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.”