Krieg Vignettes

[Norman Paperman]

Hi guys! I wrote two vignettes as fluff for my Kill Team, from the Knives in the Shadows challenge. They're too long to post in the main thread so I figured I'd make a thread here and post a link. Enjoy!

 

Everett

 

“Have you ever loved anything?”

 

The question startled him and the icy finger of dread crept up his spine. The Commissar was not smiling, they never did and the questions were always traps, but there was an edge of malice in his words that went beyond the usual evaluations. Everett 322738 swallowed and struggled to keep his breathing under control as his heart accelerated 25 beats per minute. Thump thump, thump thump, 65 beats per minute - the pace of a Tau Riptide barrage, thump thump, thump thump. His helmet and rebreather were on the table to his left, and he felt naked as the pale light of the interrogation room beat down on his face. The light hurt his eyes. The Commissar was looking at him, pupils narrowing by the millisecond. Thump thump, thump thump.

 

To the Warp with it, thought Everett 322738.

 

“Yes, brother Commissar”

 

The answer clearly unsettled the officer, who adjusted himself in his seat quickly and cleared his throat.

 

“The Emperor?”

 

“We all love the Emperor, brother Commissar” replied Everett 322738, “I have loved two other things in my life. I loved a cat that lived in my tent on Septhremis Nova, and-”

 

“A cat, Corporal?”

 

“Yes brother Commissar”

 

“Did you feed it?” The question was pointed, giving rations to any non-militarum life forms was strictly forbidden under regulations. Punishments ranged from floggings and reduction in rank, to shameful servitude, to battlefield executions in extreme cases.

 

“Yes brother Commissar”

 

The Commissar turned again in his seat, now fixing his gaze solemnly on Sergeant MacKenzie 978521, Corporal Everett’s superior. The Sergeant, helmet and rebreather still on, did not move or utter a sound. The Commissar flipped open the file folder in front of him, Everett knew it was his records, and began flipping through the pages. He settled on a bulk of papers near the bottom and began reading. This was all for show of course, the Commissar would know exactly what had happened on Septhremis Nova, though the cat would have been new. At the bottom of the page Everett could see the words “wiped out”. Thump thump. Thump thump. “Suits incoming!” The Tau bombardment had killed his cat.  As the Commissar read, Everett’s heart returned to normal. Thump, thump, thump. Thunderhawk.  Sergeant MacKenzie remained motionless. He was a veteran and superior to Everett, but he hadn’t been at Septhremis. Everett didn’t want to be in a regimental reconstitution for a third time.

 

Eventually, the Commissar raised his gaze back to Everett.

 

“What was the other thing, Corporal?”

 

“Breaking the line on Septhremis Nova”. Everett was completely calm now, staring beyond the Commissar and into the visions of fire, blood, and steel. He had fought in three campaigns in the eight years he’d been a Krieger, but it was the third battle of Septhremis Nova that consumed his every waking moment. He was but a tool of the Emperor’s Will, and as he lay in his bunk every night with cold sweat staining the sheets he concluded that the Emperor must will it that Septhremis Nova be remembered. Tau scream. Kriegers don’t. Everett remembered. All battles were glorious, but the bombardments and charges of Septhremis had been a glory beyond any other. An Adepta Sororitas Dialogus had addressed his division once, before the campaign on Orthimos XI, and had bellowed about the beauty of the Emperor’s Will. Everett had never thought that he or his brothers were beautiful in life or death, but the death on every inch of Septhremis, the sheer inevitability of victory and the price the Emperor paid for it was the closest thing to beauty he could possibly imagine. So he remembered. Thump thump.

On the Commissar’s face, the smallest of lines appeared next to his eyes.

 

“That will be all Corporal. Dismissed”

 

As he lay in his bunk that night, a servitor entered the room and deposited an envelope at the end of the bed. The orders inside were simple.

 

Application ACCEPTED. Hangar 72B - 0600 hrs.

 

 

Gillicutty

 

Gillicutty 324556 sighed and rolled over in his rack, unable to sleep. The noise and vibrations of the engines were just too much for tonight. He strained his ears and listened to the respirators of his comrades, barely audible above the low whine. A smaller birth was better than the massive dormitory of a Krieg company, but smaller births were sometimes in unfortunate places on a ship, such as sharing a wall with an engine compartment. Sergeant was asleep, as well as three or four of the others. Hermanson and Jones were almost certainly awake, but they lay flat on their backs, not moving a muscle. There were three empty bunks in the 10-man birth, the three occupants having covered themselves in the glory of death on the last mission. Gillicutty moved his lips in silent prayer to the Emperor and as if on cue, the door slid open and a replacement walked in. No one moved, introductions would wait until reveille, and the replacement knew to get into his rack quietly. Gillicutty listened for a few minutes and could tell this man was not a sleeper either. Closing his eyes and doing his best to ignore the ship’s rumbling, there was nothing to do this night but pray until morning. Holy Emperor, blessed be thy will, my life to thine command, my death to your purpose, forgive, forgive. Holy Emperor, blessed be thy will, my life to thine command, my death to your purpose, forgive, forgive. Holy Emperor…

 

After a time, he did drift off to sleep, where he dreamed of blood and thunder, death in waves and cries of triumph. He woke briefly, aware enough to remember that he hated the noise of the engines but was asleep again by the second run of the Redemption prayer. Forgive, forgive. Gillicutty knew that the only reason he could sleep was because he had been forgiven. Long ago, before he had accepted the assignment to this Veteran Squad, he had been a Night Keeper, a Krieger who couldn’t sleep, same as Hermanson, Jones, and apparently the FNG. He’d lie awake, full of rage at life for the pain of being born damned, son of a blighted and traitor world, for whom damnation was a mercy and redemption a myth. How could the Emperor forgive him when he was a speck, a lost soul being shuttled from system to system, a fraction of a percentage in a ledger?

 

It all changed on Eronosis, where his platoon had spearheaded the final assault on the capitol citadel. Engineers had blown a portion of the wall and his platoon had charged in, twenty of them being martyred in a single swing of a blade from a massive ork who’d emerged out of the dust, but the platoon had ground on, inch by inch through the blood and ichor. His platoon’s job was not to win the fight, that honour belonged to the Ultramarines who marched through the wall after the first three waves of Krieg companies, but they’d had the honour of first contact. Gillicutty had been part of the platoon fire base, a squad deployed immediately left once inside the entrance, who’s task had been to lay down continuous lasgun fire at anything that moved towards the main brawl the rest of the platoon and the following companies engaged in. The main body of his platoon had been wiped out to a man, just five of the fire base survived. After the marines entered, he’d run after them, knowing it was duty to engage the enemy wherever he could, and what more sign of the Emperor’s will is there than a marine? But there had been no foes left to conquer in the wake of the Emperor’s holy sons, only ork blood was shed from that point and the stone floors had run with rivers of green and black.  He’d charged out onto a parapet, expecting to finally find a foe, but instead he’d seen a group of marines on a higher parapet hoisting the blue flag of Ultramar high above the ramparts, where it blazed brightly against the dull grey skies. The fight was over. As he gazed on the flag, lasgun hanging limply in his hand, another marine emerged from behind him onto his parapet. His blue armour was slick with green blood and a massive gouge ran diagonally through the faceplate of the red helmet. Sparks fizzled from severed electronics, but the armour had maintained its integrity. Silently the two soldiers, the damned and the blessed, stood and looked at the flag flapping in the light summer breeze. After a moment, the marine reached out a massive hand and gently patted Gillicutty on the back a single time. “Well done, son” Then he turned on his heel and receded into the darkness of the fort, leaving Gillicutty alone.

 

It had taken him months to figure out what exactly had happened in that moment that so thoroughly changed him, but he’d been assigned to a recruit training centre on Krieg in the aftermath of Eronosis, and that had given him time to think. He had started sleeping during the nights and that flummoxed him so thoroughly that he’d been uneasy during the days. He simply could not shake the feeling of that marine’s hand on his back, the manifestation of the Emperor’s will acknowledging him, congratulating him, the nobody, the damned, the survivor. Him. One morning, in a moment at breakfast so startling that he’d almost cried out, the feeling rising in his breast and nearly exploding out through the top of his skull, that he realized he had been forgiven. Of all the sons of his damned world, the billions of soldiers who had died in the Emperor’s name, he had been forgiven. It was impossible that it should happen to one still alive, or one who was mediocre; he’d been a good soldier, but there were millions who had been and were better. Even among the trainees he was instructing in marksmanship, he saw better shots than him, better discipline, firmer resolve. But the impossible had happened: a marine, the manifestation of the Emperor’s might and power itself, had touched him with tenderness and pride. The rage that had consumed him his whole life disappeared in an afternoon as he realized that the Emperor in his boundless power could see the single soldier, and thus the Emperor knew him, Gillicutty 324556, and that forgiveness was not only possible, but that it had been granted to him. Redemption for Krieg would not be given freely, the Emperor’s will was clear that the blood price of duty must be paid, but redemption was not the lie as Gillicutty had so wretchedly feared it was. As he looked at his trainees and comrades, his brothers in arms and damnation, he no longer saw damned men, he saw men for whom through their resolve they might feel the same forgiveness that now soothed his soul.

 

He'd sought out a transfer to the Veteran Squads in hopes of finding others like him, men who’d been through the fires of such devastating combat to have found their forgiveness, but he’d been bitterly disappointed to find that they were as steely and as damned as every other Krieger he’d ever known. When he tried to speak to them about the reality of forgiveness, they just shook their heads at him. The damned, they’d say, were still damned until the orders said they weren’t. Yet the way they teased him for his fanaticism was not unkind, he could tell they were happy to have someone who so stridently believed that the Emperor’s grace was close at hand, and so he easily settled into the routine of the squad. They’d been on three missions in two years, and having survived thusfar he was now a veteran among veterans.

 

Gillicutty awoke with the reveille and enthusiastically led the singing as they marched away from their rumbling birth towards the gymnasium for physical training,

 

The Emperor wills that I fight and die

Sounds about right to me says I

Look at all the places in this big galaxy

So many lands on which I can bleed

Forlorn rock with xenos to purge

My shooting finger feels the urge

To pursue the Emperor’s will…

It’s just too bad that the coffee’s swill!

 

Even the FNG, Everett 322738, belted out the last line. He would fit in just fine, as would the two others who they would undoubtedly pick up over the next months as they travelled towards the next mission. Gillicutty would sit with Everett at breakfast and ask him about forgiveness, and maybe he’d finally find a soul who understood what destiny held for Krieg, and if not, he’d try again and again with every Krieger he met, so long as he lived. And when the day would come that he died gloriously on the battlefield, he envisioned the eye of the Emperor seeing his soul, his sacrifice for his will, and almost so slightly as to be imperceptible, the Emperor would nod in acknowledgement. Gillicutty prayed for forgiveness every hour of every day in anticipation of that moment, but he was mostly praying for his brothers. 

 

[Brother Hellion]

These are some interesting insight into the thinking of the Krieg whom most people dismiss as fanatical lemmings with gas masks. The love for pets, the singing, little bit of humanity peaking out. Good work. 

[Norman Paperman]

Goodluck

 

Sgt Gooderson growled the orders into the mic,

 

“Charlie section, on parapet, prepare to advance. Affix bayonets”

 

Pulling the blade from its leather sheath, Gooderson inspected the blade’s cutting edge for the third time that hour. He had inspected his men’s blades twenty minutes prior and they had been flawless. He slipped the attachment ring around the barrel of his lasgun and it snapped into place with a click. To his right and left, a dozen similar clicks, the final familiar sounds of a section ready to step out into the crucible of battle. The Commissar had taken over the vox line and was leading the Dutiful Decree. All along the line, two kilometers in either direction, men’s voices rose with his in response.

 

“What is your duty?”

 

“To serve the Emperor’s will”

 

The artillery barrage roared to life, ten thousand shells crashing into the side of the mountain just three hundred metres ahead of Goodluck’s trench. Its jagged walls rose in sheer defiance of the million men arrayed against it; its crags and crevasses daring the imperial war machine to commit and feel its bite. Ten thousand more shells landed before the Commissar finished the next line, with another ten thousand already in the air.

 

“What is the Emperor’s will?”

 

“That we fight and die”

 

A blue Thunderhawk came screaming over the battlefield, letting loose its salvo of guided warheads into entrances and gun ports on the mountain, ripping upwards to avoid the return fire from the guns it hadn’t hit. The ultramarines inside were not the first wave, that honour belonged to Krieg this day. Gooderson’s division would be assaulting the mine which served as the major ammunition stockpile for the rebel cultists. One of the warheads had penetrated deeply and a major explosion ripped the side of the mountain apart, a cataclysmic eruption that blew debris kilometers into the Krieg rear. The earth quaked under Gooderson’s feet and threw him to his knees. A massive shockwave passed over Gooderson’s head, vaporizing the Commissar who had been standing in the open to read the Decree.  A section of the parapet to his left collapsed, burying the men positioned there under a ton of dirt and rubble. Their section rushed to their aid with shovels. One of the men on his right was bandaging the leg of his comrade where a bayonet had impaled him when they’d been knocked over by the blast wave. Captain Smith took over the vox and finished the Decree,

 

“What is death?”

 

“It is our duty”

 

Ten thousand throats screamed the final word and claxons all along the line blared to life. They were up and over, three hundred metres of running to their attack points. The left side of the mountain had been pulverized, boulders the size of Baneblades were strewn across the field on the left flank and stones the size of a man’s fist were still falling from the sky. The man to his left took one in the shoulder, taking his arm and rifle with it into the arid ground. The enemy line, what was left of it after the artillery strikes, came to life and poured withering lasgun fire onto the advancing Kriegers. Three hundred metres was the closest they could entrench against a foe who were expert tunnellers and demolitions experts, the rest had to be advanced on foot in a charge. The enemy had a large, crew-served laser which was sweeping across the field at chest height, Delta section to his right were killed in an instant, the armless soldier on his left became the headless, and it was only a slight stumble on a piece of rubble that had kept Gooderson alive. He cursed under his breath, but activated the comm,

 

“Charlie section leader, four platoon, alive and moving” he grunted, letting command know where there was an NCO still alive. A las round clipped the side of his helmet, leaving a molten edge on the metal, but still he ran. He was less than fifty yards to the enemy line when he saw a small port open in a boulder to his front and a huge gun barrel appeared; another mining laser. The beam came to focus right on his throat, severing his head from his body and then sweeping left to shatter the rest of four platoon. The heat from the laser had melted the plastic on the upper breather tube, exposing Gooderson’s face up to the nose. As the head rolled to a stop in a shell hole, it almost looked like there was a small smile upon the lips. The Thunderhawk came roaring back, but an engine had been hit and was screeching, beep beep, beep beep, beep beep, beep beep.

 

Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep. Reveille. Beep beep, beep beep.

 

Gooderson groaned and swung his feet over the edge of his rack. Reveille and another day, the long line of hours between dreams. Now that he was awake, his body was a singular point of pain, more scar tissue than functional. His left arm was a prosthetic, the armless soldier had been him at Bothania, the bandage on his right thigh was stained with blood where it still oozed in the night. The skin on his back pulled tight around the five steel vertebrae, two in the thorax and three in the abdomen from separate wounds. Instinctively, his hand went to the scar on his forehead, his finger gently tracing its outline and contrast to the soft skin around it. The scar was there and he was alive, which meant he had to do his rotting PT again. Most Kriegers slept with their rebreathers on, but Gooderson kept his off so that he could feel the scar as soon as he awoke. His first thought every morning was hope against hope that his life had been the dream, it was the scar that kept him grounded. Grunting in pain and disappointment, he slipped on his rebreather and PT uniform, stiffly following the others' marching cadence towards the ship’s gymnasium. Gillicutty was needling him again about forgiveness, but all Gooderson wanted to do was punch him in the throat. A Cadian lead them through forty minutes of exercises that left them all sweaty and tired, and Gooderson could taste the bile in his throat. Today would be a bad day.

He hadn’t always been like this. As a young soldier, he had been enthusiastic and a quick learner. He’d been made Corporal before leaving planetside and was well liked among his platoon. Losing his arm at Bothania, his first battle, had been met with laughter and good-natured grumbling that the dead were the lucky ones. His life should have ended at Ptolemy IV when a las-bolt caught him an inch above his right eye, leaving a 50 millimetre hole clean through his skull. Left for dead behind the advance, he’d staggered into the casualty clearing station and was kept for 200 days in solitary quarantine in case it had been chaos taint that had spared him. On the 190^th day, an apothecary from the Adeptus Sororitas had inspected his wound, interviewed him, and declared that there was no chaos taint, that he’d just been lucky enough that the shot hadn’t hit anything important. Nothing important in my whole head, he’d laughed with his new platoon. The nickname Goodluck was quickly settled upon.

 

But his luck held. In the second campaign on Ptolemy IV, an orc had driven a spike through his sternum, shattering the T3 and T4 vertebrae in his spine as it came out his back. They’d held him for one hundred days of quarantine after that one. He hadn’t laughed when they let him out that time, but the name Goodluck followed him. A Commissar had interviewed him before he returned to duty, and the official position of the Astra Militarum Chain of Command was that out of the fifty million Kriegers sent to the stars every year, the math made it inevitable that someone would be lucky enough to survive a few unsurvivable wounds.

 

He’d been transferred to the veteran squads and made Sergeant. His laugh even returned for a while. Among men who had seen what he had seen, and suffered wounds that came close to his, he was surrounded by respect and understanding. He’d joke with the men that until you saw Goodluck with a sucking chest wound, the mission hadn’t begun. But he kept surviving, and they kept dying. Soon the jokes died too.

 

Gooderson was tired. Tired in his bones, tired in his soul, tired in his eyes, heart, and prosthetics. The shot through his head had hurt his memory, but he’d been fine as a Sergeant with a bit of enthusiasm to keep him buoyant. At his own pleading, he’d been reduced to Corporal two years prior. Since then, he’d had his left carotid artery shot out and been hit in the gut with a ten-pound mortar that hadn’t gone off. Nobody knew which of his squadmates had bandaged his neck and applied the quick-clot, there had been no other survivors from that mission. He was tired of losing friends, tired of answering the questions of the new ones, tired of convalescing and physiotherapy. Tired of transport ships and the drumming of engines.

 

The dreams had begun six months ago. Always a familiar battle, so real he could taste the sweat and blood, and always he would finally achieve his rest. He’d never had trouble sleeping before, but now he looked forward to the nights as his reward, his solace from the life he had come to hate.

 

They had their rebreathers off and were eating breakfast. Everett, the newest transfer was being given the introductions and Gibbons was doing the normal routine,

 

“And this here is Goodluck, watch out you don’t stand too close to him unless you’re done with the service, har-har-har”

 

The laughter was forced, Gibbons could see how sour Gooderson was this morning, but there is comfort in routine. Everett looked at the scar on Gooderson’s forehead and raised his eyebrows in surprise,

 

“Sgt Goodluck is real? I thought you were a myth?”

 

Gooderson dropped his fork, stood up, and left the mess. His breathing was shallow and ragged as he pulled his breather on. He groped blindly through the ship, stumbling through hatches and ignoring the questions from the soldiers and crew members he encountered. He was in the hangar, then he was in the gymnasium, then he was at the door he knew he had come for. He pounded on it with both fists, his heart in his throat, sweat streaming from every pore that wasn’t scar tissue. The Cadian Commissar who opened the door blinked in surprise a few times, that a Krieg corporal would be at his door, but then he read the name-tape and his eyes narrowed.

 

“Corporal Gooderson, how can I help-“

 

Gooderson cut him off, “Listen here, you pus-mouthed chaos spawn, get me off this Vracksing ship right this Vracksing minute or I swear to the Emperor I will-“ the torrent of curses would have continued, but he blacked out. He came to, sprawled on the floor, oaths of pain and murder still flying from his lips at the visibly disturbed officer. The Cadian knew the Krieg veteran team on the ship and where they were headed, and Goodluck’s reputation did precede him, but this outburst was novel and unsettling.

 

“Corporal, you are upset. Report to sick-bay at once for an examination”

 

“Vracks your sick-bay and Vracks YOU sir, get me off this ship”

 

“Follow my order Corporal and go to sick bay this instant!” The Cadian’s face was white as a sheet now, but Gooderson couldn’t see through the red haze of his vision, and foam from his mouth had flecked up into his eye lenses. He was pure frenzy now,

 

“Send the Emperor to the Warp and get me off this ship, NOW”

 

“Corporal Gooderson,” the Cadian hissed, “that is heresy.”

 

“Heresy is my boot up your arse, so Vracksing shoot me,” Gooderson screamed, “just shoot me right now you spawn, shoot me, shoot me,” He tore the rebreather from his face and drew his sidearm, holding the barrel with both hands and the muzzle pressed against the bridge of his nose, the pistol’s grip hanging in the air, begging the officer to grip it and squeeze the trigger. A sob escaped his throat, and then another, “Oh Emperor damn you just shoot me, please oh Emperor please why won’t you just kill me?”

 

--

 

The squad were in their racks, the lights were out and Gillicutty was leading the nighttime prayers when Captain Flannagan rapped on the door three times and then entered, flicking the lights back on as he did. A tall Krieger of about forty-five years old, the medals on his chest told the story of a lifetime of wounds and battles, countless trenches and the blood of millions for inches of desolate rockworlds. A proud leader who could command veterans, his grey eyes fixed on the squad who had leapt from their bunks to stand at attention. He did not wear his breather on ship, as was tradition for officers from MMCIV division.

 

“At ease, gentlemen. I am sure that you are aware of what happened with Goodluck this morning” The men nodded in response to the captain’s question. Everyone on the ship was aware of what had happened with Goodluck, it had taken three Ogryn to pry him from the Commissar’s office, and one of the ship’s medics was in the brig for spreading a rumour that there had been bruises on the officer’s neck. Flannagan could see in the tension of their shoulders that they were frightened for their friend. Such dishonourable conduct could mean a host of punishments, the most lenient of which was usually being discharged from one of the ship’s airlocks.

 

“I have come to tell you that while some of the rumours passed around the ship today are unfounded, it is true that he had an unfortunate outburst in Commissar Larian’s office. While such a situation would generally be assigned a punishment via summary trial, the ship’s Inquisition representative…”

 

Flannagan let the name of the Inquisition hang in the air for a moment, “has recommended that in light of Goodluck’s exemplary record and unique nature of service-related injuries, it is in the best interest of the Astra Militarum that Goodluck’s career not end in such a manner. Gentlemen, I think it goes without saying that this conversation is now strictly classified.”

 

Silence. Flannagan continued, “it has been decided that Lieutenant Gooderson will lead the tip of the spear in the upcoming assault on the citadel in the third campaign on Ptolemy IV. He was dispatched on a tangential transport this evening to that effect. He will be first through the breach in the fortress wall and will surely be covered in the glory of death. You will read his name and exploits mentioned in dispatches forthwith. A replacement will be assigned to your squad in due time. Good night, gentlemen.”

 

With that, he turned on his heel and left. Everett closed the door behind him and turned out the light.

 

Already a million kilometres away, Gooderson slept that night with a smile on his lips. Hope had returned to his waking moments, and no alarm would disturb his dreams until he arrived again on Ptolemy. That night he dreamed only of darkness. It was the best dream he ever had.