Fresh-Faced New User
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In the large steel cavern the faithful had gathered in their hundreds, the reek of their combined humanity was powerful, the stench of their desperation over whelming.
For Jay Kitson this was his largest gathering yet, his words had lit a fire and tonight he wanted to set the world ablaze.
His simple shift workers garb was reinforced with pasti-steel plates because Aye Jamus, his most devout follower in all this madness feared the sniper bullet of the Junkenta.
Jay had no such fear, he spoke with the blessing of the Emperor, with the strength of his honest belief that what he said needed to be said and so many came to hear it that it must have truth.
He stepped onto the rough rail plank and sidings stage that had been hastily erected, there was no spot light only the dull blaze from the two dozen promethium drum's burning around the out side of the old wreckers yard where they had gathered.
A ragged cheer came from the crowd, made up from the mornings shift workers who were sacrificing much needed Down time to be here.
Jay lifted his hands and waved the crowd to silence, with a voice that belied his youthful face he called out " Welcome brethren, I thankyee all for comings to 'ere this 'ere day".
As the crowd quieten his let his hands drop and folded them behind his back.
"Youse are 'ere to hear my words, but know this they are not my words, they are the words of youse own heart, just being said by a simple man. You knows these words as well as youse knows yor own shift and slumbers. The words I speak to yee this evensong are simple, for I, like youse am a simple shifter. This last twelve I slaved in the Junkenta's works shops, I fulfilled my quota like a good shifter and nows I am 'ere. 'Ere, tired and torn but 'ere to speak the words of youse hearts aloud so all can know them for the truth they are." He raised his solder burned hands as evidence to his claim of work, the crowd as one strained forward as if each there wanted to check the validity of the work and then another cheer rose as they saw the fresh burns on his palms and forearms, the clear signs of a solid 12 if ever they saw one.
"Brethren, we are no ashamed of these marks, they are honest come by, a solid 12 done - as each and every one 'ere knows all so well. We are proud of our Solid 12's, we are shifters and grafters to the core."
Another cheer, heartfelt and lusty in it's need to be heard.
"Yet brethren, yet..others are not proud of us, they think we are shirkers, not shifters, grifters no grafters. They raise the quotas, the tithes, the levies and then raise the Scran stakes. If we complain we can not eat then we are branded and beaten and sold to Waste scum as live meat. If we ask the Monitorium to intervene, to judge not the class but the action then we tatted as traitors and dangled by the Tatty man!."
" Not for the like of us are the law courts, the petitionary or the justices - we have only the meat collar or the Tatty man to pull the cord."
The crowd growled in agreement.
" We are no traitors, we want to shift and graft, we wants to serve as we knows how - all we need though, all we demand is the right to be able to live as men to do this. I knows as youse know that we will not be Spire folk, to be truth said I don't want to be Spire folk - I want though the Emperors grace of a chance that my son, or my son's son could be one. That I shift and graft for a chance for better - not just to grind my bones and burn by flesh till I can no longer shift and graft and fail my quote, fail my shift and slumber and end up wearing a Meat collar or a Tatty man bow".
This time the crowd howled it's frustration and roared it's assent.
"Brethren hear me, hear youse hearts, we are loyal, honest shifters - there not be a slacker or shirker 'ere - we need Change - an honest Solid 12 for an honest Scran Mark. It's nothing to ask for, we should not have to ask for it, it should be as written in the manuals as it is in the hearts of all honest men."
The crowd cheered it's belief, it desperate need to believe that such a thing could be...
"Like many of youse I draw my line from the Crusaders, my line sire was a man known as Sgt. Leroy J. Kitson of the first platoon, fourth company, first battalion, second regiment of the Honourable Masachusests 45th Battle group, Hoo Raa!".
The crowd responded with that old battle cry, though in truth only a handful hand any real grasp that they were the great great grand sons and daughters of the warriors who had come to their beleagued planet and freed them from the terror of the green tide.
"Sgt Leroy J. Kitson came to this world as a young warrior and carved his name with his blood unto this soil, freeing this world from fear and death. He came with the Diving blessing of our God-Emperor to free man from the grasp of the Green suppressor and free us he did. He gave us freedom and we....we have lost it."
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Conscript Third Class Leroy J. Kitson stood in line, his urban camo fatigues too big for his under nourished frame, his helm to big for his freshly shorn head and his boots too small for his scrubbed raw feet. Kitson stood in line, pride warring with fear as the Pride of The 45th blared out from several dozen large vox speakers on the parade field.
The Call had gone out weeks earlier that any person, aged 14 standard on this ten day past or over, free man or shire sworn as long as free of mutation or disease, could stand for selection.
The Call had secured several million recruits, of which 96% were selected, the need was great, the standard was low.
On the world of Pilioron V, state sworn to the Masachusets Confederancy and loyal to Holy Terra the one thing that it had beyond sand and rock was fodder for humanity. When the Call of war came from the Holy Imperium Pilioron V was never short of an answer.
This was the seventh such call in two hundred years and never had the need been greater.
A massive Ork invasion had hit spiralward and ground it's self on Nubion Prime. This was a manufactorium planet of material need to the Imperium and as such needed to be reclaimed and reclaimed quickly.
Several dozen other systems had been infected by the invasion but for now these could hold, all effort would be aimed at the prize of Nubion Prime and it's deep, deep adimantium mines.
The several million recruits here would form the bulk of the infantry requirement for the Regiments, the other more specialised units would be drawn from else where. The 45th Battle group would be the blunt hammer that would smash the ork invasion and clear the landing zone for the 6 other battle groups to roll from. Survival was not a requirement, it was a preferred second option, the only need for the Battle Group was too land, secure the targets as prescribed and hold.
There would be no great tactician leading this war zone, no assistance from the mighty Astartes or Legio's cybernetica, titanica or proud House's leading glorious charges. This was to be a foot slogging, ground pounding, drown them in bodies campaign straight from the pages of the Liberius Tacticus Militarium.
After 18 hours of waiting Kitson marched up to impressive transport shuttles, each capable of carrying over a thousand troops, only to be carried 72 hours later to orbiting Naval troop transporters. These colossi of the stars were to be home to over a million men each while they undertook the planned 16 week flight to Nubion Prime.
Kitson sat on his issue mattress, bottom of a quintuple bunk, several hundred of which formed this dorm, one of many thousands in the belly of their stellar steed. His kit lay out on the grey sheet before him, already parade clean but he went over it again. Their training had taken place while on route, romping through the endless corridors, scaling the emergency chains in the engineerium, sleeping in the cold of the hanger bays. Every day weapon cleaning, weapon maintenance, his LR-47 Mars pattern Las Rifle, his standard press Krieg pattern Mk 3 bayonet with serrated edge, his Piliorian Secundas combat knife, these were his to know and use.
"Sand Balls boy, ya gonna polish that frikkin' kit any more today ?"
The harsh southern tones of Benhil tore out over the bunks, Benhil was a big bad skinner from the southern Iron Roads tribes. He was striding through the dorm as if he owned it, his swagger was all roadster, his punch was all iron. Benhil though liked Kitson, for a reason that was beyond the young boy for he was surely nothing like the loud brash road hog.
Benhil stood over Kitson and stared down with an amused look on his " Ya gonna wear out ya fingers cleaning like that boy, 'aint no skull cap here to impress and no Staff to tell ya".
Kitson looked up while still cleaning his bayonet, his voice calm, he eyes storm grey, " A clean Guardsman is a deadly Guardsmen" his voice the perfect imitation of Staff Sgt Friar.
Benhil roared with laughter and tussled the top of Kitson head, " He ever hear ya say that boy he gonna shove that Mk 3 where no cleaning can be done".
"Hear what Conscript ?" The cold shout of Staff Sgt Friar rang out in it's clear Low gothic growl.
Several dozen conscripts jumped from where they were lounging to stiff attention.
Marching from the end of the Dorm the incarnation of Guard perfection appeared " This is my section Conscript, I hear all, I see all, I know all, the day that you do not believe this, that day would will be a sad day, for it means that you have died and can no longer benefit from my God-Emperor inspired wisdom."
Benhil, who topped the Staff Sgt by a head shouted at the top his lungs "Sgt, Consript Kitson here was reminding us of what ya all told us, a clean guardsman is a deadly guardsman, Sgt".
"Is that so Conscript Kitson, do you remember everything I said then?", an interrogatory pierce echoed in the Staff sgt shout.
"Sgt, Yes sir, Sgt", Kitson was proud that he kept the waver out of his voice.
"And do you Conscript remember how I said it?"
Inside Kitson moaned, somehow over the din of the dorm room Friar must of heard his all too accurate impression.
"Sgt, Yes sir, helps me to recall it Sgt".
Friar stopped for a second staring deeply at Kitson, looking for the twitch, the shudder, the Tell, that this young wannabe Guardsman was laughing at him, it never came.
"My words to you Conscript will keep you alive if you live by them, ignore them or worse laugh at them and you will be dead as sure as Scran is bad and the God-Emperor is good".
Staff Sgt Friar looked around and then yelled "Conscript Kitson Section, night stag, perhaps a solid 12 hours will help you recall my words".
With a last deep look at the statue that was Kitson he snarled and spun a parade perfect about face, stomped time for a regimental two heart beats and yelled " Hooo Raaa" and as the conscripts echoed him the force of nature that was Staff Sgt Friar marched out of the dorm.
It was the last time that Kitson saw him alive, the next time he lay eyes on Friar he was missing his arm and both legs and laying in a water logged dog hole, three days dead.
96 hours later the fleet came out of warp transit - they had made good progress and the transition to real space cost them only a single escort frigate as it's Gellar field failed to deactivate in time and compressed the vessel with the loss of all hands, a more than acceptable transit in the eyes of the Army.
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