Author's note: This story was rewritten fairly heavily as part of 2017's Nanowrimo challenge.
Click here to see who's who in the Barmy Army.
Marneus Calgar's Barmy Army theme.
"What do you think about that weird Christmas song, 'A Spaceman Came Travelling'?"
"I think it should be illegal to write Christmas songs while on drugs, sir."
- Marneus Calgar and Dick Bannerman
=|U|=
It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth, waiting for Gran Turismo 5 to come out. He is the master of mankind by the will of the Prophets (or should that be Profits?), and master of a million worlds by the might of Jervis Johnson. The Emperor is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from technology invented during NoPoet's forthcoming 20K series. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance, if only to distract himself from the itching pang of his piles. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by www.astronomican.com, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors, especially the Ultramarines.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, except when it comes to giving Space Marine players new wargear. Forget the promise of progress and understanding. There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
Except at Christmas.
=|U|=
Imagine a beautiful house, decorated for Christmas in devastatingly nostalgic Victorian Britain style. A log fire crackles beneath an ornate mantelpiece, casting its warmth onto a scene of beauty. The Christmas tree looks like it was stolen from a Disney cartoon. Beneath it are presents piled higher than a nice version of Khalan-Gol. There is restrained immaturity among people everywhere, an excitement in adults who for a brief time are allowed to become children once again. There is joy, optimism, a sense of hope and friendship, merriment and a shared love for all mankind.
And then there is what the Ultramarines are doing.
=|U|=
Brin Milo of the Tanith First-and-Only was singing Cliff Richards' Christmas songs as he helped Dick Bannerman decorate the Ultramarine mess hall. Banners and tassels were hung, depicting such glories as The Battle of the 2008 Pub Crawl, in which Marneus Calgar heroically drank two yards of ale and burped some of it up into a girl's mouth, and the 8 Years of Calgar's Barmy Army, during which Calgar himself had been slapped in the face by no less than four women, pointedly ignored by a Canoness and established not only as a cretin, but a coward with a small penis. Who says men can't multitask?
"Christmas time, mistletoe and wine, pilgrims wasting the Emperor's time, with logs down the toilet and piss on the seat, it's -"
"Milo!" Bannerman snapped, crushing a wrestling ball in his rage. "Your singing voice reminds me of a Battle Sister having a clitorectomy. Can't you stick to playing the pipes?"
"Not after what Flat-Head did with them," the young Tanith replied, rubbing the seat of his trousers to soothe his tattered rump.
"I've got a good idea," Dick said. "Put the radio on. I still haven't heard Slade yet. It's not Christmas until Noddy Holder says so."
Milo trimmed the many photos of Calgar which hung on the walls. One of them had a pair of specs and a tash drawn in black felt-tip. Another was an obvious photoshop of Calgar beaming with pride as he shook the Primarch's hand during the Seige of Terra. A last picture showed different types of Imperial ships through the ages. It had been hastily retconned to show an Endeavour class cruiser from 20K.
"I love this time of year," Bannerman said with a sudden smile. "Christmas has always been a special occasion for the Ultramarines. Every year the devout Brothers receive a smack round the ear and a Christmas dinner cooked by Calgar himself."
"Still, the smack round the ear is nice," said Milo.
"Indeed, my young friend. I fething hope he will not cook again this year."
"He is, I feel it in my straight silver. I can already smell burning sprouts."
"Those fething sprouts," Dick said, losing his Christmas cheer, "and last year's turkey was a disgrace!"
"I thought it was a chicken."
"It was," Dick complained. "That's why it was a disgrace. He claimed the Ultramarine army budget didn't stretch to a Christmas turkey, but really he's saving up to get Gavriel's squad another assault cannon. So there we were, eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors, sitting round a small Morrisons chicken."
"Not even that," said Milo. "The worst part was how he used a melta-gun on wide beam to cook it. There were eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors
sitting around a burnt piece of carbon."
"Indeed. Speaking of The Mighty Forehead, we are nearly finished here and he was supposed to be helping us decorate. Where has he got to?"
"You tell me," said Milo. "You're supposed to be his bodyguard."
"Wait!" said Bannerman. "What was that?"
"I didn't hear anything."
Bannerman looked across at the fireplace, which was dormant. There wasn't any wood in Calgar's Temple of Awesome, which doubled as the Ultramarine
HQ; the only logs to be found were clogging the U-bend of Calgar's personal toilet.
"I've got advanced hearing, remember?" said Dick. "I heard something coming from the chimney."
The two men froze, staring at the fireplace. Could it be? Was Father Christmas on his way? A trickle of soot fell down, creating a cloud in the fireplace. Milo put his hands on Dick as the two men clutched one another fearfully.
"If you see a pair of black boots and red trouser legs, pretend to be asleep," said Milo. "He won't leave our presents if we're awake."
Dick looked at his watch. "It's only 3pm. What's Santa doing here at this time?"
"Shh! Don't call him that - you remember how Calgar went off last time."
"Sorry. What's Father Christmas doing here at this time? I thought he only came out at night."
Another trickle of dust spilled down. The pair backed away.
"He's got the whole galaxy to do, remember?" Milo whispered. "He probably had to start early."
A male voice roared, getting louder as someone came down the chimney arse-first at sixty miles per hour.
"It's him!" Milo yelled. "It's Father Christmas, and he's falling to his death down our chimney!"
"God-Emperor! Our presents! Quick, Milo, if Father Chrimbo bites the big one, we'll never get any presents again. Sacrifice your life to break his fall!"
Dick grabbed Milo and flung him into the fireplace, where the highly valuable Imperial Guard pipe-player with intermittent psychic powers cringed beneath his doom. A cascade of soot avalanched onto him, followed by the bloated form of a fat man in a big suit, painted black with grime. The man must have weighed four hundred kilograms what with all the spare tyres flapping around his manly area, yet Milo was saved as the great weight simply creased his forehead like one of the many near-misses survived by Tanith main characters.
"SACRED FETH,
IT'S FATHER CHRISTMAS!" cried Dick.
Then the fat figure sneezed and soot cascaded from him, revealing a powerfully meaty and somewhat shocked face that was depressingly familiar.
"Where?" said Marneus Calgar. "And how did he get past me?"
=|U|=
While Calgar dried himself off after a hot shower, Milo asked Bannerman, "How come he's taking this Christmas stuff so seriously these days? Setting up a watch for Father Christmas. Building radar stations tuned to detect reindeer. We'd be better off using those resources to fight the enemies of Mankind. I thought Calgar said Christmas was a humbug."
"That's before he realised we got presents, young Tanith."
Calgar stomped into the room wearing his armour, with a towel wrapped round his head like a turban.
"Sir," said Bannerman, "why do you always do that? Your hair is thinner than the edge of a Tanith blade."
"Stop confusing me with all these questions!" Calgar snapped. "I feel like I'm on Mastermind."
"I take it you're in a bad mood today, sir," Milo said.
"You're right, little skinny wretch-person. I've been cramped up in that chimney for eighteen hours and I haven't seen hide nor hair of Father Christmas. Not only do I now have permanent arthritis, I'm sure he's forgotten me... I mean us."
"You're being paranoid, sir," said Dick. "You've been a good boy all year. Apart from the incident with that Sister Superior's cassock, of course, but anyone can make, er... a mistake."
"That's right," said Calgar, cheering up. "Anyone can get their head stuck up a Battle Sister's skirt. Wow, look at all these decorations! You two did a right job. I will give you both an extra 5 points to spend on wargear from now on." Bolstered by his own generosity, the Chapter Master turned to Dick and said "Come on then, let's see your nuts!"
"I beg your pardon, sir?" Dick said, recoiling. "I know living together as warrior-monks causes certain... strains, but -"
"Your chestnuts, wally-brain. You said you were roasting chestnuts today."
"Thank the Primarch and his unspellable, unpronounceable, rather camp name! I forgot about my nuts. I'll go and get my flamer."
The banner bearer scurried off. Calgar went to a wall speaker and switched it on. His authoritative voice boomed throughout the Ultramarine base.
"Anyone who wants to try Dick's hot, salty nuts should queue up outside the mess hall near the men's toilets."
In the Reclusiam, Chaplain Derrik looked at the wall mounted speaker and began to sweat.
"Primarch, show me the way and allow me to resist the temptations of the daemon banner-bearer!"
"And why in the name of fethery is Cliff Richard now on the radio?" Calgar continued. "Get him off immediately before he ruins my entire life! Not day, not week, not year -- my fething life! Have Slade been on yet? It's not Christmas until Noddy calls it."
=|U|=
Calgar, Dick and Milo were relaxing in front of the telly with a bowl of roasted chestnuts. It was Christmas, and they were watching a British channel, which inevitably meant that "The Spy Who Loved Me", which was just starting, would be followed by something like "Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country". Dick had advised his Chapter Master against watching these films, given how many nightmares he'd had after seeing the angry lion king in Bedknobs and Broomsticks, but the Ultramarine leader was having none of it.
"Dick, sometimes you really live up to your name."
"My name's Dick Bannerman, sir. I live up to my name every day. I carry the flag."
"Sod the flag. This is James Bond. Anyone remotely English has to watch a Bond film at Christmas, and cheer when he defeats the Russians."
"The Russians?" said Milo. "Were they a cult like the Scriven?"
"The who?" said Dick.
"Just watch the fething film," Calgar grumbled.
The Spy Who Inspected My Gadgets rolled on, following the normal formula of dead Russians and women who fell under Bond's lusty power. Their roles as sex object were ironic, as most Bond Girls only got into the film industry because they had shagged a director.
"You know what?" said Calgar. "Listening to Cliff Richard has permanently destroyed my sex drive. I've got this urge to become a born-again virgin. Have we got any white altar boy outfits for me to wear from now on?"
"Oh to be in the trenches again," Milo muttered, as Dick coughed politely to cover his shock.
Calgar scooped a handful of chestnuts into his mouth. Unfortunately, as he chewed them, the Chapter Master realised that he didn't actually like chestnuts. Another man might have politely spat them into a napkin but Calgar, true to form, opened his mouth in a retch and let the chewed-up food fall back into the bowl. Milo and Bannerman both leapt up, knocking the bowl from Calgar's hands. Chestnuts rolled across the floor and under the settee.
Within half an hour - during which Calgar said "How long is it until we open our presents" no less than eight times - all three of our main characters were dozing in front of the telly while James Bond had his four hundredth car chase. Calgar woke everyone with a fart that would have made Nork Deddog proud.
"Sorry lads," said Calgar, wafting the air with one of his oversized gauntlets.
"Another unwanted gift from the Chapter Master," Milo muttered.
"That's a point," Calgar said. "I can't wait to see your faces when you see what I've got you."
"Presumably, sir," said Dick, "they won't be the same faces we made last year, when you didn't get us anything at all."
"I did! I bought you a chocolate orange. It's not my fault that it smashed into a million pieces when I tried playing cricket with it."
"Well what did you do it for, sir?"
"Some theories must be tested, Number Two. Some theories must be tested."
Milo and Bannerman exchanged glances.
"Anyway, Lord Calgar," said Milo, "the point is, we've been together for eight years and in that time you've bought us one chocolate orange - which you promptly batted through the ancient Reclusiam window - and a copy of Penthouse magazine with some of the pages mysteriously stuck together."
"You ungrateful sods!" gasped Calgar. "What about the time I promoted Dick to flag-carrier after my first fifteen choices all developed sudden allergies to wood? I bought him a beautiful flying Space-Mercedes!"
"The one you immediately borrowed to go on a date in, sir?"
"I brought it back."
"Correction, sir, you brought the steering wheel back. The rest of my car is still upside down in a bush in Tyranid country."
"Yes," Calgar admitted. "And we never did find my lady-friend's head. I'm sure I saw it fly into those shrubs."
Milo made his excuses and left the Ultramarines alone on the settee.
"Chestnuts always put Milo's system into reboot," Bannerman observed.
"How long til we open our presents?" asked Calgar.
"God-Emperor on a Battle Sister's lap," Dick complained, forgetting himself. "Time won't magically go faster if you ask every five minutes, sir!"
"Well, can't you just tell me how many hours?"
"Nine hours! Same as before Milo went for a crap! We get up no earlier than oh seven hundred! It's what we've been doing for the last seven Christmases, sir!"
Calgar folded his arms and crossed his legs. "I knew I should have appointed Brother Sestian to standard bearer. I don't care how much of a hernia he gets from carrying flags. He always gives good news to his superiors."
"That's as maybe sir, but as far as I know, Brother Sestian can't manipulate the flow of time to make Christmas magically arrive within the next five seconds. I also think he died fighting Waagh! Norgrund, come to think of it. You'll just have to wait like the rest of us."
"I'll bet Tigurius could do something."
"I don't see how snooping on the Tyranid collective would bring Christmas forward, sir. Besides, the Orks got Tigurius as well. Don't you ever read White Dwarf battle reports?"
The toilet flushed and Milo came into the room, wafting the air behind him.
"I wouldn't go in there without a set of flugs," the young soldier grinned.
"Is it time for bed yet?" Calgar asked Dick, ignoring Milo altogether.
"Feth's sake, Lord!" snapped Dick. "If it'll shut you up, yes, let's go to bed. You won't keep waking me up every half an hour like you normally do, will you?"
Calgar began to sulk. "Not if it offends you so badly, Number Two, no I won't wake you up. I'll let you sleep all through bloody Christmas and I'll have to open your presents."
=|U|=
Hours later, Milo, Calgar and Bannerman were all lying in the same bed like men used to do in old British sitcoms before it suddenly became "wrong" for men to do this. Even though it's actively encouraged for women to do it. Welcome to the age of equality! The lights were out and all three men had their eyes shut. In fact, Milo and Bannerman were snoring gently. Only Calgar was awake. Excitement boiled in both his stomachs, giving him double-heartburn. Fortunately his enhanced metabolism was able to deal with this by increasing the rate and potency of Calgar's flatulence. That's right, there are still plenty of fart jokes to give vent to. There was a roiling, bubbling sound from Calgar's guts, then the Hero of Macragge grunting with satisfaction as he pulsed out a burping, eye-watering fart of beefy content which shook the bed.
"Emperor's hairy trouser-hammock!" cried Bannerman as he snapped to wakefulness. "We're being bombarded from orbit!"
Milo was deeply asleep. His hand began to absently scratch at his nostrils. "Jareth... I only shagged her once, I don't want to be Prince of the Land of Stench," he murmured.
"Oh, you're awake," Calgar observed. "How many hours is it til we open presents?"
"Oh sir, for feth's sake! It's two in the morning, we aren't opening presents for five hours! What did you wake me up for?"
"I can't sleep, Number Two. I'm too excited. How do you think Father Christmas manages it?"
"I don't know, my Lord. There aren't many details about his sex life."
"Not that! God-Emperor, have you seen the state of his wife in
Santa Claus the Movie? She's a proper trout; he's a cert for the old knuckle tussle."
"Sir, you farted me to consciousness for this? We've been campaigning against the Tau and Nids for eight years, I am knackered. Can you please allow me more than twenty minutes' kip?"
"Sorry," Calgar pouted. Dick settled down and began to snore.
"I was just wondering," Calgar said, shaking Dick, "how he delivers presents across the entire galaxy in the space of one night."
"He has fast reindeer who know the Webway. Can you at least
try to sleep now, sir?"
"Listen, Number Two, I'm worried he missed Macragge on his whistlestop tour of the Imperium. I want to have a look downstairs."
"Sir, you can't do that. I'm as eager as anyone to get down there and open my prezzies, but if we time it wrong and Big Red Flying Hood catches us, we're sure to be branded naughty boys."
"Bugger it!" Calgar complained, thumping the covers and managing to hit Milo in the gentleman's region. The 'Tanith hussy' sat up with a falsetto cry.
"Milo," Calgar ordered, "go downstairs and see if Father Christmas has been. Report back on everything you learn."
"What, now?" Milo said miserably. "It's the middle of the night, I'm freezing!"
"Just get down there!"
Milo glanced at Dick, who remained rigid. No support there.
"Feth it!" Milo swung his skinny legs out of bed. The Ultramarines with their enhanced eyesight made sport of Milo's boxers as the moonlight fell on them.
"Wahey!" grinned Calgar. "Like the love hearts! Oh fething hell, you haven't written SABBAT in every single one, have you? That's just sad."
"Where is the Saint, anyway?" Dick asked. "She's a major element in
40K and she disappeared without trace. Even if she utterly breaks
40K canon, is technically a daemon and the Grey Knights want a word with her."
"It's a long story," said Milo. "I'm sure Mr Abnett will pull it out of his bum in a few books' time, assuming she doesn't get retconned."
=|U|=
Milo sneaked down the darkened stairway to the mess hall where everyone's presents would hopefully be waiting. He was on tenterhooks, whatever those are. Less than twenty feet away, behind a single door, was a sight that everyone had been waiting 365 days to see. Should he even be doing this? It felt wrong to be sneaking a look before the proper time. He reached the door and gently pushed it open. It creaked like an old woman's love flaps. Milo glanced into the room beyond. The Christmas tree was a silhouette rising in the dark. Shadowy forms were piled across the floor and on the tables - presents. Lots and lots of presents.
"Wow," Milo breathed. "Machine-spirit, I beseech thee to activate the lights."
The ancient cogitator was cantankerous and deliberately mis-heard him. It activated the tree lights rather than the room's lights. Milo witnessed accidental magic: wrapping paper shone in the gentle light. Presents were stacked higher than a Land Raider. It felt like the Tanith warrior was a little boy again, having just left his mother's nourishing teat. How old would he have been - nine or ten maybe? The Ultramarine Christmas tree was a proper one. Multicoloured lights, not the boring plain yellow you see on most trees. Milo spent a few minutes searching and found his pile of gifts. His hands were trembling - he'd been on about a PS3 all year despite Calgar's grumblings that it was an "inferior and overpriced Xbox wannabe that needs longer to load its games than a Commodore 64". Suddenly he found himself doing something that would get him on next year's Naughty List - he tore his main present open in a frenzy. Milo hated people who unwrapped things slowly and neatly.
"What the feth is THIS??" he exclaimed.
=|U|=
Christmas morning, and the Ultramarines had torn the wrapping from their presents in a flurry of overpriced non-reusable paper. Everyone was happy apart from Calgar, Milo and Bannerman.
"A bloody Commodore 16!" Milo yelled. "This was obsolete when Logan Grimnar was a pup! What happened to my PS3?"
"What PS3?" Calgar defended himself. "You don't expect me to spend all those points on a Blue-Ray player with game support? Old school, my boy, old school. Remember your roots. I learned to play the Commodore when I was three. It's a classic piece of hardware."
"But you didn't get me any games! Or a joystick! Or even an aerial!"
"That's what Ebay's for, you tight git. You can't expect me to buy you everything. Do you want me to wipe your bum for you and pull the chain when you take your Boxing Day dump?"
Milo stormed off.
"Get that little bitch," Calgar said in a huff. "Well, Number Two, how do you like your present?"
"Er... hmm," Dick said, looking at the signed photo of Marneus Calgar balancing upside down on one finger atop a Rhino, giving a thumbs-up to the camera with his other hand, while a Khornate Titan attacked him. There were so many other details it would have taken a normal man hours to process it, resulting in a big headache. "Your experience with photoshop is definitely improving."
"That's not a photoshop. It's real!"
"Then why is Ming the Merciless's giant, disembodied head floating next to you? What's a Heresy-era Titan doing, firing retconned weapons at you? Why has Ursula Andress got her knockers out? And look! That's the Imperial Palace! By all the Saints, is that the Emperor waving out at you?"
"I'm glad you like it. Now where's my present, you ungrateful so-and-so?"
"You'll see, sir," Dick smirked. "You'll see."
=|U|=
That night, Dick and Milo stared gloomily at one another from their prison cells.
"You actually saw him soil his pants?" asked Milo.
"My uber-eyesight detected a spreading brown stain. My uber-nostrils detected last night's jalfrezi."
"Marneus Calgar actually crapped his pants in front of the entire Ultramarine Chapter."
"Indeed."
"Maybe we shouldn't have got Geri Halliwell to burst out of Calgar's present box."
The prison door opened with a creak. Calgar's heavy footfalls came closer, then their leader was there. Flies trailed him, trying to land on his backside.
"I've just been informed that the Tau are probing our defences along the Cattrian border. We need volunteers for a forlorn hope mission to kick their heads in. Guess who I'm going to send! Oh, and lads... MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW MILLENNIUM!"
