Patriot Guard: Debut

FORTUL FRONTIERA DECEBAL

CAMPUS IGNIS LINA DEFENSIVA

549.019.M42

Decebal marked the end of human control of Durance. Built centuries ago, during the initial ork invasion, Decebal started as a simple improvised defensive position, little more than a collection of hastily assembled barricades and shallow trenches. In the time since, it had been feverishly expanded; barricades became walls, trenches became hardened bunkers, command tents became a sprawling ferrocrete redoubt. But the years had not been kind to Decebal. Greenskin incursions and seismic disturbances caused by regular orbital bombardments had slowly but surely ruined the fortress. Past its crumbling walls, the cratered and lifeless expanse of the Campus Ignis stretched for kilometers, bracketed on either side by the deeply polluted waters of the Mare Talionis.

Patriot Guard Rifle Section 320-Rho was, technically, "garrisoning" the old fort. In practice, this meant that 320-Rho halfheartedly dispersed themselves in a vaguely defensive posture, taking up "firing positions" that happened to coincide with shade from Decebal's shattered towers. Sub-Marshal Vidreanu allowed such laxity because Sub-Marshal Vidreanu hated this useless makework assignment as much as her troops did. 320-Rho, and by extension, Vidreanu, were tasked with escorting a Psykana Auxiliary coterie as they took their regular psy-casting of the Campus Ignis. Vidreanu fanned herself with her officer's soft-cap and glared at the auxiliaries, chained together at the ankles so they wouldn't wander off, as they performed their borderline-blasphemous tarot readings and resolved to just ignore them until it was time to leave.

Instead, she busied herself with her second least favorite activity: giving the local Armata Praefectus detachment a status update. Normally, the Armata would be content to endlessly drill and guard the Manse, but with the troubles tying down so many Patriot Guard units, the governor's elite private army had "graciously" released a few detachments to pick up the slack at the Lina Defensiva. They were stationed at a PG airbase around a dozen kilometers north of Decebal, ready to scramble their Arvus Lighter within a few minutes should the need arise.

"Praefectus Hazard Team, this is 320-Rho, come back," Vidreanu said into the clunky surplus vox unit. It was obsolete, unwieldy and awkward and about seven kilos too heavy, which explained why the Patriot Guard got stuck with it. She waited a moment before repeating. "PHT, this is 320-Rho, come back."

"We heard you the first time," the vox crackled. The voice on the other end was blessed with a prime example of the melodic, almost tonal, Uphive Grenika accent. While not entirely unpleasant to listen to, it was soaked in condescenscion at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

"We're just waiting on the psykers to read their chicken entrails or whatever so we can go home. Nothing else to report."

"Acknowledged, 320-Rho. Try not to get lost."

Vidreanu rolled her eyes as she deactivated the vox. She wasn't one to overstate the effectiveness of the Patriot Guard; a Sub-Marshal's stipend didn't have enough zeroes for Vidreanu feel obligated to buy into the PG's internal myth-making. Even so, being actively looked down on, whether by the haughty, violet-eyed psychopaths of the Cadian 1080th or the gilded assholes of the Armata Praefectus, rubbed her the wrong way. Why don't you come down here and baste in your own juices with a bunch of witch freaks instead? she thought. Throne, I can absolutely sit on my ass in Kasr Skala just as well as they can.

Vidreanu wasn't even able to finish being annoyed before a worried trooper jogged up to her and stuttered out that the auxiliaries were being "weird" and "bad" and other unhelpful generalizations.

"Inauspicious!" the psykers wailed in unison. "Sub-Marshal, inauspicious!"

"No. No. Absolutely not. Do not do that," Vidreanu growled. "One talks. Save that awful synchronization act for someone else."

"Calamity approaches, Sub-Marshal," one said. The others nodded, careful to do so at very slightly different timings.

"Gonna have to be a little more specific. An icky feeling? A bad reading of the Emperor's Tarot?"

The psyker extended a palsied finger, pointing over Vidreanu's shoulder. "Not needed."

Sub-Marshal Anastasja Vidreanu followed the psyker's outstretched arm.

Plumes of dust to the south.

+++

+Transcript of vox log: Patriot Guard Rifle Section 320-Rho / Fortul Frontiera Decebal to Praefectus Guard Hazard Teams Alpha/Gamma / Southern Torunhive Patriot Guard Command Post

Recovered post-bellum. Translated from Astra Militarum battle-cipher CRYPTUS-REGULA by Inquisitorial Linguistrix [REDACTED]+

Subject 001 (confirmed as Patriot Guard Sub-Marshal Anastasja Vidreanu, MIA 623.019.M42): PHT, this is Rho-320. Contact!

Subject 002 (confirmed as Armata Praefectus Plutonier-Major Aurel Delouart, KIA 577.019.M42): What's that?

VIDREANU: Contact! Greenskins, moving north out of the Campus Ignis. Requesting reinforcement, effective immediately!

DELOUART: Surely a whole rifle section can deal with a handful of swinekin? Isn't holding ground what you're for?

VIDREANU: Moving north out of the Campus Ignis in force, you arrogant prick. We've got infantry, light vehicles, fucking more infantry, at least one class two-lambda war-crawler. Quit second guessing me, you puckered asshole, and get down here before we're overrun!

(VIDREANU disconnects)

DELOUART: ...Fuck.