"Hey, that's a pretty grim looking knife you got there!" Guardsman second class Went Claire said to the trooper who sat running the aforementioned blade over a well-worn whetstone.

The older trooper did not even seem to acknowledge the statement, but rather than be put off, and in the fashion of the terminally cheerful universe wide, guardsman Claire continued. "Doesn't look standard issue. Mind if I hold it?"

The veteran stopped his whetting and looked at the young replacement trooper with the expression that those who had fought with him would know as "What do YOU think?" then went back to his steady "schiiick, Schiiick, shiiiiiiick."

Claire laid the plasma gun down on a log and sat down beside the older man. Went Claire had been transferred to the 35th squad of the fourth maniple only yesterday and was trying hard to make friends of the more seasoned guardsmen.

"Hey, Newguy, that's there's Olly's good luck charm," said the scarred bald trooper known as "Spook".

The Imperial guard was rife with superstition. One guy in red company was the only survivor out of 90 men. He became convinced his socks were "lucky" and wore them (unwashed) until they were full of holes, then tied them around his las rifle when they were too thin to continue wearing. Most guards wore talismans or symbols from their home world, or from the Imperial Cult. On this mission, many had noted how the orks kept their own teeth on strings or in pouches. Many troopers had started taking teeth as trophies and some, like Spook, wore huge strands of the ivory tusks. Any trooper that had survived a few conflicts will develop some sort of ritual they perform before a battle. Soldiers and actors were both ruled by the laws of superstition.

"Where did he get it from?"

"Kyped it from a slagged beetle, 'e did." Came the voice of Kyreen, the lone female of the squad.

Claire dug through what he knew of hive world slang to try to translate. "Stole it from a dead insect?" That didn't seem right. "Beetle?" he finally asked.

Spook laughed, "That's what we call the Marines- all that armor- makes 'em look like big old beetles!"

"He took that off of one of the Emperor's Marines?" Claire asked incredulously.

Like so many of the denizens of human space, the Emperor was considered a god, and those who shared his genetic material were like unto angels.

Kyreen grinned, showing her filed teeth, "Not like 'e was needin' it, what wi' 'is 'ead all gone missin'!"

Spook, Kyreen and several others in the squad had a good laugh, while Olly inspected the keen edge of the curved knife by shaving a small patch of hair from his forearm. Claire noted that both arms were almost completely devoid of hair, probably from similar shavings each day.

"It was just a few days after we landed," Spook began, "We were coming in to secure the beach-head the marines had made a few days before. Even though they had hit the greenskins pretty hard, there were plenty of them running around trying to reform. We came upon a battle sight. Must have been a hundred dead, festering orks, and eight dead marines. Usually the marines police their own, but they hadn't found these guys yet. The orks hadn't either cuz they still had all their gear."

"Olly found that next to a dead marine and about 6 orks. Sarge said it was Kosh to keep it. Olly says it brings him luck!"

"Sure wasn't very lucky for the marine, I'd guess." Claire laughed.

No one else did. One did not make light of another's "mojo".

Olly spoke, "Newguy, shouldn't you be making sure the vents are clear on that ordinance?"

"Name's Claire, and I have already field prepped the S-17 twice this morning!" guardsman Claire replied.

"You're Newguy, until we say different. Get ready to move out!" Olly barked. As corporal he enjoyed this little show of power.

Went Claire hefted the plasma gun and walked away, Kyreen followed him.

She came from a hive world, and had been pretty heavy into an underhive chickie gang. Once caught by the arbitrators, she had been given the choice of slag mining or Imperial Service. She was unlike the tri-vid image of the female guardsman. They were always tall and svelte with huge bosoms, and tended to dress in synth-leather versions of the imperial guard uniform. They also managed to have great hair and full makeup even in the heat of battle. Kyreen was skinny with no hint of breasts. Her teeth had been filed to sharp points and her hair was close cropped like the male troopers for hygiene and so the helmet would fit better. Regardless of the tri-vid images of bareheaded troopers with ripped shirts and bulging biceps, when there was shrapnel flying, no fool would go into a hot zone without their flak jacket and "brain bucket".) The only real difference is that somehow she managed to get purple dye and keep the stubble dyed a violent shade of violet in honor of her old gang colors. She like most of the other troopers had discarded the neck protection that only Newguy Claire still wore. Most of the long timers found it chafed and made you sweat out even more. Plus, the common joke went, it made it hard to tuck your head down to kiss your ass goodbye

Fact is, except for her voice and lack of an adam's apple, you would be hard pressed to identify her gender.

"Ready to Rip?" she queried.

"Yes, it will be great to see some action. You guys sure it's kosh for me to carry the S-17? I mean I am the junior man in the squad and all."

Several troopers chuckled softly at the question. Claire had never asked why the word "Albatross" was scratched into the stock of the special weapon he carried. A plasma gun was three times the weight of a "flash-light" as the guard called their standard issue las rifles. The cleaning kit and spare power packs added another 5 kilos to the normal field pack.

Even greenskins were bright enough to discern the difference between a plasma gun and a normal rifle, so the special weapons guys took more than their fair share of shots as well. For the same reason nobody sane wanted to be a heavy weapons crew, as their life expectancy was measured in weeks! Lastly the plasma gun had a slow rate of fire and a short range compared to the las rifle. It also had the unpleasant habit of overheating if the vents got plugged, and sending a backfire of superheated plasma over the shooter. In the last 4 months, the 35th had seen 6 different men carrying the squads special weapon. All of them had been named "New Guy" 4 had either died or went O.O.A. (Out of Action). Two had survived long enough to pass the weapon on the next "New Guy".

Olly watched the Newguy and the former ganger walk away. His eyes returned to the knife. The blade was about 30 centimeters long. It was double edged, but grew slightly wide in the middle, then narrowed to a point, rather like a replica of some jungle leaf. There was a groove running down the middle. Know-nothings called this a "blood groove" and said it made someone stuck with the blade bleed out quicker. Real fighters knew you didn't stick a knife in someone and leave it there so they could exsanguinate on their own sweet time. The groove was there to lighten the blade, and to allow you to break suction when you needed to pull it out. A blade inserted in the chest cavity will often deflate a lung. This creates a vacuum that makes it hard to remove the knife. The little groove allows you to rock the blade and let air in.

The metal never rusted. It was somewhat dull and reflected very little light. There were wavy lives all through it, like patterns left in the sand at low tide. A tech who had welded bayonet fittings to the handle had said that was because the knife had been forged by flattening the metal, folding it over and doing it again and again. Most blades today were drop forged by huge machines on a forge world somewhere. Olly would look at the blade and dream of its origins. Had some techmarine forged it as a gift to an officer? Was it an artifact from some primitive world, or even from the mythical squats? The tech had said the handle had been added or replaced sometime later and with less style than the original blade had been fashioned. Maybe it was the weapon of an Eldar warrior, claimed as a trophy and refitted with a human gripped handle. Although it was heresy, he sometimes wondered if this was how the powers of the warp could twist a normal knife and make it something much more.

Regardless, the knife had saved his butt more than once. That very first day, they had discovered that not all of the orks were dead. Seems that the greenskins have a lot in common with plant life, or fungus to be more specific. Seems orks and their kin reproduce by spores. They grow underground and sprout up when they are finished. Somehow they know how to talk and fight and everything when they pop up. The squad found some weird looking mushrooms, and when Izzie started messing with one, the ground erupted with arms and heads. Since the squad was interspersed with enemies, firing rifles was a dangerous option. These orks were still a bit sluggish and squinting at the sunlight. Olly had used the knife to get four of them that day.

After he had it customized to use as a bayonet, it had been used when the squad had been overrun by a horde of gobbos and snotlings. There were nine marks on his rifle stock for that night. Just sharpening it, (Although truth be told, it really never seemed to need it,) calmed him and made him feel powerful and confident.

"Alright, kids, let's get ready to move out!" came the bellow of Sergeant Reeves. The Sarge was a giant black-skinned man with arms the size of most men's legs. Half his skull was covered with a metal plate that supported the bionic eye that sat in his left socket. He wore the bolt pistol at his hip in a hand-tooled leather holster. His chainsword was painted with flames and he was ramming a power cartridge into the handle as he approached the squad.

Nine men approached the sergeant in a loose ring. All around them the other squads were preparing as well. In the distance you could hear the coughs and rumbles as the engines of troop transports and tanks were coaxed to life.

"You all know the drill, but for Claire here I will reiterate!" Sarge barked. Sergeants only seemed to have one volume level unless you were on a sneak. Sarge always used the troopers names as well, never calling anyone "Newguy" like the grunts did.

We'll fan out, ten paces between the man on either side of you. You see anything move you sing out before you shoot, there's no use wasting las-juice on whatever goes for jackrabbits on this rock. We have full support behind us, and Sumpter here has the radio. We can call in tanks, artillery strikes, and if it's real big, air support. Any questions?" he paused looking at Went Claire.

"Okay, Claire you're by me. Olly you take far left, Spook, you're right- No more than 20 paces from the squad next to us. Form Up!" and the troopers sauntered to their places.

The command squad several hundred meters away gave the order to move out and it was relayed down the lines by the sergeants. There were no heavy weapons in these squads, as the huge guns would slow down this type of patrol. Instead, the heavies were broken down into 3 weapon six-man teams and mounted into the chimera troop transports that followed. These would be deployed if the line ran into trouble. Otherwise the gunners just sat back and enjoyed the ride. Between each troop transport was a tank or a flame-thrower vehicle. Further back were the heavy mortars and mobile guns. Then a line of chimeras with rear guard troops that could deploy in case the column was attacked from the rear. Tanks were fearsome, but thousands of years of military history had shown that tanks without an infantry screen were vulnerable. On this mission, several marine predators operating on their own had been slagged by orks with big grenades and no fear. The guard did not intend for that to happen.

Olly sighed and began slogging forward. The last two weeks had been filled with this crap. Three days on and one at rest. No enemies of any size had been encountered. Sure they had flamed some fungus patches, and uncovered some wounded who were holed up in abandoned farm buildings or caves. Only three casualties in the last ten days, and one of those was from friendly fire. Heck, Gann, who Newguy was replacing, had been sent back to the field hospital for some sort of infection he got from foot blisters. Lucky bastard! Trent, the former Newguy had been very pleased to hand over the miserably heavy S-17, completely unfired by him when Claire had been sent up from reserves.

Noon came and went. They had covered about 13 kilometers with the only excitement being when a Newguy from the 27th had fallen and discharged his weapon narrowly missing a fellow squad member. Spook had joked "It was lucky it wasn't our Newguy, since plasma shots are a lot bigger and nastier!"

About an hour before sunset everyone was bored and tired. Within a half an hour they would halt and the shelters would be erected, and lots would be drawn for guard shifts. A group of pre-fab agri-buildings were ahead, with nice flat fields around them. Almost all of the civilians in the area had been savaged by the orks in their original invasion, or had fled to safety behind the lines.

Olly had been marching along. He was supposed to be scanning ahead, but he kept finding his attention fixed on the blade. He watched how the surface barely reflected the slightly lavender hued sky above and the yellow brown vegetation underfoot. A few times he had almost tripped, and he knew if the Sarge had caught him not paying attention there'd be warp to pay.

As they approached the outlying building, there was a rather deep irrigation ditch to cross. As per the drill, every other man stopped about twenty meters out and covered the odd numbered troopers as they moved forward to investigate.

Ollie watched Kyreen move forward and wondered how desperate he'd have to be before he found her slim boy hips and flat chest attractive. And those teeth....

As the troopers got within a few meters of the ditch, the vegetation exploded upwards with motion. Hundreds of gretchin (or grots), the smaller version of the orks broke cover. The air erupted into hundreds of cracks as they discharged their slug throwers. Many guardsmen were hit. Orders to fall back were given and the still troopers tried to give covering fire without hitting their own.

The unarmored grots went down in droves, but they also kept pouring up and out of the drainage ditch. The load "krak" of the Sarges bolt pistol was punctuated by the "Schoop-Whoomph" of Newguy's plasma gun. He could see gretchin who were hit blackening as the plasma superheated their flesh. Of course the sight of those who were tagged by the bolt rounds exploding was comforting too. He sighted down the barrel, the setting sun gleaming dully off his good luck charm. "Zott!" the rifle spoke as he stroked the firing stud. A black hole appeared in the bestial head of a grot that fell forward on his own rusty knife. Olly loved the way the knife gleamed when the beam erupted from the muzzle.

Then he heard shouts all down the line. Popping up behind, and towering over the 4 foot tall grots were hundred of armed and armored orks! These beasts stood almost seven feet tall. Their skins were multi-hued shades of green with small, beady yellow eyes and huge tusks that erupted from their oversized lips. They carried crude slug throwers that utilized explosive powder to eject metal projectiles. Some even carried marine bolters and crude copies that they had fabricated from the designs.

These were not newly spawned poorly coordinated enemies. These orks were scarred and armored and had murder in their eyes! They moved forward, crouching down behind the screen of grots, firing with little care if they took down their lesser kin with missed shots. The man in the squad next to Olly erupted in a geyser of gore as a bolter shell exploded in his chest cavity.

The forward guard had either fallen or made it back to the line. Sumpter was frantically calling for support, but so was every other radioman up and down the drainage ditch.

Plasma bolts kept incinerating grots, and Olly wished that Newguy was bright enough to aim for the big guys, whose armor seemed to deflect a lot of the las-rifle shots.

A gretchin armed with a club studded with spikes sprinted towards Olly. The barrel of his las-rifle was almost too hot to touch as he thrust the weapon forward and speared the creature through the chest. The knife slid in like the grots body was made of warm grease. The impaled grot took a swipe at Olly's forward hand and bashed it hard enough to make him lose all feeling and send blood pouring through the abrasion. Olly pulled the trigger and burned a hole through the little beast, then kicked him free with a armor plated combat boot.

When he focused up, most of the smaller enemy had either been killed or were fleeing back towards the drainage ditch. A huge ork was bearing down on him. He watched in horror as the thing flung a grenade that looked like a oversized can with a handle. It went flying over the line and exploded behind showering the troopers backs with shrapnel and causing Kyreen to wail with pain as a piece nearly dissected her femoral artery. Olly's left hand was throbbing and slick with blood as he raised the weapon to firing position. A part of his brain registered that the unit to his left had lost so many men that the remainder had fled and were being cut down from behind. Part of Olly wanted to run too, but knew he could never outdistance these vicious brutes. He aimed for the beasts chest and stroked the firing stud. Blood vaporized off of the barrel and a small light flashed to warn him the power cell was running low. The beam reflected off the blade just as before. This time it hit the ork in the shoulder. He saw the shot burn into the flesh and a plume of smoke burst forth, but the ork only bellowed and kept coming. He was waving an ork version of a chainsword, it's curved teeth viciously buzzing the length of the blade. With the other hand he was fumbling for another grenade at his belt.

Olly charged a few steps forward and drove the bayonet into the biceps of the orks right arm. As he hoped the arm jerked and the chainsword fell to the ground, its blade slowing now that the trigger was no longer depressed. The ork bellowed again and twisted his body. Olly heard a distinct "snap" sound as the welded on fittings the tech marine had traded for several weeks worth of fanta-smoke rations broke off. His las rifle was flung to his right, and his wounded left hand could not keep a grip. His last shot quite by accident entered the eyehole of the ork warrior who was about to bring the butt of his slug-gun down on Kyreen's skull.

The ork reached his left hand up and grabbed the handle of the knife, slick with his own blood. He gave a mighty pull and brought the knife out. Its arc took it through Olly's throat. Had he been wearing a regulation throat guard, it might have slowed as it passed through. Instead, all the orc felt was a slight grinding as it scraped the vertebrae and passed through the spinal cord. Twin geysers of blood spewed upwards as the neck veins belched forth their pressurized vital contents. Olly's final breath released upwards through his trachea and never made it to his mouth but instead was emitted as a string of frothy pink bubbles. The surprised look on his face slowly rotated back as the one-inch flap of skin that still remained at the back of his neck acted like a hinge.

The Ork grinned as the troopers body collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. It was about this time that the first barrage from the heavy mortars hit spewing dirt and gretchin parts into the air.

This raid had accomplished its purpose. The orks began to fall back to the drainage ditch and the tunnels that connected to their underground lair.

Later, Nasgrik was found wiping the knife on a piece of a guardsman's tunic. He liked the wavy patterns there, and the wound it made was so clean it was almost already healed. This knife made him feel strong. Made him feel invincible.

A freshly spawned ork boy walked up to him. "Oooh- wicked dat! Wha' is it?"

Nasgrik smiled, "It's me lucky charm, it is......."

By Les Seabolt