Okay, so here's the deal.... I don't play Epic 40K, although I do own
the rules, and intend to play a game sooner or later. I'm in no real
hurry, as I am quite satisfied with Dirtside II. Similarly, I don't
play 40K, since I like Stargrunt just fine. That being said, I do have
more GW figures thn I really like to think about. Anyway, I've been
lurking on the list, absorbing the information about painting, scratch
building, and other generic sorts of things. The current debate about
the lack or realism of E40K reminded me of this story, which I wrote a
few months ago. In it, I make no attempt whatsoever to be unbiased.
Enjoy....
Fair warning, by the by: The following contains curses, and lots of
them. Under the circumstnaces, they seem not so much appropriate as
they do mandatory.
"Christ," whispered Pugh, "It looks like someone slapped a set of
treads onto a dumpster!"
Kemmerman snorted his agreement. "And check out Buck Rogers there!
Sticking his big, ugly ol' head outta the hatch, and not even bothering
to stick a helmet on it! Think he's got a 'Shoot Me' sign on his back,
too?"
"Cut it," snapped the sergeant, "We've got work to do here. Sorenson,
have you got a lock yet?"
"Yessir," he replied, his gaze remaining fixed on the Scorpion's
display. "Ready when you are, sir."
Nodding, the sergeant tapped at his com unit. "Jessup? You ready?" He
nodded again at the reply. "All right then, on my mark...NOW!!"
There was a sudden sharp crack, and the enemy officer�s head vanished,
replaced by a rapidly dispersing red mist. This sound was followed a
heartbeat later with a loud "Crump!" as the Scorpion rocket
penetrated the side of the APC. The vehicle skewed sideways, smoke and
flame billowing from the hole in its side, as the second rocket hit,
this time impacting at the rear.
The APC exploded with a satisfying roar, scattering pieces of men and
metal across the field.
"That," Pugh said with feeling, "was abso-fuckin-lutely beautiful. You
know that? That's a goddamn piece of art right there, Billy! You
should get down there and sign it, you know?"
Sorenson shrugged as he repositioned himself, targeting the second APC.
"It's eighty percent inspiration, ten percent perspiration, and one
hundred and ten percent detonation, my man."
The APC shuddered, and obligingly lost a tread, as the rocket hit it.
"It's a damned good thing that you can shoot, buddy," Pugh said, 'cause
you sure as shit can't add." He shook his head, waving at the men
spilling out of the crippled vehicle. "Now look at that! Bright red
armor? What are they, color-blind? Or just stupid?"
"Neither," interrupted the sergeant, "they're arrogant and VERY well
armored. Now, shut up and shoot."
"Yessir," Pugh muttered, shouldering his rifle, "shooting away, sir.
Doesn't seem to be doing much good, sir."
"When I want your opinion, Pugh, I'll be sure to tell you what it is,
understand? Just keep firing. And Sorenson, wait for my command,
dammit!"
The armored men seemed largely indifferent to the rifle fire, only a
few even bothering to return it.
Miller shook his head as he sprayed bullets down the hill. "Jesus, what
the fuck
are they firing? Howitzers? Those are the biggest goddamn rifles I've
ever seen!"
Pugh snorted. "Yeah, but do think they can actually hit anything with
'em? Might as well just through the damned things at us for all the
good they're doing!" He yelped, jerking back as a crater was blasted
into the ground a foot away from his head. "Yeah, yeah...fuck you too,
Murphy!"
"You know," Pugh noted after a moment, "they really don't seem very
happy, sir. In fact," he added, as he changed clips, "they seem
downright pissed. Sir."
The sergant ignored him. "Jessup? There's a guy down there with a very
big gun. Yeah, the one painted yellow. Eliminate him for me, would
you?"
There was a flash, a bang, and one of the men at the bottom of thehill
collapsed, a neat little hole visible in the side of his helmet. Pugh
made an approving noise. "Very nice, Jessup! You and Sorenson, you're
like the...the..Boticellis of the battlefield, you know? Fuckin'
artistes, I tell ya!"
��Boticellis of the battlefield�, Pugh? What are you on, anyway?�
�It�s called culture, buddy. Give it a try sometime. You�ll like
eating with a fork, I just know it!�
"Um, sir?" Miller said, abruptly, "Sir? They appear to be charging,
sir. Up the hill, sir."
"Yeah," the sergant replied with satisfaction, "Yeah, they certainly
are, aren't they? The big bastards are nothing if not predictable.
Just keep firing, private. Williams, Cook? Be ready."
"My God," Pugh marveled, "the guy in front has a sword! A goddamn
sword! What�s in his other pocket, a flint fucking spear?"
They did, he had to admit to himself, certainly LOOK impressive. Each
stood at least seven feel tall, and their brilliant red armor made them
look even bigger. "Kind of a shame they're such morons," he
muttered.
Two of the charging men fell, neither making it even halfway up the
hill, but the remaining seven kept coming, firing, apparently at
random,as they did.
"Now!" the sergant shouted. "Now, dammit!"
The man in the lead, the one waving the sword, was cut almost in half
by the incoming plasma bolt. Those behind him stopped sort, caught in
the crossfire as William's and Cook's squads opened fire. Sorenson fired
the Scorpion, catching one man squarely in the center of his chest. The
result was, while interesting, far from pretty.
The concentrated fire of fifteen men proved sufficient. Almost. Only
one man made it to the top of the hill, his armor cracked and pitted
with innumerable bullet holes. Moving with remarkable speed for such a
large man, he surged forward, grabbing the sergant by the throat before
the rest of the squad could react.
"Now," the man rasped, his voice distorted by his helmet, "you shall
die, in the Emperor's...."
*BLAM*
He stopped.
Looked down.
Saw the smoke rising from the barrel of the pistol pressed firmly
against his stomach.
And fell, gently, to the ground.
The sergant stepped back, rubbing gingerly at his throat. "He was a
tough bastard, I'll give him that much," he said, hoarsely. He prodded
at the corpse with his toe, dislodging the man's helmet with a
sudden fierce kick.
"Jesus, what did they do?" asked Pugh, "Shave an ape?" The man's
features were grotesquely exaggerated, almost to the point of
caricature.
"That," said the sergant, "is what happens when you combine several
centuries of extensive genetic and bionic engineering with being raised
from birth to worship an immortal psychopath. Makes you understand the
Promixa Covenant, doesn't it?" He sighed. "Stupid goddamned fanatics.
They think they entire universe should play by their rules. Well, fuck
that. We're gonna show 'em how a war is SUPPOSED to be fought. Space
Marines, my ass!" He kicked the corpse again, not gently. "How do you
like life at ground zero, asshole?"
Tom Sullivan
Praise "Bob"!
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Received on Thu Mar 05 1998 - 19:34:47 UTC