[MOD]
Decrepit Dakkanaut
Cozy cockpit of an Archer ARC-5S
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Written a few years ago, has undergone a light rewrite. Yes, I am aware that there is a girl there, which upsets the purists to no end.
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'Orders Ridemaster?'
Ridemaster Asche lowered her binoculars and pondered the situation for a moment, weighing the situation she found herself and her squad in. Having ridden her men long and hard, forcing them and their steeds to the utmost of their limits, they had managed to penetrate deeply into the hinterlands of the savannahs of Hessia. Their orders were simple enough: Move ahead of the main column of advance, be on the lookout for any enemy formations and positions. It was during the trek that they came across an enemy position, which wasn’t unlike any other they had come across before: A small enemy outpost, half dug into the soil and reinforced with sandbags and flak board, standing as a pathetic little fortress against the ponderous Imperial advance slowly grinding its way forward. Not that its purpose was one of defence, instead they acted more as early warning and observation posts staffed by a handful of expendable observers and a single long range vox set. They’d get a warning out that the enemy was coming, tried to sell their lives as dearly as possible and hoped that by doing so, stalled the enemy advance for a few moments more. As if.
The orders given to all Death Rider formations was clear: Report and circle around, leaving it for infantry units to deal with. Asche’s unit had come across a dozen or so of these posts by now, each time duly notifying command of its location and estimated strength before moving on. This post looked no different, aside from a banner that weakly fluttered from the aerial of the small armoured car parked next to the fortified hole. Further observation had shown that an officer of some standing was conferring with the outpost personal. Standing orders were to notify command of any such high ranking enemy assets and hold back, keeping an eye on things from a distance. Fine in theory, but by the time a proper response could be sent the enemy would be long gone most likely.
To sit and wait was hard enough as is, but even more frustrating the situation was that some form of vox jamming was in effect, making the vox caster carried by one of her Riders useless, meaning they had no effective way of notifying high command of their find. Not that the vox was their only means of communication. The squad had been issued a flare gun with an assortment of flares, which was a last ditch effort to keep long-ranged patrols from working blindly in front of the main forces should anything happen to the vox equipment. To Asche though, popping flares felt like a futile, not to mention stupid backup plan. Orders dictated that she is to observe the enemy and report it to command any way possible, then wait for a reply, one way or the other. With the vox out of order, she’d have to pop a flare, but how long would it take for a response to materialize? Especially when dealing with the long distances, would the flare even be visible to other friendly forces?
Displays of personal initiative were frowned upon, the Korps relied on the fact that orders were followed to the letter and doing it as effective as possible, that was the ironclad chain of command that all adhered to. She had to launch a flare. But popping flares also meant that the enemy would notice and that meant that the foe could flee before it could be dealt with.
What would saint Macharius do? It was something she wondered from time to time, looking to saint of soldiers for guidance. Unlike her mass-birthed squadron members, Asche had at least some form of education and due to being raised in semi-normal conditions, was not as conditioned as the others to blindly follow orders, consequences be damned. Glancing sideways, at some of her squad she knew they were jumping at the chance to fight. Recon was part of their job, but they were warriors first and foremost and even the most quiet of them was by now aching for a fight.
Inspiration came to her in a flash, as she recalled a quotation from the saint: “When confronted with conflicting orders find something to kill instead.”
'Prime weapons.' She declared to her squad as she pulled out her pistol and flicked the safety off. The rest of them followed suit, checking their pistols and removing safeties from their lances, a simple pin not unlike that of a grenade. She looked left and right at her squadron, some of them returning her look while others simply looked dead ahead, gazes poised on the distant enemy position.
'Launch a flare, let them know we got something of importance here. Maybe they'll see it, most likely they won't. Maybe we'll live to tell the tale. Maybe our bones will bleach in the sun as a warning for the next patrol.'
One of the Death Riders, the vox operator, pulled a heavy calibre pistol from a saddlebag, clicked it open and dropping a large snub-nosed shell into the breach.
'Ready?' It was a stupid question, of course they were ready. They were ready for this ever since they were forced from the womb. They wanted to do it, they were bred for this sort of work, that blaze of glory that set them apart from their brothers in the trenches, those inside the hulls of tanks or behind the lines manning the guns that never knew silence for long.
'I'll take care of that vehicle, you take out any opposition in and around that pit.' She pulled a magnetic melta bomb free from her own saddlebags and held it tightly, giving her squadron one last look, giving the vox operator a nod and dug her heels hard into the flanks of her steed.
'Into the maws of death we go! Charge!'
The others screamed and shouted at the top of their lungs at the command, kicking their steeds into motion, lances poised with pennants fluttering. The squadron of Death Riders burst into action, charging towards the lone dugout.
+ + +
It had been a quiet day thus far and most certainly uneventful until someone from high command came over, for a routine inspection. The officer quietly conferred with the outpost commander, while the sentries went about their business as usual, making their slow rounds, ever vigilant for the enemy to show up.
A distant cry was heard, making one of the sentries pause in the pouring of his recaf. Eyes widened with realisation as he saw five riders charge towards them. He cried out in alarm, nervously slinging the rifle from his back and spilling hot liquid over his leg.
'Sir, the enemy! We're under attack!'
The officer looked up from the map at the distant charging figures. One of the observers consulted his auspex, somehow pleased with the scans. 'Just that group there sir, they must've moved in slowly and used the hills as cover to avoid our scans for this long, they seem to be alone, no other signatures.'
One of the other sentries pulled a canvas cover from a heavy bolter and yanked the receiver back, loading the first round. Another helped the gunner crank the weapon into the right position, facing the charging fools. The rest of the outposts staff went for their own weapons, flicking safeties off and taking up positions.
The outpost commander gave his visiting superior a worried look. 'Sir, it might be best for you to withdraw while you still can.'
'Nonsense, this looks like a firing exercise for the men here, not much of a threat they seem. Nothing but a bunch of auxiliaries on horses.' He gave a nod to the man manning the heavy bolter. 'You may open fire when in range.'
+ + +
In hindsight, charging a dug in enemy with steeds, no matter how tempting, was always bad idea. But looking before jumping was something the Death Korps had never heard of, they knew only to attack and never to quit, especially when their blood was up. A heavy bolter barked into life, tracers whipping into their direction instantly. One of the Riders was punched from his saddle, the heavy round first slamming through the head of his steed before digging through his armour and into him. It exploded inside his torso, the force blowing an arm off in a shower of gore.
'Charge damn you!' Asche cried out impotently, dearly hoping she could make it across. The man besides her was launched from his saddle as his steed had a leg blown away, the man landing hard in a crumpled mess.
Laser fire joined the tracers of heavy bolter rounds, though compared to the latter, the lasers were nothing. She felt something strike her in the shoulder, but felt nothing. The final stretch between the Riders and the dugout was quickly negated as two remaining men charged straight into the shallow position, their lances lowered and vox-enhanced barbaric screams coming from their mouths as they closed the final distance.
How she wanted to join them in that charge.
Instead, Asche wheeled her steed around the dugout, fighting to keep the animal under control, its own aggressive tendencies wanting it to charge into the fray like the rest of the squadron. She managed to get the beast to run towards the armoured vehicle, passing it. With a heavy -clunk- the charge attached itself to the hull of the vehicle, the pin pulled and the charge primed. Digging her heels hard into the flanks of her steed she urged it to run like hell. A dull explosion blanked out the screaming and shooting for a moment. Black smoke poured from the wreck into the sky, if anything, that would make for a better signal than those pathetic flares they were supposed to launch. Wheeling round she charged into the fray, noting that the fight in the pit was a chaotic mess of stabbing and shooting men.
Her men were not faring well, both them were unhorsed and fighting from the ground. Though unhorsed, they were far from defenceless as they desperately fought the enemy with pistol and sabre. Asche noticed a man in a greatcoat hacking into one of her men, he had to be the officer in charge. Remembering the old saying of going for the head she forced her steed to jump into the dugout, towards the officer. The man turned at the sound of Asche's approach, only having enough time to register her attack as her lance slammed home, the powered tip slicing through any armour and flesh with ease before becoming lodged inside the man. She let go and went for her sword and pistol, ignoring the speared man instantly. The explosive charge of her lance would see to the man’s demise. Expertly guiding her steed with her legs she trotted towards a vicious melee that saw the last one of her men being mobbed by three others, clubbing him to a pulp with the butts of their rifles, all the while screaming like madmen. With precise shots she dropped two of them, the third running towards her with a manic cry, his face a twisted mask of hysteria. It was the look of a man who had until recently, never killed before and could not cope with this. If his was trying to scare her steed it wasn't working, the genetic breeding had seen to that, instead her steed reared itself, presenting its cloven hooves to the attacker. The man backed away for a moment, allowing Asche to close in and with a deft hack landed her sword into the neck of the man, dropping him like a dead weight.
Carefully she wheeled her steed round, checking for any survivors. Anybody? A wounded horse lay twitching, the bulky breathing mask torn off during the fight most likely. It was breathing with increasingly difficulty as blood mixed with the froth on its lips. With a sigh she shot it through the head, sparing the loyal beast any more suffering.
Wheeling round she noticed the officer she speared had stumbled to his feet. The lance had exploded, a ragged hole where it struck. Only he wasn't dead. How the hell did he survive that? Digging her heels into the flanks of her steed she urged it to charge, holding her sword arm stretched out before her in the classic charging stance. She'd spear him with her sword and finish the job for sure.
Only he was prepared this time round.
As she closed in the officer slammed his whirring sword into the legs of her steed with all his might, making the beast fall forward with both its limbs mangled and broken, the weapon torn from her foes hands and embedded into its legs. As it fell Asche was launched from the saddle, flying through the dugout, the earthwork wall rushed towards her and a jarring impact made everything turn black for a moment. The screaming of her wounded horse vanished for a moment as she lost conciousness.
Consciousness returned like a nightmare as vice-like fingers locked around her neck and hose, trying to squeeze the life out of her. She felt her air hose being squeezed shut, fluids from it forced into her mouthpiece as the air supply was cut off along with her feeding pipe. She kicked and beat the undying officer, trying her best to get him off her. She noticed the exposed inner organs through the ragged hole of his coat, a rotten heart half-dangling from it as it slowly beat. With all her strength she reached inside the ragged torso and pulled the rotten organ free, crushing it in her fist. The vicelike grip relented and she managed to kick the man aside, truly dead this time.
With a gasp she managed to undo her mask, sucking in great mouthfuls of air thick with ozone, rotting meat and other bodily fluids. She also ditched her helmet after a moment, feeling a whole lot better all of the sudden. Pain slowly came to her as the adrenalin subsided. Asche was hit several times, a rather unpleasant hole gaping at the shoulder of her cuirass from which blood slowly seeped. She could also feel the dull aches of the bruises that were to come. It was one of the more unpleasant, but somehow good reminders that she was still alive for now. Looking round she saw that no one else remained alive, neither friend nor foe.
'Fugging hell.' Much to her surprise one of her Riders staggered to his feet, his helmet missing and his cuirass and coat torn and blooded. He laboriously pulled off his own mask, revealing a face that had seen better days, the grey eyes bloodshot and many teeth missing. Was it Waldner? It didn't matter. She sighed and smiled at his survival.
'I guess we won then?' He whispered with a voice full of wetness.
'We won,' Asche wanted to say more but felt the strength in her legs fail, dropping her to her knees. She felt tired and worn out, the long days of riding and the combat had taken their toll on her.
'Permission to lie down for a moment myself Ridemaster? I don't feel too well.'
Before Asche could reply the man slumped over, sprawled over the dead. She stumbled to his side and checked for a pulse.
None.
With a sigh she tried to clamber onto the edge of the outpost, unable to do so as strength had failed her. Resigned she sat down heavily between the dead, jamming a wad of cotton from her first-aid kit into the hole at her shoulder.
+ + +
Several Centaurs rumbled in later that day, the heavily armoured Grenadiers carried within them tasked with ranging ahead of the general advance. 'Lucky,' one of them gruffly remarked as they swept through the outpost, finding Asche the only living soul remaining. 'There'll be promotions for this.'
'Yes, promotions.' She said numbly, one of the Grenadiers was giving her first-aid, tightly binding the bloody hole on her shoulder with a liberal amount of bandages and the roughness of a man performing medical care as described from a book. He mumbled something about everything being alright now. It rung hollow and false, so unlike one of their own to say, but Asche was too tired to take note.
'Good one, this was a captain. Top brass that died here today. Bad one at it. See them organs, bad sign.' The Grenadier Watchmaster revved his chain sword and brought it down, hacking the general’s head off in a messy spray of rancid blood. He held up the head like a trophy, studying it for a moment. 'Making sure he stays down, mutants have a tendency to get up again, a real pain to kill. You know?' He motioned for one of his men to get a flamer ready. 'Might as well burn them, give them a proper see-off. Got anything you need from your horse Ridemaster?'
Asche shook her head, slowly crouching down to gather her cuirass and helmet. One of the Grenadiers took them from her, roughly pulling her out of the dugout and half dragging her towards one of the waiting Centaurs. The men and their steeds who died while charging the dugout were dragged to the outpost and unceremoniously tossed into the hole with the rest of the dead, a team with a heavy flamer standing by to torch everything. As she was driven away she saw the outpost go up in flames, the fires consuming all.
Asche didn't care, all she wanted was a new unit and a fresh horse.
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