Jafetsport Communal Square,
1400 Hrs,
Three weeks since last incident.
Ah, the hustle and bustle...so familiar, yet so very, very, odd.
Iorewerth Fachtna attempted to dredge up his very first memories of conflict, perhaps the meeting of the clan chiefs where he had been offered up to the Imperium? Maybe when the huge bulk-transports had descended upon Drook VI and they had been herded aboard like so many grox? No, even the face of his own clan-members, those that had been crowded along with him were now no more than featureless shapes in his mind.
The former Fenguard recalled his last action well enough, though it had taken place over two decades ago – and was the very reason he had been shipped off to this backwater system, with its backwater colonists, and its backwater life. Seventy-seven standard Terran years old he was, considered – and rightfully so – as something of both a good luck charm and a relic within the 92nd 'Fachtna' Drookian Fenguard, at least he was when they had lived and there had been a regiment of that name.
On the boggy moors of Arihan the clan-regiment had clashed with Ork forces, using their knowledge and experience as best they could to assist in the planets defence. Little did they realise that it would be a conflict they would never emerge from...none of them with the exception of one fifty-four year old Sergeant and regimental relic; Arihan was also where he had lost his right leg at the knee, the rudimentary Guard-issue bionics still playing up – even now it whirred and ground as he shifted where he sat, the metal crate beneath him causing his backside to numb somewhat.
He cast his thoughts back to three weeks previous, when the call had come from the capital planet requesting aid. Something was amiss on Jafetsport it claimed, the Governor himself seeking all the assistance that could be given from the eight planets and their varied populations. It had surprised him at first to see how few of the veterans on New 'New' Cadia responded to the call but then, he admitted grudgingly to himself, though their loyalty to the God-Emperor had never diminished they had nevertheless seen enough of war.
“Sergeant...Fektnah?”
A broad young man stood before him now, clad in the crimson-and-blue uniform of a Jafets Enforcer – in most respects as suited up and armed as an Arbites officer, only differently coloured and likely with less training or guts. The man that had queried him peered down at the old man with wary eyes – shoulder length white hair and the beginnings of a beard, a body that had once been well muscled but was now starting to take on the look of withered old leather of a gnarled tree, a torso of roughly stored flak-armour and a mouth-bitten chequered great-kilt wrapped about his shoulders and waist down to his knees, and finally the battered old 'M35 M-Galaxy' pattern lasgun that was being wiped down with an old cloth – this man looked far less like an Imperial veteran and far more like some ragged old hermit from a Feral World.
“That's correct,” growled the Drookian steadily, “whit can ah do fer you, boy?”
“The Governor has ordered veterans of Sergeant rank or higher to take command of the irregular formations we shall soon be constructing from...”
Iorewerth gave a small sigh as the Enforcer trailed off, taking a quick glance around at the jumbled assortment of manpower presently on show in the square. Colonists, labourers, miners, everyone from the village midwife to the local butchers. No wonder he had lost the words, this was not a fighting force.
“Aye, I see. Well ah'll be right here when you sort that, laddie, and ah'm no a Sergeant anymore...that was then, this is now.”
With the sunshine beating down on him, and his leg playing merry Hell, Iorewerth Fachtna went back to polishing his weapon and wondering if this would be the operation that saw him join his former comrades.
