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THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY CHRISTMAS

A Barmy Army Xmas Special by NoPoet

=|U|=

Chaos has been defeated.

The spirit of goodwill has triumphed over the Warp's corrupting influence, and the Chaos Gods are no more. Their champions have been vanquished by the Ultramarines, vile temples cast down and burned, unholy gifts chucked in the bin.

As warp storms disperse and the galaxy blinks in its newfound freedom, the festivities begin to ring out. The sounds of merriment and shaking bells are loudest of all in Ultramar. Perhaps this is because Christmas began its comeback there; more likely, it is because Lord Calgar broadcasts Michael Buble, Slade and Wizzard across the galaxy at 200 decibels, filling essential comm-channels with proper Christmas belters.

Forget the alienation of political correctness, for there is no filter across Lord Calgar’s mouth. Forget the terrors of the modern world, for this is Christmas, and your friends the Barmy Army are here again.

=|U|=

PART ONE

Imagine, dear reader, a planet of meadows and mountains. A vast world of cold weather and cold stone, dominated by the fortresses of the Ultramarines Chapter, a force of post-human giants who rule their undeclared empire with benevolent grace. Imagine every building, whether civilian or military, decorated with Christmas lights and inflatable Santas. Throngs of citizens move from place to place, dressed heavily against winter’s chill, smiling as they buy presents for their loved ones… although the smiling stops when they realise greedy profiteers have put their prices up by six per cent.

This is Macragge: capital planet of the region of Ultramar, once a besieged place, surrounded by Orks, Death Guard and Tyranids. It is now a tranquil world, a bastion of civilisation, though to be fair the Nids are still there somewhere.

In a world of mountain ranges, there is one mountain which dominates all others, and atop this is a fortress which makes all other fortresses seem piddly. This is the Ultramarines HQ, and it is a place where hundreds of warriors and thousands of human serfs crowd the windows and throng the snowy land around, whooping and cheering.

“Snowball fight!”

=|U|=

Dick Bannerman slid into cover behind an improvised wall of snow, ducking as incoming snowballs thudded against it. He almost crushed Brin Milo who was already taking shelter there. The portly Tanith trooper had taken a snowball to the face: Milo’s forehead was branded by a red mark which looked worryingly like a skull fracture.

“It’s Brother Borthild,” Milo said, clutching his wound. “He’s making his snowballs into fething cricket balls of ice. He’s put fifteen of our teammates in the Apothecarion.”

“Brothers, halt!” Dick said, raising his head over the wall. “This is getting out of –”

“FRAGGERS!” Borthild yelled. The burly assault specialist hurled a snowball straight at Bannerman’s face, snapping the standard bearer’s head back with the sound of a gunshot.

“Feth!” Dick cried, rolling in the snow. “I think he’s broken my neck!”

“TEAM ULTRAMAR REIGNS SUPREME!” bellowed Borthild. “TEAM FANNY-FART IS LAID LOW. EVERYONE LAUGHS AT TEAM FANNY-FART!”

Borthild’s teammates cheered their massive champion. Dozens of warriors thumped their chests and roared like Orks, almost starting an avalanche. Most of the Ultramarines involved in the first Macraggian Snowball Championship of M42 had sided with Borthild; courage and honour were outdated concepts if they meant facing a man built like a Knight Porphyrion.

“Does this mean we can come out without you fething killing us?” Milo called back.

“BORTHILD CAN BARELY HEAR BABY VOICE OF TANITH BAGPIPER! BORTHILD’S EARS TOO MIGHTY TO PICK UP PUNY WAVELENGTHS! BUT OKAY, TEAM FANNY-FART CAN STOP COWERING IN TERROR FROM BIT OF SNOW!”

“I hate that bastard,” Dick said. “Stop calling us team Fanny-Fart! We’re supposed to be Team Calgar.”

“CALGAR IS FANNY-FART! CALGAR CANNOT EVEN BRING TREE UP MOUNTAIN!”

“That’s a point,” said Milo, shaking snow from his wrist chron. “How long’s Flat-Head going to be?”

Dick sat up, cricking his neck and looking up at the white sky.

“I told him he couldn’t carry that tree from the bottom of Mount Hera to the top,” he said, wincing. “I know it’s theoretically possible in a vehicle, since it’s basically one giant slope, but surely not on foot. I think he took it as a challenge.”

“TEAM FANNY-FART STILL COWERS IN DREAD! BORTHILD CAN SMELL YOUR FILLED NAPPIES! COME OUT, LITTLE BABIES, BORTHILD GIVE YOU HANKY TO DRY YOUR TEARS!”

“I think I need an Apothecary,” Dick said. “Someone call Mender.”

“I voxed him five minutes ago when Borthild broke Captain Astriid’s nose,” said Milo.

“Then where is the ignorant git?”

“I’m over here!” Apothecary Mender called from the shadow of a buttress. “I’m not coming out until that… that meganob puts those snowballs down.”

Borthild and his crew burst out with exaggerated, manly laughter, making the Apothecary scowl.

“Calgar reckoned it would take him twenty minutes to bring our new Christmas tree up the mountain,” said Dick, who was scowling too. “How long ago was that?”

“Four hours,” said Milo, checking his chron. "He'll be here any minute, probably on the winch of a rescue skimmer. That'll stop bloody Borthild."

“Right, we’ve had enough now!” Dick said. The banner man rose to his feet, protecting his face and head with his hands. “Enough with the snowballing, you fething win.”

Surprisingly, Borthild didn’t deck the banner man with a surprise throw. The massive assault marine’s attention was turned to the lip of the mountain. In fact, everyone still on their feet was looking in the same direction.

“It can’t be,” Dick breathed. “He actually made it?”

Mender ran full-pelt and threw himself down next to Milo, not taking any chances around Borthild.

“He’d better not have,” the Apothecary said, removing a medical pouch from his belt. “I’ve got fifty points bet against the fat bastard.”

“I’ve got twenty against him,” groaned Milo. "It's all I had."

“Is this what we’re reduced to?” said Dick. “Betting that our own leader will fail?”

"How much did you bet?" asked Mender.

"Seventy-five," said Dick, looking worried.

“Is it him?” said a battle-brother whose name I can’t be bothered to make up.

“It can’t be,” said another.

“IT IS HIM!” said Borthild. “HE IS NOT THE WET CABBAGE-FART BORTHILD WROTE ABOUT ON TOILET WALLS!”

“Borthild's right!” someone said. “It's Lord Flat-Head! He’s only gone and made it up the mountain!”

Something appeared over the lip of the hill. The flat, buzz-cut head of an Imperial hero, eyes aglow with triumph, cheeks pink with cold and exertion; behind him, the flared branches of the biggest fir tree anyone had ever seen.

Marneus Calgar had carried a Christmas tree up Mount Hera on his own.

For a moment, tears threatened to burst from Dick’s eyes.

“Oh sing, choirs of angels,” Calgar boomed in a gorgeous baritone, “sing in exultation, sing all that see-ee-ee my Christmas tr-”

The snowball had been clasped and smoothed in Borthild’s gauntlets until it was harder than adamantium. It struck Calgar on the chin and exploded, sending the Chapter Master flying. Dick caught a horrified glimpse of Calgar spinning away, one ear full of snow, before both Chapter Master and Christmas tree went back down the mountain.

There was an eternity of silence but for the patter of snowflakes landing around the Ultramarines.

“Same time next year, lads?” said Milo.

END OF PART ONE

Hah! Good to see the annual Barmy army coming back this year, mate. Keep it up!

Thanks mate, that means a lot. I have been struggling to write anything at all for more than a year now. Seasonal cheer has been hard to come by where I live and the pandemic has messed my brain up, it's a wonder I can still put my own socks on in a morning, let alone write a story!

It's possible I might have to do what I did in 2018/2019, and finish this story next Christmas.

EDIT: Having said all this, inspiration struck, part 2 is in the next post!

PART TWO

Calgar and the Christmas tree were neck-and-neck on their way down Mount Hera. An observer who could see through the heavy snowfall might have thought the Nutcase Death Run – a bobsleigh event which had been shut down after Calgar steered his team backwards into a pond – had been reinstated. One could imagine legendary British commentator Murray Walker having his say:

“Side by side down the slope and my goodness, what an exciting race! It's an absolutely massive tree, but it's not built for speed, and Calgar is carrying what can only be called success ballast. I wouldn't say he's fat! Now just look at the amount of sap that tree's leaving behind, my word! That'll be a fifty point fine for spoiling the environment, Lord Calgar!”

The snow was powdery and that meant rapid acceleration. All well and good for children riding sledges down short hills, but it was bad news for Calgar's underpants as he reached the tree line. Baby firs, planted a couple of years ago to replace the massive deforestation that occurred each Decemberus, rose up in front of him as he closed the distance at what felt like the speed of light. The Chapter Master wept as he smashed straight through the trees, row after row of immature wood breaking on his forehead as he went downhill on his stomach.

“The conditions are terrible, it's not a day made for humans or even fir trees, especially ones on their side doing a hundred miles an hour on the straight. You'd need a hard head to make this journey, and they don't come much harder than Calgar's! What must be going through his mind? Whatever it is, I bet it's not safe to broadcast!”

Calgar was actually weeping for his ears, which were being destroyed by the freezing cold air blasting down his earholes. Icicles hung from his nose, eyebrows and fringe. This wasn't proving to be a holly jolly Christmas.

The heavy snowfall, which showed no signs of stopping – just like Calgar and his tree – had changed the layout of the land. They were approaching what would normally be a rocky outcrop, but thanks to piles of snow, it now looked more like the flight ramp at the end of an aircraft carrier's runway.

“No no nooooo!” screamed Calgar as he and the tree were launched like javelins hurled by the Primarch himself.

Far below, a convoy of exhausted civilians were driving home for Christmas. Conditions were terrible, everyone was tired and cranky and the traffic was barely moving. Some drivers resorted to useless American-style beeping, as if their landcar horns had the power to make the cars in front vanish or float up into the air. The children, though, felt nothing but the blazing excitement of knowing that Santa was on his way. For some of them, this was about to get literal.

Five-year-old Jimothy Snickett gazed in wonder from the window of his parents' landcar. He'd been keeping a watchful eye out for flying sleighs. At first he thought the snowfall was tricking his eyes, then he saw something passing overhead, leaping over the traffic and disappearing into the haze like Boris Johnson jumping into a fridge.

“Mummy! Daddy! It's Father Christmas and his sleigh!” Jimothy cried, pointing at the weird shapes in the sky.

“Now now, dear,” his mother laughed, not bothering to look, “it's only the twentieth, what's Father Christmas doing in his sleigh five days early?”

“Falling out,” said Jimothy.

Calgar hit the ground far beyond the road in a spray of snow and kept going, somehow managing to steer himself between buildings, to the shock and consternation of the people he narrowly missed. The tree itself, however, took a different course.

=|U|=

The Library of Ptolemy lay in the valley below Ultramarine HQ. It was at once an armoured bastion and a repository of proscribed learning which only the Chapter's elite Librarians were privy too. The walls were decorated with armoured stain-glass, depicting scenes of Imperial triumph which dated back to the mythical Great Crusade.

Fifteen formidable psychic Ultras knelt around a large Christmas tree which had been felled and brought here by the great Tigurius himself.

“Ommmm! Ohhhhh!” the Librarians chanted as they focused the spirit of Christmas around the tree.

“I don't know.” Tigurius strode into the room, stroking his chin with one hand as he regarded the object of his brothers' devotion.

“Ommm! Ohhhh!” the Librarians hummed.

“I just think I could have got a bigger tree,” Tigurius said, oblivious to the shadow growing larger outside the window behind him.

=|U|=

Music for this scene:


Imagine, dear reader, the sterile halls of the apothecarion. Sunlight now streams in through the windows, for the snowstorm has passed. There are rows of seats sized for armoured post-humans, usually all empty, but today each one is in use, occupied by Ultramarines and a single unmodified human. Each cradles horrible injuries. Cuts and abrasions, yes, and bruises most certainly; but also bones jutting through skin and even power armour; an eye socket so badly wounded that the eyeball nearly fell out; teeth embedded in the backs of throats; even snow packed so tightly inside earholes that warriors were rendered deaf.

“What the feth have you been doing?” Apothecary Mender rants at them.

“Throwing snowballs,” Milo replies in a small voice.

“Fething idiots! You can't even play a children's game without one of you ending up in a Dreadnought! Sod the lot of you!”

Mender storms back into his diagnostic chamber. Glass can be heard smashing.

It is yet more humiliation for Team Calgar, as they were called, or Team Fanny-Fart as they will always be known. They are the first team in competitive history to lose an entire championship in the first round.

Imagine now their delight to see the architect of their demise, the human Stompa called Borthild, paying a visit to his “puny little sisters”. He bellows with laughter as he slaps people on dislocated shoulders and tries to high five a man who's lost his right arm.

“What's his deal?” Milo asks Dick as Borthild storms out of the Apothecarion, oblivious to the hatred he's provoked. “How come he's never been in a Barmy Army story before?”

“He was sent to us with a raft of reinforcements a few months ago,” Bannerman says. “Apparently he's living proof that the Imperium is definitely not using traitor geneseed.”

“Yeah, he doesn't remind me of Angron at all.”

“All the reinforcements are weird,” Dick says, nodding to where Brother Dullis has wedged himself in the corner between walls and ceiling. “He seems to think he's Corvus Corax. I'm sure most of these new recruits were intended for other Chapters. Something weird must be happening on Terra.”

A loud crash comes from Mender's room. It sounds like he's pulled a medical cabinet down.

“Have they found Flat-Head yet?” asks Milo.

“I fething hope not, but I've heard reports of a giant snowball rolling across the continent, smashing its way through cities and forests with equal vim,” replies Dick. The banner man has to turn the top half of his body to look at Milo, grimacing with pain. “They are expecting him to run out of momentum within the next hour.”

“What about the Christmas tree?”

“It's still impaling the Library of Ptolemy. Fifteen of our most powerful Librarians were in the building along with the great Tigurius himself, and none of them saw the fether coming.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I don't know, bloody Tigurius won't give it back! Says he's 'keeping it as evidence'.”

“Well, let's hope he doesn't do a Calgar and try to bring it up Mount Hera,” says Milo. “Flat-Head was lucky - well, lucky until he met Borthild. You've heard the rumours of Tyranids living in the area.”

“Milo, the Glacifex is a myth,” Dick chuckles, before wincing at the pain it causes him. “Besides, I have yet to encounter the Tyranid that could get its jaws around Tigurius's massive ego.”

“Why did Calgar relocate Ultramarine HQ to the top of a fething mountain?” asks Milo. “Why not keep it in the fortress at the bottom?”

“Probably in case what happened to Tigurius happened to him.”

“Tactical planning? Flat-Head?”

“I fear, young Tanith, that it was less CREEEEED-level genius and more to do with the spectacular view from his bedchamber.”

A mechanical tone draws their attention to a screen built into the wall.

++ DUE TO UNPRECEDENTED DEMAND, THE WAITING TIME IS NOW: 12 HOURS 55 MINUTES ++

++ THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: ALL SOULS CRY OUT FOR SALVATION, BUT TRY TO CRY QUIETLY, OUR PATIENTS NEED REST ++

“Twelve hours!” Milo says. “We could defrost a turkey in that time!”

“You remembered to buy one before they sold out?” asks Dick.

“Aw, feth,” says Milo.

END OF PART TWO
(And not a moment before time, writing a long scene in the present tense is a right pain)

PART THREE

The briefing room hadn't been used for a year, ever since Calgar and the Chapter elite had been sucked out of the window due to a lack of forward planning. Now Calgar was missing and his captains were either injured, or had switched their vox units off, pretending to be cut off by bad weather. There had once been an ancient blackboard mounted on the main wall. With Calgar gone, Dick had taken sly pleasure in ripping it out and chucking it. Nerdingham's servitors had replaced it with a hololithic display and vox station. The display wasn't working properly, and to be fair neither was the vox. Dick stood alone in the room, shouting into the vox unit.

“Chief Tigurius, I'm well aware of how much that stain-glass cost, but it was an accident and we need our Christmas tree.”

Vox static censored the First Librarian's reply.

“Thank you very much for offering to bring it to us, we'll expect it within the hour,” said Dick.

“Zzzzzzt you too busy gargling Calgar's bzzzz to listen to what I'm fzzzzzg saying you Catachan cave-worm?”

“And a merry Christmas to you too,” said Dick, closing the vox link. “Right, that's one prat flushed down the bowl, onto the next moaning pleb.”

He paused, realising what he'd just said.

“Throne, I'm starting to sound like Calgar.”

Milo burst in carrying a data-slate.

“Do you want the bad news, the really bad news or the worst news you've ever heard?” he asked Dick.

“Milo, have I suddenly gained weight and developed gingivitis?”

“No,” said Milo, staring at the banner man. “Wow. I didn't think you'd break this quick.”

“Oh no. You're sounding more irritating to me by the second. I'm becoming the next Flat-Head!”

“That's the bad news,” said Milo, handing him the slate. “And now for the really bad news: they've found Calgar. Mender's having him airlifted to the Apothecarion. They had to bring a Stormbird out of retirement, nothing else could lift him.”

“The man needs to lose weight in a hurry,” said Dick, snatching the slate. He canted his pelvis to one side and let rip with a fart that could have shattered stain-glass.

“That's not like you,” said Milo, covering his nose and mouth. He looked at Dick's hair. “Feth! You're going grey!”

“I told you!” said Dick. “I'm becoming Calgar. It's the stress of holding things together while everyone else buggers about. I've only been at it an hour and I'm developing a need to be rude to women and eat pork scratchings. Or is it the other way around?”

“The curse of command,” said Milo. He tried to take the data-slate back, but Dick turned away, reading the worst news he'd ever heard.

“Oh my fething God-Emperor,” he said. “Get the Company Captains. Whoever you can. Get them all now.”

=|U|=

Dick rose before his audience. Two Company Captains were in attendance, along with Tech-marine Nerdingham, Apothecary Mender and Chaplain Derrick. Bannerman looked shocking. His hair had turned white and his face was scarlet.

“Look at his head,” Captain Astriid whispered to Captain Remora. “He looks ready to burst.”

“Thank you all for attending,” Dick began.

“Get on with it, you balding fool,” snarled Apothecary Mender, whose attitude had somehow never won an award. “My surgery is busy and I've got proctology to perform.”

“Me too!” said Chaplain Derrick. Everyone stared at him. “I mean, not proctology... prayer. Devout prayer. With a consenting adult.”

“Since when does hypothermia need the stinky pinky?” asked Milo.

“Anyway,” said Dick, “as some of you know, Lord Calgar is recovering in a medical suite. Apothecary Mender, since your time is so fething precious... I mean since you need to get back to supervising Lord Calgar's treatment, I wonder if you could quickly explain his condition?”

“He is defrosting as we speak,” Mender growled. “I don't expect him to resume his duties this side of Christmas Day.”

“That makes you the acting Chapter Master, Bannerman,” said Chaplain Derrick. “After all, he named you Number Two for a reason.”

“Right,” said Dick. “Thanks for springing that on me now, in front of everyone.”

“Can I go?” asked Mender. “There's a rubber glove in my office with Calgar's name on it.” He swanned out of the room like a Harlequin leaving a performance.

“Whatever you do,” Dick called after him, “don't let him crap his pants this year! This is going to be the classy Christmas special.”

And what a grand job we're making of it, Milo thunk.

“Now for the important part,” said Dick, holding up the data-slate Milo had given him earlier. “Some weeks ago, Lord Calgar received a missive from the Emperor's Stripes Chapter.”

A groan went up from the men.

“Come on, brothers,” said Dick, “they may be Dorn's Americanised lefties but they're our closest allies outside of our own gene pool, let's have a bit of respect.”

The men settled down.

“They sent a communique to fething Flat... to Lord Calgar,” Dick went on, “but he appears to have filed it down the back of his desk like a trued master of logistics, and we've only re-discovered it this morning. I haven't had the chance to read it in advance but I'm sure there'll be good-natured banter followed by some cockle-warming Christmas wishes.”

“Emperor in a fething wheelchair, I'll be in a dreadnought before this is over,” muttered Derrick. Captain Astriid shushed him. He responded with a middle finger.

“I shall now read it out,” said Dick, scowling at Derrick. “Hey Smurfs.” Dick paused, looking cross.

“Oh come now, brother,” said Remora. “Read it how Chapter Master Maximus would say it.”

Dick sighed.

“Heyyyyyy SMURFS!” he screeched. “What's it like to be the second-most awesome Chapter in the galaxy?”

“I hope Calgar replied asking them what it's like to be the second-best,” said Milo, earning a cheer from the Ultramarines.

"I hope things are going well on that barren, white guy's paradise you call home," Dick read. He paused. “I'm not reading this next bit. Further down it says, Hope you bought an extra-big turkey this year, god damn it.”

“We certainly have,” said Derrick. “Milo always buys the best turkey in the shop.”

The Chaplain caught the grave look that passed between Dick and Milo.

“He didn't,” said Derrick.

“He did,” said Dick.

“You didn't,” said Derrick.

“I did,” said Milo.

Derrick drew his crozius and accidentally swatted Captain Remora out of his seat.

“Emperor curse every member of your rat-like, pseudo-Welsh regiment,” the Chaplain spat. “I ought to kick you up the arse! How could you forget the turkey?”

Milo cowered from the Chaplain's wrath. Remora found another seat, warily staying out of crozius range.

“It wasn't my fault,” lied Milo. “Market forces were against me, then it started snowing and –”

“Don't talk to me, you turkey-forgetting ponce,” said Derrick. “You know that Sabbat war that's gone on for three hundred books and turned into a soap opera? I hope you fething lose.”

“A minute ago you were cheering me!” Milo squeaked.

“That was before I knew you forgot the fething turkey!”

“SHUT THE FETH UP YOU ORKOID BED-WETTERS!” Dick roared. Stunned silence fell. The men regarded their acting-Chapter Master. His stomach seemed distended, as if reshaping itself to echo Calgar's beer belly.

“Thank you,” said Dick. He began to read from the data-slate, his voice and expression growing more horrified with every word. “We accept your invitation to host our entire Chapter for Christmas dinner and will set off immediately. I'm stoked about how you said your Chapter throws 'the best Christmas dinner in the fething galaxy', and even more about how you'd, what were your words, 'Bankrupt all of fething Ultramar' to buy us presents, but man, you shouldn't have sworn that Oath of Moment about it, especially on behalf of your whole Chapter. See you soon, love and hugs, Gluteus Maximus.”

If silence was thunder, there was a storm in the briefing room.

“What's an Oath of Moment?” asked Milo.

“A sacred covenant made by Astartes in ancient days,” said Captain Astriid, voice hushed with awe. “I've never heard of one in recent millennia, unless they've retconned that too.”

“Doesn't sound so bad to me.”

“Well, unless the rules have changed, which I suspect they haven't,” said Chaplain Derrick, “anyone who breaks an Oath of Moment will be excommunicated and killed. Calgar swore it on behalf of all of us."

"That fething muppet!" said Milo. "How long until the Stripes arrive?”

They paused while Remora, the master of unlocking warp transit equations, worked it out in his head (and his fingers).

“Either today or tomorrow, warp conditions permitting.”

Standing there in front of his men, Dick Bannerman's body jerked and swayed as he loudly, violently soiled his trousers.

END OF PART THREE

(Yes, the “Mary Christmas” from the title is in the next part!!)

PART FOUR

Dick wanted to smash the door down, but he knocked gently and waited.

“Come in,” Calgar croaked, sounding terrible.

Dick and Milo went into the medical suite. The curtains were drawn and there were no lights, other than a large comms unit mounted on one wall, whose screen currently showed a rotating Imperial aquila. Calgar lay in bed, surrounded by life support devices, but apart from a drip going into his arm, none of the machines were in use. Milo gasped at the bruised and battered state the Chapter Master was in.

“Sir?” said Dick, concern overriding flatulent rage.

Calgar tried to lean up to look at his men. He had two black eyes and his nose was flat as a pancake. In Dick, the Chapter Master saw a balding, overweight banner bearer whose power trousers were beginning to split under the strain of containing his flesh.

“When did you start looking dapper?” whispered Calgar.

“Sir, I don't know what to say,” said Dick, going to Calgar's side.

“You look a right mess,” Milo said more cheerfully than seemed appropriate.

“Mender tells me... it might be weeks before I can even walk,” Calgar groaned.

It seemed to Dick as if the Red Terror were loose in his guts; he was buckling under the pressure of commanding a Chapter, even though he hadn't done anything yet.

“I'm very, very sorry to hear that, sir."

“Don't worry,” Milo said, “we've got you some extra presents for when you get better.”

“Good,” Calgar said with unexpected energy. “I'd better be opening presents until New Year's Day.”

“Well, Milo and Bourah did use a lot of sellotape,” said Dick. “Sir, there is some high-level Chapter business we need to talk about.”

Dick looked meaningfully at Milo, who went into the en suite ablutions room to give them some privacy.

“Sir, about the Oath you swore to –”

He was interrupted by the comm unit playing the Imperial March from Star Wars. Dick turned. The display had changed from the aquila to the image of an ancient xenos warlord.

“Oh no!” Calgar yelled in his normal voice.

“Sir, why are you getting a call from Ming the Merciless?”

“It's the pictograph I assigned to Sister Superior Ultricia, that old grox from the Order of the Bloody Whatever! You'll have to deal with her!” Calgar leapt out of bed and dashed into the ablutions room. Dick heard the toilet seat clanging down.

"I thought you were dying?" Milo said.

"I was, then I suddenly realised I'm all right. Pass me the bog roll."

“Sir, I can't make the decisions, I just wave the flag,” Dick blurted, knowing full well he was acting Chapter Master and could have ordered an Exterminatus if he wanted to. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

“Tell her I'm dead!" Calgar's voice echoed through the door. "No, she'll just learn necromancy. Tell her I went to Fenris to get my balls bitten off!”

Sister Ultricia's scowling face appeared on the display. Dick would have preferred a call from Ming the Merciless.

“CALGAR!” the Sister Superior roared. “You obnoxious skunk-weasel, it's time to get judged.”

“My name is Dick Bannerman, excellency,” said Dick, twisting his hands as if squeezing a cap between them. “Lord Calgar isn't here at the moment.”

“I see.” Ultricia fitted a monocle to one eye and peered at Dick with lascannon intensity. “Where's the overgrown snotling hiding from his duty today?”

“I'm afraid he went to Fenris to get his balls bitten off,” said Dick.

A loud series of plops and splashes came from the ablutions chamber, accompanied by Milo's horrified cries, then a loud toilet trump. Dick heard chastisement in its timbre.

“He's on the toilet, isn't he?” asked Ultricia.

“Yes, your majesty,” said Dick.

“Calgar!” Ultricia yelled in that commanding way all old, matronly women have. “Get out here NOW!”

“There's no-one in here by that name,” Calgar called back. “I'm... er... Reginald Spinkman.”

“I don't care if you've changed your name to Gretchin McFiddler, GET IN HERE THIS INSTANT!”

“Feth's sake!” said Calgar. “Do you mind if I wipe my arse?”

For two increasingly awkward minutes – punctuated only by a shell-shocked and white-faced Milo exiting the ablutions chamber and leaving the suite – there came the sound of grunting and tearing toilet roll. Ultricia's eyes seemed to bore into Dick's soul.

“Wipe like the wind, sir,” said Dick, wilting under the Sister Superior's glare. “I don't know how much longer I can last, I'm being flensed!”

Finally the toilet flushed, then Calgar swore as he somehow broke the sink while washing his hands. He came out with toilet roll stuck to his boot. Dick coughed discreetly as the smell hit him.

“Your eminence!” Calgar said as if nothing horrific had happened. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“You foul pile of blubber,” said Ultricia. “The only pleasure I'll have in your presence is when you're excommunicated for being a plague toad.”

“I love our chats,” said Calgar.

“You know exactly why I'm calling. Why haven't you picked her up?”

“I didn't know anyone was interested in me.”

“Calgar, your stupidity is deep enough and vast enough to form a new Chaos God. You know of whom I speak – Sister Mary! She has been waiting at the Civitas District Spaceport for nearly three hours!”

Calgar and Dick exchanged a 'Who the feth is Sister Mary?' look.

"Maybe another important mission you dropped down the back of your desk, sir," said Dick, failing to keep his bitterness in check.

“You do still allow women to visit your world?" said Ultricia. "Don't tell me you view women as simple servitors."

“Of course not,” said Calgar, “our leader of the Ultramar PDF is a woman - Nessa Bourah.”

“I see. And where is she?”

“Doing all the ironing,” Calgar said after a moment.

“You vile, hate-filled creature,” Ultricia said. “Do you not read the novels? Every non-Astartes human in any position of command, except the blessed Emperor himself, is supposed to be a woman. The only creatures suitable for daily chores are men. You will implement this across Ultramar before Christmas Day.”

“Of course, most consequential one,” said Calgar, bowing deeply.

“Sister Mary is my liaison who will prepare you for the arrival,” said Ultricia. “But of course, you knew that.”

“Yep,” said Calgar, still bowing.

“You can get up now you wretched fool,” Ultricia said.

“That's all right, I'm just inspecting the floor as I like to do sometimes,” Calgar replied.

Ultricia stared at him, then ended the link.

“Evil cow,” said Calgar.

“Sir, what are you doing?” said Dick.

“Learning the mystic art of self-fellatio, what do you think? My fething back's gone, now stop asking stupid questions and help your Chapter Master!”

"Why is a battle sister acting as liaison to a meeting of Chapters?" Dick said as he tried to straighten Calgar.

"Aagh! Careful, you fething wally! I don't really care, and anyway, Ultricia said women are in charge of everything now, it must be the new policy."

Dick stood on Calgar's feet and grabbed the Chapter Master's head.

"Now prepare yourself, sir, this is going to hurt."

=|U|=

Milo and Nerdingham were in one of the Chapter's vehicle pens, desperately trying to get Calgar's customised Land Raiders to start. Its engine coughed black smoke and the machine spirit was cross about something, showing red icons across every display.

“What's he fething done to it?” Milo said, trying to get the refuelling pipe to lock on.

“He all but killed it trying to do handbrake turns,” Nerdingham called back from inside the tank.

“In a Land Raider! Has he gone senile?”

"If I reply politely, will it make your enquiry seem any less stupid?”

Milo managed to get the refuelling pipe in place. He waited as gallons of promethium flooded through. Somewhere in the distance he heard a sound like a tree-trunk snapping, followed by a seismic roar of anger or pain.

“Feth it!” said Nerdingham. “It will not co-operate with me. Flat-Head will be able to drive it, but at greatly reduced speed. I will make urgent modifications to prevent him from blowing it up.”

Milo looked up as he heard a door bang against a wall. Bannerman was heading over, wearing an L-shaped Calgar around his neck like some civilian woman might wear a dead snowfox.

“Lord Calgar has met with another misfortune,” Dick said.

"A misfortune? You broke my sodding back!"

Milo winced as Calgar's head clanged against the hull when Dick carried him aboard. The Tanith pipe-player listened as Nerdingham gave the Ultras a list of things they couldn't do, which was bascially everything.

“So that's no rapid acceleration, no exceeding five miles per hour, no hard turns, no activating the radio and no weapons fire,” said Dick. “This is going to be a fun twenty mile drive across snow.”

“We might as well fething walk!” said Calgar.

The fuel flow shut off; the fuel tank was full. Dick was still trying to help Calgar into the driver's seat, the Chapter Master swearing as he banged his head and his feet breaking several control panels.

“Remember,” Nerdingham told them, “whatever you do, do not pull the red lever.”

Calgar looked at the gearbox. The gear lever was painted red. Nerdingham had attached a label that said DON'T on it.

"Are you sure you can do this, Lord Calgar?" asked Nerdingham.

"Course I bloody can, or my name's not Reginald Spinkman."

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but let's go," said Dick.

“Oh, Milo,” said Calgar, “while I was convalescing, I managed to order a few thousand points' worth of presents for the Emperor's Stripes. You're in charge of making sure they're all wrapped and ready, but don't do the tree, I want to do it. Oh, and whatever you do, don't let Nessa see the presents, she might get the wrong impression.”

After this cryptic statement, Nerdingham stepped out of the tank and closed the hatch. There was a sticker on it which greatly amused Calgar, but everyone else found embarrassing. Milo and the Tech-marine watched as Calgar stalled the tank three times, then set off, veering around and crashing into a parked Vindicator, then knocking a stack of fuel cans over. They could hear Dick shouting instructions and Calgar telling him to feth off.

The Land Raider missed the compound's exit by several metres, going through a rockcrete wall and bending one of the sponson-mounted lascannon. Dick could be heard roaring.

“Bodyguard Team Ultra,” Milo said into his vox-bead. “The turkey has left the coop. You're looking for a First Company Land Raider distinguished by a sticker saying, ah, 'I'm only going this fast because I need a poo'.”

“Roger,” a 1st Company bodyguard replied, “deploying escort Typhoons.”

“I cannot watch this... this desecration,” Nerdingham said as Calgar hit a tree. “Come, Milo, I will help you prepare for the Emperor's Stripes.”

END OF PART FOUR

(You'll be pleased to know the next part is the last one! I fething am!)

"Greetings, plebs and ingrates. This is your Spiritual Liege speaking. As you might have been able to tell, the author of this tale - a most noble and handsome individual, almost as attractive to women as me - hasn't finished transcribing another of my fething tales. I'll sack him one of these days, he's bloody useless. Fear not, our illustrious author has promised to get his arse in gear for next Christmas, with "a few treats" between now and then.

"As the Chapter Master all other Chapter Masters aspire to be, I know that not everyone will have had the merriest Christmas this year. I would like to guarantee you all personally that next Christmas will be fething awesome again. You can carve this statement in gold and take it to the bank if that's your bag. By the way, there's no money-back guarantee if I'm wrong and there's no complaints process, so if you wish to send nasty letters, envelopes full of dog poo and packages containing a suspicious white powder, you can fething well stick them up -- actually, you can send them, but make sure they're addressed to Brin Milo, I repeat, send them to Milo.

"As for the burning question - who is Sister Mary? Well, by not finishing this fething story, your author has left himself up feth creek, but you'll have to wait til next year to find out. This is an important lesson: when you tell your girlfriend you're "going to write a short one this year, something really Christmassy and magical without Calgar messing his pants every five minutes", stick to the plan and don't write a long-winded abomination instead.

"Stay safe through the year ahead. There are only 363 Terran standard days left to go til this all happens again. It's only forever - that's not long at all.

"I remain your humble superior, Marneus Augustus Neopolitan Cleveland Calgar.

"Nerdingham, how do you switch this fething thing off? Is that it? Well it's not fething working, why's that red light still on? Bollocks to it anyway, you can sort it out, I'm facing a level three emergency. MILO! Fetch my toilet rolls from the fridge, that madras is on its way out, I fething told you not to order the three-chilli one."

This is genius!

Thank you Kilkrazy, you have no idea how much your comment has inspired me to get back into writing. I'm now working on three projects at once, something I haven't done for years.