Neophyte Undergoing Surgeries
SoCal
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The following is the first part of a series of stories I am writing following the Tyvan 51st Imperial Guard regiment.
“Men of Tyva!” called the figure on the raised flakboard platform. The hastily erected podium and loudspeakers caught his voice and projected it over the thousands of men waiting at attention. As they heard him, they cheered.
“You have joined the Imperial Guard. From this moment on, you are a number, a statistic. You will die in the service. You will never see your beloved Tyva again.” bellowed the man, thunder in his voice. The crowd grew silent and anxious, this wasn’t what they were expecting.
“You are fools for taking this life as your own, madmen, imbeciles!” cried the man, adorned in formal military attire. The crowd grumbled, they were not happy.
“However...” cried the man, pausing and looking around at the massive open air amphitheatre that he now stood in and the people crammed into it, “Where most men see fools, I see heroes! Where they see madmen, I see warriors. Where they see an imbecile I see a soldier! And when you die, Throne on Earth, you’ll die a pulking soldier with a pulkin gun in your hand. You’ll die with glory, honor and courage!”
Cheers erupted and the vox speakers screamed as they picked it up. The roar was deafening to the point of vibrating old chunks of mortar from the rockcrete stadium. Colonel Korvin sure knew how to rally men.
“Welcome to the Tyvan 51st, men! Now fall out.” were the last words Korvin barked through his amplifiers. Striding from the platform he watched the unruly rabble within the amphitheatre move to the exits where they would be assigned rank, serial, and platoon. Over the coming months he would shape these three thousand men into three thousand soldiers, Tyvan warriors, the likes of which even Lord-General Rikut could not over look.
In a parapet seating box high above, having watched the Colonel speak on small pict-drones, sat the Senior officers of the Tyvan 51st. As Korvin left the podium they all looked at each other and nodded. This was his last commission, they all knew. Granted more than just the opportunity to train these, these would be given to him. Some three thousand men would be placed under his command once their training was over and him discharged as a “Teaching Officer” at the Schola Militarium. This was an auspicious moment.
None but the two men dressed in long burnished storm coats and tall hats knew the true reason behind Colonel Korvin’s new commission. Commissar Metrin Oran watched the man walk away, chest held out in triumph on his personal pict-drone then waved it away. Brooding beneath his cap, his lean figure sat in the seat and did not move, only silence showing on his features.
“The men know who’s boss now, huh?” said the man next to him, dressed in similar black and red attire. He was younger and tall and lean, and seemed to possess an air of finality and confidence that made him perfect for the Commiserate.
“If not, they will learn soon enough.” replied Oran flatly, his augmented voice box speaking in a flat tone that betrayed no emotion, like a vox-relay put into the voice of a man.
“Indeed.” nodded Junior Commisssar Velerea Hyk, standing up as the other senior officers did so and seeming very pleased with the proceedings. Oran followed him and together they pressed out of the parapet viewing area and down several flights of stairs, all tarnished with the marks of thousands of boot prints over the last few centuries. The thick rockcrete walls showed similar signs, it was evident even to an entirely untrained eye where hands were often placed, or men leaned. Marks of bodies were forever engraved into those walls.
Coming out at he bottom into a large dome-roofed lobby, they dispersed from the other officers and took a side door which after several locked doors, lead them to their chambers. Hyk retired to his while Oran prowled the study room they both shared. It vexed him that in such large facilities he had to share space with his Junior, yet Hyk mostly kept to himself.
They had been assigned just recently to the final commission of Colonel Joxi Korvin and as offworlders, had been quite surprised to find on a world known for its great spacious planes, they were forced to share quarters in the Schola Militarium.
The Colonel had explained that it was not customary for there to be any residing members of the Commiserate, let alone two, yet this still irked Oran for reasons even he could not quite put into words.
Twelve buildings over, two men with short cropped hair and shaggy beards opened the rucksack that had been handed to them. They sat next to each other on their cots and exchanged glances at the small assortment of things they were given.
“Worst part is,” began Trooper Falkri, “Doesn’t look like I’ll be seeing any books any time soon.”
“Books?” laughed the other man, “What do you want them for?”
“I hear a lot of people read in the trenches. Our Saint Tyva came from war, I’m sure he did.”
“You keep thinking that, I’ll be watching for things more likely to kill me than a lack of fine reading material.”
“Pulk you, Myrsk.” growled Falkri halfheartedly, then stopping as his face lit up. Pulling something out of the pack he dropped a large, sturdy bound, heavy book onto his lap. Tracing the cover with a finger he read slowly, sounding out the word. “The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer.” He seemed pleased with himself and Myrsk leaned over to look at the strange book.
“Looks like I owe you a rahkhurn.” he said, shaking his head as he in turn pulled his book out and began leafing through it.
It had been five years. Falkri was dead and Myrsk found himself sitting in a small hole. His fur shawl was matted with blood and gore, most of it belonging to someone other than him, and his vox-caster screaming incoherently. A shell impacted to the left of his position thirty metres away and he ducked down as well as he could, the hardy rumble and shaking passing through his body with a sickening punch.
He unslung his rifle and sit it to the side of him, another shell impacting further away and the camo tarp over head shuddering, sending dirt and debris raining down on him. Fumbling with the vox-set he found the correct channel and took a moment to think.
“This is Leftenant Myrsk, I’m in one of the forward foxholes. Enemy units are moving in. I repeat, enemy units are moving in.” he said in a calm voice and waited. Nothing answered him other than the same wail and scream from the interference caused by the electrical storms.
Grabbing his lasgun and slinging it back over his shoulder he leaned against the earthen wall of his small home. Tomb, he corrected, if he did not do something soon. Judging by the cries, he was one of the last foxholes left. His camo was holding it seemed, they had not noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“This is Leftenant Myrsk,” he repeated again and as the wailing got even louder he added, “And I’m saying pulk it.” Peeking out from under the tarp he could see nothing but mud, rain and the occasional flash of light in the clouds as the ambient electricity hit something.
“Well if I can’t see them... they can’t see me, right?” he muttered to himself, checking his two remaining clips. Both were still full, like they had been a minute ago when he last checked. In his mind he began reciting lines from the Uplifting Primer but instead of Uplift him, it seemed to have the opposite effect.
He checked outside again and was about to try the vox-set again when he heard it. No, he didn’t hear it, he felt it. A slow and ever increasing rumbling, the earth shaking about him and vibrating which caused dirt clods to fall and topple and land on him.
“Pulk me.” he thought, “They’re right on me.”
“Now or never!” he cried, pushing his way out of the foxhole, the camo tarp giving way to him in some fluid motion. The mud immediately sucked him down, the surface tension of it making every step a struggle. He tried to run, to sprint, but he ended up floundering. Solid rounds traced overhead as he fell flat on his stomach, feeling the rumbling getting more and more powerful.
Taking a deep breath he stood up and jumped up, clearing the puddle and landing on a small section of solid ground. Not even bothering to look around he ran forwards, even as he felt the water splash up behind him either from projectiles or footsteps. Either way, he didn’t feel like looking.
The world was a foggy mess of water and lightning, tracer rounds and his helmet falling in his eyes. He ran another ways and his boot got stuck. Pulling on it in aggravation he managed to pull his foot free from the boot just in time to avoid an explosive round that impacted the mud and fizzled with just a small pop of mud and fire.
Suddenly, the ground welled up around him and he thought he had finally hit a deep spot and was sinking. After a moment however, he realized his perception was off. While he lay struggling in the deep mire, the ground was raising up, but not just relative to him, relative to everything.
Pock marks of movement appeared all around him as what appeared to be massive air bubbles rose to the surface. Suddenly one burst, revealing it to be a mud slicked camo tarp. The autocannon team beneath open fired and Myrsk looked back just in time to see the first of the enemy fall.
A behemoth of a creature, standing two and a half metres tall at the least with sickly green skin and a gun as large as Myrsk himself wielded in one hand, a cruel blade in the other. It gurgled and spat as it thrashed in the muck until the autocannon opened up again, permanently silencing it.
All around him lasfire was going off, flying out into the gloom past where he could see and judging by the sound, hitting targets. Brutal and terrible cries were coming from beyond his sight and he was certain they did not belong to any human.
Pulling himself into a small sitting position he joined the fire, finding nothing immediately better to do. His blue tinted shots disappeared into the gloom of the place as thunder and lightning roared over head.
Something gripped him and he fought against it until he heard it swear at him and pull harder. Allowing the trooper to pull him into a fox hole he took a deep breath once he was inside, the claustrophobia of the mud some how less when buried in it under a low tarp roof.
Outside he could still here autocannon teams open firing and even a shoulder mounted missile launcher, the distinct hiss and cries a tip off of it before it even fired. The shallow foxhole stank of sweat and gore and he reloaded on instinct. Checking the occupants, he immediately recognized them.
Three men he had known since joining the 51st, Troopers Hori, Van, and Lyrn. Hori was raking the enemy with an autocannon while Lyrn loaded it and Van made hot shots at them with his longlas.
“Throne on earth!” laughed the sniper, not even bothering to look at the stunned trooper, “We thought they’d got you until, low and behold, we see you running out of the storm. Fifty orkz on your tail.”
“He’s exaggerating,” explained Hori, “It was only about forty five.”
A loud explosion interrupted them and they all ducked low. Microbead squawking, they listened intently. The Colonel’s voice bellowed loudly at them, “Armor is coming to back you up! Hold on lads!”
Just as he said that, they could feel the familiar rush and rumble of tank treads on earth coming up behind them. Peering out of their hole, he saw a line of machines rushing out of the darkness. Leading the charge was the unofficial mascot of the Tyvan 51st, the Unshakable Storm, a Conqueror tank painted in regiment’s colors and decorated with golden aquilas.
Behind it charged two more Conquerors and a low, sleek Destroyer that seemed to almost fade in and out of the dark and murky light. As the enemy was cut down by autocannon fire, Myrsk could still hear them charging and in greater numbers. Judging by the sounds, it seems his foxhole was also one of the few yet to not have withstood a wound or been hit yet.
The Unshakable Storm sped right past their hole, causing it to vibrate so hard that the camo tarp collapsed on top of them. Still moving at close to thirty miles an hour, the great machine was met by its sister vehicle, the Cry of Glory, which pulled right up beside it and simultaneously, the two fired.
Their shots hit the enemy force hard, blowing holes in the earth and the charging infantry. Immediately both tanks were raked by solid round fire but every shot plinked off their hulls or went wide. As if performing an armored ballet at speed, the two Conquerors pulled away from each other and in between them, charged the third, the Old Raiment.
Bucking and flying over the rough and soggy ground, the great machine sped up to top speed, supported by the guns of the other two Conquerors and charged the enemy. Shellshocked and stunned, they turned with a great cry of fear and began to retreat, but they were too slow.
The treads of the Raiment came across them and smashed them into the mud, their hideous death bellows being silenced with horrific crunching sounds. The Conqueror ran right through their mass, cutting a swath of destruction and hitting their Nob leader.
Just as it turned to maker another assault on the now two separate lines of fleeing orkz, it turned into a great conflagration. A shoulder mounted missile had come out of the gloom and hit it right under the treads, blasting a hole in the hull that ruptured the fuel tanks.
The crew inside were killed instantly, which was a blessing, but still Captain Oaurl of the Unshakable Storm began shrieking their names into his vox-set, his voice wracked with hate and grief. He had lost men in war before, it was no new thing to him, but he had never known an ork to be able to make such a well placed shot. It was simply unfair.
The Storm and the Cry raked the remaining enemies with fire and charged them, crushing each line under their hulls. Each of them began to sluice the retreating numbers with autofire from their pintle-mounted stormbolters and as they finished them off, they turned.
Suddenly, a great roar came from the storming distance and a shabby, bodged together vehicle sped into sight. Metal sheets had been bolted to the sides of it to act as armor and a flamer was mounted to the hood, however there were no shots coming from the back and no gouts of flame coming from the flamer.
As it came into view, they all saw it. Strapped to the sides and in the back were gallons upon gallons of liquid promethium, probably kept in stock usually for the flamer. A single driver wearing a spiked helmet was at the wheel and it roared, hideous teeth gleaming in a flash of lightening.
The vehicle careened directly towards the Cry of Glory and the Conqueror began spinning its turret around, but it was obviously too slow. Mud slicked the sides of the ork vehicle and it bogged down, but it sped on picking up speed for a direct impact course.
“Move! Move!” bellowed Oaurl into his vox-set and the Cry of Glory began to pump on its treads, but the heavy machine weighed down in the mud and could not move. Suddenly, there was a pumping sound and a whine. A flash of light could be seen and the vehicle exploded, just out of range of the Cry.
The low profile, sleek, almost stealthy Destroyer, the Blade Breaker, had fired. Having halted on the same line as the fox holes, it had nestled down in a low spot and waited. The Conquerors had charged and ridden down the enemy like rough rider cavalry, but the Destroyer had waited like a true sniper.
Cheers rose up from the foxholes and across the vox-links as the ork trukk exploded into a roiling ball of flame that soon steamed in the thick, viscous mud.
“Pulk me, remind me when we get back to Tyva. I owe you a whole herd of rahkhurn.” voxed Leftenant Jolinen of the Cry of Glory to Leftenant Kuan of the Blade Breaker.
“Just keep making spectacles of yourselves and keep them from looking at me.” replied Kuan, smiling in the command seat of his sleek beauty. He nodded to the gunner who proudly saluted and with a can of white paint, clambered out of the hatch and put another tick mark on the side of the Blade Breaker. Fifty nine marks now, there were, one of the best records for any tank on Tyva, and by far the best for the 51st.
On the other side of the continent, in a high spired estate room, Lord-General Rikut watched his hovering pict-drones with interest. Live feeds from the Tyvan 51st Armored Infantry were coming in. They had successfully repelled an attack with minimal losses. He ticked a box on a clip board one of his clerical workers held for him and sipped his recaff.
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Nostra caro sanctum est. 