“The Orks are the pinnacle of creation. For them, the great struggle is won. They have evolved a society which knows no stress or angst. Who are we to judge them? We Eldar who have failed, or the Humans, on the road to ruin in their turn? And why? Because we sought answers to questions that an Ork wouldn’t even bother to ask! We see a culture that is strong and despise it as crude.”
- From Culture vs. Kultur: Thoughts on Orkish Society by Uthan the Perverse, a controversial Eldar Philosopher
Private First Grade Orton Redpath was asleep when the alarm siren sounded. He startled and sat up. The siren wailed and yellow hazard lights flared. The barrack-sergeant hustled into the dormitory, wearing only his boots, hat, Guard issue underpants. He started yelling at the top of his ample voice. “This is not a drill! Move it! Move it!”
Redpath was not worried. The bunk-sarge always yelled the same thing. Also, they ran quick-reaction training every ten-days, so this was not unexpected. By now, he knew where he had to go, and how long it would take him. He yawned and swung his legs out of the bed. The others in the barracks did the same, while they moved quickly, no one rushed.
Why would they? Durram was nothing. About as common a world as you find in the Imperium.
He yawned again and pulled on his boots and loosely tied them, then trotted over to the row of tall lockers. He turned the handle and pulled out his trousers and shirt. He took hold of his lasgun, and grabbed his flak vest. It was heavy, and smelled funny, like old cheese. After a moment, he returned the body armor to the locker. He did not want to put it on, only to wear its twenty-two kilos of weight for a mere twenty minutes. He’d rather have his ear-chewed off by the sergeant.
He blew out his cheeks, slung his lasgun over his shoulder and trotted to the door.
The moment he stepped outside he knew everything was wrong. The night sky. It was on fire.
The sergeant had not been kidding. This was no drill.
Read the rest of this entry →