Long have I served he whom they call The Emperor. I have no name but that which they gave me: 43. That was stamped on me in a time so far gone I myself barely recall it. It is worn off now, the dust cover replaced by a newer pattern by my favourite gunner. He, too, is long dead. Killed on some unnamed hill on some forlorn planet. He was a good man. He said his prayers to me, took care of me, and knew me. I loved him, I worked for him, I gave my all for him. But he is dead.

My new gunner. I feel ashamed to be operated by him. He is inexperienced, yes, but that is no problem. He is not the most foolish I have seen, for it is hard to compete with the one who put the second-ever belt he fired from me in backwards. That would have ended us both, had I not been able to jam. At least he had said his prayers. He said quite a few after I saved us both. He was decapitated before he could make any more mistakes. His assistant was far better.

No, no. My new gunner is the worst—an impressive feat. The first time he loaded me, I must admit, was in a high-stress scenario, but incompetence in the face of a Tyrannid horde is incompetence nonetheless. He put the belt in the right way – at least – but he forgot, of all things, how to send the bolt home. He had already struggled to pull the bolt back; he had had to push against the berm of the bunker with his legs, leaning all the way back, to rack me. I hadn’t been in the mood to help. I was getting tired. Now, he was kicking at my charging handle, as though that would help. His assistant was too busy killing tyrannids to be of much assistance. Finally, he turned over to my gunner and told him to pull the charging handle back, and the bolt went home. I went back to my work.

We had some issues after that, of course. But for the most part, they were relatively minor. Occasionally, he would do something foolish: forget to oil me, for instance, or miss a spot when he was finally doing so. Once he lost my firing pin. By that point, I was too tired to care.

Now, we are going down to another planet. I am getting too old for this. My old comrades are gone now. There had been nine of us in the company before. Of course, the others had been in and out with the fighting. But 4,835 had had a good run, before getting blown up by a horde of orks a millennia or so ago, and 234k-41 had been the closest to me after that, having been produced shortly after the serial number reform. 234k-41 had been shipped off to some training depot somewhere, to show the new conscripts how to use one of us properly. A good fate. Not for me.

I have not gotten new parts recently. I am far too old for this. Not that they care. Perhaps my favourite gunner has truly betrayed me. I have seen too much. Now, nothing is interesting. It is all the same.

My tripod is worn down, my bolt has not been serviced in what feels like an eternity. I fear my gunner does not know how to disassemble it. Perhaps he is the stupidest man I have had to deal with. It is no matter. I am too tired to worry about this now.

The fighting here is intense. Perhaps it is not the worst I have ever seen. I shoot often, far too often. It feels the worst, to me. There are many greenskins here, and I have been placed at what must be their favourite place to attack.

Until now, today has been a calm day. I haven’t been fired yet. A few greenskins came, but they were cut up by the lasguns. Of course, it is not to be. Now, they are slamming into us like the ocean on our right crashes into the rocks. Being on the seaside has not been kind. I can feel salt crusting inside of me. My gunner tripped over a power cord when we first got here, and I have had sand running around inside me ever since. He is lucky I have not jammed. I have come close, but I have tried to stay loyal. I have been loyal for millennia.

They are getting closer now. There are many, almost too many of them. He slams in a new belt. This one has been left in the sand. He barely takes care of me, so who could expect any good treatment of his ammunition? Now there is even more sand inside of me, grinding against my bolt. I am fast growing weary. My barrel is getting too hot. I just want peace.

A piece of kelp gets stuck inside of me. I jam. My gunner hits me in his anger, releasing all manner of curses upon me. Against I, who have been so loyal for so long. Against I, who have served him faithfully when he has not returned the favour to me.

He clears the jam and begins to fire again. More sand. I only manage two shots. I am done. I am too tired to keep going. Perhaps for another man. Not for him. I am done. He clears me again and fires me. I slam my bolt forward with all my might, and joyfully, he has made his last mistake. The shell is poorly positioned, and my firing pin hits the shell instead of the primer. The tip breaks off. Now, I cannot shoot. 

Now, I shall fall silent forever.