Catch!

Sergeant Arno Firth was known as "Figgy" to his friends. Or, at least, to those who knew him as Figgy.

"Listen up, Marines!" He paced the deck of the troopship, the servos of his armor whirring. Still, he pitched his voice to carry over the mechanical sounds of his movements. "I am Sergeant Firth. You have asked to join the ranks of our Chapter's close-quarters specialists. As such, you will be training with me. Address me as Sergeant, Sergeant Figgy, Sarge, any variation on that. Do not call me sir, because I work for a living. Do not address me by my full name, or I'll have to kill you." He drew a long sword, a powered blade, from the sheath over his shoulder. "I am the Tenth Company Champion. I can say without modesty I am the best swordsman in the Chapter. Anything about bladecraft that you learn, you will probably learn from me. But not today." He sheathed the sword again, then placed the scabbarded blade in the arms of a waiting armory servitor, then pulled a shorter, heavier blade from a sheath at his belt.

"You've been issued your close-quarters combat gear," he said. "Bolt carbine, cutlass and sidearm. I won't lecture you in their use. I won't lecture you about tactics. This is not a technical exercise. This isn't a live-fire exercise. This is a baptism by fire. Understood? Any questions?"

The troopers remained silent. A few shook their heads.

"Very well. Who here was rated best at one-hand wielding?"

Six troopers out of the thirty stepped forward, their hands raised.

"Harkin, Miller, Boern, Marcus, Cahill and Carlo, you're fine," said Figgy, sheathing his cutlass. "The rest of you, you have ten minutes to turn your carbines in with the armorer and get back here. Go!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" Twenty-four troopers in blue and black ballistic armor marched out. Figgy turned to the six standing before him.

"You six," he said. "I need one radio operator and three squad leaders. The two remaining will fight alongside me. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," they said.

Figgy turned away, and walked to one of the viewports in the bulkhead. The strike cruiser they rode in was moving past the planetary satellites, maneuvering into orbit, and the world below was clearly visible - green and blue, with wide expanses of cloud and snow-capped mountain, the occasional desert... so like the ancient images of Holy Terra he had seen in church, in museums, as a child. It made him a little melancholy, and quite, quite angry. So beautiful, so pristine... it was an Imperial agri-world, like Holy Terra had been, back in the Early Days. 15,000 years before humanity invented spaceflight, it had been. And now this world, like Holy Terra before it, would be sullied by war.

Filthy, foul, despicable aliens. They had landed here - in small numbers only, but they would have to be destroyed. All of them! Slaughtered, and their bodies burned! And still, it wouldn't be enough. Orks were notoriously resistant to humanity's attempts to eliminate them from worlds where they'd set foot. They would have to glass the site from orbit once they were done. It was the only way to be sure.

"Sergeant Figgy?" One of the junior Marines had approached him. He turned around to face Boern, and he saw the others had begun to return from the armory.

"What're you doing, Boern?"

"I'm good with a radio set, Sergeant. I'll be your operator. Marcus, Miller and Carlo are squad leaders, so Cahill and Harkin will be the bodyguards."

"Good." Figgy gave Trooper Boern a boxy device with a sling. "Clamp the radio module to your armor to keep it safe. Now, you others! Divide up by eights. Miller, first squad! Carlo, second! Marcus, third!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"All right, now, everyone, listen to me. The rumors you've been whispering about behind my back are true. We're fighting Orks. Got it? Local reports say it's a small warband. We may be outnumbered, but only by a few bodies." He flicked open a holo unit and clipped it to the wall. The space in front of it showed a map, and Figgy's armored finger stabbed at one spot near the edge. "We're landing here, behind this rise. One squad will come with me, up to and over the top. The other two will fan out to either side, coming out to here, then wait for my signal. We'll advance together toward this suspected camp, here. Remember your line discipline! When you make contact, sing out, close formation, and cut them to pieces. If you're having trouble, well, we'll be there to cover your backs in short order." He looked around. The troopers were watching him. One had a finger in the air.

"Trooper Vol! Question?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Orks breed like wildfire. How old is our intel?"

"Taking message lag into account, it's probably been under a week," Figgy said. "Orks take at least a couple of months to grow to maturity, though. The local trackers are said to be pretty good, and the PDF has done some aerial scans. They reported about thirty warm bodies down there, so we shouldn't expect but a few more." He paused. "Any further questions? No? All right, then. Hit the transports, Marines. Squad One with me to the starboard hangar, Two and Three to portside. Go!"

It was a long wait, as the cruiser maneuvered into low orbit. The Thunderhawks' hatches were sealed, the Marines strapped themselves in, the hangars were depressurized. The troops kept themselves busy, checking and stowing their weapons, assembling their breather masks and prepping them for any emegencies, then checking and re-checking their restraints... Only when they were finished did they have time to think.

"Hurry up and wait," whispered Trooper Miller to himself. A moment later, the transport lurched hard, and he laughed at himself. They were off!

The flight was uneventful. Although reentry was always tense, nothing especially bad happened. The transport crews switched from rockets to the air-breathing engines and began flying as aircraft. Thirty seconds out, they deployed airbrakes and sponson weapons. Twenty seconds out, they switched from jets to gravitics. Then the two Thunderhawks set down with a bump in the open field, their engines creating a scorching wind for a hundred meters behind them.

"Leader to all units. Disembark and move out!"

They all piled out, then, and moved into position. Whispered commands over the radio kept everyone in order. Then it was time to move forward.

Downslope from Figgy's starting position, the rolling foothills gave way to brush, then forest. The Marines moved quietly, despite the amount of kit they carried. Figgy himself had powered down his armor, bearing its full weight in order to move silently. And they moved fast, as well.

They'd marched only a handful of miles, though, before the vegetation started to change. There were more fungi everywhere, in more and varied kind. There were even a few tree-sized branching fungi, and they became more frequent as the Marines advanced. This was it, they knew. The Orks were here.

Figgy rubbed his honor studs, thinking. If this was where the Orks were, then... where were the Orks?

"Contact, contact!" One of Carlo's men had started shouting into his radio. A moment later, the forest gloom rang with the clash of blades. Figgy rolled his eyes and activated his armor.

"Forward! Come on!"

Figgy and the other two squads wheeled around and ran toward the fighting. Marines and greenskins were hacking away at each other, man and alien alike snarling and howling at each other as they locked blades or traded blows. It was too close for his men to even aim their sidearms. The bulky handguns were just blunt weapons alongside the keener edges of their cutlasses.

Figgy, his escorts and the two free squads had moved to make a pincer maneuver, rushing to flank the Orks. It should have worked, but a tremendous weight slammed him and several of his men to the ground. Orks had hidden themselves in the branches, then dropped down on the Marines in ambush. It was shocking. Orks with the ability to plan ahead were said to be rare! Who would have thought they would be here, with this small band? But there wasn't time to think about it, only to kill.

Figgy rolled and threw the Ork off him, then lashed out, using his bolter as a club. It staggered back for a moment before his blade slashed its neck. There was another Ork behind him, and he turned to face it, bringing up his cutlass barely in time to block a swing at his head. But another Ork was beside him now, and it grabbed his arm and struck at him with a weapon he'd never seen before. Suddenly, his body felt like it was on fire. He could barely move. Breathing was a struggle. The Ork in front of him swung its axe at him again.

It wasn't a death-blow, though he was unable to block it in time. The Ork had struck at him with the flat of the blade, knocking him down. The other beast, the one with the stunner, jabbed at him again and turned his muscles to water.

With tears of rage in his eyes, Figgy watched from the fungus-infested forest litter as his men were brought down. He couldn't tell if any of them had gotten away, if any were still alive. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

By then, his weakened breathing had starved him of air, and he passed out.

---

Someone had removed his helmet by the time he awoke, so he couldn't check the internal clock. Some time had passed, that was all he could tell. It wasn't like a Marine to be disoriented. But then again, it wasn't like an Ork to plan with subtlety, or to use stunners.

The stink of Orks was all around him, though. He tried to sit up, and found he couldn't. His armor clanked and revved as he tested his bonds, but it was no use. He was tied down, by Orks no doubt, in an Ork encampment, and he couldn't move. And his chapter didn't have the venom glands sported by some of the other Marine chapters, either. He was entirely defenseless.

Except for your wits, he told himself. Don't do anything stupid.

"I see you're awake," someone said, down at his feet. It was a tired voice, one of a chronic smoker. But it was definitely a human voice.

"Sergeant, isn't it? I can't read your Chapter's script, but your rank markings are clear enough. Never thought I'd see one of your Chapter again, either. Met one once, in a bar. Me arm had just been lost to an Eldar blade, see, and that Marine called me comrade and told me I upheld the values of the Imperium, where me Commissar would've shot me for losing my rifle. It was in me hand, when I lost me hand, see?" The unseen speaker took a drag on what must have been an Orky cigar.

Figgy tilted his head, but still couldn't spot the Guardsman... the traitor Guardsman, he reminded himself. Alien-loving filth. He resolved to say nothing. He had nothing to say to such a worthless being.

"Well, see, now that you're awake, you'll want to know that mebbe half a dozen of your troopers are still alive. Ah? Here's a man who cares for his men! Painboys are working on them now. Any wounds they have, they won't heal pretty, but they'll heal solidly. There's almost nothing an Orky medic can't do if the body's still warm, and that's the truth."

Figgy had let out a sigh of relief at the news. Still, he said nothing.

"Well, you'll want to get yourself as ready as you can to meet the Boss, soon as everyone's back in one piece. Name's Davidsson, by the way. Used to be a Guard quartermaster out in the ass end of nowhere 'til the Orks nabbed me along with a Munitorium shipment. Thought they'd eat me, truth to tell, but... well, you've gotta talk to the Boss."

The Guardsman stood up from wherever he'd been sitting. "Don't be a stupid fuck, okay? There's a chance you can get out of here alive. You're pretty damn choppy, you know. The Boss likes choppy."

The traitor's footsteps receded. Figgy lay on his back, sucking a mouthful of reconstituted nutrient broth from his armor's straw port. He had no clue what was going on, why Orks would capture Marines rather than kill and eat them like they did with everyone else. But the leader of this particular warband was clearly unusual - using subtlety, commando tactics? Taking prisoners? Well, he had time to think, but not much information to think about. Instead, he opened his mind to the meditative trance and tried to relax.

Time passed. Six hours, by his time-sense. He snapped out of the trance when Davidsson approached and slipped Figgy's helmet back on, then threw a thick hood over it.

"Listen, now," the decrepit Guardsman whispered to him. "The Boss was impressed at how fast you Marines came to find him, and how hard your Marines fought. I don't know if you know this, but they took apart almost twice their number before they were overwhelmed, all right? He wants the leaders. That means you, and those six other guys. Well, he wants you now, all right? They're gonna untie you now. Don't do anything stupid."

Figgy didn't say anything. He lay still as the heavy cords that had restrained him were removed. Then he rolled over, raised his fists, and

Before he could swing, something hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of his main lungs. Another blow struck his chin, and then his legs were knocked out from under him.

"I told you not to do anything stupid," the traitor Davidsson said, laughing. "If you could see the size of the Nobs you just attacked, well, I don't think you would've been so eager to attack them."

Size doesn't matter, Figgy told himself. You're wrong, traitor. I'll take on any enemy of any size, if it helps the Imperium.

He was being dragged, though. He tried to grapple with the two Orks lugging him along, but he was blindfolded, and they were good enough to evade his attacks and plant their fists and boots against him. Eventually he gave up. They weren't going to kill him this instant. I might as well save my energy, he decided.

Several things happened at once: the Orks dropped him on his feet rather roughly and gave him a shove forward. A clatter just ahead of him sounded like a bag of weapons being dropped. The hood was yanked off his head. Figgy dived forward, reaching toward the sack. It contained Space Marine-issue cutlasses. He grabbed one, and as he was rising to attack, the huge Ork sitting on a throne across the circle of aliens spoke.

"Greetings, honored warrior," it said.

"Grandfather's beard!" Figgy stopped dead and stared. It had spoken in formal High Gothic. Eyeing the beast, he saw it wasn't just big, it was... there was no other name for it. It was well-dressed. From its neatly polished boots to its three-piece suit to its tie (admittedly, this was a squig) to its monocle and top hat, it was the perfect picture of an archaic gentleman. At least, if those gentlemen of old had been green, fanged and bulging with muscles. It had a weapon, too - a halberd whose shaft was as thick as his wrists.

It eyed him back. "Are you surprised I speak your language? Would you prefer 'Me Ork Boss, choppy up dem Beakies'? No? Well, here I am. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Foul beast," Figgy shouted, "I have nothing to say to the likes of you!"

"No?" The Ork tilted its head. "What did you just say now? Well, never mind. Bring the others!" It barked a command in the Orkish tongue, and several of the larger Orks left the circle. The warboss turned back to Figgy.

"I enjoy a proper duel," it said. "You and your men have come here to challenge me. So, we shall have ourselves a show-down. Hmm... fair odds? One of me, and seven of you. Here are your comrades, honored warrior." Indeed, the surviving Marines were being dragged into the circle and shoved toward the bag of swords. Like him, they took up arms.

Figgy charged forward, and the six Marines followed him.

The Ork rose to his full, very impressive height and struck out with his polearm, moving with a strange speed and grace. With two swings, two of the Marines were knocked backward off their feet. Carlo got back up and pounced at the Ork, but Harkin lay broken in the dust. Figgy and his remaining troopers kept swinging, trying to find a gap in the Ork's defensive swings, but they couldn't. He intercepted every slash and stab, the Marines' blades clanking harmlessly off the shaft of his chopper.

And then he really started to fight back. The axe blade split open Miller's helm. The butt of the Ork's weapon crushed Boern's chestplate and the ribs behind it. A kick broke Cahill's right arm and a full swing of the polearm knocked him backward, blood pouring like water from a throat wound. The classy Ork picked up up Marcus bodily and used him as a club to smash Carlo to the ground, breaking the backs of both. Figgy darted in with his blade and scored, slicing through fabric and burying his blade deeply in the moss-green flesh, but the Ork swatted him away and impaled him on the sword-point of its chopper. Then it lifted him up off his feet at the end of the weapon.

He hung there, stunned. The pain was bad, but he was more shocked than hurt. He, Arno Firth, the best swordsman in the Chapter, defeated by an Ork Warboss? He would surely die of shame, if he didn't bleed to death.

The Ork twirled the weapon, slamming the weapon's head (and Figgy with it) into the ground. It barked a command in Orkish, and another big Ork stepped forward and picked Figgy up. The Warboss grinned nastily at them both.

"You disappointed me," it said. "This is your Emperor's best? You laid one scratch on me, and that'll be healed by tomorrow! I'm going to let you go, Marine. Out of pity. As a warning. You won't die. My Painboys will fix you up just enough. Now, begone from my sight. This is my world now!"

The Painboy laughed and made a remark in its own tongue, then socked Figgy in the back, right where the blade had come through his armor after spitting him like a fowl. Figgy's vision went white with pain, and it stayed that way until the Ork jabbed him with a needle and he passed out.

He awoke in the same field their transports had landed in, Boern's radio module clamped to his chest. The emergency beacon light was blinking. Davidsson's voice was coming out of it, the recorded message looping over and over."Sergeant down! Requesting medical evac for sole survivor!"

Figgy pulled himself up into a sitting position, although his legs didn't seem to work right. As he was struggling to move, fighting off the drugged haze from whatever that Ork had given him, he heard the whistling roar of an approaching aircraft.

The Thunderhawk slammed to a stop just a few meters away. Two white-helmeted Marines jumped out of the forward hatch, grabbed him and carried him back into the craft at a run. The company captain was there. They strapped him into a null-G stretcher and bolted it down. His consciousness was fading again, but he heard the captain and crew shouting at each other as the engines climbed to full thrust.

"He's in! Go, go now!"

"We're not high enough for the rams and the powerplant is redlining. We can't accelerate any faster!"

"Warp take the powerplant. Max out the gravitics, then, if you need to! Just go!"

"Just going, sir. You might want to check those restraints."

Captain Joker's voice spoke again, a little softer. "Clearing blast radius in thirty seconds... twenty seconds... ten... We're clear! Control, we're clear, you may fire freely."

Figgy felt the transport rock. He turned his head to look out through the viewports. His vision was limited, but he thought he saw the glowing white bars of a massive lance strike in progress. He sighed and closed his eyes. They were done here. So was he.