Lieutenant Cobral Janner was bored. Eight years on a deathworld, guarding a secret fortified warehouse containing a strategic stockpile of spare clothing, equipment, weapons and vehicles, and he had yet to fire his lasgun in anger.
He set his cup of recaff down and considered his seasonal update to the astropaths in orbit. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with anything different to his last report, and the report before that, and every other report he had submitted since he had arrived at the warehouse.
Nothing significant to report.
The door to what Janner considered his command centre, and his men knew as the office, rolled open. Lexmechanic Third Class Six-Theta-Magwad glided in, an odious and malodorous individual who Janner suspected had only been assigned to the warehouse as punishment for both of them.
The polished dome atop Six-Theta-Magwad’s body gave no sign of acknowledging Janner’s presence. A data spike appeared from within the techpriest’s robes and extended forward until it connected to a databank.
“Good morning Magwad, how are you today?” asked Janner as he wrinkled his nose against the pungent smell of scented oil. The response was a stream of binharic exhortations, which remained the only form of communication Janner had ever heard Six-Theta-Magwad make in the last three years.
“What’s that you say?” muttered Janner, raising his hand to pinch his nose and his head to look at where the classified codes necessary for his update were scratched into the wall. “The servitor which checks the sanctified undergarments is broken? We’d better call the Avenging Son. Can’t afford the heroes on the Indomitus Crusade to not have their mighty weapons covered by anything but the neatest cloth.” Subconsciously he dropped his hand to his groin and scratched.
Six-Theta-Magwad clicked and pulsed again. Janner imagined a more indignant tone amidst the techpriest’s binharic torrent.
“I’m sorry,” Janner replied, “the left boot inventory is out by one?” He leaned back and made a show of looking at his feet. “Well I’ve only got one.”
He began typing the codes into his dataslate to commence his update. “Or is it more serious? Has an ork wandered out of the jungle and asked for free food and lodging?”
There was only silence from Six-Theta-Magwad, no sign that he had even heard Janner.
“Don’t ignore me, cogboy,” he growled. Six-Theta-Magwad emitted a screech of binharic which left Janner clutching his ears in pain.
“Don’t do that!” Janner screamed at the techpriest, jumping to his feet. He slammed his fists onto the desk, catching the edge of his dataslate which emitted a soft beep. “You need to help me! I can’t do this if you don’t work with me.”
Six-Theta-Magwad seemed to straighten a fraction, and although there were no discernible features in his dome, Janner briefly imagined agreement.
“So how many orks have come out of the jungle?” enquired Janner. There was a low click in response.
“Thousands?” queried Janner. “And some gargants? And dozens of their ramshackle war machines? Well clearly we need help Magwad, we can’t defend this lone outpost on our own.”
Six-Theta-Magwad blurted a short pulse in response, before withdrawing the dataspike and sliding out of the command centre. The pungent aroma took slightly longer to disappear.
Janner lowered his body back into his chair and gazed wistfully into the distance. Adopting the type of voice he remembered from history lessons during his basic training, he imagined his undoubtedly heroic actions in defence of the warehouse.
“Is there one man here who can stand against these odds? Just one?” He looked around, searching for a hero. “No? Then it must be me, Lieutenant Cobral Janner of the 43rd Stackas, who will take the fight to the green bastards. The Emperor is my sword and shield and I cannot fail.”
He broke off, failing to find something even more heroic to say next. Instead, his stomach rumbled and he realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast two hours ago. Janner stood up, held his head at a suitably rakish angle, and marched out of the command centre.
Behind him his dataslate emitted a second soft beep.
Years passed, and still Lieutenant Cobral Janner was bored. He continued to file reports stating nothing significant had happened, and reached an agreement with Six-Theta-Magwad to politely ignore the other whenever they met, although the techpriest had still not spoken a word of Gothic.
One evening, Janner became aware of a noise outside the warehouse. It was the noise he had hoped for ever since he had arrived on the deathworld.
Gunfire.
Janner raced as fast as his once-lithe body would allow, conscious of the weight he had gained in recent years. He was desperate to get to the armoured bunkers atop the warehouse. The sight that greeted him was incredible. From out of the skies came flame, wrath and death. Panicking, he grabbed his pistol and began firing indiscriminately.
“You bastards! I knew you’d come! I’m ready for you! Lieutenant Janner is ready for you!”
An armoured hand closed around his laspistol and crumpled the barrel. Janner gulped and turned to face the enemy.
“Are you Lieutenant Janner?” boomed out of the helmet of the giant in front of him.
“Er…yes,” squeaked Janner, taking in the size of the Imperial aquila worn on the chestplate of the warrior.
“I am Lieutenant Vonroy, of the Angels Flagellent. We are here to rescue you from the orks.”
“The orks?” stammered Janner.
“Yes,” replied Vonroy. “Astropathic delays regrettably prevented our earlier arrival, but we came as soon as we received your message. We are just the vanguard. Behind us comes a demi-legion of Titans and twelve Militarum regiments. You have done well to survive for this long, but now we are here to save you. By direct authority of the Lord Commander.”
A steady stream of clicks and pulses came from behind the Space Marine, and to Janner’s ears, it sounded just like laughter.
