Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 17
His feet hit the dark surface as he ran, slapping loudly over and over in quick succession. His breath rasped in his throat and his lungs burned in a way he had not experienced in years. He was running as fast as he could but it wasn't fast enough, the fear clenching his heart told him that. He had to be faster, he had to get away. The hairs on the back of his arms pickled as he sensed the pursuer chasing him, matching his speed step for step. The hot, wet air on his neck told him how close his hunter was, the monster stalking him through the darkness. It had his scent now and it was hungry, a primal instinct told him so, it was coming for him and when it caught up, it would devour him.
Sheer terror lent his feet a burst of speed and he ran into the murk with the swiftness of any prey. His eyes saw nothing but unformed shadows all around him but he cared not. What lay ahead did not matter, only what was behind. Flight the only thing he could think about and there was no other room in his soul for anything but fear. So he simply ran, fleeing from the predator on his tail but knowing it was catching up.
Suddenly he stumbled, his weary feet giving out to send him sprawling on his face. He scrambled about but the floor felt as slippery as ice and he could not rise. Then he heard a soft thump behind him and sensed an animalistic presence looming over him. Frantically he rolled over and beheld his hunter, crouched over him like a predator over wounded prey.
It was huge, a mass of muscle and claws, all feral power and savage fury. Its hide shimmered as iridescent scales slipped over each other and the eyes were red orbs slit by a black gash. The hunter leaned down as a leer split its face, revealing razor-sharp fangs in its maw and a forked tongue. The predator held still for a moment, relishing the terror of its prey and then it leapt, maw wide open and he could do nothing but scream.
Then darkness took him.
"Arrrrrr!" Arbet yelled as he thrashed frantically, his arms and legs encumbered by the tangled bedsheets. Filled with fear the Lieutenant flailed widely, kicking and punching at the air as he tried to understand what was going on. His desperate movements caused him to roll and then he fell, hitting the wooden floorboards with his arse.
Arbet's chest heaved but the surprise shocked him awake, bringing him back to reality like a slap to the face. The Lieutenant sat still, breathing frantically as his eyes took in the damp walls and bare floorboards of his room, exactly as it had been when he had fallen asleep. It was a dim and pokey little billet but to a man accustomed to the field, it was luxurious.
"It was only a dream, a nightmare," Arbet repeated to himself, "It's not real." The mantra calmed his jangled nerves and in a minute his breathing returned to normal. Arbet realised he was tangled up his bedsheets and was sitting upon the floor so he began to unwrap himself, revealing his uniform beneath. He realised that he hadn't even bothered to take his boots off last night, merely flopping onto the bed and going straight to sleep.
He was in for a far more disturbing shock when he pulled his arm free and saw he was gripping his pulse pistol in his hand. The alien weapon was firm in his grip and his stomach fell as he saw that in his slumber he had drawn the weapon and flipped off the safety. "Bescumber, what was I thinking? I could have killed myself," Arbet swore as he recalled all the tales of soldiers shooting themselves through carelessness or a moment's madness.
Carefully the Lieutenant flipped the switch back on then holstered his weapon and disentangled himself. He stood up and lumbered over to the corner where there was a basin of cold water, a mirror and a pisspot. He plunged his hands into the tepid water and then washed the sleep from his eyes, before looking up and seeing the man looking back at him. What he beheld was a man who had seen far too much, and had far too little sleep. He was bleary-eyed and haggard, worn out by the stresses of life and fretful in his gaze. Arbet appeared to have aged a decade since he had last looked in a mirror and he knew why that was so.
His platoon had chased the Space Marines half-way across the moors, running them down with superior numbers and firepower. Then at the last second the enemy had been saved by an unexpected airstrike, scooped up before his very eyes. Arbet had cursed loudly as he watched the gunship soar away, had their own aircover not been destroyed the Space Marines could never have got away.
It was galling but there had been nothing to do save return to the Brownshirt's command post and make a report. They had rolled in late in the day and been thoroughly debriefed by a succession of snobby rear-echelon officers, men Arbet reckoned had probably never touched a gun, let alone shot anyone. He hadn't kicked up a fuss though, not after his failure and what he had witnessed.
That thought made Arbet's heart flutter again, the visage of the mutant he had uncovered. The image haunted him; appearing in his vision every time he closed his eyes. He hadn't told anyone else what he had seen, the men were already scared enough of the Space Marines without being told what horrors they concealed amongst them. Arbet couldn't forget though, that vile face haunted him night and day, its sheer inhumanity clawing at his equilibrium, filling him with fear and dread in equal measure.
Like all humans Arbet had been raised to despise and loathe mutants, just as they were taught to revere Space Marines. Aliens on the other hand were well… alien. They were too different to be upsetting but mutants were just human enough to promote a visceral revulsion, the thought that such nightmares lurked with the human genome was a source of horror. The idea that Space Marines, with all their power and majesty, would mix with such filth was abhorrent. What vile pacts had they sworn to create such monsters? What terrifying power might it unleash?
Arbet realised his hands were shaking and he growled, "Stop it; you're a grown man, not a child." It didn't work; the dread lurked behind his eyes and it wouldn't go away. To distract himself he shrugged off his jacket and holster, then took up a razor and a half-empty can of foam and began to shave in the small washbowl. The action steadied his hands and he was able to still his thoughts as the razor scraped over his chin.
He was almost done when there was a sharp rap at the door and he frowned. He turned to see Sergeant Egar opening the door, looking bashful as he said, "Sorry sir, but there's…"
He was interrupted as Colonel Westerfield swept in, the most senior commander of the People's Liberation army striding into the billet without waiting for an introduction. He was followed as ever by O'Dea, the Tau emissary looked about the room with a sniff of disdain.
Arbet's jaw fell and he hurriedly sketched a precise salute but Westerfield waved him down saying, "Solidarity: as you were, I won't berate a man for catching him off guard."
Arbet was aware that he was standing with shaving foam over his jaw but tried to look dignified as he asked, "Solidarity: Can I do anything for you, Sir?"
Westerfield took off his formal cap and grinned saying, "Hard to imagine what else I could ask for, after your triumphant return."
Arbet blinked in confusion and said, "I'm sorry Sir, didn't you read the briefings? We failed to stop the Space Marines escaping, they got away."
Westerfield shook his head declaring, "You're too close to the problem to see it, but you fulfilled your orders to the letter. I told you to secure our flanks and so you did, the Space Marines have been driven off and our rear is safe thanks to you and the other platoons. Body counts don't matter, strategically this was a win."
Egar coughed loudly and said, "We did kill three of them."
"One," Arbet hurriedly corrected, "We definitely saw one take a burst cannon to the chest, no one shakes that off. He limped away with the rest but he must surely have died from a wound like that."
Westerfield smiled slightly and replied, "As I said, you did well. I wanted to thank you in person and the other squads too, I am visiting them all to inform them I'm granting three days leave to all our heroic boys, as a reward."
Egar beamed from behind them but O'Dea spoke up to say, "We cannot linger, the final days are at hand. The Greater Good must be advanced."
Westerfield held up a palm and said, "It takes time to mobilise an army, the Big Push can't be organised in one night."
Arbet blinked in surprise and exclaimed, "Are we ready for that?"
"Indeed," Westerfield said, "Its common knowledge now, Dunham city fell to us while you were out in the field. The Imperials have retreated to the Kalcha Mountains and are digging in. We suffer no more raids thanks to the work of men like you, now we can advance unopposed and crush Nugga and his cronies once and for all."
Egar muttered, "Sounds like a last stand to me, that's always bloody work."
O'Dea countered, "The Tau Empire has the greatest regard for our friends in the Gue'vassa. Our armouries are yours and our weapons are at your disposal."
"Battlesuits?" Egar asked with a glint in his eye.
"Alas no," O'Dea said, "Such devices are most difficult to obtain, but you shall have tanks and guns and planes to spare."
Arbet wasn't surprised; the Tau weren't dumb enough to arm humans with their best gear. But even so their cast-offs were far superior to anything the Brownshirts could manufacture for themselves. Yet he dared to ask, "What about orbital support?"
Now Westerfield replied, "Not with the capital's defence lasers, this will require a ground offensive. I'm pulling in everything we've got for this one, every last unit and every man who can hold a gun. We will sweep aside their paltry defences and obliterate them in one day. Maraha will be free at last."
Eagerly Arbet said, "Sir, my unit would like to volunteer…"
"Stop, stop, stop," Westerfield ordered waving his hands in the air, "I'm giving you three days off to recover. Take some time to relax and get your head straight. The war will still be here when you come back. Let me worry about the battle, you enjoy yourself. I want you fresh for the final fight and then we shall talk about that Captaincy I promised you."
Arbet saluted precisely as Westerfield turned and strode out, followed by O'Dea. Egar let them get out of sight then eagerly exclaimed, "Three days leave, I'll tell the men!"
"You do that," Arbet said distractedly and then sank to the bed as the Sergeant left the room.
For a moment he sat there with his head in his hands and tried not to swear. In truth he didn't want to be sitting about with nothing to do, he wanted to be busy; he wanted to be out there fighting. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was that vile mutant and the thought that it was out there somewhere made his skin crawl. Arbet couldn't get away from the fact that the mere existence of such a horror made him afraid and he hated being afraid. It was then that it occurred to him what he had to do, the knowledge presenting itself like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.
He had to find the mutant and kill it, that was the only way to be free of the fear, kill the mutant and the fear would be conquered in turn. He almost leapt to his feet but then caught himself and said, "Patience man, patience. It's three days to the Big Push, you can handle three days. Just be patient and then this can all be over and you don't have to be afraid anymore."