As he watched them, Larn began to understand for the first time that each of the Vardans had
once been like him. Each of them had been a green recruit. Each of them had once been a new fish
and he realised there was hope for him in that thought. If each of these men had somehow learned
how to survive the brutalities and privations of this place, then so could he. He would learn. And he
would survive.
And then, comforted by that warm and happy thought, before he even knew it, Larn was asleep.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
20:01 hours Central Broucheroc Time
A Mosaic Coloured in Blues, Greens, and Reds — A Dream of Home — A Bombardment Again —
Zeebers’ Behaviour is Perhaps Explained — Sergeant Chelkar Rallies the Troops — The Myth of
The Big Push
“You ordered us to Alert Condition Red!” the general roared, his voice so loud that the Guardsmen
and militia auxiliaries seated at their work stations around them in the Situation Room gave a
collective jump. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“If you would allow me to explain, sir,” Colonel Drezlen said, his expression tight as he stood
facing the older man, fighting visibly to keep his own temper in check.
“Explain?” General Pronan thundered. “What is there to explain? You have grossly exceeded
your authority, colonel. I could have you court-martialled for this.”
“I had no choice, sir,” Drezlen said. “We were faced with an emerging situation, and you were
elsewhere—”
“Don’t try and lay the blame for this debacle at my door, Drezlen.” The general’s cheeks grew
florid with rage. “You will only end up making matters worse for yourself, you hear me? I know
very well I was away from Sector Command. I was at General Headquarters, where fortunately I
was made aware of your alert order in time to quash it before all hell could let loose.”
“You… quashed it?” Drezlen said, appalled. “You countermanded the alert?”
“Of course I did. Have you any idea of the fuss an alert order can cause? Troops are seconded
from other sectors all across the city, extra supplies are sent up, reserve units are brought forward to
the front. Sweet Emperor, man! Don’t you know a sector has to be on the verge of being overrun
before an order to go to Alert Condition Red is warranted? Never mind the fact that, by issuing an
alert on your own authority, you violated the chain of command!”
“You countermanded the alert,” Drezlen said quietly, his face ashen. “I can’t believe it…”
“Yes. And by doing it I likely saved you from a firing squad,” the volume of the general’s voice
had fallen, his manner growing more composed as his anger abated. “But you can thank me for that
later, Drezlen. First, I want you to start giving me some answers.”
“Answers?” Drezlen was curt. “Very well, general. Let me give you all the answers you could
want.” He turned towards a nearby Guardsman seated beside a control panel covered in dials and
switches. “Corporal Venner? Activate the pict-display and bring up the current situation map for our
sectors. Let us see if we can show the general exactly why I believed we had reached Alert
Condition Red status.”
At the flick of a switch the large rectangular pict-display set into one of the Situation Room’s
walls suddenly hummed into life, a small white dot appearing in the middle of the black screen
before expanding to cover its entire surface. Then, as Corporal Venner worked another series of
switches, the situation map for Sectors 1-10 through 1-20 appeared on screen. A mosaic coloured in
blues, greens, and reds: blue for the areas under Imperial control; green for the parts held by the
orks; red for the territories whose ownership was currently being contested.
“I don’t understand,” the general said, looking up at the pict-display in confusion. “I don’t
remember seeing all this red on the board when I left for General Headquarters this morning.”
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“Matters have developed considerably since then, general,” Drezlen said. “As of fifteen minutes
ago no less than ten of the eleven sectors under your command are currently being attacked by the
orks. In each case, the pattern is the same: massed assaults preceded by lengthy bombardment by
enemy artillery, as well as coordinated attacks on vital facilities by gretchin suicide bombers and ork
troops. Currently, it is unclear how many of these assaults are the real thing and how many are
intended only as diversions to put pressure on our resources.”
“Diversions? Lengthy bombardments? Coordinated attacks?” the general’s expression was
incredulous. “Have you lost your mind, man? You’re talking as though the enemy were working to
some kind of coherent plan of action. For the Emperor’s sake, these are orks we are talking about!
They don’t have the brains or organisational ability to put anything like that in motion.”
“Be that as it may, sir, it appears that is precisely what they are doing. So far, we are holding on
by our fingernails. But if you want to see just how bad things here could get, take a look at Sector 1-
13.”
“1-13?” the general said. “What are you talking about Drezlen? The situation map says Sector 1-
13 is blue.”
“Yes, sir. And what is more, it is the only sector that has yet to be attacked. And I ask you,
leaving aside for a moment the fact that our enemies are orks, what does that suggest to you?”
“You don’t mean?” the general blustered. “But that is impossible, colonel…”
“Ordinarily I would agree, sir. But there seems to be a pattern here. And, given that pattern, we
have to ask why would the orks launch a major offensive against every sector to the side of it and
leave Sector 1-13 unmolested? Unless what we are seeing on the situation map are only the opening
moves of a larger assault intended to tie up our forces and allow the orks a clear ran at their real
target. Imagine it, general: if the orks were to launch a full-scale assault on Sector 1-13 now, there
would be precious little we could do to stop them achieving a sector-wide breakthrough.”
“But if that happened, our forces in other sectors would have to retreat or risk being cut off. It
could turn into a rout. No. It is just not possible, Drezlen. They are orks. Savages. They are not
clever enough to have…”
For a moment, turning to gaze intently at the pict-display before him the general fell quiet.
Watching the old man’s troubled face as he silently wrestled with all he had heard, Colonel Drezlen
felt a sudden sympathy for him. General Pronan was an old school solider, thoroughly indoctrinated
by his forty years in the Guard in the belief that all aliens were little better than animals. The idea he
might have been outmanoeuvred by them, and by orks for that matter, would be hard for him to
swallow but it was a matter of evidence. Slowly, Drezlen saw a grim look of resolve come over the
general’s face. He had made his decision.
“All right, then,” the general said at last. “Let us assume for the sake of argument your theory is
correct. Can we reinforce Sector 1-13?”
“No, sir. As I say, all our forces are tied up fighting off the orks in other sectors.”
“What about our forces already inside Sector 1-13? Who do we have stationed there?”
“Company Alpha, the 902nd Vardan Rifles, commanded by Sergeant Eugin Chelkar.”
“A single company?” the general’s voice was a dry whisper. “Commanded by a sergeant? That’s
all we have? But, Holy Throne, if you are right and the attack comes—”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Drezlen said. “If that happens, then two hundred and something Guardsmen
are all that stands between us and this entire map going green.”
He dreamed of home. He dreamed of spring: the earth of the fields wet and rich as the seeds were
planted. He dreamed of summer: the sky blue and endless overhead as rows of golden wheat grew
ripe below it. He dreamed of autumn: the same sky now thick with lazy smoke from the burning of
the stubble after the harvesting was done. He dreamed of winter: the fields dizzyingly empty, the
ground hard with frost. He dreamed, his dreams a jumbled montage of people, places, memories,
recollections.
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He dreamed of home.
He dreamed of the days of his youth. Of the change of the seasons. Of happiness, peace and
contentment.
And then, he awoke to hell once more.
Starting awake at the sound of an explosion overheard, for an instant Larn had no idea where he
was. Gazing blearily about him in confusion, he recognised the dugout and realised he must have
fallen asleep on one of the bunks while the others were talking. Then, he heard another explosion
much louder than the first and looked up to see a thin trickle of soil fall downwards through the gap
between two of the wooden planks that made up the dugout’s inner ceiling.
“That was a close one,” he heard Bulaven’s voice say calmly. “I wouldn’t like to be above
ground in the middle of this one.”
Becoming fully awake, Larn realised he had inadvertently fallen asleep on top of his mess tin.
Wiping away a chunk of congealed gruel that had stuck to his uniform, he turned to see the Vardans
were still gathered nearby. Bulaven sat in one bunk rubbing dubbing into his boots; Scholar sat in
another reading his book; while, incredibly, despite the now continuous roar of explosions
overheard, Davir lay in another bunk sound asleep.
“Ah, you are awake, new fish,” Bulaven said, gesturing up with his thumb toward the ceiling at
the sound of more explosions overhead. “I can’t say I am surprised. They are making enough noise
up there to wake the dead.”
“They are shelling us again?” Larn asked. “Our own side, I mean?”
“Hmm? Oh no, new fish,” Bulaven said. “It is the orks this time. If you listen closely you can
hear the difference, ork shells have a duller sound to them when they explode. Still, you needn’t
worry. These dugouts are built to last. We should be quite safe so long as we are in here.”
“Unless, of course, a shell scores a direct hit on the dugout’s ventilation chimney.” Scholar
raised his eyes from his book. “Even if the shell doesn’t break through it, the chimney is still likely
to funnel the explosion down here.”
“True,” Bulaven said. “Ach, but that hardly ever happens, new fish. You needn’t worry about
that. Anyway, this bombardment won’t last long. The orks have no staying power when it comes to
these things, you see. Chances are whichever ork is in charge of their big guns has become
overexcited for some reason and has decided to let off a few rounds in celebration. Trust me, new
fish, in ten minutes’ time or so it will all be over.”
“How long has it been now,” Larn asked, listening to the muffled thud and whump of shells striking
the ground above the dugout.
“About an hour, I’d say,” Bulaven shrugged, now busy cleaning the trigger mechanism of his
heavy flamer. “Maybe three-quarters. Looks like the orks must be very excited. Still, I wouldn’t
worry too much about it. Don’t let it ruin your barracks time, new fish. They are bound to get tired
of shelling us sooner or later.”
Finding himself far from reassured, Larn looked upward to see another trickle of soil falling
from the gaps between the wooden planks of the ceiling. Remembering a dream of tattered crones
standing around his grave as shovelfuls of earth hit his face, Larn felt an involuntary shiver ran
through him. Those explosions sound close, he thought. What if one of the shells hits the dugout
entrance and we are trapped down here? Would anyone on the surface be able to dig us out? Would
they even try? Sweet Emperor, it might be better if what Scholar talked about happened instead and
a shell hit the ventilation chimney. At least then it would be quick. You would be dead before you
knew it. Not buried alive in this tomb of a dugout, waiting for your air to run out or to slowly die of
thirst and starvation.
Abruptly, realising his nerves were beginning to shred at the constant sound of explosions and
the thought of what those explosions might cause, Larn begin to scan the interior of the dugout in
92
search of something — anything — to take his mind from what was going on above them. Around
him, the dugout had become crowded with men who had taken refuge from the shelling. Among
them he saw Sergeant Chelkar, Medical Officer Svenk, and some of the men from Repzik’s
fireteam. While the din of explosions continued overhead, here life inside the dugout seemed to be
proceeding just as it had before the shelling started. He saw Vardans eating, talking, laughing,
drinking recaf; some of them even trying to sleep like Davir. Then, Larn noticed Zeebers was still
sitting alone against one of the dugout walls, idly tossing a knife around in his hand to catch first the
blade, then the hilt.
Watching Zeebers playing with his knife, Larn felt a sudden urge to have the answer to a
question that had been gnawing at him ever since he had first met the man.
“Bulaven?” he asked. “Before, remember when you told me that I shouldn’t worry too much at
the things Davir said? That it was just his way?”
“Of course I remember, new fish.” Bulaven said. “Why do you bring it up?”
“Well, I was wondering about Zeebers…” Abruptly Larn paused, uncertain how best to broach
the subject.
“Zeebers, new fish? What about him?”
“I think he has noticed that Zeebers has been showing a certain hostility towards him, Bulaven,”
Scholar said, raising his eyes from his book once more to look at Larn. “I am right, yes, new fish?
That is what you were about to ask?”
“Ah, I see,” said Bulaven. “Well, there is no great secret there, new fish. Zeebers just gets
nervous whenever there are any more than four men in our fireteam.”
“Nervous?” asked Larn. “Why?”
“It is a matter of superstition with him,” Scholar said. “Apparently, on Zeebers’ homeworld the
number four is considered lucky. Then, when he first came to Broucheroc and joined us there were
only three men left in our fireteam - Bulaven, Davi, and myself. Hence, Zeebers was the fourth man,
lucky number four to his mind, and he has convinced himself that is how he survived his first fifteen
hours — not to mention how he has survived ever since. So, you see, whenever they send us a new
replacement and there are five men in the fireteam he tends to believe his luck has become
endangered somehow. You remember before I said every man here has his own theory as to how he
survived where so many others have died? Zeebers’ beliefs are but anomer example of the same
thing.”
