This was originally meant to be my entry for Lowmanjason's Fluff Competition Mk 1 but unfortunately i still had to do alot of work to get it finished. So waste not want not, i give you the first part. If significant interest is shown i will serialize it, readers of 'A new recruit's tale' will know the format. I apologise in advance for my often bizarre imagery and attempts at symbolism etc i like to try these things out and play with language. [EDIT] I also apologise in advance to any fluff Nazis, every single technical detail was made up by yours truly.
Enough waffle!
150mm '5 seconds to get out, 8 before the Argonite purge junks your wind-pipe, 12 and you're a cinder' The grinding rumble had become routine, deep in the patchwork of his fibre. Fennig now suffered a sort of withdrawal when it was silenced or was torn from it's familiar ever-presence. Was it the beat of it's heart and implacable locomotion? Or a hamstrung malfunction; malign and cancerous?
These and other trite questions would not halt it, nor abate the dull ache in his ears. It just had to be admitted, or at the least accepted.
A mind returning to focus, a spurned flight of fancy distant as the chattering drone trampled it...
'This is 'spear-tip' actual.. 20 clicks from designation... 'Sigil'.. Proceeding in... Staggered echelon, assets 2.... And 3... Also on mission, spear-tip... out'
These words Corporal Adment Fennig relayed to command as usual had an undulating cadence gifted to it by the swaying of the battle tank. Each time the land had offered a bump the crew were buffeted, the shocks under their miserly seats doing little to smooth the spine compacting motion. A glut of smoke rudely belched into the compartment and underneath their feet the treads searched for more traction, eventually shuddering back into the groove as they bought their purchase.
'Heavy foot today Novacs! Munitions only gave us one tank of Hydro-Carb and I intend to make it last!'
The voice of Lieutenant Greenock came curt and concise despite the bumps, 12 years and 6 tanks, of 3 he was the sole survivor after teeth-melting burnouts.
'5 seconds to get out, 8 before the Argonite purge junks your wind-pipe, 12 and you're a cinder' To be fair he was used to it. He had always said this was nothing, the ride in a Salamander was apparently ten times worse.
Novacs was equally experienced, he could get every grox out of the 3500bgp, 12 cylinder, engine and turn on a demi-throne. He had been given no rank however, despite being the best driver the PDF had offered. His promotion had been a 'lucky' accident; Corporal Copern, the previous driver, had got in the way of an interloping bullet.
'We call 'em fire-flies, 'cos when they get in and start bouncing they sure are pretty! Watch yourself though, the only thing between you and a fire-fly's sting is probability....' Fennig had the most room in this cramped steel womb, being in the turret cradle he hovered over the driver and lieutenant; who had the hull heavy bolter. Though he was elevated above the filth and shell casings that carpeted the floor, he was also the most ignorant of what happened outside. He had three 7” glowing eyes but all the information they relayed was second hand. The monitors only told him what little they could in their blurry night-sight haze. In the Leman russ' current long-transit even these were blind, switched off to preserve their unfathomable circuitry. Then Only to awake when shock absorbers hunkered down further into armoured bogeys and and the gearbox crunched into a low combat ratio. For the moment he stared into a primitive map, or more specifically his finger as it followed the projected course.
Oil stains patterned faintly with fingerprints decorated the paper landscape, they were like lakes or great craters mixing with the road markings and topography. 17 clicks, 1.5 until the next traitor roadblock, the last seven had been deserted, not a status to ever be taken for granted.
'Every foreseeable ambush is a gamble, You may spot the land mines and the intended bottleneck, but you will have missed the hidden AT man in the alley or the suicide bomber coming up your rear.' 'How far Addy?' spouted Kennel, he was a man of Limited Intelligence but still smart enough to crank the battle cannon mechanism without losing his hand (or if fortunate, thumb and forefinger). Usually a loader was given the communications packet but his manual duties were strenuous enough for the well meaning beast of burden.
'About five minutes, things could get hectic I fear'
'Nothing is hectic under my command, discipline under pressure boys' said Greenock, if nothing else simply to deny Adment the last word. Novacs turned round to throw his, often indispensable, insight into the discourse.
'Addy, that map, is this the b207?' Fennig consulted the map, road numbers... road numbers, a finger ran down a list, a tongue firmly nipped in his teeth, blue for b roads... 205..206, 207.
'yeah b207, what's your slant Novacs?'
'If I remember right there's a big toll station coming up, all bets are off that that's where the renegades are waiting, concrete bollards, Arbites precinct station, the whole shebang... I say we make a detour, approach 'em from the flank'.
The Lieutenant coughed, Greenocks face was contorted in a mosaic of rage, jealousy and even a little grattitude.
'Very well....Fennig, on the horn, tell Steel Mace and Walled Garden to do likewise'
'Assets 2 and 3... This is Spear tip actual.....................'
***
Messages received and orders actioned they were finally cresting the escarpment that looked down on the toll station. The pile-up of abandoned motor vehicles had planted it's tail firmly more than a kilometre passed. As the blind summit relinquished it's visibility they saw the head of the snaking jam; at least fifteen abreast and rammed right into every kiosk. An obstructed artery ready to make it's stroke.
Done with the reverence of some ancient paean a row of yellow switches were punched into a new logic state. Turret suspensors: on, Heavy bolter autoloader: on, traction control: off, Torque regulator: off, Emergency lighting: on, Targeting matrix: booted, main gun Traverse locked into close engagement. Combat mode: engaged. The three tanks in harmony as air compressors trumpeted, Hydraulics lowering the hull of each war machine.
'Keep your approaches clear, check your firing solutions and good hunting!' A premonition, distant but afloat with clarity. It was as if the stillness in the air whispered a secret, mournful or baying for blood.
Walled garden was a veteran, her stout plates never yielding in sixty years of service. Now finally they jettisoned their pride, a piercing beam of las-fire taking her maiden-head, igniting her magazine and annihilating the surrogate humans she carried.
'FULL TILT, FULL F***ING TILT, GET DOWN THE HILL!' All the rivets in the left side of the tank were still rattling after the shock-wave. Greenock's face had flushed within a microsecond of the impact flash. It took the explosion to make him shout (and curse) however.
'Discipline under pressure boys'
