The explosion lifted Gerebrix Rho several feet into the air, but still not above the head of the angry Adeptus Astartes warrior immediately to his left. Rho fell back to the ground in a crumpled heap, his monocle shooting off his bald head like a tiny frisbee flying away from the mayhem.

‘It still doesn’t work, little man,’ the Space Marine shouted as more blasts shook the earth around them. ‘If you don’t fix this grav cannon, we’re dead.’

Rho quivered like a frightened rabbit; the hulking Astartes stood straight as a pole, albeit one holding a las rifle in one hand and a gleaming power sword in the other.

Rho, a diminutive Lexmechanic from the Adeptus Mechanicus, still couldn’t believe he was in an actual battle. He had been sent, or more accurately dispatched as punishment, by his superiors to work as an onsite tech specialist for the Steel Confessors. That fearsome Space Marine chapter was loosely affiliated with Rho’s order of brainy priests, scientists, and data specialists who kept the emperor’s technology running.

Rho was a data specialist – if you needed analysis of crop yields on the agri-worlds, he was your little man. Repairing a grav cannon as blood thirsty Orks rained munitions down on your position, not so much.

Serving the Emperor of Mankind by crunching numbers beat the hell out of actually facing down the Xenos. Data didn’t try to kill you, at least not overtly. If things didn’t work in the musty headquarters of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Rho was realising, it just didn’t matter. One could just pop off for another cup of recaff. Here in the analog world, well, the stakes were more stark – and certainty noisier and smellier.

‘I’ve replaced the cannon’s main cogitator, but it’s still not functioning,’ Rho explained, craning his neck to look up at the Steel Confessor, who was clad in the black and white armour of his chapter. The Space Marine was wearing a full helmet, but Rho swore he could see a dismissive sneer on the super human’s face through the shield.

‘Where are the other Astartes?’ Rho asked as if his life depended on it, which it most certainly did.

‘They retreated, there are more Orks than we thought there would be.’

‘Why can’t we retreat?’

‘We’re pinned down. If you fix the grav cannon, I can blast the Greenskins back, allowing us time to rejoin my brothers.’
Rho needed his monocle – it was an electronic enhancement that allowed him to access practically all the data accumulated by the Imperium of Man. He searched the stubbled ground in front of him – there! He spotted it. Rho scrambled over, like a nervous crab climbing over rocks.

Crunch.

The huge Space Marine inadvertently stepped on the eye piece, smashing it into countless tiny shards.

‘Arrgh,’ the small, skinny Lexmechanic wailed, a sound so sullenly shrill it caught the Space Marine’s attention, even in the din of combat.

‘Stop your whining.’

Rho again looked up at the Astartes, the wires and other mechanical additions attached to his body groaning in complaint. The extra hardware helped Rho do his work, as surely as power swords made the Astartes more lethal. But the monocle was the tool that tied it all together for Rho.

The Lexmechanic was knocked over again. He turned and saw nothing but green. Then the green was pierced by a blade. Rho realised he was staring at the huge figure of an Ork who had just been run through by his Space Marine friend’s sword. The Greenskin fell to the ground. Even supine, Rho could barely see above the creature.

‘The Orks are getting bolder, little man. I won’t be able to repel them if they attack en masse.’

‘Without my monocle, there’s nothing I can do,’ Rho said.

The Space Marine dropped his las rifle, then used his free hand to pick up Rho. He lifted the smaller man as easily as Rho could’ve lifted a pencil. Still holding the Lexmechanic, the Astartes lifted Rho even higher.

‘What do you see?’

Rho saw a sea of green – it was like looking at a verdant forest, albeit with trees with fiery eyes that were holding all manner of weaponry.

The warrior lowered Rho, took off his helmet, then stared straight into the puny man’s twitching, beady eyes.

‘Those are Orks,’ the Space Marine said, as if speaking to a particularly dim child. ‘They don’t know that I’m the only Astartes back here, behind the cannon. Soon, they’ll figure it out. Without the cannon, you and I will be slaughtered, although they may keep you alive long enough for some selective torture.’

The Astartes grinned, the edges of his smile nearly reaching his ears. He seemed pleased by the prospect of Rho experiencing great pain.

He placed Rho back on the ground, next to the cannon.

What to do, what to do?

Rho had replaced the cannon’s main cogitator, he’d also run three separate diagnostics checks. Swapping out the cogitator should’ve solved the problem. There was one last thing, really, it was silly. It couldn’t, it shouldn’t work.

He opened a small hatch near the lower end of the cannon. There was a switch, which the Space Marines called the “on/off switch.” It was more complex than that, Rho knew, but, well…

Rho flipped the switch on, then, off. Nothing. He did it again. Nothing. The third time the cannon glowed with life. 

‘You did it little man! You serve the emperor well,’ the Space Marine shouted as he mounted the huge weapon and began blasting away. ‘I’ll see that you get a battle honour for your work.’

A battle honour for flipping a switch? Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, Rho figured. Now if he could only find a cup of recaff.