Chapter 17: Defense of Mawson Ride, Part 3
Taylor counted his team repeatedly—three or four times over. No one was missing, and no strangers had joined.
Sometimes, his unlucky comrades would leave for patrols and return with an extra arm—or drag back strange trophies. Others simply disappeared without a trace.
For Taylor, this was good news—very good.
He didn't want to lose these brothers who had stood through life and death alongside him.
The bloody scent of war still lingered heavily in the air, like a noose tightening about his throat.
Once, he thought if he kicked the chair beneath his feet, he'd be strangled by the war itself.
Taylor believed his luck had brought victories and honors, but he knew such fortune eventually runs dry.
Life on the battlefield was a cruel chronometer, measuring away years with each breath. If his ancestors truly protected him, they, too, must have suffered countless shattered limbs and crushed skulls.
Luckily, this group of brothers had weathered the storms—so far.
From Taylor's experience, Imperial Guard service was a series of hurdles: passing meant becoming a veteran; failing meant dying in the mud.
The Imperial Guard performed death-defying feats in mortal frames; mere survival was itself an honor.
Taylor strode among his men, embracing each—his heart heavy with the shared brush with death. Such simple gestures held deep meaning earned through experience.
Aliens cared nothing for the Empire's honor—they tore into heads regardless.
Taylor recognized the need for newer and better weapons, but each request was chained by Imperial bureaucracy.
Approval from the Ministry of Munitions could take solar weeks, and in this star system, those weeks sometimes stretched into years.
One time, an urgent plea for air defense resulted in a delivery of a single Warhound Titan leg—enough to mock their plight.
The Empire's inefficiency was infamous and eternal.
"Then we can't rely on superiors," Taylor said grimly. "We must act on our own."
Turning to his brothers, he continued, "We need a vehicle. I want a Salamander armored reconnaissance car—fast, radio-equipped, with decent armament."
"But those go only to high-ranking officers," said the Lightling girl. "And it's too small for all our men."
Taylor nodded. "Then maybe a Chimera—our own moving base. But only twenty exist in the regiment. We're not on the list."
"Boss," she added, "the artillery regiment owns most of those. The vehicles that tow the main guns—the 'baggage,' I think?"
Corporal Katie shook her head. "But that belongs to another regiment. We can't touch it."
Roland, towering and sensible, suggested, "Many Chimeras are battle-damaged. Maybe we can scavenge parts to build one ourselves."
"The Chimera's modular design means it can host many variants—Hydra anti-air, Lion-tailed Scorpion missile vehicles all share the chassis," he explained.
Taylor blinked. "Really? But we're amateurs. We've got only a week's rest—no time for mistakes."
Roland smiled confidently. "Boss, we're machinists at heart. We've even serviced noble hovercraft."
Taylor realized his team's skills were greater than he'd thought.
"Alright, let's do it. I'll take responsibility if it goes wrong. Besides, I'm thick-skinned and an Empire hero—they won't dare reprimand me!" He chuckled. "Like a dead pig in boiling water."
And so began the industrious life of Class 15.
Roland led design and construction. Lightling hunted parts like a pro. Katie commanded operations—keeping things running smoothly.
No technical obstacle slowed them.
Within a week, two rugged carriages rolled out of the Empire's scrapyard.
Thanks to their heroic status, Lightling and others passed through the yard with ease, returning with engines and components.
Roland and Katie expertly assembled the patchwork chassis and armor.
Their workmanship surpassed that of the Mechanicus, whose cyborg zealots blindly worshipped machine spirits and ignored basic mechanical fixes like tightening bolts.
They lacked professional lathes and workshops, but their clever improvisation shone through.
The product—Class 15's new behemoth—was a full circle bigger than a standard Chimera.
Its metal mosaic of rivets and welds made it a Frankenstein's monster of forgotten machine parts—and now a new member of the squad.
Taylor circled it, inspecting thoroughly.
Its skin was hardened with adamantium plates scavenged from a Lemanus tank's armor, and it rumbled with twin internal combustion engines fueled by promethium, promising speed and power.
A crudely rigged radio—with a taped antenna—enabled communication with high command.
The turret held a heavy bomb for firepower.
Observation slits pierced all sides, trading some armor for infantry firing ports.
Despite its patchwork, the armored vehicle rivaled standard Imperial Guard APCs and was ready for battle, so long as no malevolent machine spirit interfered.
Inside, Taylor found a surprisingly spacious interior, seats cushioned with torn mattresses, and a small field kitchen—a pot and promethium stove for cooking in quiet moments.
Most importantly, the vehicle belonged to all members of Team 15.
If Old Man Tychus saw it, he might suffer a fatal stroke from the rule-breaking.
The Mechanicus would chant sacred binaries at the sight for days.
But Taylor's grin couldn't be suppressed.
"Start her up and let's see what she's got!"
Roland grinned and pressed the ignition.
The twin engines erupted into a buzzing roar, black smoke billowing.
Taylor cheered, pumping his fist.
"That's so waaaagh!"
Squad 15 cautiously backed away, wary.
No one had proved orc contagion was real—but in this universe and its grim forty millennia, anything was possible.