A little SGII Tale

So here's the story: I've been at work all week long, and I have been 
really, REALLY bored.  Really.	Thus, what follows was born.  Enjoy.  
And yes, I am tempted to apologize for that last line, but what the 
hell!  It sounded good at the time.

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 was 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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