Chapter 2: Bombs for a Wonderful World
The official survival time for an Imperial Guard recruit? Fifteen hours.
Taylor had long surpassed that grim statistic.
He chalked it up to luck—and maybe a bit of skill.
Memories of the hive flooded back: dry, foul corpse starch, ragged clothes, endless grueling work.
Being a warrior of the Emperor wasn't any easier, but Taylor had earned some slivers of comfort—like the shiny silver dog tag around his neck.
Joking, he said to Katie, "Hold onto this with your teeth, or it'll fly right out. I've seen men lose theirs early—and their pensions with it."
"Boss, that joke's not funny," Katie snapped.
"Okay, okay, no humor. You clearly have no sense of it," Taylor muttered.
Peering through his battered telescope, Taylor scanned the oppressive heat. The rain hadn't brought relief—the fortress, sitting on this world's equator, felt like a giant steamer.
Rain would come again tomorrow. That was the only good news.
The Ork war engines detested soft mud. Only scattered infantry could forage close.
Taylor doubted this ancient stone fortress could withstand a real assault by Ork trukks and mechas.
Still, he considered himself lucky—except at cards, where fortune had never favored him.
Suddenly, Orks stumbled toward Taylor's position through the thick mud.
"Roland, lay down fire!"
The hulking two-meter-tall Roland hefted an ancient heavy bolter mounted on the wall—a relic meant for archers, now delivering devastating explosive rounds.
Such weapons were rare in the Guard; only armored regiments or rich legions received them.
Taylor had won this bolter in a reckless card game against a mechanical priest, betting away all his luck.
The explosive shells were like mini artillery rockets. One hit and a green Ork burst into gore, smelling foul like mushrooms.
Taylor watched the carnage, grimly satisfied.
Other guards fired lasguns, providing cover or picking off the biggest Orks—the only way to tell value: size.
Hours passed in brutal combat; by sundown, the Orks retreated, unwilling to slog through mud.
Taylor chewed bread, muttering, "Saved another life today."
Ke Luolan hoisted an empty ammo box. "Boss, battle's done."
Taylor cursed, "Didn't I say save ammo?"
Roland shrugged. "Too many to hold back."
Taylor sighed. The bombs were delicate Mechanicus masterpieces, rationed to the point of absurdity.
Every round fired meant less resupply; every request demanded the commissar's six-page paperwork—and the glare that could melt ceramite.
Watching the storm clouds fade, Taylor muttered, "Did the Emperor bless me? If the ground dried, I'd be dead without this filthy, stinking mud."
Many thought Taylor indifferent—but the truth was stark: he feared death more than any, frozen by it.
Run, and the commissar would have him shot before he fled.
Only fate could decide.
That was his lot for the past year.
He found a perverse joy in facing green skin's mad charges.
Across the Imperium, billions like Taylor fought and died in the mud.
Now he sat in a cool, dry castle alcove, eating fresh bread, bacon, and cured meat, sipping watered-down wine—luxuries earned by saving refugees.
Knights in polished plate called him "Knight," a cruel joke to Taylor.
He dreamed of escape, fantasizing about digging hiding holes in his chamber.
Once, he stormed the commissar's office, earning two hours of scolding.
He was strangely proud—maybe the commissar finally gave up on him.
Six months ago, he was hailed as the Empire's hope and Skadi's hero.
Now? Just a bastard.
The Genestealer incident that breached command was no joke—though only one lieutenant colonel died.
Taylor couldn't fathom the commissar's spite, but he knew one thing: he joined to survive, nothing more.
Walking back to his quarters, he muttered, "By the Emperor, I lived to fight another day."
Kissing a small statue of the Emperor in his pack—the guiding Lord of Mankind—he handed the new bomb to Roland.
"Remember your lines when facing higher-ups."
"You kid, give me your weapons and gear! What does it feel like?"
Roland grinned, "No clue, Boss."
Taylor sighed, "Next time, ask yourself."
"I don't have that authority!" Roland shot back.
Taylor frowned at his hapless but loyal squad.
Through the narrow window, he saw a hot, humid sky under bright stars.
He imagined Ork mechas trampling below.
Softly, he asked the Emperor statue, "Emperor, will we survive tomorrow?"
"Why'd you send me through time anyway?"
Leaning against the wall with furrowed brow, anxiety gnawed him.
Maybe it was time to start digging that hole…