. Here's a pointer. Don't get hit there. D'you see where I'm pointing?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Good lad." The lieutenant found my shoulder and rubbed it. "You know, nobody at battalion headquarters listened to me. Nobody up on the line with the companies listened to me. Only you, Larn. Only you listened to me."
"Yes, sir."
"I th – I thought we might pray together, you and I."
"Sir?"
"Yes. Off the record, you know. Can't be seen fraternising with a humble private now, can I?"
"No, sir."
"I think the Prayer of Relief from Torment is presently appropriate…"
That very same prayer I knew off by heart, yet refused to recite it before, believing I was bound for the life after death. Of course, now I knew it was not my death, but his. With a tightening throat, I murmured along with the lieutenant, his voice gradually softening.
"Important." He whispered, pressing a handful of papers he had held inside his coat against me.
"Yes, sir." I swallowed, wiping the back of my glove underneath my running nose.
"Most important." The lieutenant pulled his pair of identity disks over his head and, with a sealed letter, gave them both to me.
"I'll see 'em back safely, sir."
"You promise me." The young man gripped my knee. "Promise me."
"Promise, sir."
"Cross your heart and hope to die for the Emperor."
"Cross my 'eart, sir…"
"Aah, good." The lieutenant's drooping eyelids fluttered. "Look at that up there. It's dawn."
Such was his peacefulness, I might have mistaken the officer for simply dozing off. He just slipped away without fuss. I hope I go as calmly as you do, sir, I thought, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. With the officer's papers stuffed inside my flak jacket, I dug my elbows in to the mud, pushing myself off. What sounded like a tablecloth slithering across the ground drained the life from my arms. Letting myself go, I hugged the slope, lifting a fur flap that hung over one ear. Nothing. A pause then a slither. It was only for a second then silence came once more. Ork sniper? Yesterday's brush with a greenskin sharpshooter was branded in my mind, only this time I was quite likely to be on the receiving end of Vardan marksmanship if the pest didn't move on. Go away. Please go away.
No joy. The dragging cape came closer, rasping as it touched rusted iron rails welded in to tank traps. Begging your pardon, sir. I rolled sideways, hitting the lieutenant's body and pulling it on top of me. His fading warmth smothered me. The pressure on the old dressings grew. With naught but a crack to see through, I relaxed my body and waited. A bundle of rags swathed in a mud-camouflaged cape teetered on the lip of the shell hole, edging its way down past me to lie up on the opposite slope. The soft slice of a blade cutting a trench in the mud for the sniper's muzzle set my teeth on edge. Not a single growl or grunt had slipped from the Ork's lipless mouth. Without the cape betraying it, I would have heard nothing. The sawing of the blade dying away, I shut my eyes when a sniffling drifted over. Dead men don't shut their eyes! The lieutenant's warm body, forcing my own deeper in to the mud, drew the frantic sniffs. A pitter-patter of feet and a foreign weight squeezed my chest, trapping the air in my lungs. Delving deep inside the officer's chest, the Ork blade cut through buttons, fur and fabric, tearing through the layers underneath, parting skin and puncturing organs as it was sawn up and down. Tears dribbled from my eyes. From both sides of the lieutenant's body, blood poured, mixing with the mud. A different liquid expelled itself from the officer's bowls, warming his breeches. Do bodies do that when they died? Lose every last scrap of waste inside?
Frozen underneath the piss and blood-stained corpse, I listened to the Ork return to its position. Were it not for the lieutenant's bulk, I could not have kept a lid on my yammering heartbeat, thumping to the tune of half a dozen stubbers on a mad minute. I expected the beast to lay up for the day, only realising it had crawled off when the patient huffs receded. One-thousand, two-thousand, three-thousand…
Losing track and patience after a time, I thrust the body off, straightening out the creases around my crotch. Not a speck of urine had leaked through to my trousers or jacket. Both articles were Jumael-issue, olive-grey and, as yet, unbroken. Gasping, I patted my torso legs and arms. My legs. Nothing damaged? Good.
Losing no time, I wriggled in the opposite direction of the Ork. With no cape to speak of, I wormed my way as low as I could in to the mud, so low my chin gathered up a mound in front of it which threatened to invade my mouth. Spitting, I chopped the tiny hill down.
From the heavens, the sigh of the heavy guns, beginning their opening piece, hurled invisible train cars through the air. A very good morning to you, Broucheroc, one side waved.
The sun is shining and the corpses are fresh for the maggots to chew today. Will you partake in my hymn, dear friend? The other side replied with its own bombastic string of four-tonne trucks, chained together as they rocketed upwards in an arc to drop down upon the Ork lines.
I wonder if either side knows why they're still shooting off rounds. For the hell of it? What could another day's bombardment do that ten years hasn't already done?
Reluctant to answer my internal ponderings, the gods of war gleefully bashed away at one another, blind to the struggle of the little people below. Little boy lost. A lost soldier dragging half his body behind him. No, I'm not going to be a lost soldier, not like…
Their names on my lips, I came upon the first olive grey body. Spying the bullet-scarred, shrapnel-riddled, and smouldering lander on my right, I retraced the first steps I took upon leaving the lander the day before, crawling upon the path I had fled along. Leden, Hallan, Vorrans, lying out here with the rest of them. Jenks, his severed tongue lying on the deck at his feet. The company commander, Vinters; a broken neck. Ferres, our platoon sergeant, electrocuted before even setting foot on the ground. Me. Arvin James Larn, 84593820, eighteen, clueless and dickless. Could I trouble you to let me join my mates? I asked the God-Emperor. Did you forget me?
Pausing next to a Jumael, I touched the edge of the lad's collar, poking out above his flak jacket. No, I can't take all their tags. What would I do with 199 pairs of identity disks? Paying silent respects to the Jumaels who had gone down without seeing the enemy or even firing a single shot, I crawled through the macabre scene, plotting a course to take me to safety. I'm sorry, lads. Feel like I let you all down there.
Aside from the incessant back-and-forth between the big guns, no small-arms spat particle beams, bolter shells, or lobbed mortar rounds at me. No-man's land stood still.
"Help. Help me," I called, as loudly as I dared, towards the trenches. "Please."
Cartwheeling through the air, a stick grenade landed in front of me, its pull-cord dangling from the open handle. Shoving at the ground, I rolled sideways, over and over, dropping in to a hole. Bursting above my head, the fist of shrapnel showered me with scalding fragments, filling the hole with smoke.
"Help!" I tugged my chinstrap off, lifting up my fur-lined pot and waving it in the air. "Please."
A shot cleaved the steel in two, tearing it from my hand. "Ow!" I shook my smarting hand, kicking the useless cover away. "Please. No more!"
"Shut up and crawl over here," a voice replied.
"Huh?"
"Crawl over here quietly."
No apology? Swearing under my breath, I clawed through the steaming muck, making ground level.
"Get in here now!" A Vardan growled.
Trigger-happy bastards. I slipped underneath a coil of barbed wire, sliding the last few feet to where hands beckoned from the trench.
"Steady." A bearded Vardan, passing his lasgun to another, reached out and pulled me in by my forearms. "I gotcha. Put your legs down."
"Can't."
"Put your legs down, boy." The Vardan shook me roughly. "Don't be wet. You're alright."
"Can't walk."
"Stronne, the boy's hit." The Vardan's mate drew a circle in the air around the torn fibres of my flak jacket. "Zipped in the back panel."
"Move your legs," the Vardan holding me said.
"Can't."
"Reckon it's his spine." The other flicked his forefinger at my leg. "Feel anything?"
"Nah. Nothing."
"Alright, stretcher! Can we have a stretcher up here?"
Calls for stretcher-bearers were passed back through the winding trench. Holding me in a tight cuddle, the Vardan ensured I remained upright, never letting go of me. "Hold on, little lad. Be out of here soon, now."
"Make way there. Stretcher coming through!" A pair of Vardans medics, gaunt and unshaven as the rest of their compatriots, brought forward a folded stretcher. "Where's the wounded?" one asked.
"Right here, Scabbers. Careful with the little rake."
Hands underneath my arms and legs placed me upon the thin canvas. "Go easy there. He looks like he'll fall apart if you so much as look at him." My rescuer loomed above me, a craggy smile breaking out. "Safe and sound now."
"Where'd he come from?" One of the stretcher-bearers muttered.
"Dunno. All skin and bones. Don't reckon he'll pull through ol' Sawbones' hacksaw if he starts chopping."
Pale faces with black beards swam around above me, giving remarks of curiosity and concern. Who was this wastrel of a boy who had dragged himself in from no-man's land? Shutting my eyes and ears to the questions, I finally granted myself escape from the muddy hell, and passed out.
Dim scraps of flesh with beards attached roved around my vision. Submerged in a bed of water, I came and went, never really aware of what was going on around me, or where I was, just aware; if only for short periods. I'm on my back. I'm on my front. Who's turning me around? Just leave me alone!
A grinning madman dangled a pendulum above me, shaking it emphatically. Your clock is ticking, boy.
Go away. I pawed at the pendulum with a limp hand. I don't care. I beat your sodding fifteen hours. I'm not playing anymore.
"…He doesn't want it." The grinning madman's face lost the manic, toothy grin.
"Just dump it on his cot. He'll find it."
"Shouldn't we say hello at least?"
"Well, maybe…"
"He has put his time in. Give him a kiss, Bull."
The madman, the Vardan I recognised as Bulaven, bent low over me, slapping something in my hand, grinning. "Well done, Larn. That is your name, isn't it? This is a Wounded Lion. Grunts who've taken lead and lived earn these by the dozen. You are a grunt now. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. We'll see you soon."
When the voices died away, I let go of the round piece of metal I had in my warm palm, catching sight of the red ribbon before it slipped down in to the folds of the wool blanket covering me, falling asleep soon after. I measured time only by the periods of darkness and light around me. The wind often shook the canvas roof above my head, sneaking over the threshold and tormenting me with chill tendrils. Tremors from the artillery shook the bed supports beneath me, a constant reminder that no, Broucheroc was not a horrid nightmare. The nightmare was real. I would not be waking to the sound of Corporal Ferrik's grating voice or, Emperor-forbid, Sergeant Ferres. At least the Vardans don't belt out everything to me at the tops of their voices. I had enough of that in Phase One.
During a period of light – daytime going by my roughed-up bodyclock – a new face wavered above me.
"Feeling better, young man?" A Vardan with a trimmed beard smiled down at me. "You've had a time up on the line, haven't you?"
"…Water."
"Sorry. I'll fetch you a jug."
The medical orderly came back presently with a metal flask. "Thought I recognised you, young man. Jumael regiment, wasn't it? Read about your lot in the paper a week ago."
A week ago. How long have I been here?
"I'm Svenk." The MO tilted my head up and brought the flask up to my lips. "Larn, isn't it? We've got your tags with us. Passed those documents your officer had back to HQ too."
"How long?" I whispered.
"How long have you been here? Eleven days now."
"Eleven days…"
"Some Alpha Company dropped in last week."
"Bulaven?"
"Not sure. Probably."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, I'm no sir anymore. Everyone knows everyone 'round here by now. Call me Doc."
"Thank you, Doc." I swallowed, letting my head drop against my pillow.
"Take it easy, Larn. Be back on your feet in no time."
"Where am I?"
"Cain Med – 943rd Forward Medical Company attached to Twelfth Brigade Headquarters. The rear to you grunts."
"Mmm…" I pointed a finger at my legs.
"Well, the good news is we removed the splinter from your back and sewed you up. Took a tiny chip off your spine. You'll be up and walking in a week."
Hearing Svenk speak so matter-of-factly dropped a bundle of warmth inside me. "I'm… I'm gonna be alright?" I gripped the blanket with sweating hands.
"Yeah." Svenk nodded. "Be glad to see you up and about soon."
"Aw, cheers for everything, Doc." I pulled an approximation of a smile. "Thought I'd come a cropper."
"Tougher than you look. Surprised us all, I can say." Svenk patted me on the shoulder. "All I can say is rest up. You'll find some feeling in your toes soon. From then on it's downhill all the way."
On my sixteenth day of convalescence, I was wiggling my toes. Two days after that I could twitch my kneecaps. Then, on the twenty-first day, I was pronounced fit once more and ordered to leave Cain Med. Putting my woollen socks upon the cold decking underneath my bed, I winced at the rush of pressure upon my soles. Some kind soul, probably Svenk, had left my hobnailed boots and short puttees underneath. Hanging from a hook upon a nearby post was my OG jacket. Of the Vardan gear I had been issued on my first day, there was no sign.
"Sorry about turfing you out this soon." Svenk appeared, leaning against the pole my jacket was hanging on. "I'd have kept you another week at least, but we're clearing house for fresh cases today."
In the middle of winding my woollen puttees above my boots, I nodded. "I can walk alright now."
"Here. Light it up outside, not in here." Svenk passed a cigarette to me. "No smoking indoors."
"Ta." I pocketed the cigarette and finished winding my puttees. "Have you got any jobs 'ere you need doing?"
"You're Company Alpha now, aren't you?" Svenk folded his arms.
"Nah, I'm Fox Company, Jumael Fourteenth. I had about a day on the line with Alpha. Dunno if I'm still Fox or Alpha, or anything now really…"
The white crack where the two halves of the tent flaps met beckoned. Outside for me was uncharted territory. Why can't I stick around and do jobs for Doc instead? It'll keep me away from the line. Clasping my hands, I drummed a knee. "One man isn't gonna make a difference. Weren't even s'posed to be here…"
"I tell you what…" Svenk scratched at spot underneath his jaw. "You do a week's light detail here for me. After that I might see if the kitchen needs a washer. We're full up for dogsbodies here. Skilled surgeons are what we need really. D'you know anything about medical procedure?"
Glancing up at Svenk, I shook my head. Sorry, Doc. I can just about put a plaster on.
"Stretcher-bearers are sought after. You'd be back-and-forth between here and the line during battle but not engaged in it. If you don't want to go back to Alpha I guess that's fine." Svenk lifted the sole of his boot and checked it. "Since you don't report to anyone you're sort of at a free reign to do anything you please, as long as it's productive."
"Can I give you an answer at the end of the week?"
"That's fine." Svenk unhooked my jacket and passed it to me. "Might want to find yourself some of our gear. Rule of thumb here: if you see green shoot it."
Bobbing my head, I glanced inadvertently at the tent ceiling as a series of huge blasts shook my chest, ducking when railway cars barrelled overhead.
"Outgoing."
"How d'you tell the difference?"
"You hear the guns going off first. That's that judder you feel in your chest. Outgoing is louder than incoming. It's nice. Not really much you can do about incoming if it's coming down on your head. You don't hear it. That's all I can say. Can't complain because it's quick."
Svenk offered me a hand. "C'mon, up you come, Larn."
He didn't call me New Fish.
"Nope. Wetnose no longer. You've bled and bathed in the blood of the enemy. Welcome to Bastille." Svenk pulled me to my feet, shaking my hand warmly.
"Bastille?" I probed up and down by back for the rough patch of flesh the surgeons had sealed after digging the splinter out.
"Bastille Seven-Three, to give you it's proper name. And, I can tell you, we're in a place called Butcher's Rock. Broucheroc just came around after we got here."
Butcher's Rock. Bloody hell… A loud gurgle came from my stomach.
"Oh, sorry. I probably shouldn't have mentioned that." Svenk looked away. "Um, let's get started, shall we? The urine bottle needs emptying."
I learned very quickly to carry the urine bottle discreetly, else the Vardans in worse condition than I had been would all express their need to use it. My first look at the rear consisted of me leaving Cain Med and nearly walking smack-bang in to a concrete wall. Nothing more than seven feet high and ten feet wide, the partition was part of a narrow boundary of similar concrete structures protecting Cain Med from incoming rounds. These guarded tents were arranged in ordered rows, raised from the hard-packed earth by decking driven in to the ground by pegs. The pathways offered the only safe means of passage above the patches of ice that dotted the earth. At the centre of the tent city was a hexagonal building – one that looked a good deal more permanent and secure than the tents. Outside the sandbagged entryway was a sign: 1/902 Vardan Rifles.
Battalion Headquarters. Was that where the lieutenant came from?
Engulfed in low-hanging clouds, Battalion's scrap of land was an island held in a freezing limbo. A far cry from the splendid sunrise that had bathed Butcher's Rock on my crawl to safety, I could see only about one-hundred feet in every direction. The sun was a coin-sized orb whose warmth was curbed by the oppressive clouds and general chill in the air. What a gloomy place. Can't believe the rest of the battalion are off on Seltura Seven or wherever. And all I've got for heat is this bottle of piss. Not even the fleeting heat stayed with me. I poured the entire contents on to the ground, stretching my aching back. Throne, it's cold above ground. Down in the trenches there existed a collective warmth of unwashed bodies. Of course, it smelt terribly, but it was warm too, and even comfortable in some places if one felt like a group huddle.
"Empty?" Svenk asked when I returned the urine bottle to him. At my little nod, Svenk told me to head off and find some extra clothing. "Stay away from the Munitorum stockpiles. They shoot at those without signed permission from an officer. Just ask around. Someone will be able to help you out."
I'd have preferred to stay in the warmth of Cain Med, truth be told. No vacant seats graced my vision, inviting me over to bring warmth to the cold surface, leaving me standing without purpose, and on the short track for interception by one of the other MOs, who'd snap me up and throw me out in to the street. As it happened, the street was where I ended up anyway. Thrusting my hands in my trouser pockets, I turned my collar up and wandered along the decking, quickly losing sight of Cain Med and other landmarks I had used to find my way around First Battalion's area. Persistently clinging to Butcher's Rock, the low cloud made phantoms of the Vardans, who drifted through in pairs, threesomes, and groups.
"Anywhere I can get hat and gloves?" I stopped a pair of Vardans wearing soft fur hats with dangling earflaps. Neither made a comment, stepping away from me without even making eye contact. "Clobber. No…?"
Dragging my feet through the thin mud, I cupped my hands and blew inside them, rubbing the backs together to find some warmth. Once more, my stomach began to growl. If food was available, it was in liquid form, with meagre pieces of what I assumed was meat. It was only Svenk's generosity that allowed me to even consume that. How do these lot survive on so little?
Many blank expressions and biting insults later, I was grabbed by the arm by a Vardan whom I hadn't seen. "You want to be issued a new uniform?"
"Uh, n-no, I just… gloves, hat, coat. I'm cold."
"Tough. Nobody issues nothing anymore." The Vardan, red-haired, unlike most of his comrades, dragged me away with him. "What you do – you listening to me?"
"Um, yeah."
"What you do is you ditty-bop through the slop to Cain Med. We're Third Battalion here. Outside of Cain Med will be a pile of gear the medics will have stripped off a dying grunt. While Sawbones and his scab-lifters cut the grunt up, you steal his gear. Take his jacket, take his gloves, take his cover, take his picture of the girl he stole from another grunt who claimed it was his girlfriend then jerk off to it till you drop. D'you get that?"
"I g—I get that. Yeah…"
"Need to flush out your headgear most kosh, boy. Get with the programme – my programme – or find yourself in a world of shit – there." The Vardan, still gripping my arm, pointed out the Third Battalion C-Med tent. Lined up outside it were belt kits, fur-lined jackets, flak vests, covers, and small-arms. "Double over there. Take what you need then get out. Don't let yourself get caught."
Feet skidding over the icy ground, I toppled over the piles of kit, landing flat. In that second, the Vardan had taken off, leaving me by myself. Not my fight, I thought, looking over the various models of lasguns and laspistols piled messily at the end of the row. Sniffing the stains upon a grey parka, I ran my hand through the fur lining, unfolding a large hood, also fur-lined. The previous owner had taken two bullets in the back, leaving his blood behind as a reminder. Poor fella. Forgotten, just like everyone else is on this planet. I hope you'd understand why I'm taking this. Putting my arms through the sleeves, I tightened the drawstring around the waist to compensate for the larger sizing. Underneath the parka lay a pair of leather gloves and a fur cap with goggles attached. Anything goes now, I guess.
"All good now?" Svenk looked me up and down on my eventual return to First Battalion Cain Med. "That's a major's flash on your arm…"
"Oh, sorry. I didn't know." I'd assumed the green bars and leaves were for branch of service, not rank.
"Just going to quickly…" Svenk unfolded a penknife and sliced through the stitching. "There." He placed the flash in my hand once he'd finished. "No harm done. Just not a good idea to be going around impersonating an officer; and a field-grade one at that."
"Erm, what should I…?"
"Oh, just keep it. No harm carrying it in your pocket. Right, now you're back you can get to work. Feel up for a light detail?"
The fresh flow of wounded that filled up the vacant beds in short order seemed odd if the Vardan divisions hadn't received replacements to fill out the combat outfits. The main cause of removal from the line stemmed from general exhaustion, low morale, or physical ailments; mostly Immersion Foot. Few cases were woundings as I noticed during the week I was working for Doc Svenk.
"Don't anybody get shot anymore?" I asked, after two cases of trench-foot were brought in and helped on to cots.
Wiping his hands on a rag, Svenk said, "that action you saw last month was Mister Green getting riled after your ship landed. It's very, very rare he actually assaults us in force now. I mean there's thousands of his dead mates lying out in the fields. His only boon is knowing that we're just as stuck as he is here. Stalemate's not a rosy prospect, I remember thinking back in my twenties. Still, that's what we got. Let's make the best of it."
The crowner on my last day at Cain Med came in the form of a projectile launched at the rear area by the Orks. The tell-tale moan of incoming I recognised now, leading me and two stretcher-bearers to rush against a dugout wall, our load of meds we had piled upon the stretcher flying everywhere in our haste to hug the non-existent cover. The earthy thud the round gave sent a cry up from nearby Vardans, declaring it was a dud. One finger plugging my ear, I batted the earthy flecks away from my sleeve and bent to retrieve the scattered aid packets, grunting at the lance jabbing my back.
"Spore-carrier!" One of the Vardans next to me exclaimed.
Spore-carrier? The so-called dud round had dug a shallow crater in the middle of the street about forty feet behind us, wrecking a stretch of decking. Instead of the smoking shell pointing its arse-end skywards, the projectile was a ragged boulder that gave off a fine mist.
"Better be a sanitiser crew 'round here." The other Vardan gathered the packets up in a bundle and threw them back on the stretcher.
"Out of the street!" A voice shouted. "Make way there."
"Hurry up, boy."
"Sorry." I fumbled with the last few dressing bundles, tossing them with the other things.
"Right, let's go." The Vardans hoisted their ends up, leaving me scuttling alongside to catch any bits that fell at the wayside. Orders to clear the street behind us were given by Vardan noncoms that chivvied any inquisitive pairs of eyes away.
"Clear. She's live!" A pair of Vardans, one bearing a torch and backpack, the other lugging a fuel canister, halted twenty feet from the spore-carrier.
"Pick it up. Pick it up." One of the stretcher-bearers snarled, nudging a satchel bearing plasma with his boot. "Ignore 'em. Pick it up!"
The tips of my ears reddening, I scooped up the plasma and carried it with me.
"Fucking idiot." The other muttered.
With the throaty whoosh of the flamethrower in my ears, I followed the Vardans back to Cain Med. Even from there the burning fuel still stunk.
Apologising to Svenk for the spilt supplies, something Svenk brushed off without concern, I voiced my curiosity on the spore-carrier.
"Orks secrete spores from their armpits, leave them everywhere they go. And if we leave them like that then they eventually grow in to mini-nippers that grow in to the Mister Green we know and love here. We operate a shoot first, shoot some more, scorched earth, satchel-charge-surprise, policy with the Orks." Svenk chortled. "Firm but fair. 'Cause anything we do to them… heh – well – pales compared to how they run their operations."
"Uhh…"
"I think we've got a good understanding of each other now. They respect us and… well, we respect them."
"But, they're animals. My lieutenant was…"
"Oh, sorry. I'm – I'm very sorry about your company. You got the wrong end of the muzzle there, Larn. Erm, how's your back?"
"Feeling better. Twinges now and again. Not sure I can touch my toes though…"
"Just make sure you don't put too much strain on your back. Bend your knees when you pick up heavy loads. You know…"
"Thanks, Doc." I shivered, rubbing underneath my nose.
"Time is it?" Svenk wiped the face of the chrono on his wrist. "Almost finished my shift. I've got something to show you afterwards. Stick around. Oi, don't look so worried, you'll like it."
Without any timekeeping device, I could only guess what time it was by the coming and going of the light. If so, it was very late when Svenk and his colleagues switched around with the night-shift.
"Alright, Larn. Sorry for keeping you waiting. We just needed the night shift to come to us first before we take off for the night." Svenk buttoned up his greatcoat and wrapped a black scarf around his neck.
"Them buttons down there…" I pointed at the lowest buttons on Svenk's jacket which he'd left unbuttoned.
"Just easier leaving them like that. Come on."
Why? Svenk guided me out of the tent and led me in the opposite direction of the billet. "Where we going?"
"Paying a house call. Sure she'd like to see you. You're a damn-sight fresher than the crusty old sods she normally sees."
"Who?"
"Camp-follower. It's a permanent residence but business is booming so HQ leaves it alone. Hah! They're the ones shunting it as well."
Untying the two ends of the cords attached to my earflaps, I brought them down to cover my ears, turning up my collar against the wind.
"You get used to it after a while. Summers at least. Right, let's hurry up here."
Leading me to a spot on the corner of a boundary wall, Svenk rapped upon a door of a bunker set partly underground. One-two-three. One-two-three. "S'alright. She knows me well enough." Svenk frowned. "Knows everybody well enough, I guess…"
"Um… I'm not sure I..."
"Oh, don't be shy. I'll let you go first." Svenk took me by the arm and brought me down inside the dugout, unwinding his scarf and passing that and his hat to me. "Evening, Veera."
Veera? I squinted at a hissing gas lamp as the owner lit it with a match. Painted, broken fingernails
"Who've you brought me there?" A woman spoke, her voice raspy as if ill with a throat infection. A lighter sparked a tiny flame, illuminating dry, yellowing skin and grey bags underneath a pair of bloodshot eyes. Thin strands of lank, unwashed hair, stuck together in clumps, hung down the woman's face.
"A young 'un. Needs to feel a woman's touch before he goes back on the line." Grinning at me, Svenk said, "Veera gives the best head on Bastille. Unless you'd prefer a man. We can arrange that."
"Half." Veera held out a podgy hand. "Be a nice chance from the usual hairy brutes I get down my way."
"No," I muttered. "I don't…"
"Uh-uh. After, you know the drill." Svenk patted his breast pocket. "I'll pay for two. He goes first."
"One hour. Two?"
"One for the both of us. Make it a quickie."
"Right, young man, sit yourself down and tell me what you want." Veera patted a cot covered in a ratty blanket.
"Larn, where you going?" Svenk stood back against the narrow tunnel, pointing a Veera. "She's the only…"
Throwing Svenk's hat back at him, I burst out in to the night air, pushing the door shut behind me.
God, no. Just no. I can't do it. Pushing my hat upwards, I pressed a glove to my burning forehead. It's wrong. It's all wrong. Everything about this place is wrong. Throne, I want to go home!
Departing the bunker, I slapped myself in the face in an attempt to shunt away the images of what Svenk might have been doing with the decidedly unflattering woman. A pair of Vardans wearing facemasks marched straight out in front of me. Both carried slung lasguns. Seeing me, one unslung his weapon and clasped the stock underneath his armpit, training the muzzle on me. "Halt. ID, quick."
"Um, I – I didn't know we were s'posed…" I shrugged.
"Is that a Vardan uniform underneath?" The accoster pulled back my Parka and frisked the pockets of my jacket. "What unit are you?"
"F Company, Jumael Fourteenth."
"That's no real unit." The Vardan slapped me across the cheek. "Reckon he's simple. Isn't he simple?"
"Yuh-huh."
"No-no, I'm Alpha Company, First Battalion, 902 Rifles."
"Decided not to talk out of your arse now, boy?"
"Deserter, you reckon?"
"I was at Cain Med, doing jobs for Doc Svenk! I got hit in my spine. I've been in bed for three weeks."
"Well, why aren't you in your billet, boy? It's past curfew. Give me your ID."
"I don't have it. I don't have anything." I batted at the Vardan's probing, yelping when his gloved hand seized my groin.
"Extra-extra-small. Pathetic!" The Vardan laughed. "Lucky that. No girls for you to embarrass yourself in front of here!"
"Please."
"Oho, what's this?" The Vardan dug out the major's flash and Wounded Lion from my trouser pocket. "You've stolen from an officer, boy. We'll shoot you now for that. No thief deserves to keep his gong after that."
"I vote the pit." The other came over and prodded me in the belly with his muzzle. "Been empty for weeks. I feel a wager comin' on."
"Aah, got a point there. I'll round up some of the lads. Get the money flowing!"
"What's the pit?" I exclaimed, digging my heels in as the Vardans hustled me along. "I'm sorry. I was cold—" A jab from a gun-butt in the small of the back silenced me.
"We're all cold!"
Tottering in the Vardan's grasp, I screwed up my face, moaning at the needle driving through my spine.
"I'll warrant bet's will be how long he lasts. Not if he wins." One of the Vardans chuckled.
"Won't be nobody stupid enough to put cash on this whelp to win. It's the beast. Always the beast."
The beast?
"Can't remember the last time it was fed. When was the last time?"
"Beats me. Does it matter?"
White and trembling, I gaped up at a long and low building complex with triangular outer surfaces and a flat roof. The few sentries we passed cracked jokes with my captors or otherwise threw friendly barbs their way. When questioned about me, the Vardans replied that I was a thief off to the pit.
"Bring yourself and your money. Bets are on how long he lasts!"
My captors halted on the spot, called to by an officer with an interest. "Where are you taking this boy, troopers?" The officer, in a fur-lined greatcoat and peaked cap, stalked over to us. "Well?"
"Sir." Both Vardans saluted, one doing so after exchanging the hand he held me by. "We found a thief. We're taking him to the pit."
"Oh." Raising his eyebrows, the officer sauntered away.
Isn't he going to do anything? I twisted my head around to stare at the officer's back. Dull eyes, full of apathy, ignored us on our route out of the very rearmost fortifications, past concrete gatehouses, barbed-wire fields, sandbagged artillery positions, and bunkers that generals skulked in, all the way back to the factories and refineries the Vardans were protecting. Smokestacks, scaffolding, piles of concrete and other industrial horrors were the products of ten years of on-off bombardment. How the manufactorums continued to produce war materiel was anyone's guess. Inside a rubble-strewn hallway and down a flight of concrete stairs was a cellar where, in an earthen chamber in the middle of construction, a deep pit took up the centre.
"Siddown, boy. We'll wait for the crowd."
Thrust on my knees next to the edge, I gulped at the black mouth staring back at me. It was thirty feet wide and looked bottomless. So, where's this beast then?
"Who's fighting tonight, then?" A gang of Vardans rolled in to the chamber, several toting bottles.
"Little prick here." A boot nudged my back.
"Him? Him!" Guffaws bounced around the chamber as money changed hands and lamps were lit.
"Give it fifteen seconds. Place your bets."
"Twenty-five."
"I bet four."
"Thiefs never prosper." The Vardan standing over me pulled the parka back from my shoulders. "Might wanna think twice about stealing from an officer again."
A small crowd had gathered, seemingly quite content with drinking and passing money around without a spectacle to watch. A sparkling flare tumbled down in to the pit, landing twenty feet down, amongst broken ribcages, arms, legs, and skulls. Oh, shit. I shook my ankle when a manacle was locked around it.
"Shuddup." A hand shoved my head away. "We count to three, you jump. Get up."
Shuddering, I stood up, my head bowed. Ears ringing to the coos and hoots the Vardans gave, I placed a foot on the edge.
"One."
Before two was given, a hand shoved me forwards. Weightlessness launching my stomach upwards, I opened my mouth, my feet slamming in to the mud on the cusp of giving a protest. Hissing and spitting, the pink flare sat in the centre of the pit. Beyond it was a narrow passage where the flicking light did not shine. Spitting mud out, I rubbed my back and sat against the slick wall. Vardans waved at me, some tossing insults, others dropping globules of spit. "Eurgh." A lucky shot spattered my right eye, sending up a cheer.
"Ssh, ssh, you'll upset him!" Somebody laughed.
A tug from the other end of the chain stretched my leg out.
"Oh, just you wait, boys. He's getting it slowly."
"A slow learner's a dead one!"
What the—? Pulled taught, the chain was lifted up from the mud as something seized the other end. Slow, squelching footsteps stood the hairs up on my arms. A growl rumbled up the passage.
"Help! Pull me up," I bleated, fumbling with the tight manacle.
"Was that twenty seconds supposed to be when he landed or when the beast comes out to play?" A Vardan asked, to much amusement. "I don't wanna lose money."
"Oi, help me, please!" I scraped at the wall of the pit, searching for handholds. A second animal snarl instigated an unwanted bowel movement I could not control. Testing the tiniest rut in the wall with my foot, a hard yank on the chain ripped me away to land smack on my stomach. Losing another mouthful of mud, I rolled on to my back, staring, mouth agape, at the panting, slobbering shadow squeezing out of the tunnel. Above me, Vardans let loose cheers and applause.
Karakol-Class Frigate Corealis, Gothic Sector, Segmentum Obscurus
The gentle breathing of her sons growing uniform and slow, Izuru Numerial leant forwards from where she sat beside them and kissed one then the other on their foreheads. Ilic, goodnight. Sleep well, Korsarro. The twins' thin blanket Izuru drew over their small bodies, covering them up to their necks. On the morrow, we shall set foot upon Ulthwé. There you will be safe.
From the unfurled scroll resting in her lap, Izuru went back over the fantastical tones and overblown characters in the children's tale, beaming at the optimistic outlook and unwavering courage the heroes displayed in the face of all odds. How they love to hear tales of the Ranger's deeds. Father of mine, are you watching? Izuru rolled the yellow parchment up, sealing it with a knotted ribbon. I hope your spirit looks down upon your two grandsons with joy. We are a family. One that will never be broken again.
Ilic turning to face his brother warmed Izuru's heart. Oh, my beautiful sons. How tall and strong you will grow. Let the Druchii, the humans, and the Orks tremble before your blossoming power.
Reaching out, Izuru's consciousness brushed Korsarro's, just enough to tickle it. The thin boundaries protecting the young one's mind were fragile as wet parchment. Ilic's mind too, Izuru caressed lightly. I am here, my love. I am always here.
Smoothing the folds of her ink-black robes down, Izuru straightened the white sash around her waist, tucking the end down her front. I find myself with energy unspent at this late hour. Too restless to turn in. A wander must suffice.
Helmeted crewmembers, their faces hidden behind masks of the same shade as Izuru's robes, bowed to her when she passed by, each showing the sign of Ulthwé. "My lady."
Curving, cylindrical accessways linked the bubble-shaped compartments aboard Corealis. The crew serving on the night cycle sat upright at their stations, their minds linked to the frigate's neural network. The few released from the psyker connection turned to Izuru on her entry and bowed, saluting her with the Eye of Ulthwé. Returning the sign, Izuru passed the motionless crew. Do not look them in the eye. Remain aloof yet courteous. We are not equals.
Corealis's seer-captain welcomed the foreign mind on to the bridge, offering the sign.
Permission to enter? Izuru hovered in the mouth of the portal.
I cordially offer you the Corealis's facilities, the seer captain replied, lowering his mental boundaries. Come forth, I beg, my lady.
No incidents? Izuru, her hands clasped behind her back, went to the seer-captain and stood by his shoulder. Outside Corealis's curving viewport, the labyrinthine Webway tunnel stretched away before the three-strong convoy. A thick golden mist surrounded the tunnel, obscuring depths no being would dare to venture in to, for fear of losing their bearings and becoming lost for eternity.
It never stops ceasing to amaze. A portrait of perfection.
Untouched by the hand of the human. Izuru ignored the seer-captain's shy glance, her mask unwavering. If it is small-talk you seek, you will find yourself disappointed.
Yes, my lady. The night-cycle is long and without excitement. I find that one's intellect dulls over its course. Casual conversation could serve to break the monotony.
Seek chatter amongst your crew, Seer-Captain. Bother me not.
Apologies, my lady. I could not look upon your face without offering a remark upon its fineness.
Withhold any remark, Seer-Captain. Sleep calls. Awaken me upon our return to Ulthwé.
"Lady Numerial!"
"Seer-Captain?"
On the verge of departing the bridge, Izuru whirled around, glaring at the seer-captain. "Do matters require us to converse in such a barbaric manner?"
"Cast eyes to the tunnel." The seer-captain's commands to enter an alert phase Izuru blocked out, scrutinising the curving tunnel wall. What draws your attention?
Portside. A prow.
I do not…
A hooked talon cut through the mist. Slicing through the tunnel wall, the curving prow grew longer and larger as more and more of the ship behind it drew it to view. A pair of jagged prongs extended from underneath the vessel's chin, reminding Izuru of an insect's pincers. Batteries, held inside bulbous extensions amidships, were trained upon the three frigates, their barrels glowing with energy.
Druchii? Izuru sussed that the black coating and spikes decorating the ship marked it as belonging to the craftworlders' fallen brethren.
Corsairs! The seer-captain broke away from Izuru's mind, fully immersing himself in the collective consciousness of his crew, leaving her without a purpose.
Damn the pirates. I am useless where I stand. Izuru stared at the obscene vessel, quite certain it would break off its attack once the corsair in command realised the frigates were Ulthwé-bound. How often is it for the corsairs to raid their own kind?
Madam, I have no use for a Ranger upon my bridge.
Command of the ship lies in your hands, Seer-Captain. See us through, and rise to significance in the Chief Farseer's eyes.
The flanking frigates had now appeared on Corealis's port and starboard bow, their pulsar lances glowing a bright white, keen to strike at the pirate ship.
Aggressive. I hope the pirates respect such a showing. Izuru watched in growing curiosity, never having seen Craftworld engage a corsair vessel before. Like gnats upon a hound.
My lady, a message from the corsair commander.
Who says?
Surrender.
Or?
Just surrender.
Turn us around.
Impossible. Corsair interceptors emerged from the abyss in the passage behind us. We are being driven.
Numbers? Surely the convoy can withstand mere fighters.
There are seventy marks approaching. Options are exhausted unless we enter the uncharted abyss. Then, it is in the god's hands.
Are there any branches close to our path?
None.
A forest of lights, the corsair's batteries sparkled brilliantly. Receiving a near-wave of uninterrupted pulsar lances and fusion torpedoes, the frigate on Corealis's port was torn in to pieces. Its body ripped from the fore and aft section, amidships crumpled in on itself. The rest of the dead frigate simply sailed on until its wrecked nose entered the mist, and it shortly disappeared, leaving a path of floating debris behind it.
Surrender, the message came again.
Has Ulthwé replied? Izuru's thumb and forefinger tightened around her sash, twisting the material.
Transmission was sent but no reply has come. I would look to your family, my lady. Keep them close to you. I will initiate a surrender before we lose any more of our people.
You have my gratitude for bringing us this far, Seer-Captain.
I suspect Ulthwé will pay the ransoms once they are issued.
An optimist. You surprise me, Seer-Captain.
Can one not look on the positive side? Though our path darkens, we remain in possession of our bodies and our minds.
Yes. Izuru did not voice it, but the prospect of being sold off in to slavery and separated from her children provoked a sickening bubble that rose greedily in her stomach. Excusing herself from the bridge, Izuru returned to her sleeping quarters. Should I pack a change of clothes? Father, I had not expected to be taken so easily. No struggle, no bold act of defiance. I am helpless.
Sitting on her knees, Izuru prostrated herself within the alcove twins slept in, resting her head next to Korsarro's.
"Mother?" Korsarro's eyes opened. Green eyes, belonging to his father, met and held the gold eyes of his mother. "Are we home?"
"Korsarro, my dear, wake Ilic. We will be leaving the ship soon."
"Mother?" Korsarro nudged Ilic. "Ilic, something is wrong."
"We will be transferring to another ship, my sons." Izuru smiled, leaning down to kiss Korsarro on the forehead. "Nothing is amiss."
Searching for his mother's hand beneath the blanket, Korsarro found it and held on. They know! Isha, please protect them.
"Mother?" Ilic's eyes widened. "Why are you crying?"
"I do not weep." Izuru wiped her eye with a finger. "Please, I need you to dress."
There is no sense in packing. It will only be pilfered by the corsairs. Izuru's hand hovered over the clasps of her travel bag. Servants normally attended to her family's belongings. We will all shortly find ourselves as hostages. Equals too. Izuru sighed. Isha, keep us all together.
The twins, now dressed, and holding each other's hand, surrounded their mother and hugged her. "We will not be afraid, Mother," Ilic said.
"Will Isha protect us?" Korsarro asked.
"I will protect you." Izuru stood and drew the twins to her waist, stroking their hair. "I will protect you."
All to soon, a servant Izuru knew by name, Aula, entered the chamber. "My lady, the seer-captain summons you," she said, her head bowed.
"Gratitude, Aula." Izuru steered Ilic and Korsarro out in to the corridor.
"Shall I bring your belongings, my lady?"
"No, thank you, Aula. See yourself safe now. I have no further need of you."
A reverberation passed through the ship, shaking the deck. The drives have ceased. They are boarding us. Contrary to Izuru's prediction, it was the seer captain and his crew whom she first encountered in the space amidships where Corealis's umbilical cord would extend to the docking raider.
Your offspring? The seer-captain nodded at the twins.
Concern yourself not with my children but with your crew, Seer-Captain. Their lives are in your hands.
As are yours and your children's, Lady Numerial. Be assured, I will do everything in my power to negotiate for our lives.
It is our lives they want to keep, else they would have destroyed Corealis and all aboard. No wealth can be gained from flotsam and dead bodies.
Indeed. I will meet the pirates face-to-face and offer unconditional surrender. I pray the proceedings are peaceful.
Hushing the twins, Izuru watched for the latch upon the umbilical's portal unlocking, waiting for the pirate's arrival. Be calm. There are many of us. Safety exists in companies. Air hissed from the portal, gushing over the threshold. Through the mist, slim, armour-clad figures came. Stepping forwards, the seer-captain spoke, "I am Seer-Captain—"
The shriek of a lasblaster burning a fist-sized hole in the seer-captain's forehead silenced him. The single shot initiated and completed the corsair take-over of Corealis. Aside from the tramp of boots and the slow sizzle of cooking flesh, the crew were silent. No-one moved to take the seer-captain's position. Izuru's hold on her sons tightened, moving them behind her back, as corsairs, clad in gun-metal armour and red helmets adorned with the image of a snaking dragon, danced from the open portal and trained lasblasters and shuriken catapults on the crew.
A felarch – the squad leader – beckoned to the crew. "Come forth. Keep hands in view."
Much of the crew's heads were lowered on the walk through the cord to the raider vessel. Izuru looked straight ahead, keeping her chin up and out. Let them see no fear in your eyes, or they have won, she said to Ilic and Korsarro. Both were on either side of her, their tiny hands finding purchase on her skirts.
Dark halls, reminiscent of a Druchii warship, greeted Izuru on stepping aboard. Raiders with flamers and fusion guns squatted on walkways and platforms above the procession. Some, bareheaded, grinned and thrust their groins forwards, leering down at the crew. Abominations. My sons, these are among the most despicable folk in the galaxy. Only the Druchii and the humans are worse.
Why the humans? Ilic asked.
A corsair, another felarch, was presiding with two subordinates ahead of the crowd, splitting them in to two groups that were heading down different corridors. Male and female. Izuru put her arms around her son's shoulders when confronted with the felarch. His wide smile displayed sharpened teeth. "Aha, your sons will proceed with the males. You must accompany the females."
Her eyes boring in to the felarch's, Izuru remained rooted. I dare you to pry them from my hands. The subtlest inclination of the felarch's head predated a swish of air behind Izuru. Parting from Ilic, Izuru turned, thrust out her arm and caught the maul mid-swing. The faceless corsair, about to bludgeon Izuru, shook his weapon with both hands. Shoving the corsair away, Izuru took hold of Ilic.
"Stunner!" the felarch barked.
A shower of warm water engulfed Izuru, loosening her limbs. Pried from her grasp, the twins were picked up in a corsair's arms and spirited away, their legs kicking at the air, calling out for their mother. Slumping on her knees, Izuru fell forwards, slipping underneath the surface. The felarch's fading voice reached her ears.
"Let the prince and princess know of our captives. Bring this one to the cells with the others. Mark her as a troublemaker…"