A Guardsman's Game, Chapter 80

I decided that trying to build a home for my people in such an inhospitable place was just stupid. All around us was sand and more sand, with patches of irradiated wastes nestled between them. Sometimes we found poisoned oases, their waters lethal to anyone without my enhancements. My people only survived because of the technology I gave them through [Fabrication]. Without it, they would’ve starved or collapsed from thirst long ago. I couldn’t allow them to become wholly dependent on me, but I also couldn’t leave them to die. The desert wanted them dead, whether by skin-flaying storms or gargantuan mutant beasts.

So, I reabsorbed all my technology. The walls, the sewage systems, the shelters—gone in moments, turned into [Raw Material]. I left only the bare necessities for travel: water units, ration packs, and simpler shelters that folded away into my [Inventory]. The settlement became an empty patch of desert again, littered with footprints and memories. My people lined up, wearing the clothes I created for them, some holding their children in their arms, others gripping small bundles of belongings.

I gave each adult a stubber rifle. Compact, resilient enough to handle the sand, capable of spitting out hundreds of bolts in seconds. Ammunition was simple to fabricate in large quantities. Stacked crates of magazines were passed around, each person receiving enough to defend themselves against prowling beasts. Our bodies pressed close while I demonstrated how to load, cock, and fire the stubbers. Many frowned at the harsh recoil, shoulders jerking from a test round. But no one complained. A few older survivors tested the weight with steady hands, eyes flicking to me, wordless gratitude shining there.

We had lost almost all our warriors in that trap at the oasis. We only had a handful of survivors left. The rest were unenhanced men, women, or children. Some wore faint smiles, but their eyes were raw, ringed with sleepless nights. Others kept their heads down, focusing on loading stubbers or adjusting slings. Idly, I considered enhancing all of them to the same degree as the volunteer warriors, before deciding against it; instead, I enhanced their resilience to the heat and to the radiation, without turning them into pseudo-Astartes.

We gathered in a rough circle at the camp’s center. The old man who used to be my second-in-command was gone, taken by that explosion. I saw some watery eyes among those who remembered him. They said nothing, only tightened their grips on rifles. I gestured for calm, scanning their faces with a slow glance. That circle felt empty without my fallen companions, but I had no words for it. We needed to move.

I stood on a slight mound, looking over them. The desert wind blew in from the north, bringing a tang of dust. My voice carried, though I spoke in a measured tone. “We leave this place now. Gather what you can carry. We head west first. Then we’ll adjust course. We’ll search for better lands. It might take weeks, or months, or longer.” 

No one objected.

An older woman with a patched wrap around her shoulders gently guided a young boy to the rear of the group. He clutched a stubber rifle as big as his arm, expression tight. I saw him gulp and press close to her side. Others formed small clusters with family or friends. A few alone stood at the edges, eyes scanning the horizon for threats.

We marched at dawn. The desert sun rose, painting the dunes in soft gold. Our line stretched out across the sand, each person carrying water canisters or supply bundles. I walked at the front, scanning for threats. Kharsons shadowed us at a distance, silent guardians with expressionless eyes. They wore the same patchwork gear from before, though each carried twin power swords strapped across their backs. I kept them summoned now, simply because I needed all the help I could get. I wished I had more; however, merely creating a soul was not enough, the difficult part was implanting it with knowledge and experience.

The Kharsons, on their own, were enough.

The first day’s travel took us to the edges of the dunes, where the sand turned rocky. A few small, twisted shrubs sprouted here and there, each one shriveled by radiation. The desert wind whipped dust into our faces, making some cough or lift cloth to shield their mouths. We stopped at midday in the shadow of a rocky ridge, letting the group rest. People drank from my canteens and tried to share morsels of dried ration wafers. Some stood watch, stubbers ready. Others dozed, leaning against rocks, faces pinched from the heat.

We marched again when the sun dipped low. The night wind felt cooler, but many shivered. I willed a faint warmth from a small heater I had fabricated. It glowed blue, suspended in the air near the center of the caravan. People pressed close, soaking in the meager heat. I scanned the horizon, searching for any silhouettes among the dunes. Saw none, only the faint swirl of sand.

Eventually, we found a stretch of land where the rocks broke into pillars. I gave the signal to camp there. My people fanned out, clearing debris. I fabricated a small dome shelter for the children, so they could rest free from the wind. I saw the same boy from before leaning his rifle against the dome’s side, fists clenched. He seemed older now, from just one day on the move. We lit a few portable lamps, filling the area with a dim glow. Our shapes stretched into long shadows on the desert floor.

At night, some scorpions the size of dogs prowled around the ridge. They skittered over rocks, their barbed tails dripping venom. I signaled the Kharsons to handle it. They vanished into the dark, footsteps silent. Moments later, I heard hissing, followed by the hum of power swords. The scorpions squealed, limbs clacking. Then silence. The Kharsons dragged the dead carcasses back, tossing them near me. I absorbed them all, feeling a small boost to my biomass. 

Good. We might need it.

We set out again at dawn. A pattern emerged: march until midday, rest in shade if possible, march until dark, then camp. Sometimes we found a ruin or partial structure to rest in. Once, we stumbled into a half-buried bunker. Its corridors smelled of dust and old metal. We explored by lamp-light, stubbers at the ready. Rusted consoles lined the walls, and battered crates lay scattered on the floor. Some people pried them open, finding only mildewed textiles or rotten bits of plastic. I absorbed the useless material, leaving the floors bare. Then we bedded down for the night, the entrance barricaded with scrap metal. The wind howled outside, rattling the metal. Inside, we huddled in small groups, waiting for dawn.

Along the way, we occasionally encountered mutant beasts. A swarm of leathery-winged creatures harassed us at dusk, swooping down to nip at stragglers. My people raised their stubbers, firing in a panicked volley. Their aim was poor, bullets shredding the air. Yet some of the creatures fell, crashing in twisted heaps. The rest veered off, screeching. A few soared straight at me, jaws snapping with razor fangs. I batted them aside with my open palm, my augmented strength snapping their fragile bones. I left the Kharsons to finish the rest. Feathers and leathery skin littered the sand when it was over, forming an eerie mosaic of wings.

After each encounter, I tried to gauge morale. Some among us had watery eyes, faces drawn. Others simply reloaded stubbers in silence. We seldom spoke of fear or sadness. We pressed on, day after day, forging deeper into unknown wastes. My map from Master Mirror was mostly useless here, offering no clue to greener lands. I studied it sometimes when we stopped, seeing only old marks or scrawled notes about ancient ruins and hazards. None gave direction to a fertile paradise. I folded it away, unhelpful.

During the second week, we found another half-buried structure, larger than the bunker. Its exterior was a dome of cracked concrete, a single rusted hatch at the top. Some of us climbed, prying the hatch open. Inside, a spiral stair descended into gloom. We went carefully, stubbers raised, flashlights sweeping the walls. The air smelled stale, tinged with chemicals. Doors lined the corridor below, many sealed. We forced a few open, revealing labs or storerooms. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Shelves once held glass jars, now shattered. Data consoles lay corroded, their screens black.

We found an empty dorm with rows of cots. My people settled there for the night. Some tested the cots, wincing at the stiff, dusty fabric. Others spread out on the floor, letting the still air envelop them. I patrolled the corridors with the Kharsons, scanning for threats. We spotted an old security turret, rusted in place. I tapped it lightly, then absorbed it. The metal vanished into my reserves. We pressed on, discovering only more emptiness. At last, we returned to the dorm, letting people sleep while we stood guard.

On the third day after that, we passed a region of black stone that jutted from the ground like broken teeth. The wind swept through those spires, creating an unearthly whistle. Some among us huddled close, rifles clutched, eyes darting at every echo. The place felt wrong. I said nothing, but I felt it too. We hurried through, hearing strange scuttling behind the stone pillars. My [Warp Shaping] told me that there was something… odd about this place, but I knew not what. We saw silhouettes of hulking shapes, but they did not emerge. Maybe they were feeding on lesser creatures. We had no desire to find out.

At one point, a sandstorm struck. A dark cloud rolled over the desert, winds roaring, grit stinging our suits. I bellowed for everyone to form a circle, huddled behind the Kharsons who braced their swords in the sand to anchor themselves. As the sands came, I used [Fabrication] to create a dome of solid metal around us, large and thick, covering every possible vector of entry. The storm lasted for a whole day, before finally abating. Afterwards, I simply reabsorbed the structure into [Raw Materials]. 

We resumed our march once more, forging toward some distant notion of safety. Each evening, I saw more exhaustion in the group. Eyes dull, shoulders slumped. But they kept going. They had no other choice. I tried to keep them fed and watered, rationing with discipline–not quite a necessity, but the last thing I wanted was to spoil them. Our fabricated supplies never truly ran out, but I reminded them that each bullet used was a bullet that had to be replaced. Each day spent in the desert wore on them, mind and body.

During the fourth week, we stumbled upon an ancient highway. Cracked asphalt stretched across the dunes, partially covered by drifting sand. Rusted vehicles lined the shoulders, mere husks eaten away by time. We followed this highway, hoping it might lead to something more livable. Perhaps a region that once had farmland, or a city with water. The Kharsons scouted ahead, stepping through crumpled wreckage. My people trudged behind, scanning the remains for anything salvageable. Broken metal, shattered plastic. I absorbed a few chunks of steel for [Raw Material], but found nothing else of note.

One night, we made camp beside a large wreck that must have been a transport vehicle. Its windows were gone, seats shredded, only the skeleton of the frame left. People gathered around, building a small ring of torches to keep mutated vermin away. I sat near the bus, listening to the wind. Some folks carefully opened the vehicle’s compartments, finding only dusty trash. A few men used scraps of the bus seats to create makeshift pouches for anything interesting they found on the ground. A mother helped a young girl fix the strap of her stubber rifle. Others dozed on the warm sand, rifles close at hand.

Later, we heard something skittering in the darkness. The Kharsons stood, swords humming. They advanced quietly, vanishing beyond the torchlight. Then shrill cries echoed, followed by wet slicing sounds. The Kharsons dragged back a bizarre arthropod thrice the size of a man, its carapace pried open, guts spilling. One Kharson turned to me, nodding. I absorbed the beast. My people barely flinched. By now, they were used to such sights.

After a month, the highway split. One branch led west, the other turned north. We paused at the junction, weighing our options. Some scanned the skyline, hoping to see a break in the monotonous desert. We saw only dunes and a faint ridge in the distance. In the end, I decided to continue west. The plan was to circle around any major rad-storm zones. I wanted to keep the group away from the worst patches. Already, some children coughed at night, and I had to flush their lungs with [Flesh Shaping] to remove radiation scarring and other ill-effects.

We kept going. Each day looked the same. Sand. Heat. Occasional mutated beasts. Ruins offering no real sanctuary. I consoled myself with the knowledge that we were moving, that we might eventually find an environment less hostile. Maybe we would discover some half-decent soil or an underground water source. The God Emperor had to be out there, somewhere, but I was not ready to seek him yet. My vow to protect these people remained.

Sometimes, we encountered smaller tribes of ragged survivors, too weak to challenge us. They hid in the wreckage of old vehicles or partial bunkers. On a couple occasions, we exchanged words, offered them water. They eyed us with suspicion. My people aimed stubbers at them, poised to fire if they so much as breathed wrong. I gestured for calm, but I saw their fear. Often, they fled. We moved on, carrying our meager hope forward. I did not need more mouths to feed

On the last day of the second month, we climbed a tall dune, exhausted from the trek. The sun hammered us, sweat pouring from every face. We reached the crest, and someone pointed. At first, I saw only endless sand. Then, in the far distance, I spotted a faint greenish haze near the horizon. My heart gave a tiny jolt. My mouth turned dry. People around me stared with wide eyes. Was it real vegetation, or a trick of the light?

I knelt, scanning the haze carefully. My enhanced eyes saw further than most could ever hope to see and yet it was so far away that I could scarcely make out just what I was looking at. More than just the hint of green, however, were tall formations that looked almost like structures–artificial structures. It was almost too good to be true.

And yet…

“We go there,” I said quietly. No one objected. They packed up their gear, shoulders straightening with a renewed glimmer. A few men raised stubbers in a half-cheer, but we stayed silent. We had learned that illusions were common in these wastes. Still, we marched toward that distant hint of green, hoping beyond reason.