Chapter Six – To Live Is Shame
Dos vaulted into the trench behind the Engineers, bolt pistol gripped in his right hand, power sword in his left.
The moment his boots struck earth, he raised his arm and put two rounds through two heretics. He snapped the power sword across his chest, blocking a sneak attack from a lurker. A nearby Engineer sent the cultist to meet the Emperor with a bayonet thrust. Only then did Dos remember he hadn't activated the sword's disruption field.
He thumbed the switch. The blade shimmered with pale blue light, arcs of white lightning writhing along its edge like serpents. That's more like it.
He found another heretic and brought the sword down. Half the man simply vanished, the power field erasing flesh and bone as cleanly as a stroke through wet paint.
Even if doubt gnawed at him, Dos showed these cultists no mercy; their hands were stained with more blood than he cared to count. It was why the Imperium recognized only one god: the Emperor.
Dos almost laughed at the absurdity. Charging Krieg with bayonets? Did these heretics even know who they were facing? They'd probably never heard of the Death Korps.
When the enemy seized the cramped trench and nullified the bayonet's reach, the Engineers simply tossed their rifles aside, whipped out entrenching tools, and introduced the cultists to the proletarian power of the shovel.
The line inched forward. The enemy gave ground.
Dos nodded to himself. "Not bad. I'm actually pretty good."
Any field officer who heard that thought would have slapped him. With total fire superiority and better troops, even a dog on a leash could win. Scatter grain on a keyboard, and a chicken could outperform him.
His smugness died the instant he heard it, the familiar thunder of heavy footfalls.
"You've got to be kidding me..."
"Throne, damn it! This is only the outpost...why are there Astartes here?" Dos stowed the power sword and shifted the bolt pistol to his right hand. After a heartbeat's hesitation, he bolted. The colossal footfalls hammered his courage to fragments with every step.
"Run! Get out!" he shouted, sprinting past the Engineers.
But the Engineers merely leveled their rifles and charged toward the sound of the enemy, brushing past him one by one.
Their masks hid every expression, contempt or scorn, but their silent advance was mockery enough. The chainsaw's whine grew louder, closer. The fearless Kriegsmen barely slowed the monster.
That confirmed it: a Khornate Space Marine, a butcher built for close quarters. Dos accelerated. All two hundred Engineers could throw themselves at the thing and still wouldn't last long enough to dull its chainaxe.
Every Engineer he passed chose the opposite direction. For them, Certain Death is accepted.
"Let them go. I've done my part. I just want to live, nothing wrong with that." He ran, head down, afraid to meet their gaze.
He sprinted until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned, yet the Astartes never fell behind.
Determined to fire at least a few bolt rounds or throw an Aquila salute before dying, Dos suddenly heard hoofbeats.
(T/N:- Note: the Aquila salute honors the Emperor; to a traitor, it is the big middle finger.)
Dos rolled out of the trench, twisted, and snapped off three bolt rounds at the crimson-armored Khornate. The giant raised his left arm to guard his helm and lifted the chainaxe high.
A melta lance flashed in and struck his shoulder. The detonation vaporized half the traitor's left side. Even a ceramite plate yields to melta fire.
Engineers swarmed, bayonets seeking joint seals. A dozen men pinned the monster for two seconds, long enough for the chainaxe to sweep down and bisect half of them. Their deaths bought another heartbeat.
A Death Rider charged, spare melta lance lowered. One thrust, one hit to the helm, the demigod fell.
Dos lay gasping in the dirt, eyes dull.
"Running from a Khorne Berzerker, what were you thinking?" The voice was familiar. Dos glanced at the rider's tag: Colonel 0361. 'Of course'
"Tactical withdrawal," Dos muttered. "What brings you here?"
"Should I applaud your wit? I came to see the strategic real estate we bought for half an artillery company's shells, and to check if you were still breathing."
"As you can see, " Dos wheezed, spreading his arms, eyes bulging. "You... you are a son of a—"
"That's not High Gothic."
"Old Terran greeting, pre-2K. The instructors taught us." Sorry, Instructor.
"Whatever. Don't die. You're still useful."
"Really? For what?" Dos sat bolt upright. He knew exactly how worthless his tactics and swordwork were, barely good enough against hive gangers with black-market implants.
"If you die, the whole regiment stands down for three days while we wait for a new Political Commissar."
'My low blood pressure will only be cured after I mentally beat 0361 a few hundred times,' Dos snarled, "Duel me. I'll allow you to put both your arms behind your back!"
0361 wondered if the Khornate had rattled Dos's brain.
The Commissar wore only fatigues and cavalry plate, no greatcoat, no peaked cap, just a spiked helm. Hardly ideal for melee, and even with both hands tied, he wouldn't lose to Dos.
Half a minute later, Dos lay staring at the sky, two boot prints stamped across his coat. 0361 stood with hands clasped behind his back, uniform only slightly dusty.
The simplest cure for Dos's condition: beat sense into him. At least he felt clearer now.
He wasn't just a rookie; he was bottom-tier, fit only to survive and wait for orders. The power sword? Pure decoration. By the time he finished brooding, 0361 had gone. Dos dusted off his coat and headed back.
On the way, he met the Krieg Quartermaster searching for wounded.
Dos meant to walk past, but the memory of the Engineer who'd died before him, and those who'd brushed past on their way to certain death, made him sigh.
"Consider this my debt to you..."
He knelt, checking dog tags until he found a man still breathing. He dragged the Engineer from the pile and laid him flat. The worst, and only wound, was high on the right thigh.
The entire right leg was gone. The stump was ragged, charred, shredded, worse than any animal's bite.
"You must have caught a chainaxe sweep." Dos unfastened the calf bandage and applied a tourniquet with practiced ease. Glancing at the collar tag, he kept talking. "Hold on, 9372. You'll make it. You are a one tough son of bitch!"
9372 did not answer, and for some reason, Dos felt afraid...
[End of Chapter]