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?"

> On Tue, 6 Jan 1998, Tom Miller wrote:

Awesome. Truly awesome.:)

> Tom Miller wrote:

> So here's the story: I've been at work all week long, and I have been

Wow!  You should go to work more often.  :-)

Thanks for a very entertaining story.

Tom

> Tom Miller wrote:
--->8---

> "That," said the sergant, "is what happens when you combine

May I please have your permission to post this on the space-marine (ie

> Tom Miller wrote:

> "That," said the sergant, "is what happens when you combine

Heretic! Foul follower of Chaos!!! Blasphemer of the most Holy Emperor of
Mankind!!!!!

You wonderfully clever soul, you.....