The Mutant Within - Story about an Abhuman guard regiment

[Vulpine]

The Mutant Within

By Vulpine

 

This is the last "short" story of 5 that I wrote. Focusing on how I feel the Imperium and imperial guard interact with abhuman imperial troops during a campaign. This is the longest of my story's and the one I'm most proud of. Hope you think it's worth the time to read it. Thanks

 

[]

 

The dust of the desert swelled and moved like the waves of a sea. The kind of weather no man would want to be out in.

 

Commissar Grey was standing on the edge of the ridge, watching the desert sway and dance; his black trench coat covered in a bloom of sand and dirt. The last of the two suns were setting and casting long shadows from the desert mountains across the plain. Commissar Grey blinked uncontrollably as the wind changed and sand attempted to get into his eyes.

 

"Right Lads!" Commissar Grey shouted so the line of guardsmen could hear him: "wrap up, weather looks like it will get worse overnight!"

 

Commissar Grey stepped out in front the gun-line. He carefully lifted his coat and lunged over the makeshift barbed wire.

 

He tried to slow himself as he made his way down the slope to the desert plain below, but until he got to the bottom he had no choice but to run. Across the plains there was nothing for two miles, and then the mountains. Mountains that were undoubtedly teeming with Geanstealers and their half-breed Cultist followers.

 

Amidst the stillness of it all, it felt like he was free again, standing in the empty desert, perhaps his last moment of freedom before his death.

 

He looked back at the post he was supposed to be manning. The ridge that the guardsmen occupied was bristling with heavy weapons. From Grey’s view it looked like a medieval force armed with pikes ready to receive a charge, how similar, grey thought, looks and reality were.

 

As he dragged himself back up the ridge he knew that he had two options. The Genstealer Cultists would be attack by midday tomorrow at the latest. One option was to run, which was really not an option, the second was to die here and slow the Cult down as much as possible.

 

So that was it, Grey thought as he crossed over the wire and back into his pen. Tomorrow, I'll die.

 

=

 

"Enemy at 500metres!" "Hold it men, wait for it!" "Ammo picket 6!" "Enemy at 480metres!" "Enemy closing from the rear!" "Redeploying Heavy bolter team!" "Hold it lads!" This is what Commissar Grey woke up to.

 

At first he thought it was just a dream or a flashback to the many battles Grey had been lucky to be part of before, and even luckier to have survived. But it was happening now. The young commissar went from groggy to fully awake in a split-second.

 

Grey was already dressed; he grabbed his bolt pistol and flew out if his tent. The sun was blinding in contrast to the gloomy tent. He ran towards where he could hear a Major’s voice.

 

Major Bejor was standing in his officer’s parade suit, all epaulets, lapels and medals shining in the sun. Unlike his men, the Cadian 22nd Infantry, who were in the usual desert camos and MK5 Cadian vests and helmets, covered in thin coats of sand.

 

Before looking towards the enemy, Grey calmly buckled his Sword belt around his waist and asked, "What's happening Mr Bejor?" Major Bejor had a long, twisted moustache and was around twice the age of Grey: "Commissar Grey, I am on the pinnacle of war, on the eve of battle, I am dressed in the splendour of my regiment, ready to die in my uniform for mankind and Emperor!"

 

This answer had confirmed Greys suspicions, Major Bejor was basically born a Major and all the praise Grey had read about him was most likely written by others who were also born with titles. Major Bejor was here for the glory, not the fight. Officers like that, Grey thought, would stay for the glory, but run from the fight. "No Mr Bejor, not why you are dressed like a fool…" Grey didn't mean to snap, but as he knew the enemy were close he needed quick answers, "I asked what was happening?"

"My commissar, I did not mean to..."

 

Grey held up the flat of his hand in order to shut him up and turned to Captain Peal, "Captain Peal, what's happening?" Captain Peal was also an unknown quantity, a young officer whose face seemed to have aged, well before its time. He was also born of rank, however Grey knew Peal had been on the frontline during the Kroot wars and had battle experience. This would probably explain the young skin, but aged eyes that Peal sported. The Captain’s answer was to the point and simple, exactly what Grey was after: "Sixty plus mutant infantry, Unknown uniform, under 450 metres, rear of our position, men holding, ready to unload, Sir!"

"Fantastic Captain." Grey pulled his binoculars up, ignoring Major Bejor’s disgruntled face. He watched the mutant’s patrol, All dressed in bright red, in a 6 wide column, marching as if unaware of the Imperial position, with banners above waving and a drum beating to the march "Captain Peal, any ID on the banners?" Grey asked:

"No sir" Peal replied while organising a unit into two ranks.

 

"Heavy bolter and autocannon teams prepare to fire!" Major Bejor shouted, the order being repeated along the line.

"Delay that order!" Grey shouted

"I beg your pardon Commissar, these are my men! We are about to be attacked!"

"Silence, Major Bejor" Grey spoke calmly, "This unit has not been identified as hostile. We outnumber them, outgun them and they are not charging or firing and they appear to have come from friendly territory behind us. Let them approach."

"This is a battle, Commissar! I will not let this turn into a close combat brawl, sir. My sword has been passed down through generations, and is for ornament, not hacking and slashing, prodding or poking sir. We will give fire before it is to late to do so, and I shall give the orders!"

 

Commissar Grey looked at his feet, thinking to himself, what exactly he had learned about Bejor; unfortunately not a lot. With that thought, Grey lifted his bolt pistol up to the startled Major’s face. "You give that order and I'll fire before they do! All men stand down!"

"I beg of you" Bajor cried, "Look at them, they are disfigured and hold nothing of the Emperor’s image! If they are not enemies, they are better off dead in any case!"

"Of all the inbreeding in your family Mr Bajor, I would not be surprised if you are not hiding a extra toe in those shiny boots of yours!"

"How dare you, sir! How very dare you!" with that Major Bajor turned his cloak flailing with the movement and the wind and headed towards his tent.

"Mr Peal, make the men ready and prepared to receive an enemy, but make it clear that no one is to fire unless we are fired upon, or I say otherwise."

 

Commissar Grey placed his pistol in his heavy, leather holster and pulled his curved power sword from the sheath and rested it on his right shoulder. He looked at the standard bearers, and nodded to them both. With that he marched to the rear gate, both standards flanking him and then the three were joined by Peal and a second officer.

 

"Open the gate, please." Grey asked the nearest guardsman.

 

Grey watched the platoon approach. He watched until they were about 60 metres away. The wind had died down since yesterday, but the dust still spun around on the plains in the breeze. Grey’s eyelids flicked as they attempted to protect his eyes from the dust.

 

Grey had to admit, Major Bejor might have been correct. However, the amount of heavy weapons would cut the approaching platoon down within seconds. He hoped.

 

The guardsmen were all tense, all constantly checking and re-checking their weapons. Loading and then reloading. Cocking and clicking. All breathing deeply and staring straight ahead.

 

"Steady lads." Grey shouted to defuse the stress.

 

Grey looked at a Sergeant standing to his left with his unit lined in two ranks, lasguns ready and aimed over the top of the entrenched heavy weapons teams "Keep me safe please, Sergeant." As the Sergeant nodded, Grey marched slowly at first so the two standards and two offices had time to realise he was moving. All five of them marched down the dug-in ramp, through the gate and out of the camp.

 

Grey could clearly see the faces of the incoming platoon. Some bulged with abscesses, some had flesh loose or missing. Their faces sagged in random directions, covering features and eyes.

 

Grey had to admit; the best thing for these men, friend or foe was dead. He looked up at his banners above; one was Bejor’s company banner, and the other, the twin-headed Eagle of the Imperium. What would the emperor do? Grey thought to himself.

 

The incoming platoon stopped and one of the nicely uniformed mutants stepped out. His hair was grown long on one side to hide the mutation on his face, and he had his sword resting on his shoulder.

 

"Captain Christy, Palos, One Hundred and First Infantry Regiment, Red Company, Red Platoon. Reporting for deployment."

"Christy" Grey paused while he thought to himself about how to avoid offending the platoon. "I guess your Abhumans are used to being posted to the front, yes?"

"We are not an Abhuman regiment sir"

"No?" Grey didn't believe him.

"No sir, Abhumans are usually a unit attached to regiments." Christy looked straight ahead "They are unique, usually highly expendable and used for a single role. We are an Imperial guard regiment like all others." Christy's chest stuck out proudly.

"Your not like all others Mr, don't you think your difference is the reason you have been posted out here? Mr Christy, your kind is definitely expendable."

"Well sir, you appear to also be posted here, you must be as unique and expendable as us... sir." Christy still looked straight ahead.

 

Grey thought to himself about how he should react, he had read texts about the Great Crusade where the Emperor had fought along side beast-men and loyal mutants.

"Your men are very well presented Mr Christy!"

"Thank you Comrade Commissar, we always are."

"And you walked through last nights weather to get here, Mr Christy?"

"Yes Sir, Marched here sir."

"Have you and your men seen a lot of fighting Mr Christy?"

"Our kind is always posted to the front, sir."

Commissar Grey Smiled, "Glad to have the support of the Hundred and First, Mr Peal will deploy you and your men, Mr Christy."

 

=

 

Commissar Grey had finished his wash. It was highly unsatisfactory, as the amount of water was limited: although he had managed to get most the sand out of his hair.

 

His trousers had not been washed, but would have to do. He had new socks, which were important to keep his feet right and his boots had been shined by a guardsman.

 

He stood there shaving his face, naked from the waist up. He looked at the scar running up his chest. The scar was caused by a Tau Bonding Knife. This scar was not made during combat however. Grey’s battle group was allied to the Tau at the time. The Tau commander had ran the knife along Grey’s chest and said it made them battle brothers.

 

If he was a battle brother with the Tau at one point, Grey thought as he buttoned his ruffled new shirt up, he could surely fight alongside a mutant regiment of Guardsmen. He pulled his holster belt on and headed out.

 

"Sit Rep please Mr Bejor?" Grey called to the Major.

"Force of Geanstealer Cultists, moving towards us from the mountains Sir. 5 minutes ‘til firing range. Sir, I believe we should send the one hundred and first out to intercept, Sir." Major Bejor was now a little less annoying as he was in his combat fatigue.

"No, no Mr Bejor, I am quite happy with the current position of the Hundred and First." Grey pulled a telescope out and watched skirmishing cultists heading across the desert. They all seemed to be howling and screaming. Looks like they are on drugs, Grey thought; under two hundred of them, looks like they are testing out defences. "Unload at your discretion Mr Bejor, at 100 metre range." Grey looked at the command personal in the centre of the camp, "Mortars, fire at will when within 150 metres, soften them up please!"

 

Grey looked at the One Hundred and First. The weapons team had squeezed into the small sandbagged trench works with the rest of the heavy weapon teams. The rest were standing in double ranks with the Lasguns resting over their right shoulders. The sergeants had their chain weapons on their shoulders and Captain Christy's command unit was also as neat. The contrast between the smart uniform and organisation of the mutant regiment and the Cadian 22nd on the hill was extremely noticeable. The 22nd infantry units were all standing talking, or fiddling with equipment. "Just a shame about your bloody faces…" Grey giggled to himself.

 

Grey looked out across the plain. "Wind’s almost dead. That should help our mortars, Mr Bejor."

 

It felt as if no time had passed when the mortars started. The first shell whistled through the air and landed too far behind the skirmishing Cultists, the second landed too far the other way, although it did take out three keen cultists who had ran out ahead of the crowd. The next two were exactly right, both landing within the rabble. Throwing limbs, blood, mud and sand into the air.

 

Two more pairs of mortars pounded the crowd before the heavy bolter and autocannon weapon teams started. "Heavy teams! Fire at Will!" Major Bejor had shouted. The drumming noise of the Imperium’s finest repeating heavy weapons smashed into the cultists, carving the horde up in swarms of fire: "Infantry! Fire at will!" Bejor bellowed over the heavy weapons fire.

 

The roar of outgoing sporadic lasgun fire filled the stronghold. The Mutant infantrymen pulled their Lasguns up to follow that order, but all held for a second and looked to their sergeants, who where already looking at Captain Christy "No, no Hundred and First! That is not how you have been trained to behave!" Christy shouted at his men.

 

Grey watched the Mutant Guardsmen; even though all hell was braking loose around them as they started doing lasgun drills. The front rank of all five units firing at once, then the second rank. This added waves of pain into the enemy rabble as well as the dots of random uncontrolled fire from Bejors forces. The cultists did not even get to the slopes as the last few died.

 

"The neat rows, the well kept red uniforms..." Grey called out as the gunfire started dying down, "…the high training. Major Bejor, if they are but mutants you should be ashamed!" Commissar Grey left for his tent before any response was given.

 

=

 

Grey sat on his bed reading a book in the dim lamplight. The tent was small and very well organised. Although the floor was just the sand below, Grey had placed an ornate mat down. In the corner was an antique set of drawers and a tiny mahogany bedside table had Greys bolt pistol, lamp and glass of water on it. In the other corner sat a less ornate, but suitably functional ammo crate.

 

"Excuse me Sir" Captain Peal called as he entered, "Supper in offices tent is almost ready, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Peal." Grey replied, whilst he folded the corner of the page of his book.

"What’s the book, Sir?" Peal asks out of interest

"It's called..." Grey Paused "... The mutant within." Grey placed the book on the small table and followed captain Peal out of the small tent.

 

=

 

Grey walked through the centre of the camp with Peal lagging behind. It was dark and he could not see out across the plains. He could see the two mortars surrounded by a four-foot circle of sandbags the crew placed cards down on top of an ammo crate playing a game Grey didn't recognise.

 

The standard bearers were half asleep using the 14-foot poles dug into the ground for support. Grey looked out towards the line; he could not see any of the heavy weapon teams and could only just work out the men of the 22nd, but could easily make out the hundred and first in the bright red uniforms. Those of the hundred and first that were still on post were standing with their backs straight, their weapons over their shoulders, even the two standards.

 

"You two!" Grey shouted at the 22nd’s standards, "The hundred and first are showing you up, don't slouch!" Grey glared at the two bearers as he walked past; the two men shuffled uneasily as they straightened their backs. As he got closer to the officer’s tent he could hear arguing emanating from inside. Grey knew what it was about before he entered.

 

"You sir, do not look correct, you are not invited and you may not sit at my table!" Major Bejor shouted as Grey and Peal entered.

 

Four officers sat in their parade dress at the table and at the head of it was Major Bejor who had a look of disgust and anger on his face. Standing at one side to attention looking totally rejected was Captain Christy. "I invited the Captain, Mr Bejor." Grey stated as the gathered company realised the Commissar’s presence: "This is the officers tent and Mr Christy is an officer, is he not?"

 

The reply was, unlike Bejor’s usual sentences, to the point: "I will not have that mutant at my table, Sir!"

 

Grey stepped forward and banged his fist against the wooded dining table. The cutlery bounced and so did the officers around it, "This is the Emperors table!" Grey barked, "Not yours!"

Bejor’s face had turned from anger to fear: "Christy is on the roster for watch, sir." Bejor stated with a smile.

"No he is not!" Grey corrected him: "You changed it and put him on but as you know, due to his marching here last night he should not have been." Grey looked at one of the other officers "Mr Beach…"

"Yes, comrade commissar?" The officer replied.

"Well, Mr Beach it's your watch," The officer sat as if he might be able to ignore it and stay for his cooked meal. "Move!" Grey shouted. The officer jumped up and left the tent speedily. "Mr Christy, Mr Peal, please take a seat."

 

=

 

The meal was awkward and silent, the main course was almost finished and Commissar Grey was still on his high horse and did not want to lose his position of authority by making small talk. Major Bejor was angry, Christy was understandably uncomfortable and the rest did not wish to break the tension.

 

"So, Captain" Mr Peal had the pleasure of breaking it: "What's Palos like?"

"Well," Christy looked down at the table "It's disgusting sir. It’s better than it was; you see, long ago a Biological War had left our planet almost dead. The weak and heavily afflicted usually die before they are eight and..."

"Why then," Major Bejor interjected: "Do they not orbital bombard your planet and rid the Imperium of your mutant filth?"

Christy did not look upset by this, as he had an answer: "The Metal Ore on our planet is vast, that's why Major." Christy sipped on his wine as a toast to his own victory.

"Don't you think, Commissar Grey…" Bejor put extra stress on the word Commissar: "that all mutants should be destroyed, Sir?" Grey was put in a difficult position, he did believe that the Imperium of man should be pure, but also that he was impressed by Christy and his men.

"I agree Major." Christy said proudly.

"Beg your pardon Mr Christy?" Grey asked, not believe what he was hearing.

"I agree that humans should be pure, comrade Commissar."

"Go on, Captain." Bejor coaxed.

"Well Gentlemen, We Believe that we are a standard Regiment and should be treated as such. However, we on Palos believe that we are not being punished by the Emperor, but tested to do greater things."

"How do you mean?" Captain Peal asked.

"Well Mr Peal, ever since we had these beliefs Palos Regiments have won more and more victories and more and more honours. As we have done so, the mutations have begun to, although slowly, disappear. We pray to the Emperor that one day he lifts the curse, and our mutations disappear; not through fire and flame but through our blood and guts."

"That's not a bad theory Mr Christy," Peal smiled. "Is it not also true that during the Great Crusade, the Emperor fought alongside Mutants?" Peal asked, whilst putting another piece of food in his mouth.

"Yes, Mr Peal. This is also why we think..." Christy was interrupted

"I think it's a curse." Bejor started spitting fury as well as small bits of chewed up food and ale "For doing wrong, not a test, otherwise the Emperor would test my men also!"

"It's a good thing he does not Mr Bejor…" Grey’s head was down but his eyes were looking up, along the table straight at the Major, "Otherwise most your men would be damned for eternity."

 

Grey stood up and donned his peaked cap, "I'm going to check the lines."

 

=

 

Grey’s eyes started to adjust to the dark. He could make out the Hundred and first all still standing to attention; none of them had moved at all. He then looked over to Bejor’s company standards, they were also standing upright, but Grey suspected that they had only done so as he left the officer’s tent.

 

He made his way to the front and towards a guardsman in a small trench with goggles attached to his Cadian-style helmet. "Friendly coming in" Grey called as he dropped into the trench, "Any sign of the Genestealer cultists, Private?"

"No sign, Commissar."

 

Commissar Grey climbed over the sandbag wall. He stepped over the barbed wire and jogged down the slope to the desert plain below, back to freedom again.

 

I did not die today after all, Grey thought to himself. "Incoming Enemies!" a Guardsman shouted loudly. Spoke too soon, Grey thought, as he ran up the ridge, stepping gingerly over the barbed wire and back over the sandbags into the trench.

 

The shouting guardsman was the one Grey had just been talking to, "Private, your night vision please?" Grey asked, with his hand already out in anticipation. He looked out towards the hills, a group of cultists, around the same size as the last attack were moving across the desert towards them, but they seemed to be moving very fast.

 

Grey fiddled with the night vision and adjusted the focus, "Oh, by the throne!" Grey slurred, "They’re no cultists, they’re Genestealers!"

 

=

 

The flares burned so brightly and everyone inside the strong point was bathed in a red glow. Major Bejor, his command, and Commissar Grey stood at the highest position within the strong post. Grey could see around fifty metres outside the perimeter. However, other than the odd heavy weapon team spotter, this would mean that most the men could only see fifty metres. The Genestealers wouldn't have this problem, thanks to their own flares; the Imperial position would be lit up like a beacon.

 

All of the Mutants of the hundred and first were standing in formation: two neat rows, weapons over one shoulder and, other than the odd flapping mutation, were perfectly still. They had taken two minutes from the alarm to take position. Five had gone and most of Major Bejor’s men were still not here.

 

"Get some!" A guardsman shouted as he jumped into the trench; then a second standing with a lasgun in one hand and a large combat knife in the other shouted at the top if his lungs: "Let's get personal, Stealers!" Replies from the same unit of the same macho remarks filled the air. All of the guardsmen jumping into positions or spread out randomly behind the lines of heavy weapons teams.

 

Grey turned to look at Major Bejor, he had that silly, can't wait for the glory, smile on his face and had decided not to change from his parade uniform.

 

Grey was about to give his tactical opinion but thought twice about bothering. "No you stupid rabble, don’t just skulk behind others, line up like the hundred and first!" Grey shouted at Bejors men. Grey did not have to turn to see that Bejor had a look of hatred in his face; in fact Grey did not care if Bejor was displeased.

 

"One Hundread metres!" a spotter shouted. The odd Autocannon started firing, these teams were the ones with the night vision.

"Infantry Fire at will!" Major Bejor called out.

"No!" Grey called, "All infantry, Fire in ranks! Follow Captain Christy’s orders!"

"How very dare you, sir!" Bejor was bubbling with anger "How very dare you!" He repeated himself. "They are my men, not yours and certainly not that disgusting mutant Captain’s!"

 

Grey did not like his authority being questioned. This was the reason he did not snap; he felt at that point what the major could feel: "I’m sorry Mr Bejor" Grey said calmly "That is my orders." before the argument could continue the hordes of Genestealers ran into the flare light.

 

=

 

"Second rank, fire! First rank, reload!" Christy shouted. The air at the tip of every lasgun was superheated in a split second; a clap of noise and the flash of the gun were incredible. As a rank fired, every detail within ten metres looked like daylight again.

 

Grey watched the pounding of the heavy weapons and the stabbing of the lasgun fire but he knew it was only a matter of time before the wave of Genestealers would break through.

 

Grey pulled his long curved blade out, "Oh god, sir!" The Major remarked,

"What’s that Mr Bejor?"

"Just that I have never been in combat you see, sir."

"Well Mr Bejor," Grey spoke whilst his eyes were fixed on the barbed wire line, "May I recommend you just fire your pistol at close range?"

"Yes, yes, good idea sir, very wise."

 

Grey took one step forwards and squeezed the handle of his weapon. As soon as they cross the wire, he thought: "Any second now…" he whispered so only he could hear. "Any second…" he willed the suspense to end.

 

Then without an order being shouted or an officer running ahead; just out of drilled training, with no hesitation, the hundred and first ran past Grey’s view. Every one of them had fixed bayonets and charged. Grey could not believe it, combat was usually a defensive option or because an officer had ordered the assault to slow the enemy. But to meet the enemy like that…

 

Grey was so full of respect he started running towards the combat. He hopped over the wire and stumbled down the embankment, only just keeping himself upright. The Hundred and first’s fighting at the bottom of the hill was as organised as the firing drills at the top.

 

Most combats Grey had been involved in were brawls of improvised weapons: brute strength and swinging blades. These were lines of men, locked together, protecting each other with defensive swings, and stabbing the enemy with thrusting jabs.

 

As the line broke under the weight of the onslaught Grey had his opportunity to get into the fighting. As he was about to step into the gap, a stealer poked its elongated head through; its mouth was open displaying its sharp teeth, one of its claws slashed forward across Greys face. Grey swung his arms up and cleaved straight across its neck, causing gushing blood from the orifice. The claw had caught Greys left eye, and blood poured into his right. He whipped it away as best as he could and continued into the combat, slashing and lunging into any Stealer he could find.

 

The blood continued to poor into his one good eye and he started stumbling on the bodies he could not see underfoot. His right heel hit a wet piece of flesh and Grey went down. On his back his right eye socket acted like an inkwell and filled straight up with blood. Totally blind now, he lay there waiting for a stealer to notice him.

 

Grey could feel himself moving backwards, dragged across the floor and left sitting against the slope "Medic!" Grey could hear the lisp in his rescuers voice; it was almost certainly one of the mutants. As a medic started wiping the blood away Grey could see his rescuer in his red uniform charging back into the combat.

 

"They put me to shame." Grey gargled to the medic as blood fell down the back of his neck.

"What's that sir?" the medic replied in order to keep him talking.

"In comparison to that mutant regiment," Grey started to go limp, " I looked like a brawling Ork!" and fell unconscious.

 

=

 

Commissar Grey awoke. It was all kind of hazy for him; the only memory was the pain of the hot metal pressed into his left eye socket to stem the bleeding. He opened his right eye and could see perfectly. He looked up at the billowing white tent material moving and swaying in the light breeze. His face screwed up. He could smell something in the air, something disgusting, "Smells like burning hair!" he said to himself out loud.

 

Grey tensed his back muscles and then forced his torso upright, "I'm in my tent. So I must be fit for duty."

 

He pulled the bed sheet off and flung it onto the floor. He quickly observed that he was still in last night’s clothing. "Oh, my new shirt’s ruined…" he noted as he looked at the blood-soaked ruffles of the shirt that had only been worn once.

 

He slid his legs out sideways and stepped onto the rug: "Where are my boots?" he asked himself, "Oh, there." he replied to himself as he spotted them at the foot of the bed. He pulled his shirt off and his boots on and moved to a large ammo case in the corner with the words 'Explosive Ordnance' written on the side. His hand fiddled with the latch and then he pulled the lid upwards.

 

Inside were some books; an antique shotgun; spare boots; personal ammo (not that there was such a thing); and a pile of (somewhat) fresh clothing. He grabbed a plain white shirt and pulled it on. The rest he decided could stay on him. He grabbed his weapons belt and put it on. He drew the bolt pistol and checked the clip had ammo in, "Spot on." he said as he realised he hadn't even fired a shot. He drew his blade "Oh, someone has cleaned it, good." and he slid it back in.

 

He did not feel worried about his eye. Odd really, he thought, I've had it so long and yet I don't feel upset it's missing! After all the years it has served him well. He knew he would get a bionic eye and it would make him look more battle-hardened.

 

It was bright outside. Grey could see two of Bejor’s guardsmen cooking breakfast but the smell was not Boar bacon and Sandsnake eggs. It was just that burning hair smell.

 

"Morning, Comrade Commissar!" Captain Peal called from over the centre command position. Commissar Grey just held his hand up as a gesture, he felt too groggy for pleasantries. He moved towards the smell and could see some of the red-coated Mutant guardsmen dragging the dead bodies of the enemy and some of there own onto a bonfire.

 

He could see Captain Christy organising the body disposal. "This is the thanks they get is it?" Grey hissed under his breath, "They did all the fighting and now here they are, doing the hum and drum."

 

Grey made his way down the embankment over to the men, "Captain!" Grey called "Nice morning is it not?"

"Yes it is, Comrade Commissar." Christy saluted, "Fine day."

"Has Bejor ordered you out here?"

"Yes Sir, he has."

"Ummm!" Grey mused to himself "Sit, Captain?" He pointed at the slope.

 

Grey slumped against the sandy ledge still feeling warn down from his recovery. Christy sat opposite on a large bolder. He pushed his left hand into his red jacket and pulled out a small hip flask and held the flask towards his commissar.

 

"I really shouldn't…" Grey insisted "but I will." he went to grab it and noticed Christy's hand appeared to be slightly webbed, he paused for a split second as he basically thought ‘Oh his hands disgusting, I don't want to drink that’ but Grey refused this thought and grabbed the flask and took a swig.

 

Grey started breathing in quickly in order to get cool air into his burning mouth, his tongue tingled, "What the throne is that?" he said in a very croaky voice.

"Wild Snake Cider, sir, it’s made from snake skin, fermented sand buries and a bit of the snake’s Venom" Christy took a sip and placed it back into his jacket

"No wonder you’re all so Blood Angel Brave!" Christy smiled at the compliment, "No seriously though, to bring the fight to the enemy in such close order drills. I'm very impressed. Oh, I must thank whoever dragged me out."

“It's okay, sir." Christy stood up.

"No really," Grey did the same "I must!"

"It was I, sir. When I saw you join our fight, I thought I'd keep an eye on you"

"You thought I'd end up in trouble you mean?” Grey spersoned. “Thank you, Captain."

"Sir?" The way Christy said the word made it seem like it was a question.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Why do you come out here? I mean, if you don't mind me asking? Why do I see you come out here and then return?"

"I don't really know," Grey shrugged. "I suppose it's my way of escape from this outpost. When I'm here, I'm not trapped, I'm free for a second; free from my orders, my commands, my rank, my responsibilities. Silly, really."

"No sir, I understand."

"Yes Captain, I suppose you probably do."

 

Grey started his way back up the hill, thinking about what he had just said. He also thought about what he was trying to escape from. Yet compared to Christy's list, the rejection, and the remarks the constant disproval, his problems seemed so small and insignificant.

 

=

 

Grey stood on the crest of the outpost with the rest of the command staff. The larger sun was directly above them and the secondary sun just setting.

 

Grey watched the enemy scrabbling their way over sandy the plains. The wind was strong and kicking up large sweeps of sand around the four hundred strong attackers. This was not a test of defences or a night raid. This was an organised mob.

 

"Ok men!" Captain Peal shouted at the top of his lungs "I fought Orks at Steel Rift Ridge," he joined the commissar at the top "an almost hopeless battle. But we did succeed!" he held his sword in the air, "My platoon was ambushed by Kroot on Kayman IV, outnumbered two to one but we did succeed!" his voice became even louder, "I was at the famous battle of Kape Luck against Kroot, outnumbered three to one, but we did succeed!" he paused "We will stand united, regardless of numbers and we shall succeed!" he grabbed the Imperial standard and waved it in the air as the guardsmen whistled and shouted.

 

Grey was wearing his black trench coat. His peaked cap was still missing from the night raid and instead to help instil fear in his own men, as well as the enemy, he had a rather imposing black eye patch. His bolt pistol had an extra large clip in it, meaning it no longer fitted in the holster so was on a strap over his shoulder. His curved power blade was still in his belt; instead he had his old shotgun resting on his shoulder.

 

"Thank you, Mr Peal" Grey rested his hand on Peal’s shoulder. "You give orders to the left flank, infantry please." Peal nodded and made his way to the flank.

 

With Peal on the left and Christy on the right, they might just stand a chance.

 

"Sir, That weapon does not befit an officer, Comrade Commissar. What is it, sir?" Bejor tried his best to critique him.

"It's a hand-reloading rifle. That takes shotgun ammo Mr Bejor, or a pump-action shotgun, I didn’t know you were a Priest of Mars, Major?"

"It's just a little crude don't you think sir? It hardly sets a good example"

"It's good at close range, good against un-armoured targets and it does not jam like the automatic shotgun, it is ideal, Mr Bejor."

 

"I have a bad feeling about this" Major Bejor whispered towards Grey. He seemed to Grey to be trying to change the argument he was losing, as if whispering automatically gave amenity.

"Major, I refuse to try and get the best from you, as I do not recognise that you have any skills worth utilising. Keep your mouth closed and stand still no matter what." Grey said in a stern but calm tone.

 

Bejor looked genuinely upset, "Yes, Comrade Commissar." he replied, whilst looking down at the floor.

 

With a platoon to each flank and a third platoon spread out behind the heavy weapon line across the front of the stronghold. All was as well as it could be.

 

After twenty minutes the heavy outgoing fire began.

 

"Commissar. Should we not step the infantry in front of the heavy teams?" Bejor asked, but he received no reply.

 

The ranks of lasgun fire began to join it. It was going well however, at this position Grey could not see the defilade at the bottom of the ridge.

 

"Red four with me" Grey called to a unit as he moved towards the ridge. The unit started giving sporadic fire at the cultists at the bottom of the ridge. The cultists held their hands up as they fell back down the hill, arms stretched out like beggars needing money.

 

"Commissar Grey!" Bejor called "Perhaps you should move away from the edge, Geanstealers will be here soon" but Grey ignored the suggestion "Commissar?"

 

Grey felt a hand grab his arm, he looked round and there was Bejor, "Please sir, let the infantry..." Bejor stopped talking and stared at the incoming enemy, the sharp teeth of the almost human hybrids, the purple tinged skin, the snarling grins and sharp claws. The blood drained from Bejor’s face. "Oh, throne…" he gulped "Oh throne!" he screamed.

"Mr Bejor," Grey pointed at him "Calm down, please."

"Oh Throne!" Bejor started running towards the rear of the camp, "Oh throne!"

 

Grey hoped Bejor would stop at the command post at the top of the hill, but he didn’t.

 

The men moved like rain, at first one drop, then a trickle of a few more, then quite a few and then it poured. That's what happened to the strong point.

 

As the ever growing crowed started moving towards the rear Grey knew an example must be given. Gun crews and infantry flocked behind Bejor leaving only a few behind; the Hundread and first didn’t even move. They just continued the firing drills.

 

Grey called to the Major as he tried to move his way to Bejor. But the Major continued to retreat, "Oh to hell with it!" Grey stopped and aimed his shotgun through the crowd towards the major. Grey squeezed the trigger; it caught a guardsman in the arm as he retreated into Grey’s path. Grey pulled the stock forwards, ejecting the empty cartridge onto the sandy ground and replacing in with a live one. Grey pulled the shotgun up to his chin and pushed himself in close to his weapon, it would be a long shot for the weapon. The second just caught Bejors left shoulder blade. The many tiny bits of mini exploding shot knocked the Major to the floor.

 

Bejor was dead when he hit the dusty ground. The other deserters continued to run. Grey knew that if the death of the Major did not do it nothing would, and they must be terminated until they rally.

 

Grey pulled the bolt pistol up sprayed the crowed of fleeing troops. Peppering them in mini-explosions. Instead of reloading he grabbed a discarded heavy bolter, span it round and started chopping down large groups of Guardsmen. Grey was furious and his rage had turned into a fury of bloodlust. He twisted the heavy weapon from left to right.

 

"Sir!" Grey felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up and looked straight into Captain Peal’s eyes steering at him. He could see Peal was upset that his former comrades were being slaughtered by allied hands. "Please sir! We are low on ammunition!" Grey did not reply. He could see it in Peal’s eyes, Peal apologised that some of his regiments men had retreated.

 

"You are right Mr Peal." Grey eventually replied as he left the dug-in and retired to the top of the hill. As he walked he placed a second extra long clip into his bolt pistol.

 

Grey looked around him, from the command post at the top of the mound. The once full camp was almost empty; maybe a third of Bejor’s men had not fled. Grey looked over at the Hundred and First, not one had moved from their deployment.

 

"Third Squad, don't just stand there, get on those heavy weapons. You three as well!" Captain Christy shouted at some of his men as they instantly jumped into the abandoned heavy weapon positions and started giving fire.

 

Grey look into the distance, he could see more cultists, hybrids and Stealers crawling out of the mountains and crawling across the plains towards the position. He watched the mutants of the Hundred and First, all standing in rows, giving fire. One unit had left the hill and were in combat in a vain attempt to slow the advancing enemy.

 

Grey quickly estimated the enemy number to around 2,000 and his numbers of around 100. He also did some calculations in his head. Even if every shot killed one enemy, and each man in combat killed 5, they still would lose the battle.

 

"Sir what's that?" Captain peal asked. Grey just watched the unstoppable wave coming towards him, "Sir what is it?" Grey still didn't respond "Sir!"

Grey snapped out of his daydream "What's what, Mr Peal?"

"That humming sir, what is it?"

"Humming?" Grey listened carefully, trying to block out the gunfire, the screams of his men and the snarls of the approaching enemy. "You’re right, Mr Peal!" Grey couldn't hear the humming but could hear distant explosions.

 

Grey pulled his binoculars up to his eyes and looked out over the mountains, a small amount of little black dots were hovering above the mountains.

 

"Navy? Mr Peal, Navy! Get the radio!"

"Sir I believe Comm operator Karl is AWOL. We have a radio in the map tent." Peal informed him.

Grey looked over to Captain Christy, "Mr Christy! Grab a few heavy weapons and Draw back all units to the centre and form square around the command post!" Christ nodded.

 

Grey didn't look back as he started running towards the map and planning tent, but he knew Christy and Peal had it sorted. Grey pulled the cloth door back and ducked under it. He could see the radio but could feel a presence in the tent with him. Grey instantly calmed him self, he pulled his shotgun up and straightened his back. He breathed in slowly as he moved into the centre on the tent. Beads of sweat raced down his face. He could here scrabbling.

 

The table seamed to come alive next to him, as it lifted up, the contents on top fell to the ground. As the table pointed to the sky it began to fall backwards, the Genestealer leapt out from under it. Grey swung his shotgun round to meet his target but it was too close. Two of its four arms grabbed it as the other two started clawing at Greys chest.

 

One claw scraped almost harmlessly across some ammo clips, the other cut in deep. Grey pulled his booted foot up and heeled the stealer in the knee. The stealer steeped backwards one step, not enough to stop its attack or to trip it, but in the scuffle it loosened its grip. The shotgun came to rest at the Stealers face. The discharge destroyed the entire head of Grey’s assailant. Grey pulled the weapon back, reloading it and he began firing into any pieces of furniture that could hold a second advisory.

 

Grey dropped the now-empty shotgun and made his way to the radio.

 

=

 

"Commissar Grey to incoming Imperial Nay Craft. This is Outpost Nine, do you read?" Grey had no reply. "Outpost Nine to Imperial Navy Craft, please respond!" He waited for a reply "Navy Craft we need support!"

"This is Captain Reek of the Marauder Bomber Squadron Ireean…" Grey listened carefully to the crackling radio: "How can we be of assistance?"

"This is Commissar Grey at Outpost Nine, we are almost overrun! We need a close bombing run, all surrounding area, if you are a good shot, Mr Reek!" Grey tried to challenge the captain into having to except the difficult request.

 

"Hold on to your hats, Outpost Nine, incoming in 30 seconds. The Ordnance will be danger close. Over."

"Fantastic, over and out." Grey dropped the radio and started moving towards the top of the hill.

 

Every man still alive in the outpost was in a big block.

 

"All men! Incoming air support!" Grey warned as he watched over the mountains as he started making out thirty bombing craft. He could see the cultists climbing over the barbed wire into the camp.

 

=

 

The ground shook as the plains were covered in rows and rows of flames covering the enemy. The low humming of the bomber engines overhead, the explosions of hundreds of bombs, the howls of the burning enemy and then the cries of joy from the mutants of the Hundred and first and what was left of Peal’s men all filled Grey’s ears.

 

The men screamed and hollered in glory, so loud, they didn’t notice Commissar Grey was walking out of the formation.

 

Grey stepped over the barbed wire as he had done so many times before; he glared at the flames as the booming came closer. He lost his footing and rolled down the slope. At the bottom if the bank he lifted himself up and looked at the orange flames along the plains.

 

He closed his eyes tight, and held his arms outwards, as though embracing his inevitable doom. He could hear the humming almost directly overhead, and he could feel the hot winds now passing over him. Sand blasted from nearby; it moved through the air and sliced against his skin, like mini hailstones. Grey felt free once again, but like all freedom, it would undoubtedly cost his life.

 

It did not.

 

=

 

Grey sat in the palace office. It was so different from the previous setting: the highly polished large wooden table, the marble walls, and the twelve foot mahogany doors. All this made it even more unbelievable that only eight weeks had passed since the night of the bombing, and seven since HQ decided the outpost was no longer needed. Thus, his place was back with them at the palace, over four hundred miles west.

 

Grey was in such comfort and safety at the palace and although it was a minor offence he did not carry his side weapon or blade on him. Over his right shoulder, a brain-dead servitor stood almost lifelessly with a tray of fruits. Grey finished another report and leaned over towards the trey of fruit. He pulled a purple berry off the tiny bunch a popped it into his mouth. He sat back in the leather wingback chair and closed his one good eye in comfort and purred like a Catachan Jungle Tiger in the sun.

 

He leaned over the desk pulling his cyber-quill out its holder and was just about to start another document when the door knocked.

 

"Enter" Grey called.

 

The door opened abruptly and in marched Captain Christy. Christy was in a brand new red uniform with a tall-feathered helmet under his left arm. His broad, and stoutly upheld chest had medals on show and his sword swung somewhat wildly on his belt.

 

"Mr Christy! I didn’t..." Grey began

"Silence, Comrade Commissar!" Christ shouted at his superior.

"How dare you, Captain…" Grey began to stand up.

"How dare you, Sir! You changed the roster didn't you!" Grey then clicked at what the problem wad and sat back down, "Why Commissar? You were on our roster list, but you changed it!" Grey watched a tear rolling down Christy’s deformed face. "I thought we were past it, I thought you accepted me and my men, or did it look bad to your pompous friends from this snotty palace? We worked well together..."

"Mr Christy!" Grey had to stop him "The fact is, it had nothing to do with you being mutants."

"It didn’t sir, then why?"

"I cannot give you advice, I don't need to enforce the laws onto your men and the fighting ability of all of your men is above that of my own, and any other unit I have been attached to. I would not bring anything to your platoon. That is why I opted out. I needed you on those plains. But your regiment does not need me."

"Thank you Sir, you really think all that about me and my men?"

"Mr Christy," Grey stood up and held his hand out to be shaken, "I'm absolutely certain that since that battle, less mutants have been born in your home planet."

"Thank you sir." Christy breathed in to stop himself losing control of his emotions. Without another word he grabbed the door handle and let himself out.

[Vulpine]

My spelling is poor. I spell as it sounds usually. I have Dyslexia, so I struggle with spelling and grammar. So eventually I could get a mate to prof read and edit for me.

Thanks

This one had been checked over by my mate so should be okay

[EesiOh]

I really loved this story, my advice would be 1 Even the nicest of Commisars would have *BLAMMED* that major a while ago. Also when talking about things like airstrikes and the like it can be good to throw in some random millitary jargon, for example instead of saying we need a close bombing run have Grey say We need some bomber, danger close. Which is the official millitary term for it 

[Vulpine]

Sounds good! I think Grey didn't 'balm' him because they were in the middle of nowhere and of he killed him, it may have caused more problems with the men.

 

My own C&C is did he to too far when he started 'spraying' the retreating guardsmen.