The big guns never tire

The Big Guns Never Tire




	“Big guns never tire. Big guns never sleep. Big guns never rest nor nap nor blink. Big guns are hungry. Big guns eat. Big guns eat ammo and cannot be beat. Big guns can't fib or lie or show deceit. But if the big guns die then evil in the sky shall make us say goodbye. (Children's poem of Ferrus minor)
	It is the 41'st millennium, and there is only war. For ten thousand years the God Emperor of mankind has sat upon the golden throne of Terra, lording over a billion worlds in a state of near death. To him each day a thousand souls are sacrificed and billions die in his name. Every moment his infinite armies wage war across a million stars and billion worlds. In this dark and terrible era the ways of peace and understanding have given way to suspicion and doubt. It is an era when your entire world can end in a day, whether to the alien hordes from without or from traitors within. Yet still the Imperium of Man stands. Every day regular men and women hold up the pillars of the Imperium with their acts. The Imperial Guard, the hammer of the emperor watches over and protects the citizens of this galactic empire. On one such planet, Ferrus minor, known for its war machine factories has come under attack by traitors to the forces of chaos, who worship a pantheon of dark and terrible gods, have sparked a conflict which will have consequences for the entire empire. But the Imperial guard stands watch over the small ice covered planet. They will defend the domain of man with their breath and their bodies and their blood. The Imperium has stood for over ten thousand years, but when assailed from all sides by aliens, mutants, and heretics there is no room for peace. No place for forgiveness. There is neither rest nor respite. There is only war.
	Ferrum Minoris. Fifth planet in the Sarcovia sub-sector of the Krovus sector. A planet extremely similar to Holy Terra with slight differences in orbit, rotation and temperature. When the planet was first surveyed to be colonized the median temperature of the planet was measured at roughly -15 degrees with 20 degrees of variation between the seasons.  It was unremarkable enough that survey ships would have passed it by were it not for the great deposits of raw materials found. Great reserves of metals and minerals caught the synthetic eyes of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the tech-priests of Mars. Like carrion vultures they swooped down upon the planet and set up shop. Replacing the vast snow covered wastes, massive towers, habitation districts and manufacturing complexes rose.  Soon lasguns, shotguns, artillery and tanks began to roll off the assembly lines.
	These munitions caught the eyes of the traitor fleets of chaos. Like the tech-priests before them they descended upon the planet hungry for the bounty the planet provided. The Profane of Nurgle they called themselves, traitors dedicated to the worship and service of Nurgle, the daemon god of decay. With an arsenal of virulent plagues at their rotting fingertips they unleashed  hell upon Ferrum Minoris.
Habitation sectors, each containing hundreds of thousands of civilians were wiped out as plague bombs fell, unleashing a thousand different diseases. Survivors barricaded themselves in the greatest of the forges. Designated Alpha Primaris or alpha for short the forge covered a circular area of nearly twenty miles in diameter. Every able bodied man was quickly pressed into the service of the Imperial Guard. Trained in little other than how to operate their guns and how to follow orders these recruits would form the rank and file of the defense force. They would defend their homes, their families, and they would defend their very existence from the forces of chaos.
	As thick as the silicon gas mask was he could feel the snow and biting wind on his face. His thoughts drifted. It must be what? At least a hundred degrees below? He thought. The fresh blanket of snow that had fallen over the forge that morning was now completely devastated by craters and holes. The sky above was a multicolored kaleidoscope of  reds, oranges, yellows, purples and blues on a backdrop of the deepest black.
	“Sir! Sir! Can you hear me? Sir!”
	“Ugh, what?” he groaned
	“You got sent flying be an explosion, Lieutenant Calamar sir.”
	The loud ringing in his ears, the muffled sounds and fact that he was half buried in snow and dirt lent credence to this fact. His heavy winter coat was full of holes, charred black, and his heavy ceramic carapace body armor looked like it had taken a shotgun round or two. Medics and adjutants were swarming his cold dirt bed.
	“Are you injured sir?” The medical officer at his side checked his condition with a vital-scan device. The lieutenant simply shrugged off the medical attention. There were more important things to do.
	“Is it safe to breathe?” he asked the medical officer.
	“Yes sir. Toxin levels are at 3 parts per hundred million.”
	“Good.” Calamar reach around to the back of his head and undid the buckles and catches keeping his helmet and gas mask cemented to his head. The cold air bit and stung at his rosy cheeks and danced and played with his short black hair. His features were pointed but not very and his eyes were sunken into his sockets with an extremely bad case of artillery eye making him look like someone had played a prank with ink and a pair of binoculars. Artillery eye, dubbed by the common guardsmen was a condition where deep and dark rings would form around the eyes. It was caused by a lack of restful  sleep over the course of the war. The twelve curatrix pattern turbo-laser cannons that ringed the forge complex sustained a constant rate of fire into the chaos ships forming a blockage around the planet, annihilating any small ships and keeping the big ships from attacking directly. Each burst sent tremors through the complex for miles waking anyone sleeping
	Feeling the bags under his eyes Calamar sighed. Caffeine and adrenaline could only sustain a man for so long. He took a breath and relished the col crisp air before placing the silicon gas mask back on. The filtered air was stale and tasted funny but at least it was free of diseases.
	The crater in which Calamar stood was situated upon the edge of an overlook above the rest of the Imperial lines, providing a fairly unobstructed view of the soldiers below. Cornrows of trenches defended with heavy gun emplacements and missile launchers crewed by over two hundred tried and tested soldiers.
	“Sir?” Calamar's attention was drawn by the scrawny adjutant dubbed Rat-man by the lower ranks, due to the nervous disposition of the aforementioned. Rat-man was a conscript, formerly a bureaucrat and never dreamed he would have to fight a war.
	“You have a status report for me?”
	“Sir we have taken minimal casualties from the chaos bombardment. A new wave of enemies is expected to attack within the hour.
	“Very well. The men know what to do. Standard procedure.”
	“Yes sir.” Rat-man slunk off.
	Calamar reached into his coat pocket for a tobacco stick but decided against it. There would be little time to enjoy it plus, the last medical checkup yielded unfavorable results should he continue his habit. No sooner had he returned the item to his pockets than a sour dull note rang across the frigid battle lines, like a great bronze bell with an attitude and an upset stomach.
	“The tally men of Nurgle come forth.”
	A strong wind from the north kicked up a wall of powder creating a divide between the defenders and attackers. Chanting voices followed in unison to the bells which chimed the same sour note over and over. Praises to the daemon god of disease and decay echoed  in the ears and burned in the minds of the soldiers.
	The lieutenant dug into his pockets for his communication earpiece.
	“Activate the speakers. Track #42. Maximum volume, drown them out. Lets not have a repeat of last week.”
	“Yessir.”
	 Loud blasts of static and feedback blared before a voice began yelling back at the chanting cultists
	“Apostles to the dark gods. Heathens removed from the Emperor's guiding light. Your efforts are in vain. The soldiers of the Emperor will cut you down. The guns of the Emperor will split your ships in twin. Our planet of Ferrus is not for you. We have an iron will and an iron discipline. Come and meet your doom.”
	The retort sailed through the soldiers freeing them of the cursed words. Their faith renewed they took aim down the sights and prepared. Through the curtain of snow humanoid forms began to break through. Men, or what were once men marched in perfect rank and file. Each one had made a mockery of their flesh with gruesome tattoos, strange icon and their clothing stitched into their bodies. With pox ridden lips they chanted their prayers and curses. With necrotic hands they took aim and open
	“All Guardsmen open fire!”
	Up and down the trenches lasguns blazed to life with red angry beams pierced the cultists who continued as though they felt no pain. Even as, flesh sloughed from bone and socket their automatic rifle chattered an angry reply of lead. On both sides men and semi-men crumpled as lead mixed with flesh and painted the white canvas a deep crimson and laser punched sizzling holes in snow.
	As though it had a will of its own, or guided by an unseen force the cloud of snow pushed forward with the advance of the cultists to envelop both forces completely in an embrace of blinding cold. A whiteout in the dead of night. Only the red streaks of las fire and muzzle flashes could be seen. With visibility reduced to nearly zero it was only a matter of time.
	“All guardsmen fix bayonets, prepare for close combat.”
	A rousing reply of cheers and battle cries pierced the blanket of snow. The chanting tones of the cultists increased tempo. From slow inexorable monotones to a fast rhythmic tempo. The deep clangs of the bell too changed notes increasing in pitch. Steel bayonet met corroded knife and sword in a bloody and plague infested melee. It was time.
	“Rat-man stay on the comms and notify me of any new developments. I'll not sit safely by up here while friends bleed and die.” Calamar shed his heavy synthetic fur coat, it was nice while there was a lull in the action but now it was just a burden. Reaching around to his waist calamar drew his his weapons, a plasma pistol, and a chainsword. With a flick of the ignition switch the chainsword's hundred razor teeth revved to life ready to bite and tear into the enemy.
	“And one more thing Rat-man. Keep your head down.” With those parting words Rat-man was left on his own.
	Under the blanket of the whiteout each trench was its own self contained world, with each one becoming more and more tainted the further out one went. Ten trenches in parallel rows
	“All forces pull back to trench 4. We will hold them there.”
	Trench 4 had become the line of defense. One, two, and three were overrun and the remainder of the guard forces were pushing up from five through ten.
	“All guardsmen! Fight! For Ferrus! For home and family! For the Emperor!”
Calamar and the remainder of his soldiers, nearly a hundred and fifty all leap up and over the walls of trench five and into four. His first kill was an enemy soldier who he crushed under his boot at he landed. Numbers two, three, and four were dispatched with one swing of the chainsword. Five and six took a bolt of iridescent blue plasma each. Ten was felled by a thrust from the chainsword. Number fifty was blown up by a live grenade stuffed  into his chest. Beyond seventy he lost count. It really didn't matter it was just his personal score.
	The sun began to crest over the edge of the horizon brightening the canvas of snow, now painted red.  How long he had been fighting he no longer knew. For each cultist that fell another one would take his place. The prayers and propaganda fought as well. Praying lips and loud speakers yelled back and forth.
	A lull in the fighting brought a new noise to join the sounds of prayer, propaganda and war, great metal boots. Even through the sounds of battle the great approaching footsteps could be heard. Calamar turned around just in time to take a backhand from a giant armored gauntlet across the chin and the world went from whiteout to blackout.
	The first thing that came to mind was iron. Not the iron he worked with in the foundry, not the iron for which the regiment was named for, the Iron defenders. It was the taste of iron in his mouth. Feeling around with his tongue he was missing most of the teeth in his lower left jaw. Damn.
	Calamar opened his eyes to a sight he really wanted to unsee. An armored giant nearly ten feet tall stood over him, a chaos space marine. The figure was clad in a slime green suit of armor which seemed to ooze pus from every gap in the armor as well as the strange growths on the armor itself. The marine within was just as pleasant as the armor it wore. His face looked like it had partially melted.  A sort of tube ran from the massive power pack into the chaos marine's throat creating a rasping and wheezing sound as the chaos marine breathed. The giant cut a swath through the guardsmen as neither bayonet nor lasgun could penetrate the giants armor. Calamar picked himself up. Now was not the time for a dirt nap. He picked up his pistol and chainsword and climbed out of the trench. At that height he stood nearly equal with the chaos marine. Bellowing a challenge he leapt at the plague ridden behemoth.
	“Heretic! Face me!”
	Calamar landed on the massive pauldron of the chaos marine as he turned. God the smell this foul warrior produced. It was enough to turn the stomach of any man but there was no time for that. Calamar brought the chainsword down toward the hulks massive cranium but the saw toothed blade was batted away with a massive metal gauntlet. Switching grips as the chaos marine flailed in an effort to shake his unwelcome guest, Calamar began emptying as many plasma shots as he could into the bloated bulk of the heretic.
	Reaching up with the hand on the opposite arm the plague marine grabbed Calamar by the arm and smashed him into the frozen trench. A loud series of cracks and pops could be heard from Calamar's ribcage. Four of five ribs gone at least. He thought. The plague marine reached down with and picked calamar with one hand, holding him aloft at eye level. The plague marines voice was a strange mixture of wheezes and gurgles.
	“Any last words before I reunite you with your false and dead emperor imperial dog?” Calamar coughed up a mouthful of blood.
	“One thing.”
	“oh?
	“The Imperial guard is the strongest fighting force in the galaxy for a reason. Because we need no extra power from dark gods. The guidebook for a plama weapon says to charge it for no more than two seconds for a more powerful burst, but” Calamar held up his pistol now glowing a bright angry blue.
	“I think its been a lot more than that don't you?” With all the forge he could muster Calamar smashed the pistol into the plague marine's armor.
	Rat-man surveyed the aftermath of the battle as he walked through the trenches. With the whiteout lifted the true extent could be seen. Roughly five hundred corpses could be made out along the ten trenches. Cultist bodies and guardsmen alike were piled together in a grim embrace. Enemies in life but friends in death. The irony was a little disconcerting but he pushed it out of his thoughts. Rat-man had slunk off during the fight to bring reinforcements to their position, now that that job was done it was time to find Lieutenant Calamar.
	Rat-man pushed on through the trenches, although they were more like mass graves at this point. He pushed on until he reached trench 4. Against the wall of the trench, fallen in the snow and mud was the charred corpse of a plague marine, its armor rent asunder and its hideous features burned away. A cough from the opposite side of the trench send rat-man leaping into the air in surprise. There sat Calamar. His gas mask and helmet were completely blown off, as well  as most of his body armor and anything below the stomach.
	“Rat-man good to see you.”
	“And you sir.”
	“Could you do me a favor?”
	“Of course sir.”
	“Light me up a tobacco stick. It's been a hell of a day.”

Kilometers away the twelve turbo-lasers continued to send lances of death into the sky. Fireworks and a last farewell.
	“The Lieutenant once told me that the big guns never tire. They must never tire, for if they do then all we hold dear shall perish. The big guns must never tire. Men will die holding the line and defending the guns but so long as they do not tire we will be victorious.” - Guardsman Matthias “Rat-man” Rathemus.