Move Forward (a short war series)

[Shroom Man 777]

Move Forward




It’s 5006 AE. We are in the Victoria system, specifically the embattled shithole of Glasgow. So far, the Connoltian barbarians have been driving us back. However, we’ve managed to slow them down, but this has cost us many Auxiliaries. So many have fallen that I can no longer count their number.

Nonetheless, we continue to fight on. General Tarquinius said that reinforcements would arrive soon – although I was under the impression that we were the ones doing the reinforcing. Maybe he meant the Marines. Though we Galactic Legionnaires can handle ourselves in a fight, some Marines would be quite welcome. Professional rivalry has no place in such a hole as this.

But enough of that. Mother, I hope everything is okay back there on Lusia. Pray to the gods that I get out of this alive and kill a lot of barbarians while doing so.



Artillery rained down on both sides of the desolated metropolis, eradicating countless buildings and enveloping entire blocks in smoke. The earth shook with each and every explosion and the air was filled with the deafening noise of descending warheads. Between still-standing Corinthian skyscrapers that stood underneath toppled astrotowers, automatic tracer fire was exchanged from one building to another – giving the impression of some kind of future war as luminescent projectiles streaked through the shadows.

Amidst the ruins and beneath the crossfire high above, soldiers from both sides were viciously fighting on the streets and overpasses and in the sewers, shooting whilst retreating or advancing and sometimes doing both at the same time. While overhead, aerocraft and gyrothopters waged their own skirmishes and dogfights within the soaring cityscape, ducking below top-floor crossfires and taking cover behind multi-storey erections. One of the flying vehicles hovered over a massive pillar, its rotors making noise and picking up dust. Its side-doors were opened and cable were tossed out and lowered.

Claudius saw all this with his visor, half-lowered to serve as a tactical HUD. The intensified image was as clear as crystal, and what was equally clear were the Connoltian snipers who were preparing to jump off the tri-chopper and rappel down the ropes. He decided he would have none of that. “Manius, pilium!”

As if on cue, his squad-mate came rushing in. He was a large man carrying an almost equally large backpack. Claudius frowned, for Manius had his visor raised and the T-opening of his helmet widened, which exposed most of his face – something unwise in the field of battle. No matter, though, as Manius took out a long pipe-like object from his pack and gave it to him. The large object’s front had an almost spear-like protrusion. Manius said in his gruff voice: “Primed and ready, Claudius.”

“Good, let’s send these barbarians to Hades,” Claudius said as he shouldered the pilium and took aim. Almost instantly, the pilium attained a lock-on, which was signaled by the crosshair’s reddening, and Claudius pressed the trigger.

The pilium was hurled from its tubular casing by a rocket motor and went straight towards the tri-chopper like a spear chucked by an ancient warrior. It left a bluish contrail in the few seconds it took to cross the distance between Claudius and the chopper. Its tip punched through the aerocraft’s underbelly, and it detonated in a flash of intense white light. A javelin of plasma bisected the vehicle, vaporizing its entrails and melting through the craft’s other side. The snipers rappelling down the cables caught fire and, as the tri-chopper’s molten carcass careened hundreds of feet down, they too fell to their deaths. As they descended, they left a trail of ash.

Claudius discarded the recoilless tube he shouldered, for it was disposable, and quickly sought cover from the falling debris. The rest of the squad was hiding inside an immense sewer pipe, which was partially exposed by bombardment yet still secure from the falling bits of molten steel and immolated Connoltians.

Claudius sat down, and as Manius plopped his muscular buttocks on the shit-covered walls, Claudius withdrew his visor and widened the T opening of his helmet, exposing most of his face. He sighed, gazed around the sewage-coated tunnel to see the depressed and battle-weary visages of his comrades, and then leaned back, placing his hands on the belly of his worn-out cuirass before sighing again.

“Nice shooting,” Otho said. He handed Claudius a flask of rum, and Claudius accepted it heartily.

“Yeah,” Claudius replied as he took a hearty gulp, screwed the cap back on, and slapped the flask on Manius’ cuirass. “Kill as many them as possible before they get the chance to use their ‘roids and kill as many of us as possible.” ‘Roids were combat steroids, used by the Cunts to make themselves angrier and noisier. Side effects included anger management problems and hairiness.

“Fucking ‘roids,” Manius muttered as he chugged the flask’s remaining contents. “You think I’d use ‘em, but I pump iron the ol’ fashioned way. Balanced diet, exercise and -”

“Right,” Claudius interrupted wearily. Before signing up, Manius worked at a Caelian coliseum as a fitness instructor and Olympiad coach, and as such was prone to tirades regarding health and the evils of steroid use. “We all know you’re Heracles reborn, now go fight the astral lions of Thermopylae’s twin moons or something. Or at least give me that damned flask!”

“Never!” Manius hollered back. “Dontcha you know how unhealthy alchohol is? Otho, got another flask?”

Otho merely chuckled (as did the other squaddies) and threw Manius another flask.

“Gods,” Claudius sighed in defeat. “Just don’t get too drunk, Manius. We still have to support the XVI squad at the central district.”

“And so, why aren’t we?” Manius asked.

“Because we’re waiting for some armor to rendezvous with us before proceeding. The XVI’s entrenched and taking a lot of Cunts,” Otho replied helpfully.

“They’ve been holding that line for days,” Claudius added. “And doing a damned better job than the rest of us.”

Lieutenant Tacitus, usually a quiet man when not giving orders, stood up and whispered for everyone to hear: “We have reason to believe Cunt armor is moving in on them.”

“Ah shite,” Manius cursed. “More of them bigarse flying turret things?”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant mumbled as he went over to Manius and snatched Otho’s flask away from him. “Stay sober.”



They were forced out of their relaxation time a half hour later when a group of Connoltians came over to investigate the tri-chopper wreckage. Lieutenant Tacitus, in his usual silent manner, ordered an ambush. He positioned Otho and the other machinegunners to stay inside the pipe and shoot through the massive cracks on its side (somehow, probably due to the constant bombardment, part of the sewer pipe was elevated and served as a vantage point), while Claudius, Manius and the others maneuvered themselves around the curious Cunts.

“Fire at will!” the lieutenant whispered through the comm.-links after an anxious wait behind rubble and inside sewer tunnels. Instantly, the squad unleashed hell.

Otho, always eager to fire his weapon, led the way. His machinegun spat out a dozen rounds in a blink of an eye, brightening the twilight into midday. This was so for one out of every five rounds was a tracer, and unluckily for the Connoltians, the very first thing to exit Otho’s gun happened to be superheated copper. The plasmatic projectile’s aim was true, and the nearest Cunt had his gut turned to ash before his drug-addled mind knew what hit him.

A hail of supersonic steel came down upon the Connoltians like the wrath of very upset gods as machineguns and longrifles alike ejaculated death upon the barbarian invaders. At least half of the large mob was torn to immolated shreds before they had the sense to take cover and return fire. But soon, the frantic screaming turned into angry shouts and yells as the Connoltians injected themselves with steroids and began shooting back.

“Shit!” Lieutenant Tacitus cursed under his breath, ducking behind a toppled pillar as incandescent tracers whizzed past his head. With him were Claudius and Manius.

“Sir, they’re returning fire!” Claudius shouted. Unfortunately, it seemed that the remaining Connoltians were focusing their attention solely on them.

“I can see that,” the lieutenant hissed as spikes, wicked looking and jagged, impaled the marble pillars they were using for cover.

“And they got spikeguns!” Manius yelled. Before he could take cover, his shoulder was stabbed by a serrated subsonic stake and he fell with a dumb look on his face.

“Are you alright?!” Claudius asked as he got down on all fours and crawled beside Manius. Blood was leaking out of his shoulder.

“Aw, shit, it hurts!” Manius cried out.

“I know,” Lieutenant Tacitus responded irritably. Strangely enough, he was still audible despite all the gunfire and incoherent screaming. And as if the spikeguns weren’t enough, a hail of rocket-bullets exploded against the pillar in front of him. “Claudius!”

“What?!” Claudius said, looking up to the lieutenant as he pulled out Manius’ shoulder spike. Manius was gritting his teeth in pain.

“Give me your discus!”

Claudius stared dumbly for a moment before he figured out what the lieutenant said. His voice was hard enough to hear during the rare occasions he spoke, but with everything exploding, Claudius practically had to lip-read. He stuck his hand into a pouch on his skirt-like silksteel belt-spat and produced a disk-shaped handgrenade. “Here!”

The lieutenant took it, pressed something that caused the disk to increase its diameter, and hurled it to the Cunts in a way that would make a professional discus thrower - such as those Manius used to coach back on Caelia – proud. As the discus flew away, he threw himself to the ground to avoid a hail of spikes and rocket-bullets. As he fell, he was awarded for his Olympiad-level throw by a very audible explosion that was immediately followed by painful screaming and constipated howling, which affirmed the death of many Cunts.



Flying limbs and entrails filled the air. The Cunts were screaming a mixture of constipated howling and incoherent warcries. Tracer fire, spikes and rocket-bullets crisscrossed the war torn intersection, illuminating it in a deadly exchange of chemically propelled fury. The stench of gunpowder filled the air. Pillars and walls were being shattered to dust by machinegun fire and people were either being torn to pieces or violently exploded – often both at the same time.

Otho was exhilarated. This was the highlight of his day. He yelled in a mixture of fear, excitement and joy as he held onto his machinegun for dear life. The massive weapon rendered his ecstatic shouting inaudible, as it poured out a proverbial fusillade of lead and death. Every fifth round was as bright as a sun, and at the rate the gun was ejaculating bullets, Otho would’ve been blinded if it were not for his visor. It automatically dimmed the incandescent flashes, made the twilight as clear as midday, and highlighted threats that needed to be violated by his weapon.

He directed his weapon to three Cunts huddling inside the hull of the crashed tri-chopper. He squeezed the trigger and the Cunts were immediately blanketed in an explosion of sparks and immolated steel. They disappeared underneath a cloud of superheated vapor, and as the gas dissipated, there was nothing left to be seen. Otho laughed and pointed his massive gun somewhere else, never relinquishing his grip on the trigger and never ceasing the constant flow of expended casings. He was nearly up to his ankles in casings, but running out of ammo was the least of his concern as his entire being was reverberated by the violently rhythmic movement of his weapon.

A Cunt manhandling a drum-fed .50 cal poured fire towards Otho’s position, but the bullets pinged harmlessly off the sewer pipe that served as his cover. Otho laughed at the Cunt, for despite his weapon’s larger size, its emissions were impotent. Then he directed his own weapon at him and let loose a torrent of death, switching targets only after rendering his victim into nothing but masticated meat.

“No such thing such as overkill!” he shouted in glee as he swept the entire battlefield with his weapon. He was sore from overuse and recoil, and at this, he laughed maniacally. “Suppressive fire!”

Otho’s targeting reticule turned red as it went over an eight-foot tall Connoltian who was holding on his shoulder a massive harpoon gun nearly as large as himself. But before Otho could aim, the giant was sent staggering backwards as the harpoon gun discharged its load directly towards him. The five-foot spike sailed towards him with frightening speed and he could only scream as its tip punched through the sewer pipe like tissue paper. The sharp end tore through Otho’s protection and slammed onto his cuirass, severely denting it and violently throwing him on his read end.

As he recovered from the impact, he tasted blood in his mouth. His chest was sore and probably had several ribs broken. He spat out blood a half-cup of blood and saliva as he groaned. “Shit!”



Claudius hauled Manius behind a pile of rubble and corpses as the lieutenant held his position and continued pouring fire at the barbarians. Despite starting out with twice as many as Claudius’ squad, the Cunts were now whittled down to an equal number.

A female Connoltian came rushing from the side, trying to outflank them. Her rifle had an overbarrel spikegun. She aimed at them and fired off a spike that came to within an inch from nailing itself into Claudius’ head. As she desperately tried to reload another spike, Claudius fired off a burst that decapitated her legs. She fell to the floor and began wailing hoarsely, blood squirting out of her flailing stump-feet.

“Where the fuck are yer ‘roids now, eh?!” Manius asked, laughing madly. He loaded his longrifle with one hand and finished the screaming woman off. “More are coming!”

Indeed, the Cunts were using a ditch carved onto the road by the crashing tri-chopper to avoid the Legionnaire’s suppressive fire. Claudius would have none of this as he placed his longrifle’s stock against his shoulder and fired off precise five-round bursts. The leading Cunt’s torso was ‘stantaneously combusted by the tracer and the others behind him were riddled by supersonic slugs.

“Attaboy, Claude!” Manius hollered as he threw away his rifle (which jammed) and pulled out a machinepistol. He fired a burst that perforated a crawling Cunt – causing little clouds of blood to squirt out of the dozen holes in his body.

“Lieutenant, I think they’re trying to flank us!” Claudius shouted into his comm.-link.

“I know. Otho’s been hit and Lucius’ group is down,” Lieutenant Tacitus replied. Claudius could see spent shells flying from the distance as the lieutenant discharged his weapon vigorously. “Most of the Cunts are dead, but the rest are either holed in tight or trying to get out.”

Manius let off another burst before reloading his pistol while Claudius just fired blindly until, two mags later, Cunts finally stopped trying to crawl out. “Sir, are they still there?”

“Yeah. Got any grenades?”

“No,” Claudius replied. The ground began shaking, and nearby wall collapsed on itself as something very big and very loud plowed through it. Claudius grinned. “But I think I got something better?”

“What?” the lieutenant asked.

Emerging from the demolished wall and rolling over shattered concrete was the unmistakable form of a tank. It was very large and its massive treads crunched the corpses of a dozen dead and dying barbarians into greasy smears. On its iron chassis was a boxy turret with an intricately engraved lion on its front and the numerals ‘CXII’ crudely painted on its side. Its gun was positively monstrous, immensely thick and stubby, designed to fire only the largest of warheads. Even Otho would’ve been green with envy.

As bullets from both sides pinged harmlessly off the tank’s thick armor, a hatch popped open and from the interior of the warmachine’s mighty turret came out the tiny head topped with a grossly oversized helmet. The midget tank commander shouted: “Hey, need any help?”

Manius laughed at the unintentionally hilarious sight and began cheering and hooting and bleeding (which he already was beforehand). Claudius just smiled. “Yeah, sure! We got some barbarians holed up in there.” He pointed back with his thumb.

The midget nodded, went back into the turret, and closed the hatch. Seconds later, the turret oriented itself towards the target and, after a brief and awkward moment of silence, the tank’s mighty cannon fired an earth-shaking shot. Fire belched from the cannon’s end and dust flew off its reverberating hull as the tri-chopper crash site was enveloped in a very large explosion. There was a plume of smoke and shortly thereafter, chunks of twisted metal and body parts began raining down.

The legionnaires all got up and applauded.

[Shroom Man 777]

Advance




It was night by the time we got there. Lieutenant Tacitus decided to take the scenic route since the Cunts we took met probably weren’t alone. The midget tank commander, Minimus, thought this was a good idea too. On the way, we met a retreating squad of auxiliaries – we handed Manius to them, bring him to the field hospital for us. Otho was fine though, some morphine and bandages patched him up pretty good. We left the KIA behind.

It was night by the time we got there. But it looked like day, and what we saw there was unbelievable…



Everything in front of the XVI’s position was on fire. Literally. It was a surreal sight, a sea of living flame straight out of Hades rushing towards them from the barbarian lines. There was screaming, there was shouting, there was barking and there was snarling. However, the XVI were undaunted, for they were Galactic Legionnaires. And at this hellish sight, this tidal wave of fiery death, they did not quiver. Instead, they unleashed everything in their arsenal. Longrifles, machineguns, pillium missiles, ballistae howitzers, mortars, grenade launchers, everything.

“By the gods,” Claudius muttered, for with his visor, he saw everything. The XVI were not shooting at a wave of hellfire, but rather, hundreds upon hundreds of attack dogs, doused in burning tar and sicced at the Legionnaires by their Connoltian masters. They were improvised cannon fodder, torn to pieces and exploded within seconds. The howling and roaring and barking were replaced by death-whimpers and the stench of cooked meat.

“Pay no heed,” Lieutenant Tacitus mumbled. Through the comm.-links, he was actually audible. “Psychological warfare, just like the Cunts’ howling.”

Claudius nodded absently. It made sense, but still, it didn’t make any sense of the scene he beheld.

Otho slapped his shoulder and offered a flask. “Don’t mind it. Here, want some?”

“No thanks…” Claudius muttered.

“Fine then,” Otho shrugged as he downed the remaining rum. He tossed the flask away and cocked his machinegun. “Let’s do this.”

Beside them was the tank of Minimus, an Ajax-type battletank. The mighty warmachine roared to life and Claudius could hear the crew load yet another shell into the monstrous battecannon. Otho could only stare at the devastating shaft with awe.

“Let’s move out,” Lieutenant Tacitus whispered through the comm.-link.



The stench of burning meat and promethium filled the air as Captain MacAdder wiped his brow. It was really hot, no thanks to the five hundred or so burning hyenas beyond the ditch they dug hours ago. His cousin on Aberdeen warned him, said the Cunts would lit up animals and sic them right before moving in with everything. Of course, he thought it was all bollocks – oh, how wrong he was. They started doing it yesterday, and immediately after the Cunts sodded off, he ordered a ditch dug in front of their position. Now the Cunts were back and everything was going to hell.

“What a crock of shite!” he cursed. They had to unload on them - if the berserk mutts made it through the lines, MacAdder’s men would’ve been torn to pieces, and that wasn’t taking to account the fact that the dogs were on fire. Now all the dogs were dead and they were busy reloading.

“Yea, I hear ye,” Pvt. Finnegan muttered. “Time to reload an’ wait fer the fuckin’ inevitable, aye?”

“Aye,” MacAdder agreed. The Cunts would be coming any time now. He slapped a magazine into his longrifle and stuck it between the shields planted front of their trench. “Do ya think the inforcements’ll make it on time, lad?”

“Nah,” Finn said, waving away the notion with his hand. “I reckon we’ll be fucked. Fucked hard.”

“Yea,” MacAdder sighed. Three days in this shitty city without a name. Three days after being told to hold the fucking line. Three days with Cunts coming from all over the sides shooting shit at you.

“Yea,” Finn nodded. He dropped his longrifle, unsheathed his gladius, upholstered his pistol and cocked.

“What’re ye doin’?” MacAdder asked. “Have you gone mad?”

“Nah, me gun’s jammed on me,” Finn shrugged. “Besides, what’s the use? The Cunts’ll come an’ come again, better just waiting here for them ta hop in rather than waste me time standin’ there an’ shootin’ at them.”

“Private, I’m ordering you to fight,” MacAdder commanded.

“I’ll fight alright,” Finn replied. “Fight to the bloody death. But while they’re comin’ at us, I’ll just sit me ass here and drink some tea. When they get here, then I’ll fight me bloody ass off.”

“Private…” MacAdder reached for his pistol.

“Besides, cap’, me gun’s jammed on me. I can’t shoot at em’ from afar with me pistol, can I?”

MacAdder sighed. “You git.”

“Yea,” Finn said sadly.

There was an explosion outside and a smoking body landed in the trench, narrowly missing the both of them. It was time.

“Go ahead cap’,” Finn said. “I’ll cover yer’ back.”



The barbarians advanced. Stepping out of foxholes, trenches and crawling out of holes on the ground, they came forth. They numbered in the hundreds and were armed to the teeth with machineguns, rocketrifles, spikeguns and harpoon launchers.

And they were not alone.

Emerging from a corner behind decapitated astrotowers was Connoltian armor. They were, to put it simply, massive. Hovering above the horde menacingly, like levitating behemoths, they resembled turrets – flying turrets armed with oversized cannons. Each had a pair, one gun was short and stubby, the other was elongated. Aside from these cannons, the flying turrets were also adorned with machinegun emplacements, rocket pods, and gigantic harpoon launchers.

Strobe lights blazed from the belly of the flying behemoths, sweeping the wartorn landscape like predators searching for prey. As they neared the Legion lines, the deafening whir of turbofans filled the air. The Legionnaires fired, unleashing upon the Connoltian warmachines a fusillade of tracers, missiles and ballistae. But they proved impotent as the turrets unleashed their shock-cannons with impunity, obliterating entire swaths of land in a blink of an eye.

The Connoltian horde cheered and screamed for the death of the Legionnaires, discharging their own firearms towards their sworn enemies. From the back of their formation, warriors aimed high at the sky and launched their rocketrifles, filling the air with contrails and blazing rocket-exhaust. The sky lit up as the rocketbullets soared and then arced downwards, landing on the foremost Legion emplacements and exploding on defenders and ground alike. While it rained explosions, the foremost warriors fired a withering barrage of spikegun fire and machinegun rounds, cutting down the retreating Legionnaires nearest to them.

At this, Kaera shouted in vicious euphoria. She unloaded her weapon, a serrated swordgun, at the position of the Legionnaires. She was quite some distance away, directly underneath the flying fortresses, but it did not matter to her if she hit anything at all. She was happy, for the Legionnaires would die this day, and soon, yet another uncivilized world would be taken by their noble Crusat. Yes, and afterwards, she would return home to her children – and train them in the arts of war for yet another noble Crusat.

She reloaded her swordgun and let loose yet another burst. Beside her was a steroidified man, her captain, the man who’s idea was it to unleash the horde of flaming attack dogs. “Advance! Advance!” he hollered. He held in his arms a massive gun that launched an equally massive harpoon towards the air. The projectile sailed through the night sky and impaled a Legionnaire before exploding the foxhole he was in.

At this glorious sight, Kaera shrieked and fired her swordgun some more. Her captain shouted, but then stopped midway. “Kaera, what is that?” he asked, pointing to the distance.

Kaera saw it too, her goggles amplifying the night light and zooming towards the sight. Something was coming from behind the Legion lines, something big and obscured by a cloud of dust. There was a flash of light and then –



“Fucking gits! Fucking gits the lot of them!” MacAdder cursed. Their trench was one of the first ones exploded by the goddamned air-turrets. Finn was blown up along with the rest of the foremost-middle trenches. For some reason though, Captain MacAdder, son of the Clan MacAdder, survived the explosion. And now, he was running for cover, helmless and with a war-kilt smoking like overcooked haggis. Thank the Maker he was alive.

There was screaming. It was far nearer than the rest of the Connoltian mob. MacAdder turned to face it, his orange hair whipping against his face, which was streaked with blue warpaint. He saw it, saw the Connoltian rushing towards him with a wicked-looking sawblade. He responded by screaming, screaming equally loud as the oncoming Cunt and drawing out his claymore. Not some pussy mithril gladius, but a real man’s sword some five-foot long and made out of real steel.

The Cunt slashed his saw at him, but MacAdder simply countered with a powerful swing. The sawblade shattered and its shards sliced into the screaming Cunt’s face – causing him to scream very loud. But what really made him scream the loudest was when MacAdder’s claymore bisected him with an overhead chop.

He didn’t scream though, as he merely exploded into a shower of blood and guts. And at this mess, MacAdder only said: “Feh.”

Late as usual, the sight in front of him confirmed. One of the flying gunforts was on fire. Hit by an Ajax battlecannon, from the looks of it. Serves the bastards right, as the twin-barreled gunfort turret slowly but surely careened out of control, falling on top of half the Connoltian horde in a very anticlimactic fashion. The mean warmachine merely crumpled into itself as it hit the ground with a very loud thud. Maybe the hundred plus Cunts underneath it softened its landing.

“What took ye stupid gits so fuckin’ long, eh?” MacAdder laughed as he waved his claymore around. “Heh, serves those fuckers right! Burn, ye stupid arses! Burn! Fuckin’ bloody Cunt pussy bitch pricks!”

[Shroom Man 777]

Charge




“Barbarian dogs!” Otho screamed, his breath stinking of rum and spittle spewing from his mouth. He screamed loudly for the stink of rum, the sound of battle and death and the reek of carcasses of men and canine alike gave him newfound vigor. His body, by all means incapacitated, felt an electric tingle all over – he felt alive. “This is for Gaul! And this is for New Jerseysalem!”

He screamed as he waded through warm mud that wasn’t really mud. For he slogged through the countless carcasses of burnt canines, purified by prometheium as the Connoltians unwittingly sacrificed them to Maerius – patron lord of war, to whom Otho prayed to every time he ventured from the barracks to do battle.

Otho, whose shattered armor was strapped with belts of ammunition, charged. His mighty weapon discharging a fiery storm of iron death at the enemies before him. The seas of corpses, burnt men and beast alike, did not deter him. It only served to invigorate him as he made his way, his weapon spewing out expended casing from both sides as he swept it across the desolated battleground.

In front of him were the disarrayed hordes of barbarians and the shattered lines of XVI. The barbarians had, amongst their midst, a giant bonfire from the wreckage of the crashed aero-turret whereas the XVI’s were either burning or exploded. From the blazing inferno of the crash site, panicked Connoltians began overrunning the Legion lines, screaming and firing incoherently as they did so – shooting at friend and foe alike as they met the Legionnaires head on.

And at this sight, Otho let out one final cry before charging into the fray, his mighty gun blazing amidst the living inferno of men and machine.



Leading the Legionnaires was an Ajax battletank. Unimpeded by the corpse-filled craters, foxholes and trenches, it advanced, sweeping the landscape with sideguns that tore barbarians to pieces. Roaring Cunts with spikeguns were transmuted into clouds of bloody gibs and organs while from behind the barbarian lines, rocketbullets soared into the air and landed directly on it, covering the warmachine in explosions. Harpoons were also fired and they imbedded themselves into the machine’s thick armor.

Like a flaming beast, the warmachine responded with a mighty roar, the sound of its grenade dispensers launching countless submunitions. However, these munitions were not smoke grenades, but frag, and the barbarians who did not have the benefit of feet-thick armor were now the ones covered in explosions. They were blown apart like leaves.

Flame gushed out of the Ajax’ mighty cannon as it ejaculated yet another round, this one directed at the still-flying air turret. As the weapon discharged, the massive recoil clashed with the Ajax’ forward momentum and for a second, the warmachine was still. It was a perfect target.

The shell detonated on the air turret’s side, exploding a turbofan but doing little damage to its system. As the Ajax staggered, the air turret returned fire – discharging cannons huge enough for a man to crawl in.

The first round struck the Ajax’ own turret, exploding impotently against the adamantine armor, barely denting it. The second round was less healthy for the battletank as it detonated on its chassis, causing it to erupt violently and shower immediate vicinity with bits of armor and parts. The chassis disappeared, and all that was left of the tank was its turret.

At this, the Connoltian horde cheered, but before the Connoltian aeroturret could fire yet another salvo at the advancing Legionnaires, thus ending their counter-advance prematurely, it was bisected by a javelin of depleted uranium. The kinetic penetrator was fired by a second Ajax battletank, violating the aeroturret and sheared through its interior, leaving it relatively intact but murdering its entire crew into pulp.

The once-formidable deathmachine fell to the ground like a brick, unceremoniously squishing a hundred Connoltian barbarians.



At the sight of the felled deathmachine, the Legionnaires rallied. Leading the way alongside Otho, who was now half-buried in expended casings, was Lieutenant Tacitus. He shouted, machinepistol on one hand perforating a barbarian woman whilst the other hand pointed a gladius skywards: “Move forward!”

“Burninate you!” Otho roared incoherently as he ejected his expended drum-magazine and replaced it with one filled solely with plasma tracers and oxy-phosphorus bullets. He cocked his rifle swiftly and began discharging it vigorously while waving it around without even aiming. Due to his injuries, his weapon had to be strapped on – not that it slowed him down one bit. “Haha! That’s what you get for being so hairy and unwashed, you barbarians!!! You burn faster! Rah!”

“Otho, you’ve gone mad!” Claudius shouted in alarm as red-hot casing bounced off his helmet. He was hiding behind a big piece of rock, taking cover as the retreating barbarians shot spikes at them. “Take cover!”

“Never!” Otho hollered back as a retreating Cunt that was flailing his arms fell to the ground dead. True to his word, Otho didn’t stop shooting at the corpse until it turned to ashes. “Burninated!”

“You’re mad!” Claudius shouted in alarm as he crouched and fired shots that were actually aimed. A barbarian charging at them with an axehead fixed on his machinegun (as opposed to a normal bayonet) soon found his brain leaking out of his forehead and as he fell, Otho made sure he wouldn’t be getting back up somehow. “What the-?!”

“Just making sure, Claude!” Otho said triumphantly as a round pinged off his helmet. “See, they’re retreating because of me!”

“Both of you, shut up,” Lieutenant Tacitus hissed. He wasn’t actually audible, but Claudius could tell what he said by his eyes. “Go check that blown up Ajax for survivors.”



As Claudius and Otho ran towards the ruined Ajax, and as the rest of the squad advanced and murdered barbarians by the hundreds alongside the other Ajax, Tacitus made his way to the XVI’s shattered lines.

He shook his head sadly. All of the ditches were filled with the corpses of Legionnaires. All but one.

That one ditch had several Legionnaires, most of them were wounded and dying. Most lacked limbs and were lying in the mud. One of them was intact though, and he climbed up the ditch to meet the Lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Tacitus,” Tacitus said, offering his hand to the apparently shell-shocked man. He was bloodied, covered in mud, helmless and had very long and very unkempt red hair. He wore a kilt and held on one hand a very big sword. His face was smeared with blue warpaint.

“Captain MacAdder of Clan MacAdder,” the man said, gripping Tacitus hand with his own.

“What’s your men’s status?”

MacAdder sighed. “Not good. Aye, not good. Lost a lot of lads t’day.”

Tacitus nodded his head solemnly. “Sorry.”

“Eh, ye saved our arses. Could’ve come earlier though,” MacAdder looked at the distance and grinned at the sight of the remaining barbarians being chased by Legionnaires and an Ajax. “Heh, like that? Huh? Ye bloody Cunts!” He started waving his sword. “Fuck with us, eh? Now who’s fucked?! Huh? Heh! Lieutenant, I’d like to buy yea a drink.”



Claudius and Otho were on top of the smoking turret. The chassis was completely gone and everyone in the damned thing was probably dead. Claudius tried to open the hatch, but ended up jumping off the damn thing while clutching his hand and shouting.

“The bloody thing is hot!”

“Eh, don’t worry,” Otho grinned as he pointed his machinegun downwards and emptied the last of his ‘burninating bullets’. The burning bullets pinged off the hatch and ricocheted, causing Otho to yelp and jump off. “Ah, fuck.”

“You’re mad!” Claudius shouted in disbelief. “What the bloody-”

There was a muffled noise from the inside of the turret.

Claudius did a double take. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Otho replied. “Sorry, I got deafened by my machinegun.”

Before Claudius could say anything, the turret’s hatch popped open and out came a tiny head. It was Minimus, the midget tank commander.

It was Otho’s turn to do a double take.

”So,” Minimus said, taking off his helmet and slicking back his hair. “Did we win?”

[Shroom Man 777]

Neo Orleans was nothing like Glasgow. It was a jungle world in every sense – the deepest parts had trees hundreds of feet high and invisible lagoons filled with swamp things that would jump out and drag people into the water. The only inhabitable place on Orleans was the Quarter. There were also tree outposts, but aside from that, Orleans was uninhabitable.

This made it easy for the Cunts to take over and use the world as a staging point with only minimal resistance. After driving the Cunts of their foothold in the Victorian sector, they rallied at Orleans but got beat back easy. They left a little surprise though, androgyne jungle fighters from Kata’an. They would dig tunnels and put booby traps and raise hell.



It was monsoon season, meaning that every second, a ton of water would fall from the sky and land on the heads of unhappy Legionnaires, Auxiliaries and Marines. Being indoors didn’t really help. The tavern had an air of misery, everyone drinking themselves to combat ineffectiveness in anticipation for the next jungle adventure. The ceiling was leaking and algae was starting to grow on it. It was always dark and always damp. Miserably humid whenever it wasn’t raining – which drove people unaccustomed to the weather mad, which was quite a sight.

Barging into the pub was a very wet and very angry-looking Captain MacAdder. He walked to the men, who were gathered round a table playing poker with bottle caps as currency.

“A’ight, listen up you gits,” MacAdder said as he plopped himself on a chair and very loudly placed his feet on the table, very quickly ending the game of poker.

“Aw, captain!” Otho protested.

“Shut it!” the angry Captain snapped back. “Listen up. Tacitus told me to tell ya this. He ain’t ‘ere since the sods up’n command are givin’ him some arsed up bollocksed orders or some shite. So I’m ‘ere with ye fuckers instead.”

“They’re sending us out?!” Manius asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Aye,” MacAdder said sadly, to which Otho cheered very loudly, much to the irritation of everyone else in the pub, who were all glaring at him. MacAdder rolled his eyes and muttered something profane. “Neway, I’m ‘ere to introduce yea all to some newbies an’ replacements.”

The men began whispering to each other.

“Ye all know a lot died back on Glasgow. A lot more are gonna die ‘ere. So that’s why they’re sending some sods from Ausbourne to help us out. Nutters who’ll gut those elfy bastards with ‘em bowie knives of theirs, heh.”

Anzacs from Ausbourne, Adelaide Sector. Trained in jungle and desert warfare, mortal combat. They trained in hand-to-hand by fisticuffing with dingodiles and exercised by outrunning hopping wallygators.

“Right,” Claudius nodded, taking a sip from his mug of Tarsonian Ale. “We’ll need all the bodies we can get.”

“Aye,” MacAdder agreed. “An’ so, it’s me pleasure to introduce yea all to… Steve.”

And out of nowhere, a man came up and walked to MacAdder’s side. He was wearing khaki shorts, a shirt and a hat rimmed with crocodile teeth. He had brown hair and attached to his hip was a knife as long as a gladius. He waved at the gawking men and said: “G’day, mates. How y’all doin’?”

[Shroom Man 777]

Reload




The jungle exploded. From the green, the armored behemoths emerged, mercilessly flattening flora and fauna beneath their mighty treads. Trees were smashed and animals squished as an entire patch of the ecosystem was flattened under the advancing steel.

As the lead tank advanced, the flanking pair fell back and unleashed with their sponson guns blazing yellow torrents of burning prometheom, engulfing everything ahead of them in Vesuvian Hades. Skittering ape-lizards amidst the canopy shrieked and wailed as they were combustified along with their tree-hive, the resulting explosion sending cooked reptilian hides raining upon burninated Connoltians - sharp-eared androgynes who shrieked much like the ape-lizards did.

Like the trees, they too were blown apart like leaves.

As hell was unleashed, angry Connoltians rushed from the underbrush, gushing forth from subterranean tunnels and all other forms of cover, firing wildly with their spikeguns and machine-rifles, filling the air with rocketbullets. Launched from emplacements, explosive harpoons impaled themselves upon the leading behemoth, detonating and cracking the concresteel coating of its mithril-heraculaneum armor as rockets arced down from the sky and enveloped it in exploding plant matter and burning mud.

In defiant response, the tank returned with its own fusillade, unleashing upon the hordes its mighty sponson cannons – mega-lassiters that sliced through the newly-made clearing with focused megadeath. From the glowing gun barrels, beams of light shot out in blinding flashes, a thousand pulse-flashes per second.

As the triumvirate of steel rolled into the inferno, blazing beams scoured the burning hell, ultra-fast beam-pulses of blood red swiftly shifting to violet death and then, in a blink of an eye, climaxing in an incandescent blue-white, in rapid-fire succession that carved through the barbarian lines, scintillating and sweeping from side to side – atomizing man, woman and androgyne.

As the lassiters poured megadeath and the flamers burninated, the tanks then let loose with their main guns, bombarding the unkilled barbarians with a salvo of three hundred millimeter death. A funeral-cloud of dust and death was picked up as the resulting explosion further denuded the jungle and obliterated obscene amounts of wildlife. For miles around, flocks of snake-birds and all other forms of creatures made mass-migrations in fear of the shockwave uprooting their tree-hives and causing mass-extinctions – leaving the entire sector without a trace of animal life, a proverbial ecological disaster within mere minutes.

From behind the triumvirate, a legion of Galactic Marines, resplendent in their capes, enclosed armor and respirators, advanced dauntlessly under the trio’s cover – filling the air with flechettes and killing the dead and dying with their carbines, entering man-made hell guns ablaze.

While from deeper within the jungle, the parts not yet desolated, came forth a proverbial horde of angry Connoltians, screaming as they emerged from the thick underbrush, from their subterranean tunnels, and from whatever form of cover and concealment they could conjure. However, not only was the air filled with spikes, harpoons, rockets and rocketbullets, but also with thousands upon thousands of needles, sharpened to a molecule, rapid-fired by androgyne sniper-scouts. And from behind the Connoltian lines that met the Marines with tooth, nail and swordgun came forth armor - obscene mechanical beasts with iron torsos that stood upright, with treads for legs and elongated tubes of rockets upon their wings.

As the Connoltians screamed and charged, as Marines sought cover and reciprocated with steadfast resolve, the war machines fired. All of them.




“Load the guns! Now!” Minimus, the midget tank commander, screamed as the tank was rocked by yet another series of detonations. All around his comically oversized command chair, which was deep within the Ajax’ massive turret, cathode screens depicted the scenes of war – mostly exploding mud interspaced with weapons fire and flying limbs. The stink of expended ammunition was overpowering. The incessant pinging of needlers was maddening. The heaving of near-explosions was nauseating. At all of this, Minimus could not help but to buckle up his seatbelts. “Driver, keep the tank moving or we’ll sink in the quicksand!”

“It’s not quicksand!” a garbled voice came over from the microphone. “It’s just mud!”

“Same shit!” Minimus shouted back as a particularly big explosion nearly sent him flying off his chair. “Oh, bollocks! Load the guns! Somebody load the fucking guns!”

Then there was a very loud thudding sound followed by a scream. “Augh! It burns! By Zeupiter! It burns!”

“Crickey, what is it?!”

“Tea spilled on me pants!” the loader’s screaming voice cried.

“You git, you dropped the three-mil!” the other voice, the gunner’s, shouted, in reference to the three hundred millimeter shell that fell and made the very big thudding sound.

“Utter crap!” Minimus cursed, slapping his tiny hand on his forehead. “Complete and utter crap! We’re all going to die!”

“Anyone got a hanky?”

“Shut up and load the godsdamn thing!”

Minimus rolled his eyes and activated the microphone. “Brutus, how’s the lassiters?”

“Not good, sir, they’ll overheat pretty soon-” something on top of them exploded, knocking a cracked cathode screen offline and causing expended shell casings on the floor to rattle. “And I think we’re sinking into the quicksand! I can’t aim properly, sir!”

“It’s just mud!” protested a garbled voice from the other microphone.

“Shite,” Minimus hissed as he grabbed a blocky remote control with a control stick attached by wire to a cathode screen above him. “I’ll man the right sponson.”

“Sir, we’ve loaded the gun!” the loader declared, holding on his soot-covered hand a wet hanky.

“Well?!” Minimus screamed. “Fire it!”

“Aye!” the gunner said as he pushed the loader aside and hopped into his seat. He flipped a few switches, aimed with a cracked cathode screen, and slammed his fist on a big red button. The result was an immensely deafening boom that could be felt to the bone as the gun’s arse was kicked back by the stupendous recoil of the three-mil round exiting the cannon. As the loader quickly pulled out the expended shell with muffin mitts, the cracked targeting screen showed one of the obscene Connoltian warmachines transforming into a smoke-billowing hulk of twisted metal.



As the leading machine exploded, the rest of the death armor rolled on through the burning jungle and filled the air with obscene amounts rockets, shrieking projectiles that left acrid black contrails in their wake. One of the monster warmachines rolled over the wreckage of the leading machine, crunching it underneath its tread-legs as scorching prometheom jelly soaked both wreck and warmachine. There was a quick flash as a pulsating lassiter beam carved off the vehicle’s wing, the steel appendage still firing rockets as it fell to the ground.

As the Ajax tanks clashed head on with the mechanical beasts, all around them Marines, Connoltians and androgynes partook in an infernal orgy of ejaculating flechettes, rocketbullets and needlers while everything around them burned. Steroidified warriors waving swordguns charged from behind the safety of armor only to be incinerated upon the walls of prometheom spewed forth by the twin Ajax-flamers as Marines fired from the relative safety behind their iron escorts – only to be exploded by rockets from the Connoltian armor and from mortars seemingly shot out by the jungle itself.

As the last of the warmachines ceased its incoherent firing of rockets and met the hard end of a three-mil, a flanking Ajax detonated in an earth-shaking blast that spewed a fireball of liquid flame as far as the eye could see. An entire half of the Marines caught fire and flailed through the burning underbrush of the jungle, screaming as the prometheom consumed them alive –leaving nothing but smoke and ashes. The remaining soldiers took cover behind the two unexploded Ajax, or behind the trees, holding their capes up high to shield themselves from the rain of fire.

But before long, the other Ajax was also transformed into a blazing funeral pyre – this time, the plume of fire mushroomed into the sky in a morbid resplendence that could be seen across the dense forestry, and quite far away. More men screamed as their forms were eaten by the falling flames.

And from the green’s parts unscathed came the Connoltian cavalry, heralded by the nigh-deafening whine of turbofans and the hum of repulsors, the cracking of branches and the felling of trees. Emerging from the green was the aerial turret.



Inside the last remaining Ajax tank, Minimus could’ve sworn that his crew had collectively soiled themselves. The only cathode still working showed the very big aerial turret coming at them.

“By Zeupiter!” the loader uttered in fear as, once more, he wetted himself with tea.

“Don’t just stand there!” the gunner cried. “Load the gun! Load the bloody gun!”

The microphone came alive. “Sir, the lasses’ve overheated -”

“What?!”

“Ah, shit! They’re on fire!”

“What?!”

Then the other microphone. “And we’re sinking into the quicksand!”

“What?!”

“Sir!”

”See, I told you it was quicksand!”

“Argh! It’s on fire!”

“Don’t drop the three-mil, godsdamnit!”

“Mfff! It’s heavy! It’s slipping! Ouch! My foot!”

Minimus looked around him, looked at the cathode screen, looked at the three-mil rolling on the floor, looked at the cathode screen again, looked at the microphones, and looked at the cathode one more time. Amidst all the screaming and panic, the disarray and flatulence, he knew there was precisely only one thing to do.

He screamed.



The aero-turret opened fire with its monster-bore cannons, the discharges reverberating the very atmosphere with their deadly magnificence. And at that very instant, the aero-turret’s opponent too unleashed its own cannon. As the Ajax’ muzzle-flash blossomed like a burning flower on fire blossoming burningly in spring, and as the three hundred millimeter round exited the massive heraculaneum shaft at supersonic velocities, the stupendous recoil hurled the Ajax backwards, causing it to slide sloppily on the quicksand/mud in reverse, just in time to narrowly avoid the detonating projectiles of the aero-turret by mere inches. And as the tank slid backwards, leaving behind a spewing wake of flying muck, its own three-mil shell met the aero-turret head on, punching through armor like tissue-paper and imploding deep within the flying fighting vehicle. A cute little gout of fire emerged from the impact-hole and, after a brief moment of silence, the deathmachine simply ceased functioning and fell upon the remaining Connoltians with a loud thud.



A while later…

As the once-mighty behemoth sank into the mucky mud, a hatch popped open and a tiny head with an oversized helmet emerged from the turret.

“Shite! We’re alive! And everyone else is dead!” Minimus said in astonishment. “Oh, and we’re sinking into the quicksand.”

“It’s mud!” protested a voice below him, as the heads of Brutus and the driver popped out of the chassis hatches.

“Sir, the lasses are all burnt up and -” as Brutus hauled himself off the hatch, he saw the predicament their vehicle was in. “We’re sinking into the quicksand, aren’t we? I’ll get the shovels.”

“No,” sighed Minimus as he stood up on the turret. “It’s too late. Go with Grippa and O’Connor, get the life raft and the tea kettle.”

“How about the radio?” Brutus asked. “And shouldn’t we scuttle the tank?”

Minimus shook his head. “No on the scuttling. The cathode screens are all shot. The Cunts won’t bother if they can’t use the tele,” he said as he upholstered out his service revolver. “We’ll need the radio though, go see if it works. Going through this jungle’s going to be a major arsehole. Get the tea kettle.”