Rakka, the Pen
My numb, cold body was glued to the uncomfortable ground, and had been like that for many hours, frozen in the same position, draining the life out of my limbs. Two bright gold eyes glared at me from the black depths of a hood, startling me from the half doze I was falling into. Scrabbling around in the interior of the Pen, I saw shafts of light poking through the gaps in the walls and roof. I realised I was in others' company. The Zeke prisoners, the father and son I had sealed away inside the lightless dugout, were sitting in the opposite corner of the Pen. It was only the father that was keeping an eye on me. The son's head was resting on his father's shoulder.
"Wha' you doing?" I felt the walls blindly, unsure of my surroundings.
"Making sure you don't hurt yourself," the older Tabor said. "You were fidgeting in your sleep. Muttering too. Saying names."
"…No." I stuck my hand out, leaning on the wall for support. "D-don't. I weren't saying nothing," I said through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger at the Tabor.
"What did Izuru Numerial do to you?"
Falling back down from a dead leg, I waved my finger, intending to lash out verbally, but found the words would not come. "Don't you bloody dare!" I managed eventually after a series of splutters.
"Dad?" the younger Tabor had awoken. "Who's that?"
"Something's bothering you, son. I know how young lads like you tick. There's something on your chest. Something you can't shake off."
"Look at you!" I glared at the son. "You-you-you, you're a bloody child. You should be at home!"
"Peter's not your worry, son. You're fighting with something inside."
"You're an old fool," I spat, laughing harshly.
"Something's happened if they've put you in here. Why aren't you a sergeant anymore?"
Making a face, I stretched my legs out and sat with my back to the wall. "The stickie, Izuru, she-she-she's a nightmare. She saved me life – brought me back to life – I don't, I don't know. I can't keep her from invading me mind." I rested my head in my hands. "She haunts me. She's in me dreams. She doesn't do anything, just watches me. Like a – like a guardian angel but—but some twisted mockery of it."
The Tabor sat still and said nothing, thinking over my words all the while. "You need to sort out your issues with her or this will be perpetual for you."
"Hah!" I snorted. "I can't – I can't go out there. It's infested with Zeke. Can't even leave this room. You-you and all the Tabors and cultists, you're all blind fools, wandering to the slaughter like dumb livestock."
"You can't hide from this, son. That which lingers on the edge of your mind, what troubles you, is between you and her." The Tabor eyed me steadily. "From what I could tell, Izuru trusts you enough to guarantee that Peter and I would be treated fairly by your people."
"…you don't understand," I groaned, turning my head away and burying it in the crook of my arm.
Sharp pops of rifle fire began. It was not on the base though but further away. Following it was the slow, laboured thud of Rekyls. "I pray we all make it through this alive." The Tabor gripped his son's hand and squeezed.
Hill 558, 08:17
"Again!" Olen Azar took his finger off the trigger of his Rekyl and waited as Weld poured the last drops of water from his canteen over the Rekyl's smoking barrel.
"That's all I've got." Weld pressed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and screwed the lid of his canteen back into place. "No more barrels too."
For the last few hours the cultists had changed their tactics. Instead of rushing pell-mell into the sights of the defenders they had flattened themselves and were using the grass, several inches tall, and the dead bodies to cover their advance, bellying upwards in smaller, platoon-sized groups, working their way to within grenade range. Often only their faces were visible so that was where Azar and the others shot them. So many cultists were joining their comrades from the previous day, most with neat grey holes in their forehead from where the grunts. Azar could tell between the rifle, lasgun, and Rekyl kills because it was only the latter that blew heads apart completely in a spray of pink mist. There were many like that with entry wounds as messy as exit wounds. To mark up such a tally was elating. Forget his struggle with Breezy Gale and the obnoxious cooks, Azar was finding that he preferred the infantry, a role he had deliberately avoided before so as not to get lost amongst the ranks. He felt a savage pride at his natural talent on a Rekyl gun.
Awaiting the next thrust, Azar lined up his Rekyl's sights when a head came into view. Squeezing the trigger, he waited for the crack and the kick of the butt in his shoulder. Nothing happened.
"Problem?" Weld, wide-eyed, waited beside him with a magazine.
"Dunno," Azar worked the charging handle back and forth and tried again; nothing. Removing the magazine he saw there were still rounds left to feed. The chamber was clear. No jammed cartridge was stuck up the barrel.
"Barrel might've warped?" Weld suggested.
Azar tapped the barrel with his fingertips. It was warm but not blisteringly hot. "I think the firing pin might've melted."
"Fix bayonets?" Weld looked around for Gale but found everyone was too busy working their pieces to notice.
"Nah, leave off." Azar picked up his M-36 and passed it under the Rekyl to Weld. "I'll tell Corp. You hold this sector."
"Can't be helped," the corporal said inbetween snapping off shots with his .338. "Any extra ammo, take it over to my gunners on the right flank. I'll shave off two riflemen there to buff the left flank."
Spent magazines were scattered about on the trench floor underneath Azar's useless Rekyl amongst a sea of spent brass. Azar could find only three full magazines, including the near-empty magazine that was still sitting in the gun. "Not got much to give here," Azar shouted to the corporal when he came back with the ammo.
"Take 'em along anyway!"
An object with a long, thin handle cartwheeled inside the trench, landing at the corporal's feet. A stampede began when the smoking object was revealed to be a stick grenade. Completely unperturbed, the corporal leant down and reached for the grenade, picking it up and throwing it back. "Cheeky bastards," he said, returning fire at where the hidden thrower was. Almost immediately the grenade, or another one, came back, thumping Azar in the chest. It was him who retrieved it this time and launched it back, much to the corporal's approval. "Oi, good lad. Fancy another jog down to Rakka?"
Azar nodded eagerly. "Stupid Zeke can't shoot straight anyhow."
"Okay, tell Captain our situation—"
"W-what is our situation?"
"Tell Captain we'll hold till the last round. See what he says. While you're down there, grab a shotgun from Stores too."
"A shotgun?"
"Accatran twelve-gauge oughta do it. Good for shooting grenades out of the air."
"Right." Azar deposited his magazines with the other Rekyl gun then took off down to Rakka. The morning was wearing on. The sun was up and poking through the clouds. It should have been a nice, spring day if not for the rounds snapping at Azar's heels. Whether they were all aimed or simply strays was up for debate.
Oh hell, Azar glimpsed an uneven line of Zekes assembling for the next assault on Rakka just short of the treeline. Much further over to the east before, it looked like they would be using the road to carry themselves over the firebase's perimeter. Those poor sods are gonna catch a packet. Better them than me.
Rakka
The high-pitched whistling of 82-millimetre mortar rounds falling began the day's action. In his command post, Mik Meller leant over his map, listening to the tremendous thuds and wallops going on outside. It came as no surprise that the mercenaries were finding ways to bypass Rakka. Shrewdly though, they were averse to having an active firebase in their rear which could cause trouble for their support element when they eventually showed. The real worry would come when a two, or even three-pronged attack was organised to envelop the flanks and strike from the rear. Hill 558 was still holding though, Meller thought, drumming his fingers on the narrow contours that marked the slopes of 558.
"Permission to enter?" the runner from before stood in the doorway.
"Come." Meller recognised the solid little cook turned grunt, Olen Azar. "How's the OP, Private?"
"Sir. Corporal says we will hold till our last round." Azar stood at attention. "Zeke's coming in groups of thirty. He's crawling up on us, trying to grenade our positions."
"The corporal in charge will withdraw only once the last round is spent and all power packs are drained. Does that make sense, Private?"
"Yes, sir. Also, the corporal has put in a request for a twelve-gauge. Zeke's getting closer to an assault."
"You have your bayonets?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You may procure an Accatran from Stores. Sign for it later."
"Thank you, sir."
Azar tore across Rakka, hiding inside dugouts and trenches whenever the squeal of the mortars split the air. To his bemusement there was still no-one manning Stores, leaving it open for any sod to walk in and take what they pleased. Realising he had the run of a lot of unattended, and usually off-limits, equipment, Azar was overjoyed. Here was any old soldier's dream of a perfect piece of thievery. It was too good to be true. With trembling hands, Azar searched through the racks of spare M-36 Kantraels and IM LARs. Let the dumb grunts have the lasguns and rifles, Azar wanted something more. It came in the form of three .45 Lectas, hidden away in a trunk buried right in the back of the dugout close to the company quartermaster sergeant's bunk. Perfect, and just for him. Easing one of the worshippers from its wooden rack, Azar checked it and found it grease-free and perfectly oiled; blessed by the Omnissiah too no doubt. Eagerly stuffing as many stick and drum magazines into their carriers, Azar hoisted the Lecta on his shoulder and made to leave. He resented being forced to give up his previous Lecta, a weapon he'd had to work hard to get whilst on Nemesis Tessera, to Larn; the monkey-faced ratbag. Though Larn had eventually returned the weapon unfired it did not make Azar like him more. He remembered the baby-faced NCO asking whether he still wanted to battle before evacuating the xenos ship. Back then Azar would have meekly backed down. But now though, with Azar asserting himself, the answer would be a solid affirmative; let's throw some hands.
With one foot out of the door Azar remembered his mission given to him by the corporal. The sharp reminder was enough to send him stumping back inside to look for a shotgun. Having no particular preference, or like for the things, Azar picked up the first that came to hand. It was not an Accatran, rather a cheap automatic with scratched wooden furniture and the barrel sawed off just in front of the handgrip. Not bothering to check if they were the right type or not, Azar looped a leather bandolier of blue shells over his shoulder and fled from the dugout. Amidst the whistle of the mortars, Azar heard a shrill toot of a whistle. He dismissed it. Rakka was not his problem. Only Olen Azar was his problem.
Bracing the wire stock of his Wex machine pistol against his hip, Lysell Talvera thumped the dome of his tightly-fastened helmet with his fist and strode to the forefront of the vanguard. Awaiting the order to attack down the road, the throng of Rangers and cultists watched the commander expectantly. Eschewing vehicles – only three guntrucks were circling around in the rear to provide mobile fire support – the assault was aimed along the road that was now blocked by the pair of derelict guntrucks. A mechanised assault would fail as it did the previous day, Talvera guessed. There was not enough open ground north of the firebase to manoeuvre the trucks and take full advantage of their mobility. A concentrated thrust on foot might be enough to carry them close enough to the guntruck wreckage and use them as cover for the next hurdle; the base itself. Though confident of the enemy's eventual defeat, Talvera was aware that every offensive move he made was a risky gamble.
Filling his lungs with air, Talvera swept back his arm in a sweeping gesture then flung it forwards, screaming, "CHARGE!" Marcos Hassid gave one harsh blast of his whistle, signalling the assault's commencement. Obeying the simple command, the cultists broke ranks almost instantly, surging forwards, rifles and lasguns crackling. Behind the assault, .30-calibre stubbers mounted on the beds of the guntrucks opened up, spitting out continuous streams of lead aimed at the firebase.
"Stay in line!" Talvera shouted, gripping his Wex in both hands and following in the scattered wake of the cultists. To his right and a little behind, Hassid was corralling the slower cultists into makeshift skirmish lines, attempting to get them to advance with the mercenaries' comparatively disciplined waves inbetween snapping off optimistic shots with a Krug .50-calibre automatic pistol. Hearing the sustained rattle of a .30-Cal, Talvera glanced right and saw Kemmet was there armed with an IM stubber held from the hip, a stained bandage wrapped around his head underneath his beret, covering one eye. Okay? Talvera nodded and both men halted to cover the cultists. Shouldering the Wex, Talvera's vision blurred as smoke and cartridges shot in a stream from the ejection port. His ears were deafened by the noise. From the corner of his eye, Kemmet was kneeling, firing his section automatic at the enemy trenches.
A queer report quite unlike a rifle shot cut through the cacophony of battle just then. Talvera dimly heard and felt too the supersonic crack of the Ranger's precious lascannon when it's beam fired over his head. It damn-near permanently deafened him, or so he thought.
Ben Elsh, Danz, along with Kemmet, Hassid and himself were trying to enforce some sort of order to the attack, but it had quickly devolved into a mob rush. The cultists were so difficult to lead effectively, Talvera fumed inside as he leap-frogged forwards with the skirmish lines over the ruts and bumps of the road. Enemy sharpshooters were picking off individual cultists every second, dropping them like they were nothing. The wind that was tugging at his smock and trousers was actually rounds flying through the air, a testimony to the enemy's marksmanship. The irony of it all hit Talvera when he dropped to one knee to open fire. He had mistakenly identified the enemy as third-rate washouts, and cited his own force as a clear-cut superior example of how a modern unit should operate. But dismounted, and forced into an infantry role, it was clear the imperials had effortlessly denied the Rangers their biggest advantage. This was turning fast into attrition. Neither side was making gains.
Pumping the trigger of his Wex, Talvera felt the parts inside click on an empty magazine. Shit, he swore. Thirty yards up the road, the most aggressive cultists had reached the two guntrucks. Like the fanatical crazies they were though, none chose to use either vehicle as cover, presenting themselves as easy targets for the enemy's rifles and automatics. Sinh, the first Ranger to reach cover, was exhorting the few cultists still standing to seek shelter when he was knocked to one side by a round striking him in the elbow. Impossible to tell whether it was aimed or stray, the round travelled up his arm and exited his right shoulder, completely destroying the bone and forcing fragments upwards that ripped through the flesh on his shoulder, instantly soaking it in blood. Ignored by the single-minded cultists, Sinh slumped against the charred, crumpled metal and became still.
With the loud crack of rounds banging on the blackened metal closeby, Talvera huddled in a small trough behind the guntrucks with Hassid, Kemmet, Danz, Elsh, and a few cultists. "Is he breathing?" Talvera asked of Sinh.
"No, my captain." Danz said, ripping the leather cord of Sinh's tags from around his neck.
"Maybe we try further left. Find some cover in those mounds and dig in, huh?" Hassid suggested. His considerable form was forcing him to hunch over tightly so as to grant concealment from the enemy's eyes. "Bring the men forwards in twos and threes for a later assault?"
Talvera glanced at those with him and the rest who were now huddling in the dips beside the road to try and stay out of the enemy's line of sight. The numbers were lacking. Shaking his head, he shouted in Hassid's ear, "it's not enough. This is not enough."
"Are we disengaging then?"
"That would be the best course of action. Kemmet, cover our retreat. And make sure you get out yourself! Sinh's coming with us."
Resting his automatic on the flank of the overturned guntruck, Kemmet straightened the metal links in the belt and began working the weapon. "Get going!"
"Okay, let's go!" Talvera ushered the cultists and rangers away from the guntrucks. Hassid's whistle blew three times, signalling the rest to begin the retreat.
"Retreat! Retreat!" Talvera broke cover and danced backwards, gesturing madly for the idle cultists to move themselves. Sticking to the middle of the road, he heard rounds smack into the ground at his feet and whiz around him.
"Lysell!" Hassid had picked up an IM Rifle dropped by a fleeing cultist and snapped off several shots, crying out as he did for Talvera to run. "Get out of there!"
Sticking fingers in his mouth, Talvera whistled loudly for Kemmet who had paused briefly in laying down his covering fire. Dragging his stubber clear from the twisted metal, Kemmet doubled over to his commander and followed him down from the road to where Hassid was hunkered down; enemy fire pursuing them all the while.
"We try from the south now. Give the lads some room to manoeuvre the trucks," Talvera panted.
"The high ground is more important, Lysell," Hassid replied. "We sweep it clear first."
"Agreed. You—" Talvera never finished. Scrambling after the Rangers, the three were several feet apart from one another. Turning back to check they were not being pursued, Talvera gasped when what felt like a burning hammer punched him above the right hip. For the briefest moment he carried on unfazed then the space inside his ribcage was on fire. Agony surged through his body, rising higher and higher into his right shoulder. Bone splintered and broke apart, turning his arm into deadweight. Clapping a hand over his side, Talvera staggered for a further two steps and, with sagging knees, slowly collapsed.
"MEDIC!" Hassid rushed to Talvera's aid, swiftly hoisting him across his shoulders. Kemmet, stunned momentarily, crouched protectively in front of them. A guntruck sped forwards to meet them, braking hurriedly and presenting its flank to the enemy. The gunner manning the mounted stubber added to Kemmet's fusillade. Seeing the commander wounded by enemy fire made him livid. Every round fired at the enemy now had hate guiding them.
On the edge of consciousness, Talvera was placed in the passenger seat, being held in place by Hassid. At the latter's word, the driver forced the pedal to the floor and roared away, leaving Kemmet to make the retreat on foot. We have a disaster on our hands, Hassid thought grimly as he was bumped and jolted by the driver's frantic pace. Such losses will only sour the cultist's morale, and raise the enemy's. Gripping Talvera by his good shoulder, Hassid bid his friend hold on.
Talvera was fully unconscious when he was lifted from the guntruck, placed on a stretcher and carried away to a wide clearing that was marked for casualties. Many cultists were waiting their turn to be seen to. More and more rangers were joining them as well, waiting for the battalion's three man medical unit to give them treatment.
"Make way!" Hassid barked at the standing files as he led the stretcher through. "Officer coming through!" Grumbles from the disgruntled cultists reached his ears nonetheless.
Anton Maevich, overworked, and with his hands and white apron soaked in blood, wordlessly handed out field dressings to any walking wounded, swiftly sending them on their way if they did not move fast enough. "Captain took a round," Hassid said. "He needs surgery right now."
"Take him round the back of the tents. Feild or Zeynek will see to him," Maevich droned.
"Are they operating?" Hassid asked.
"Uh, I don't know. Might have to throw whoever it is out."
Conscious of the subtle increase in chatter from the cultists in regards to Talvera, Hassid brought the stretcher around to the rear of the two adjoining tents. "Put the captain down here," he instructed the two stretcher-bearers. "Leave."
In seclusion now, Hassid removed Talvera's helmet and tossed it away. Was his beret still in his pocket? The red cover with the Cyrric Ranger flash was Talvera's life. He would be extremely put out if anything happened to it. Laid out under cover of a groundsheet next to Talvera were the shapes of seven bodies, all of them Rangers. No such respect had been offered to the cultist dead, all of which having been left out in the field. Hassid wondered whether that was the right way to go about it. The uneasy alliance between the Rangers and the cultists was strained as it was. Bar the voices from the queuing Rangers and cultists it was a surprisingly peaceful day. The sun was shining through the treetops, nothing was buzzing around in the air, nor was artillery constantly hurtling overhead. Through the bushes a sentry slowly paced the perimeter.
A flap of tent cloth and one of the surgeons, Zeynek, ducked underneath the opening, shaking his hands in the air. Seeing Talvera, he nodded immediately. "We're just finishing up an op. The captain will be on the table next, sir."
"Good. He took a round to the—" Hassid began.
"We'll see once we have him on the table," Zeynek said brusquely. "You know, Lieutenant, we are not equipped appropriately to deal with casualties from attrition. Our supplies will not last at this rate."
"But you have sufficient supplies for now?" Hassid rose from beside Talvera.
"For now." Zeynek wiped his hands on his apron. "There was a bit of trouble earlier, uh…"
"What kind of trouble?" Hassid frowned.
"Just some cultists giving us grief because they thought our Rangers were being given priority for treatment."
"And what did you say?"
"I told them whoever is next in line will be treated."
"Alright. You tell them what they want to hear."
Zeynek nodded, taking out a cigar from his pocket and sticking it in his mouth. "It's tense out there. It's just one wrong word and…"
"Yeah. You don't do that whilst you're operating, do you?"
"Hmph. Of course not. The taste of it calms me downs is all," Zeynek said, tucking the cigar back inside a case of eight. "Excuse me."
He'd better hurry up, Hassid worried. Talvera was still unconscious but he hadn't passed yet. Tough old stick.
Zeynek came back quickly. "Now then."
"Gently." Hassid helped carry Talvera through the flap and inside the operating theatre. "Hullo, Feild. Captain Talvera took a bullet. Can you 'elp?"
"Do our best," Feild, Zeynek's assistant, pulled off a plastic glove and rubbed his eyes. "Do not worry, Lieutenant."
Lifting Talvera onto the table, Hassid stepped back and waited for the diagnosis.
"Right side, above the hip, and it looks like the round stayed in one piece too. It's lodged in the right shoulder. Captain Talvera shall be out of action for weeks."
"It can be fixed?" Grateful, Hassid folded his arms.
"Yes, we just need to ensure that no scraps of cloth were driven inside the body. Some privacy please."
"Of course."
A commotion at the front of the tents drew Hassid's attention. Raised voices, louder than before, were trying to shout over one another. Discipline is fracturing now that the commander is down, Hassid thought with a sinking heart. Throwing open the tent flap, Hassid found Ben Elsh trying to calm down thick gangs of cultists that had broken from their ordered files. The cultists appeared to be on the verge of coming to blows with the smaller number of Rangers, the latter having formed their own gang too. "What the hell's going on here?" Hassid said in Elsh's ear.
Propping his folding-stock Kazalak against his hip, Elsh replied, "they think we are prioritising the mercenaries over them. They think it's unfair. They want to be treated equally." Shrugging, Elsh muttered, "this war's not fair and they're complaining about this?"
"Right, form—" Hassid's voice was drowned out by the irate cultists who began shoving the Rangers provocatively, baiting them to have a go. A scrap was imminent. Since shouting was useless Hassid blew his whistle but that too failed to make the cultists listen. The pushing and insult-trading suddenly turned nasty when a cultist in a leather jerkin and a cap with ear flaps produced a short shiv and lunged forwards, slicing a Ranger on his arm. Barking in pain, the ranger fell back, carried away by his friends who squawked in outrage. Blood was coming now. Pulling his Krug from his hip holster, Hassid pointed the chromed handgun into the air and fired a shot. "BACK IN LINE!" The deep clap turned many heads in his direction. Now they were taking him seriously. To Ben Elsh Hassid ordered guards posted and gave them authority to break up any scuffles in the meantime. There could be no breakdown in discipline, not whilst the enemy still held the base and the high ground. Corralling the cultists seemed to be his main task now, Hassid reflected as he helped organise the mob into an ordered body once again. But even that was debatable now with Talvera out. Command now fell on his shoulders. It was not a position he felt he was ready for. Not under those circumstances.
Ducking back inside the dim tent, Hassid saw Zeynek lying on the floor. Did he fall asleep? Hassid looked down on him with disgust. "Feild?" Hassid's fingers found the flap of his holster and opened it when he saw the other surgeon was lying on the opposite side of the table in the same position as Zeynek. A slow, creeping dread began to eat at Hassid. Touching the grey Talvera's wrist, he could find no pulse. He had never even heard a sound.
"Elsh!" he called, his anger rising.
Elsh's mouth made a little round hole of astonishment when he saw the scene. "I never even—"
"—heard a sound, no. Neither did I." Hassid balled a fist and beat it against his thigh. "Xenos swine."
"Xenos?" Elsh looked fearful. "Was it… her?"
"Give me your weapon." Hassid took Elsh's K-A and snapped the stock into place. "Have everyone stand to."
"Where are you going, sir?"
Hassid rushed from the tents, hurtling past the seven dead Rangers over to where he had seen the sentry last. No joy. The Ranger tasked with patrolling the north flank was also lying face down, lifeless in the grass. How did she do it? Squatting down,Hassid despaired, feeling a quivering rage overtake him. The man's weapon was gone and his pouches were rifled. As with Talvera there was not a mark on his body, at least from a cursory check. Without stripping and performing a body-wide examination there was simply no way of telling.
Covering his mouth with his hand, Hassid scratched his goatee, wondering what to do. Poor Anton Maevich was now their sole medical staff, and he did not have a surgeon's training. That filthy, underhand, xenos bitch had hurt them terribly in the long run, far more than any imperial guard unit ever had before. Sighing, Hassid gave the faintest shake of his head, asking himself why Talvera had trusted her, even if had only been for a short while. Stickies females were allegedly prettier than human women, all of them combined. Hassid would see to it that this one would never be pretty again once he was finished with her. However thoughts of violent revenge were interrupted when Hassid recognised a sound he had not heard in a long time: tank tracks. The faintest roar of V12 engines and the squeak of track links carried to his ears. Well it's about damn time, Hassid felt a grim satisfaction. Revenge had come in an armoured wave of grinding tracks and black smoke.
Ordering the driver of his Mark VI tank to reduce speed to a crawl, Second Lieutenant Morren Littauer ducked lower in his command cupola as tree branches scraped his open hatch, depositing twigs and leaves inside the turret. "Driver, slower," he repeated into his throat mic.
"We're in danger of stalling here, sir," Littauer's driver replied. "Can't go too slowly."
Aware of his driver's concerns, Littauer stood back up in his turret, gripping the trigger of his pintle-mounted stubber, ready to light up any hidden infantry.
"Something ahead, sir," the driver said after a few more minutes' crawling. "Foot-mobiles. Eleven o'clock, thirty yards distant."
"Roger." Littauer clicked his bead, switching to platoon frequency. "Five-Two Alpha. Cain-Cain Five-Two. Halt, halt."
Positioned haphazardly behind in single file, the other four tanks of 2 Troop ground to a halt, their gunners keeping vigil on the dense terrain. Back on crew comms, Littauer lowered his ocular sight from where it was fixed to his bone dome helmet. "Describe your sighting, driver." That Littauer found was unnecessary when a tall man in khaki combats and a red beret appeared, waving to the tank. "Driver, advance."
Pulling alongside the tall man, Littauer halted and waited for him to climb aboard. "Littauer. Two Troop, E Squadron, Sumskoi Hussars."
"Hassid." The tall man shook Littauer's gloved hand. "Second Cyrric Rangers."
"Who?"
"We thought you were here to help us," Hassid's pockmarked face wrinkled.
"I wasn't aware there were any friendly units in front of us. We're supposed to find a pass over the Korg Mountains leading to a dam."
"You must've missed the turn-off. We tried day before yesterday but they blocked the road with a landslide."
"How much of a landslide?" Littauer had a Mk. V equipped with a bulldozer blade that would be just the job for clearing rocks.
"Some of the rocks are bigger than this tank. Might have to blast a path through."
Littauer shook his head. Blasting with high explosive might bring down an even larger landslide, permanently blocking the pass. The platoon was not equipped with special charges for clearing roads. It would have to be a job for the engineers, if they ever showed.
"I need to speak to the commanding officer," Littauer said.
"I command presently. If you are willing, we could use your 'elp."
"You've made contact with the enemy? We haven't even seen him yet. Had a good shooting of some looters yesterday though…"
"Yes. About eight hundred yards to your two o'clock is an enemy firebase. They've been making trouble for us these past two days."
Littauer snorted. "Any other bothers you want us to sort out for you?"
"West of the base, maybe seven-fifty to your three is an OP atop a hill. They've got guns facing north and east."
"Is that it?" Littauer brushed off the Ranger's concerns. "No armour? No anti-tank weapons?"
"No to the first. We've seen very little of the enemy's supporting arms. The second, we have no idea." Hassid shrugged. "Just be aware the terrain in front of the firebase is wholly unsuitable for armour. There is one road that skirts the base. Two of our vehicles are blocking it."
"Not a problem." Littauer was confident the Mk. V would shunt the wrecks aside with minimal fuss. The imperial firebase would serve as a nice warm-up for the future tank-on-tank duels Littauer anticipated. "We will bury the loyalist guardsmen inside the very trenches in which they cower in right now. Driver, advance."
"Are you jumping off now?" Hassid asked concernedly. "You will need infantry support if you go out there."
"The Rangers can follow in our wake. Be sure not to take the credit first." Littauer's tank lurched forwards with Hassid still clinging to the turret. Shouting something lost in the roar of the engine, Hassid climbed off, running back to his men.
Littauer was amused at the sight of the Cyrric Rangers lightly-armed force of open-topped trucks with automatics bolted to the rear beds. His opinion flipped when he noticed large groups of ragged cultists hanging around. Having nothing but disdain for the drug-addicted crazies, Littauer refused to look at them as the tank rolled by. Content in his view that the light mechanised force was completely out of their element, Littauer smiled smugly. Here was ample opportunity for the Sumskois to gain experience and respect.
I heard the tanks, and I was sealed away in the Pen. If I heard them just fine then so had everyone else on the base. The threat of armoured assault now lingered on everyone's mind. The fear was there, and we hadn't even seen the tanks yet. They were there, somewhere inside the trees, making that awful grinding, clanking noise, infecting all of us with a deep urge to dig our way as deep as we could into the earth beneath our feet. Such terrors only infantrymen felt.
"Courage, lads." Carstan Perandis said to 10 Platoon as he handed round a metal flask containing spirits for each man to have a gulp of. "Courage."
The assembled men crowding the sides of the trench wore blank, resigned expressions. Some of them had immediately heaved up the strong liquor at their feet, their stomachs too tightly knotted to consume either food or drink. A few – more devout men – prayed in silence.
"I'm not ready for this, Staff Sergeant," a little voice said beside Perandis.
"Courage." Perandis passed the young man the flask. "Stay strong, stay true to one another, and the Emperor will see you through."
"Are we not getting our sergeant major or company commander back, Staff Sergeant?" Another man asked.
"Or our commissar; isn't he supposed to be inspiring us now?"
"Courage. Now listen to your platoon sergeant and listen closely. Every man remove one of his identity tags from around his neck and place it inside his boot – inside his boot. Doesn't matter which foot, only that it's stowed safely. Section leaders on me."
To the corporals in command of the sections, Perandis ordered them to acquire every man's personal affects: letters, identification, money, picts, good luck tokens, then deliver them all to him for burial. "So Zeke can't get our stuff," Perandis explained.
Remaining out of sight, their engines still clearly audible, the tanks waited. For what purpose? Perandis wondered as he shovelled earth onto the travel sacks in which the grunt's affects had been stowed. They're probably having trouble reorganising the cultists into some semblance of order. Besides numbers and an eagerness to fight, the cultists really were poor substitutes for trained riflemen. Enough of them lay out in the waste, filling up the shellholes.
"Can't wait to be home, away from all this," a private who was watching his things be buried muttered sullenly.
"I'll never know why…" Perandis said loudly enough for everyone to hear him. "…why I found myself missing being out here when I went home on leave, it was all I could think about. Back home on Anzino Five you put in fourteen-fifteen hour shifts in the manufactorums – factories, what have you. They scrub your name, assign you a letter and a number for the shift you're on and that's that. I was sixteen when I dodged the shift, bunked off and ran down to the first recruitment office I could find. I hadn't seen the sun – the real sun – in three and a half years. Now the Imperial Guard, they gave me my name back, gave me a home, gave me a purpose. I found a home in the Guard. And here it is. Home is wherever you dig it. Now you either drink that stuff, Private, or you pass it on to the next man. And don't be complaining about wantin' to go home 'cause when you get back there you'll find it ain't the same as before. Nor will it be the same. Ever."
"And what was public opinion on your planet of servicemen returning home from the war?" A stout man in khaki Cadian fatigues of a different cut than the standard double-breasted tunic asked. Hanging from his neck were numerous image capturing devices. A revolver was holstered on his hip and an M-36 was slung across his back.
Noticing the bundle of notes the man was holding, Perandis leant over to see the man's footwear. "Lost your skidlid?"
"Uh, I'm with the Cadian Enquirer—"
"Show me your soles." Perandis tugged at one of the man's boots, pulling it upwards to very vocal protests. The black leather combat boots were in the standard Cadian pattern, with a direct-moulded rubber sole. The gathered platoon men, seeing the out-of-place interloper for the first time, looked at him with interest.
"Zeke wears hobnailed boots," Perandis let go of the man's foot and stood back up, wiping his hands down on his trouserlegs. "We don't."
"I'm J—" the stout man began before being interrupted for the second time.
"You stay on the sidelines now, Scribe. You can get hurt out here. That's not my problem though. You'll want to keep it that way. It only becomes my problem if one of my people gets hurt because of you."
"I'll be careful, Staff Sergeant," Scribe said quickly.
"They give you permission to come out here, Photo?"
"Ha! The boys and girls back in the office in Kraf didn't believe me when I said I wanted to attach myself to a line company. They signed me off in a heartbeat, thought I was batty for wanting such a thing."
"Yeah, you're brave enough. So why aren't you a grunt? How come you're taking pictures not tallies?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I want to help open people's eyes a bit to who it is that gets the work done, picks up the real slack. You know what I'm saying? I just think I'd get a better feel of the war out here than inside an air-cooled office. Meet some of the real heroes who—"
"No heroes in this mob. Heroes wear red sashes, officer's pips, or powered armour. Right here we're just a lotta skuzzy grunts doing dirty jobs for others who will never know us or what we did. A job's all it is. Just do it, get paid, and go home. I'm saying if you want to write about heroes find a commissar or an officer, they're respectable, acceptable in the public eye to be heroes. Write what you see here. Just don't make us out as something we're not."
Jark was still withholding the artillery batteries. Mik Meller cursed them heartily for it. Zero Alpha, when contacted, had not believed Meller about the presence of tanks to the north of Rakka owing to the fact that contact had not been made. It all changed when Perandis entered the CP hurriedly and reported that there were tanks now advancing up the road.
"Three Alpha. Contact. Enemy tank platoon two-hundred yards north of my callsign. Request fire mission regiment. Over," Meller said over the vox link to the battalion commander in Kasr Jark.
"Zero One. Send details. Over."
"Five Mark Sevens with accompanying infantry," Perandis said.
"Three Alpha. Five Mark Sevens with infantry escorts. Targets in the open," Meller relayed. "Request fire mission regiment at grid Cain-Echo, two-six-four, five-three-zero. Over."
The battalion commander's response was maddening. "Zero One. Negative on fire mission regiment. Targets are within two-hundred yards of your callsign. Too dangerous for the 132s to fire. Over."
Lifting his finger from the push-to-talk button, Meller hissed, "damn." By the look on his face Perandis shared his opinion. "Three Alpha. Requesting fire mission. Urgent. Over."
"Zero One. Just hold on, Three. Support will be diverted to your AO when available. Over."
"Three Alpha. Send support soon or don't bother. Out." Meller clicked off and thrust the handset to Wharton.
"We found a Scoba recoilless rifle in CQMS's stash. It's something," Perandis said.
"Anything. Anything." Folding his arms, Meller waved a hand.
"Yeah. Something." Perandis took off back to 10 Platoon's sector. At the same time the tanks were rolling down the track, spearheaded by a vehicle equipped with a bulldozer blade.
"Wait. Wait 'til he's banged through the wrecks." Aimo Garst held his breath as he waited beside the team carrying the platoon's single Scoba 84-millimetre anti-tank weapon. Cyrano rested the short tube on his shoulder, balancing himself against the wall of sandbags which were vibrating from the tank's movements. Assisting him was Belisha, who carried the only two reloads.
"You got a clean shot on the track?" Aimo's hand twitched in anticipation. "Cyrano?"
"No. The first shot goes through the plough. And the second will remove the track," Cyrano said loudly to make himself heard over the growing din.
"You sure?"
"I was a gunner in the Atreides Youth Corps. Best days of my life."
"Maybe I should take over?" Belisha hefted the pair of warheads he carried. "Seems a bit odd a horse-botherer knows how to work a stovepipe."
"No-no, not necessary." Unfazed, Cyrano followed the progress of the bulldozer tank, keeping the optics trained on where he wanted the round to go. The lower left of the steel plough. Such an instrument was not designed to halt anything with even rudimentary armour-piercing capabilities. The 84-millimetre warhead would punch through it with ease, exposing the vulnerable track behind.
Confident to the point of arrogance it seemed, the lead tank commander was riding unbuttoned with his head and shoulders visible within the tank's cupola which was open to the sky. His bone-dome helmet was painted black with a pair of red stripes decorating the crown. Every few moments he raised a pair of cracked macrobinoculars and scanned the area ahead, searching for mines buried in the road. His other hand was gripping the trigger mechanism of a pintle-mounted .30-calibre stubber. Below, and practically hugging his mount, mercenaries and cultists were grouped behind the mobile cover the tank provided, each of the five vehicles acting as tall shields for Zeke.
"Standby." Aimo said in a steady voice as the bulldozer slowed to a crawl as it approached the intertwined wrecks.
"Wreck 'em." Belisha bobbed on his heels in jovial anticipation. His bright mood was shared by none. The earth underfoot was shaking now. A loose canteen sitting on a shelf inside a nearby dugout toppled off, clattering loudly when it hit the ground. Nervous fingers brushed triggers, their owners wondering why the fire order had not been given.
"Standby." Aimo looked across at Cyrano who flicked the Scoba's safety off. "Clear behind. Watch out for backblast." A rapid shuffling of feet occurred as lookers-on got out of the way of the rocket's open tail.
The bent prongs of the plough were digging into the track, shunting trails of earth around the tank's flanks as it gouged a shallow channel during the gentle uphill climb that curbed its speed to little more than a brisk jog. As it crested the rise, the commander spoke into his helmet mic, warning the driver to reduce speed before they collided with the two guntrucks.
"Shall we give it to 'em?" someone asked.
"Quiet, that man," Lieutenant Corta sang out from inside his dugout. "Standby."
"Yeah, you heard Mister Corta. Standby." Aimo raised his hand to signal Cyrano to open fire. "Safety."
"She's armed," Cyrano said.
"On the command. Wait for the command." Corta's voice came out steadily. The bruiser was pushing its way forwards, slowly shunting the wrecks out of its path, tearing the metal bodies apart, and rending the collapsed chassis into scrap.
"On target?"
"Got a clear shot," Cyrano grunted.
"Send it." Aimo dropped his hand and quickly covered his ears as an ear-splitting, metallic crack numbed his hearing. Instantaneously a great bang came from the plough as the warhead impacted, scraping through the welded steel with little loss in velocity. From the Scoba's exhaust erupted large choking gouts of smoke.
"Give me another!" Cyrano wiped his streaming eyes, trying to reacquire his aiming point.
Wiggling his finger in his ringing ears, Aimo supervised Belisha loading a new rocket into the tube. "Make sure it's in properly."
"Ho!" Belisha moved the swing-out breech back into place and tapped Cyrano on the shoulder. Caught off-guard by the heavy impact, the tank commander had dropped inside the turret and slammed his hatch shut. The vehicle itself was still in motion but the plough was drooping slightly where the warhead had damaged the spot where it was welded onto the hull. Continuing onwards resolutely, the tank hit a snag as the wonky blade dug deeper and deeper into the track until it came upon hard earth that was deep enough to be unaffected by the recent rainfall.
"Fire when ready." Satisfied with Cyrano's marksmanship, Aimo looked on as the tank built up piles of earth in front of it before it bogged down completely. Pressing a hand to his right ear, he winced as the deep, whip-like report of the Scoba made his heart leap into his throat. The travel speed of the warhead – 250 metres per second – was gratuitous for such a large and now stationary target. Cyrano's aim was dead on. With the broken blade out of the way, there was nothing between the round and the tank's exposed front track. There's a good lad! Savage elation gripped Aimo when he saw the heavy steel links part with one another and lay themselves out across the fresh earth. Realising they were in trouble, the tank crew – wisely – chose to abandon their vehicle, disappearing through the bottom hatch and crawling away.
"Good shot, that man!" Corta exclaimed, leaving his bunker and examining the results through his glasses. "Marksmanship."
"Did that one good, didn't ya, Beardy?" Belisha patted Cyrano on the shoulder. Unlatching the breech, he swung it out and checked the weapon was clear.
"Infantry's pulling back," Aimo noted. "Tanks are too."
Corta glassed the near-rout and nodded. "Yeah. They need one another to attack. So as long as we can keep the tanks out of the fight, lads, we'll be alright. Keep alert for now."
Carried out in low tones, the conversations Aimo overheard from his section and other platoon members were nearly all positive, something that made him glad. Morale was still high, and even with armoured support, the enemy was still beatable; it all hinged on that obstruction on the road though. If I were a Zeke tank commander I would want to recover my mount as quickly as I could. It would be tonight then.
Warily Aimo approached Lieutenant Corta and Platoon Sergeant Molchan inside the dugout. He was apprehensive of asking about heading into the kill zone after nightfall what with Larn's unauthorised excursion costing him command of 10 Platoon and then his strange disappearance. Jacklyn Molke was quite subdued when he returned to the section. He had been like that ever since. There had been no reason for the other private's absence too, and no one was telling. Where are you, pal? Aimo pondered sadly whilst he waited for Corta to give him his attention.
"Was that your man, Corporal?" Corta asked once Molchan had left.
"Yes, sir. Cyrano Semir… I can't pronounce his name, sir. He's a good sort. A bit wild in appearance but that's his look."
"Cavalry I hear. Hooves instead of tracks."
Averse to wasting any more time, Aimo tried to steer the discussion his way. "Sir, Zeke's gonna try and repair that tank tonight and drive it back out. I wanted to have a crack at making sure the tank's a permanent landmark now."
"Officially our orders are to hold our ground. No excursions beyond the wire, Corporal, you know that." Corta then added, keeping his expression flat throughout. "If a man was to be caught outside the wire then it would be a punishable offence."
"Yes, sir." Aimo fought to keep his excitement down. Yes, you can go but don't get caught by Zeke or you're on your own, Corta had basically said. "Sir, I wanted to ask about Sarn't Larn."
"What about him?"
"Where is he, sir?"
"Private Larn is taking time out in the Pen. His actions on a patrol cost the life of a soldier under his command. Captain Meller no longer feels he is fit to wear stripes of a non-commissioned officer." Corta looked a little downcast when he said it.
"…Tearing off his rank and binning him." Aimo's eyes filled with contempt. Slowly he said, "not one of you knows what he went through on Nemtess. I do. I was there with him. He was tiptoeing over death's threshold, this close to biting it. But he pulled through 'cause he's a right hard lad, sir. He's a good soldier. Lieutenant Corta, sir, would you treat a veteran soldier like James Larn the way Captain Meller's treatin' him?"
"Well, his experiences on Nemtess have clearly made him not himself, Corporal Garst. I am aware of the toll combat takes on a person's being. Captain Meller is doing it for Larn's own good. Larn is a danger to himself and to other people at this stage. He is not fit to lead men in battle."
Glowering, Aimo practically spat, "sir!" As he departed the dugout he muttered, "we'll see about this."
The Pen was quiet when Aimo approached. Pulling the sliding panel at head height back, he called in softly, "James. You in there, pal?"
"Go 'way, Aimo," a small, strained voice replied from inside.
"Number ten, mate. Sorry you're in here like this." Aimo pressed his face up to the opening and tried to see inside.
"You know, you can just open the door," another person said. "It's bolted on the outside."
"Oh, shit." Aimo glanced down to see the drawn bolt on the outside. "Who else is in there with you?"
"Some Zeke pris'ners."
"We're Tabor Territorials. What's this Zeke nonsense?"
"Ye can't open the door, Aimo. You'll get a bollocking."
"Aw no," Aimo sighed. "Can't believe Meller threw you in here. You don't deserve it."
"I do."
"Nah, number ten, you gotta come with me. We're going out past the wire to destroy a Zeke tank. Comp-C, Castra, explosions; your sorta thing. Get wired!"
"Don't want to. Go away."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Meller don't want me in the company any more. I'm binned."
Aimo slapped a hand on the doorframe in frustration. "Nah, bollocks to that, mate. You'll be outta there with your three stripes, most kosh. Hey, I'll let you know when I waste the Zeke tank. Tell you all about it. We're still winnin' we are. There'll be plenty o' Zeke left for you to zip. Don't you worry, pal."
It was the Tabor prisoner who replied, "how many tanks do the mercs have?"
"Lock that cunt mouth o' yours shut, Zeke. I'll break you're fucking fingers one by one." Aimo snarled bitterly. "You hold up in there, James," he continued in a warm, brotherly tone, with no pause in between. "Stick it out."
00:56
Zeke was making no attempt to disguise his intent to repair the broken-down tank, if the clanking sounds were anything to go by. Three men were crowded around the front left track, talking quietly whilst working to reassemble the heavy steel links. Only three? Aimo thought suspiciously as he crawled along a muddy ditch that ran along beside the track. His awkward posture, one foot on either bank, was necessary to not disturb the brown water that had gathered along the bottom. One wrong footfall and consequential splash would be fatal if Zeke had posted security. So he took it slowly. Very quickly his cotton uniform was soaked through with cold mud. The midnight chill in the air did not help matters, nor did the annoying headache he was on the receiving end of.
Stopping a fair distance from the tank, Aimo shouldered a Castra he had been dragging along and aimed the front sight directly at the track without bothering to flip up the tangent sights. Such precautions in aiming were unnecessary at such close range. The high-explosive round would land exactly where he aimed. How could he miss? Aimo froze and listened to the clanks, the wind, and his own thudding heartbeat. The three men were unaware of his presence, and none had visible weapons in reach, from what Aimo could see. For the tiniest instance, a hint of reluctance made Aimo pause. The three were simply doing their job without malicious intent and only to help repair their broken tank. The killing in cold blood was not something Aimo had ever been party to before. It was all very well wasting Zeke in battle, when both sides were intent on killing one another in 'lawful' combat, and thinking nothing of it in the aftermath. But this, and Aimo's earlier threats to the Tabor prisoners, gave him pause for thought. Was I within acceptable behavioural standards when talking to the prisoners? Could I have gone through with the threats really? Am I right in doing this now?
Take it or leave it.
Steeling his resolve, Aimo squeezed the Castra's trigger. The machine-like pop rang out loudly and the weapon bucked. A bright flash and a crash of metal on metal was intermingled with the wet, slapping sounds of body parts separating and flying in all directions. White-hot scraps of flesh, bone, and blackened cloth fragments were scattered across the tank's flank and bow amongst thin clouds of pinkish blood, dark in the absence of light that gave the worn metal an unnatural sheen. The three mounds of waste that had seconds before been fully-functioning, living, breathing human beings shocked Aimo, and he was not so easily rattled; not after Nemtess. Not one had had the chance to cry out, to protest the unfairness of the ambush.
The commotion attracted not one but two stubber teams that were set up at a distance on either flank, neither of which Aimo had spotted previously. Both proceeded to work their pieces, criss-crossing their bright green firing arcs to form a killzone that left no patch of ground untouched. Fearful now, Aimo wriggled as fast as he could over to the other side of the road as the leftmost gun raked up and down the ditch he had just evacuated. Heedless of the mud fouling his Castra, Aimo found himself crawling amidst piles of Zeke dead, slowly decomposing bodies that had fallen victim to Cannon Company over the past two days. Even a mere 48 hours later the accompanying smell was growing powerful. There were so many there. It was a slaughterhouse. How can they still come at us when we have put so many of their friends in the ground? Aimo trembled inside as he brushed against hands and feet, all of which were cold and rigid. Above his head tracers whizzed, the gunners now firing searching bursts into the night. Under orders not to open fire unless assaulted, C-for-Cannon remained quiet. Rakka was still. No flares were being sent up.
The Emperor protects, Aimo recited inwardly on heaving himself up a mound and rolling over the crest. The Emperor pro—
A violent jerk from behind pulled him over. Gripped by a ripening fear, Aimo found he was lying backwards with his feet on the slope above and his head facing the scummy water. A pair of powerful hands was keeping him in place. His Castra had come to rest underneath his chin, the warm steel of the barrel pressing against it.
A face, upside down with the rest of the world, loomed over him close enough to smell the breath. Tilting downwards, a pair of faintly-glowing eyes, yellowish, narrowed as they scrutinised Aimo. At the sight of the frightening eyes, Aimo shut his tightly. A strangled whimper escaped him when a needle, cold as ice, pricked his skin and plunged into his skull.
"You will never see the face of your child," a female voice growled.
The pain ended. Not even a half second had passed. The blood was rushing into Aimo's head. "No. No. No," he gasped, overcome with light-headedness.
"What became of the Tabors? The father and son."
"Locked up. Locked up in the Pen," Aimo choked. With his neck stretching he found it nigh-impossible to swallow. "Treated fairly."
The hands took the Castra from Aimo and withdrew. Clutching his neck, Aimo clumsily righted himself. "I know you…" He raised a finger, trying to place it. "Nemtess. I was on Nemesis Tessera. You're that stickie my mate mentioned, gotta be."
Now covered by a drooping hood that masked her face, the stickie broke open the Castra, examining the spent shell that was still sitting inside.
"I've got – I've got a family. Yeah, a missus and a little one that's coming and I want to see them both." Aimo clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "I know you dragged my mate off Nemtess so maybe you ain't such a bad sort, stickie. Never thought I'd say that about bloody xenos."
"You will never see the face of your child, human," the stickie said, gently closing the Castra's breech. "You must believe that you are already dead and nothing, no-one matters to you."
Though disturbed by the stickie's ominous words, Aimo knew she was wrong. "What 'bout your people or your family? You must have a spouse, maybe a pair of little terrors too. Who'd you fight for then? Why you out here on your own?" The stickie said nothing, simply stared. "Larn. Little fella. Had a spot o' bother on Nemtess, remember? I thought he'd been saddled with a real estate deal but then you show up hauling his dumb arse like a sack o' spuds over your shoulder. Baffled I was." Pausing to gather his words, Aimo said, gentler than before, "do you l—"
"The wolf's head is severed." The stickie interrupted, tossing a soft object to Aimo which turned out to be a beret. "Show this to your commanding officer and tell him the enemy commander was amongst those killed in the day's action."
Running a finger over the metal flash pinned to the fabric, Aimo sniffed the material. "Ain't one of ours, that's for damn sure."
"The Cyrric Rangers oppose you. Remember that. It will not be repeated."
"Why? Why?"
"The Imperium is, right now, the lesser of the two evils. And I would never see the banners of Chaos hang over the galaxy. It would mean the destruction of my people, and yours." Leaning forwards, the stickie drew back her hood to reveal an intense gaze. "Surrender, lest all your lives be lost."
Astonished, Aimo shook his head fervently. "We shall never surrender. Not to these Cyrric Rangers, cultists, tanks, not to anyone. Zeke's gonna have Rakka, but only the ashes will remain after the last of us have fallen. We'll let him have the ashes."
"More will come. Many more. Their numbers will grind your insignificant outpost into dust."
"Not while we have the weather. The rain we've had recently churns up the fields. Tanks can't move on them. It won't be long. Relief will be here in a few days, mark my words."
"And your friend is… there beside you?" the stickie's tone had lost its biting edge.
"'Course, he will be once he gets let out of the Pen, poor sod. I don't know anything about him but I still love him like a brother. He's a good soldier, I swear. It's just he always gets the shit end of the stick."
"The deepest bonds are forged on the battlefield." The stickie reversed the Castra and passed it back to Aimo. "Unshakeable. Unbreakable."
"Come in with me."
"I cannot reveal my presence. I would not be tolerated."
"You're not stickie here, you're a merc. I'll tell the captain we've got outside help from a sniper operating in this area." Aimo had noticed the long-barrelled rifle slung across the stickie's back. "You said we're the lesser of two evils, so help us beat Zeke. Do something useful rather than sitting around idle out here."
The stickie pointed a finger. "Run back to your hole, young human. You have more battles to fight. Stay true to your friends."
"You can do something right here. It's for a good cause."
"There are no good causes. And if I ever fought for one, it was too long ago to recall."
There was a definite mourning now in the stickie's voice, something that tugged at Aimo's heart. She appeared to him as a warrior without meaning, a lost soldier without a single ally left, barely clinging on to what she had been before but gradually forgetting who she was and what she was fighting for.
It gave Aimo the shivers thinking of the disturbed stickie on the slow trek back to Rakka, who existed outside the wire, a golden-eyed phantom cloaked in darkness and death; drawn to the carnage of the humans.