Fiction

Hey guys,
I just finished a sci-fi combat story I've been working on for several
months.
It's sort of a 40k universe story, but with a new Imperial Gurad force
that is
more of a GZG type unit. Culture clash. Hpe you enjoy it. You can check
it out
here:
 http://www.concentric.net/~Los/40k/Gowda/gowdaix.htm
I'm including this as a little ad for the story. Takes place as the unit
is
going dirtside (Alamar is a reporter):

Throughout the docking bay, the pace was picked up. Troops and loaders
moved
into the small shuttles. Alamar was appalled that the whole platoon,
almost
fifty in number including attachments, would fit on the impossibly small
ship.
As the troops began the slow process of boarding, the platoon’s NCOs,
working
with the shuttle’s crew chief, herded the troops into the shuttle.
There were
not enough seats to fit them all, so the men sat on the floor, squeezed
together. Alamar, sitting towards the front of the cargo compartment
felt
squeezed in. He could barely breath. He asked a Corporal jammed next to
him, “Is
this how you men normally ride into battle?”
“Heck no! We usually go down in style on our assault landers. Which are
sittin’
all freakin’ conformable back on Scotia Prime. Ain’t that just some
shit? But
hey? That’s life in the food chain. In this business you gotta be
flexible.”
Riccio and the crew chief got the last of the men in and sealed the
hatch. He
walked over the bodies of his men, stepping on their packs, holding on
to a
conduit running the length of the compartment’s ceiling. “Come on
people,
tighten it up! Make your buddy smile.”
“I think I’m gonna get sick.” Said one unidentified soldier morosely.
“Hey Sarge, I gotta go to the bathroom!” Said another. Everyone
laughed.
Alamar sweated profusely packed tight amongst the other soldiers. He
couldn’t
access the control to his environmental undersuit. One free hand held
the vid
recorder up and panned it around the compartment. The soldiers had
settled down
quietly now, awaiting launch. Alamar began to feel anxiety building in
him. What
if the life support system in the ship went out? What if one of these
men
accidentally discharged a lasrifle into his back? Everyone was so packed
and
jumbled together he was sure it was a distinct possibility. What if the
transport was hit now with the shuttle still in it’s bay? Would they
ever get
out? What if they were hit during descent? There would be no escape.
What waited
for them on the ground? Tyrannids? The thought took his breath away. He
shifted
his weight a bit to avoid the laspistol digging into his hip. Suddenly
he wished
he had more practice in its use. What if he ran into a Genestealer? What
if?
Zalandar Alamar had spent most of his adult life as a member of the
Administratum and a servant of the Emperor. In that time the Imperium
had been
in constant war with many enemies alien and human. But he himself had
never been
in real danger before as he was now. He closed his eyes tight and prayed
for the
protection of the almighty Emperor.
After a brief prayer, Alamar felt the shuttles engines hum to life. He
snapped
his eyes open. The interior cockpit was bathed in red light. “Run final
systems
self check”, he heard over his helmet’s earpeice. Zalandar realized he
had the
pilot’s channel jacked into his signal mixer. “Cleared for
departure.”
Beside him, the young Corporal stared at nothing, chewing gum or
something. He
noticed for the first time the patch on the man’s shoulder. It appeared
to be a
large feline predator of some sort. He believed it was a panther,
crouched on a
rock, about to strike. Above it were the numerals 505. Below it the
phrase
H-minus. He tapped the man on the shoulder. The Corporal jerked his head
and
looked at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asked Alamar, pointing to the man’s
patch.
“What?”
“H-minus? What’s that mean on your patch? H-minus?”
That’s our battalion motto. H-minus is that time before the operation
kicks off.
Just before the assault. Before the drop. When all the preparations are
done and
there’s nothing left but you and your thoughts. When you have to steel
yourself.
That’s H-minus. That’s what combat is all about. That’s what we get
paid for.”
Alamar understood the feeling perfectly now.
“Ain’t it great?” The Corporal grinned at him. Alamar swallowed hard,
and the
Corporal threw his head back and laughed. “Ha, you’ll be alright! By
the way,
the name’s Zeke. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Adminustratum.”
The shuttle jerked as it lifted off the deck and edged out of the ship.
There
were a number of whoops and shouts amongst the platoon. Sergeant Riccio
stood
for a moment. “Hey Chief! Play the damn tape!” The crew chief gave the
platoon
sergeant a thumb’s up and pressed a button on his console. Suddenly the
cabin
was filled with blaring music, heavy and martial. Threatening. He saw
the men
grin in approval.
“What’s that for?” He asked Zeke.
“That’s battle music, troop.” Zeke grinned. “Some old tune. I think
it’s called
Mars, the Bringer of War or something sufficiently scary like that.
Whips the
boys into a frenzy Steels their minds. Calms their nerves. Gets ‘em
psyched up.
Get’s em to stop worrying about what the enemy is going to do to them
and start
thinking about what they’re going to do to the enemy. Get it?” Alamar
gave a
nod. Zeke slapped him hard on his shoulder and laughed. Alamar was
slammed back
into the man behind him as the shuttle accelerated towards the planet.
“Do you think everything will go ok?” Alamar asked
“Nah, it’ll get fucked up. It always does.”