Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  Streck had ordered the men to conserve their energy packs. Until such a time as someone got a clean aim at an eldar, no one was to fire. Silent as.death’s scythe, a spinning disc as fast as light skimmed into the armoured shell and struck the man closest to Streck in the head. His face a bloodied mess, he died before he could scream.

  The Guardsmen fired wildly into the darkness. Lasfire lit up the bunker for a few seconds.

  ‘No! Where I’m firing.’ Streck screamed. ‘Fire on my lead!’

  The men still fired in all directions. A wave of enemy fire swept down into the bunker and cut more Guardsmen down. Limbs severed, screams ceased. Their wild firing was serving only to reveal their positions. A flash revealed two eldar rushing forward from the dark cover of the mangroves. Their feet hardly splashing the shallow water, they moved with terrifying grace, long hair running wild from hard armour crafted from sorcerous materials. Chainswords screaming, they fell upon the revealed Guardsmen, slicing through flesh and bone like it was water.

  Streck spun and levelled his bolt pistol at the carnage. Men were falling by pairs, dual cries of terror sending others running.

  ‘Hold your ground! For the Emperor!’ Streck felled one of the eldar, three shots cutting cleanly through the lurid helm of the alien degenerate. The butchery stopped for a second. The remaining eldar withdrew its spinning blades from the carcass of a dead man and let the glowing green eyes of its helm look the commissar up and down.

  ‘Let the Emperor’s might be mine!’ Streck spat bloody spittle as explosive shells cracked from his pistol, jarring his hand and throwing him backwards.

  The alien leapt high over the commissar’s shots. The shells burst against the roof of the bunker, each getting closer to the lightning-fast eldar as it sailed through the air. Streck tumbled through the mud, listless limbs flapping against the ground as the eldar darted after him, twin swords held high above its head like a matador.

  Streck kicked a trembling Guardsman into the path of the eldar and it cut him down without slowing. Shots rung off his assailant’s carapace. Streck rushed a prayer to the Emperor.

  Steaming with sulphurous heat, the eldar dove at Streck. Bracing for the pain, the commissar blinked. It was all the time needed. Opening his eyes again, Streck looked up and traced the jittering death spasm of his assailant. It lay on the end of a large, crude chainsword. Engraved words following the blade read Catachan IV.

  Lieutenant Lownes, dour face slick with the heat, looked down at the commissar. ‘It would appear you’re surrounded.’

  IT TOOK SOME moments to cover the dead and regroup under the dripping steel bunker. Half the fortification was ripped open down one side, and Lownes set two Jungle Fighters to block it with whatever rubble they could scavenge and cram into the space without being shot.

  ‘Why did they let you through, lieutenant?’ Commissar Streck said, looking down over the Catachan commander.

  ‘False hope. You’ve held out this far – thought you’d be saved.’ Lownes continued bandaging a Guardsman’s arm. ‘There’s only five of us. Not nearly enough to help dig you out of this one.’

  ‘We’re doomed? Is that what you think, lieutenant?’ Streck stared into the Catachan’s eyes.

  Lownes stood and gestured at the huddled, forlorn figures. ‘No, it’s what they think.’ He grinned at the commissar. ‘I’ve been in worse situations than this.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well they’re not tyranids, that’s a start.’

  Streck turned his back on the Catachan and looked out through the dark hole that was once a bunker wall. ‘I will wait until daybreak before I command the men to attack. We make our stand here. The glory of the Emperor will aid our fight.’

  ‘They won’t let us make it through to daybreak. They’ll shell this bunker to rubble before they let us see their positions. We need to set a trap, lure some in and get out of here,’ Lownes replied. The commissar turned to face him.

  ‘When the Great One was fighting the foul Horus, do you think he set about creating a trap to “lure” him to his death? With will alone he defeated the fiend, not simple tricks. Was he not—’

  Lownes shook his head. ‘Commissar. Sir. I am not questioning doctrine, rather trying to get my men and yourself out of here alive. Glory can wait for another day.’

  ‘Glory must be the sole aim of each man, each day. His mind a temple, his body a weapon in the service of the Emperor.’

  Lownes looked up at the roof, then fixed Streck with a steely glare. ‘I hate to say it, sir, but this particular temple should be condemned – and all of the Emperor’s weapons are running out of ammunition.’

  THE PREPARATIONS TOOK only a few moments. Lownes and his men scampered in and out of the bunker, low to the ground like crabs. Others ran the detonating cable they’d scavenged from the burnt-out fire base along the ground. Commissar Streck looked on, his face a granite scowl. In his head he played through the various positions he could take. From depths he had not penetrated for some years he drew out fragments of doctrine, of teachings and precedents. The rebellion on Ultar III, bloody merciless suppression, the Emperor’s Grace for those whose minds were mortally fatigued. Streck formulated, stipulated and prepared his judgement, dark eyes impenetrable to those who would dare look the commissar in the face.

  Only one man did. ‘Commissar, we are ready, thank the Emperor,’ Lownes called from a precarious position atop the bunker.

  Streck stood well back. The Catachans had jury-rigged several grenades at weak points about the rubble strewn about the outer walls of the bunker.

  ‘There’s double-thick plating up that end.’ Lownes said, pointing. ‘Everyone up there.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting we do, lieutenant?’ Streck sneered.

  ‘We’ve rigged the outside with explosives. This bunker is now one big grenade.’ Even Streck shuddered a little at this suggestion. ‘All we need to do is lure them in and let the thing rip.’

  ‘How do you propose we do that?’

  ‘Surrender.’ Lownes grinned.

  ‘Alien heretics are not known for taking prisoners.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I DON’T SEE them coming.’ The jungle was still in the bright dawn light.

  ‘You won’t until they’re close enough to make a kill.’ Lownes called, keeping his voice low. He continued staring out from the bunker, lasgun sight fixed on the young Guardsman. The small figure shuffled forward towards the edge of the clearing, gazing nervously all around him.

  ‘They’re fast, sir.’

  ‘I know, son. That’s why I sent you out there. You’ve got reflexes that would make the Departmento Munitorium consider giving you special training.’ Lownes was nervous too. He couldn’t make out any movement in the faint light of the waking day.

  ‘Think so, sir?’ The Guardsman lowered his white flag for a moment as he looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Keep your eyes sharp, soldier.’

  ‘Well?’ Streck’s voice rung the length of the bunker.

  ‘Nothing yet, commissar.’ Lownes flicked his head; sweat had saturated his bandanna and was beginning to ran into his eyes. ‘Tense, isn’t it?’

  ‘You make sure your men are ready and I’ll take care of mine.’ Streck turned his back on him and stalked the length of his retinue.

  Lownes motioned with his hand and the three remaining Jungle Fighters crept forward, keeping their heads low. ‘We have the surprise.’ Lownes whispered to his men. ‘We may be outnumbered but we’ve been through much worse and lived. Get through this and I’ll look into getting us into Segmentum Solar, closer to home.’

  Streck’s voice came ringing down the length of the bunker as he walked along the line of nervous Imperial Guardsmen. ‘Fear is the province of the weak and unworthy. There is no glory for those who run from battle or fail to raise their weapon in anger. Others who come after you will remember this day if you fight with valour. We are outnumbered – this planet is destined to be taken. T
here are too many of the obscene enemies of the Emperor and too few of his servants.’ Streck removed a copy of the Imperial Scriptures from his overcoat. ‘I am a hard man but I give you my blessing for what it is worth. For each man lost—’

  ‘Lieutenant! They’re coming!’ the Guardsman screamed from outside, running hell for leather for the bunker.

  ‘Keep that flag waving!’ Lownes yelled as he motioned his men into action. A tall, slender shape, moving fast amongst the trees, took aim on the young Guardsman. Lownes reached out and grabbed the sprinting soldier by the lapels, swinging him into safety. A dozen shuriken ripped the white flag out of the Guardsman’s hand, shredding it against the thick concrete wall.

  Honed reflexes snapping into action, one of the other Jungle Fighters raised his lasgun and cut the alien down with a single shot. Its seared body armour glowed faintly in the dawn light as it dropped like cut bamboo into the swamp. The Catachans fell back from the bunker opening, firing neat bursts at the charging eldar as they crossed the clearing.

  ‘Everyone back… and pray this works.’ Lownes snatched up a small control panel, twenty lines patched into it. The first inhuman figure was silhouetted in the bunker’s doorway.

  ‘Everybody down!’

  ‘Emperor protect us!’ Streck cried as Lownes slammed his hand down on the panel.

  A rush of air, like a deep space air lock blowing, dragged at the Imperial Guard huddled in the bunker. Men cried and blood burst from ear drums as the explosion raged through the confined space. Flame rushed about the soldiers, setting some alight. Lownes grabbed the brave young Guardsman and threw his flaming body to the ground, holding him down to smother the flames. Commissar Streck screamed prayers to the Emperor as the flames rose higher.

  Then silence.

  STRECK WAS THE first to open his eyes. Gashes in the bunker roof bled shafts of light into the dust-choked darkness. The pages of his book of scripture lay scattered and burning around his collapsed body.

  The commissar struggled to his feet and staggered out of a ripped hole into the warm dawn air. It was filled with the smell of burning steel, harsh and metallic, lapping at the edges of his nostrils. A dozen eldar lay on the ground; some moved, others lay still. Streck stumbled towards one of the aliens, its leg pinned to the ground by a steel girder. The eldar flapped uselessly at the beam, the blood running freely onto the ground marking the minutes it had left to live. Streck dropped to his knees and grappled with the creature’s helm, ripping it from side to side, rocking loose the bonds that fastened it. The eldar slapped at Streck, making limp, childlike attempts to knock him to the ground. Streck stumbled backwards as the helm came loose, revealing the pale white skin of the alien.

  ‘Heretic scum.’ Streck panted. ‘Look upon the face of man!’ Streck raised his bolt pistol and held it to the eldar’s forehead. The alien closed its eyes and sat still. Streck holstered his weapon and pulled himself to his feet using the girder that impaled the eldar. The creature screamed, a hollow, soulless noise. ‘No mercy for you, degenerate.’

  ‘Commissar, get down!’ Lieutenant Lownes burst from the bunker, a lasgun under each arm. Streck snapped his head around and saw several more eldar rushing from the shadows of the jungle, fluted weapons pointed in his direction.

  Streck fell backwards and pulled an eldar’s body over him just as a barrage of spinning discs collided where he had been standing. Lownes unleashed a volley of burning hot laser fire from each of his weapons. They seared eldar armour, sinking deep into the soft flesh beneath. A humming shuriken clipped Lownes’s arm. Reacting to the stinging pain, the seasoned warrior dropped to his stomach to give himself cover.

  ‘For the Emperor!’ Lownes called from his prone position, waving his hand high in the air.

  The remaining Imperial Guardsmen opened fire, using the precarious cover of the destroyed bunker. Their shots flashed through the superheated air, slamming into both eldar and muddy swamp. From the edges of the vegetation, Lownes’s Jungle Fighters unleashed everything they had. Streck had not seen them move through the mangroves to cut off the eldar. Grenades threw wads of swamp filth up into the air, toppling the eldar.

  Lownes lunged forward, holstering one lasgun to unstrap his chainsword. A wounded eldar lurched forward at Lownes from the swamp. Its chainsword whirled close to Lownes’s head, metal teeth spitting mud across his face. Lownes brought his own sword up against the eldar’s. The creature slammed a quick succession of blows against the Catachan, Lownes catching each with a narrow parry. He held the last of the eldar’s blows on his chainsword, drove his lasgun into the alien warrior’s chest and fired. The force from the gun threw the eldar back into the muddy water, its chainsword still spinning as it jerked in a death spasm.

  Lownes caught sight of the commissar’s muddy uniform amidst the dead eldar.

  ‘You still alive, commissar?’ Lownes asked, dragging an eldar body off Streck.

  ‘I will not run. Help me to my feet and let me fight for my glory.’

  ‘You’ve got shellshock. It might only be temporary.’

  ‘Let me fight,’ Streck spluttered, blood trickling out of his ears and mouth.

  ‘You’re hardly able to stand. You’d better serve the Emperor by getting out of this alive, sir. We must retreat.’

  Lownes hoisted the commissar onto his shoulder and begun to stagger through the swamp, away from the battle. Streck fired his pistol uselessly in the direction of the remaining eldar forces.

  ‘Fall back to the main installation!’ Lownes shouted over the noise of the battle.

  ‘No!’ Streck cried. ‘We hold our ground and fight to the last!’

  The ragged band moved in increments from the bunker, some supporting others on their shoulders. Every few steps, men would have to take cover and return fire on the advancing eldar. Lownes kept pace with the men, hacking aside any vines or large fronds that slowed their progress. After an hour’s forced march, guns levelled every step of the way in fear of more eldar, the Guardsman reached the central installation, the key Imperial defence position in this sector of Olstar Prime. Lownes staggered forward, the commissar straggling on his back, until he passed under the heavy gates to the compound and fell to his knees.

  ‘How dare you challenge a commissar!’ Streck screamed at Lownes as the lieutenant knelt, panting on the ground, his face crimson. The commissar flailed himself to his feet, tottered for a moment and then stood erect. ‘How long have we been out of the battle?’

  ‘It’s over, Streck.’

  ‘Over?’

  ‘The surviving elements of the Fifth are returning; my men are guiding them through the jungle as we speak.’

  ‘They know the way back!’ Streck snapped.

  ‘They’re taking an alternate route.’

  ‘Creeping back like dogs on their bellies!’

  ‘The same way we got back alive.’

  ‘You have threatened my immortality today, Lownes. I have fought gloriously in every battle I have joined. I have never turned my back on the enemy. I have suffered countless wounds and remained alive, to fight again for the sanctity of man and the honour of the Emperor!’

  ‘Save your preaching.’ the Catachan said, shaking his head. ‘I serve the Emperor just like you, but I would rather fight than die a lone fool striking out against a hundred enemies. If I can find a way to make a difference I will, but I will not die in some forsaken swamp for no reason other than glory.’

  ‘Glory is found through death.’

  ‘Glory is what I make of it.’

  Commissar Streck stared at the Jungle Fighter. Both men stood still, Lownes’s eyes cast to the ground.

  ‘I’m going to find my men.’ Lownes turned his back and left the compound.

  HE STOOD TALL amongst the returning Imperial Guardsmen. The battle over, few walked upright, their energy spent. Even those unwounded walked like men with a death sentence, their eyes towards the ground, bodies near paralysed with dread resolve. Amidst scant cheers, the Catachan Jun
gle Fighters arrived, leading the Guardsmen through the massive barricade gate. Catachan, a planet of fringe dwellers, souls sworn to the Emperor despite lives spent in obscene pursuits. For Streck these troops were worse than barbarian outriders. They fought in no formation, wore no real uniform, misused weapons and showed no honour in battle. They did not stand and fight but nipped at the enemy’s heels like dogs.

  Lownes stood at the head of the returning men, his face dour, despite his heroics on the battlefield. No cheer passed his lips, no smile broke his face. Dead and living travelled through the gates. Bodies upon stretchers covered by shrouds soon separated from the file of men; like driftwood cast out of the sea by waves, they were directed towards the morgue and crematorium. Above everything hung a persistent roaring, as merchant ships – not bound by illusory notions of duty and honour – heaved into orbit from the refugee-choked landing pads, every space filled with those who could afford today’s asking price.

  Streck followed the Jungle Fighters through the complex. People scurried about frantically like ants, laden down with bundles of equipment and rations. Many of the civilian buildings had been stripped, Guardsmen protecting the military installations. Streck was unsurprised by the Catachan’s destination when they finally pushed open the crude metal doors of the last open saloon. In the dim light, a woman divesting herself of clothing betrayed their motives.

  So soon after the glory of battle! Streck was sick with the thought of what these men were truly like. No sooner had their bodies done the glorious work of the Emperor than their weak spirits drove them into the clutches of flesh and alcohol.

  Without really thinking what he was doing, the commissar entered through the back of the saloon, clenching his book of scripture tightly in his hand. The bar owner’s pockmarked face twisted white as the agent of the Emperor’s law entered. Streck sat amidst the din and smoke and watched. He had never entered the saloon before; military business had never given him reason to.

  The woman moved listlessly. Streck assumed she was shutting out the desperate, doomed faces of those about her, the reminders of her own fate. The Catachan were more sullen than earlier. They drank and watched the woman dance with loveless eyes. Streck looked across their faces. Scarred, brows furrowed, they stared dark-eyed into their glasses. Their lips moved in crude motions, mouthing words with such effort that Streck could read their lips through the filth laden air.