Chapter 22: Offending Against the Wind
Dos was never one to stay put. Leaving him bedridden for any length of time was practically impossible. Once he'd recovered enough to move, he asked 0361 if he could be issued a wheelchair.
0361 paused her paperwork for a moment: "I'll ask, but...what's a wheelchair?"
Dos: "..."
....
That afternoon, Dos got exactly what he'd asked for: a wheelchair fitted with an engine, eight cylinders, a seatbelt, and shock absorbers on every wheel. After one lap around the medical tent, though, he returned to the Tech-Priests and demanded that a windshield be added. The thing had too much kick.
Right after a battle, Tech-Priests ought to be swamped with repairing kits. So why build this?
To understand, you need to know what a Tech-Priest actually does. Soldiers joke and call them "Grease Monkeys", grease-monkeys who talk to machine spirits all day.
And Dos had just taught them a new way to soothe those spirits.
"Commissar Dos, will this really work?" one Priest asked, his voice skeptical. "Such disrespect could anger the machine spirit."
The others nodded in agreement, but Dos sneered: "This is how we fixed 'holy machines' back in the ancient era; watch and learn." He slapped a crackling vox-caster, and the static got worse.
"NO! By the Omnissiah, stop this madness!"
Before they could stop him, Dos landed several more slaps. "Still acting up, huh? Every component's fine, and you still slack off? Let me give a couple of slaps so you know who's boss."
The static vanished.
The Priests tried the set, crystal-clear audio, like brand-new. "By the Machine God, it actually works!" one of them shouted.
With the Priests crowding round him, Dos listed his demands for the wheelchair: four wheels, a power source, and a comfy seat.
He hadn't expected what they produced. At first, he balked at the sight. Then: "Swap in an eight-cylinder engine! And fit real shock absorbers!"
Clearly, Dos had let himself go wild.
"Wahoo! Charge, My Flying Dutchman!" He even christened it. Best of all, since awakening his psyker gift, chatting with machine spirits was easy. The chair zipped him around without his lifting a finger.
Two PDF troopers were standing on normal sentry duty when a gust of wind whooshed past them.
"What just zipped by?"
"Maybe... a wheelchair?"
"Wheelchair? What's that?"
.....
While cruising about, Dos ran into an old acquaintance, Blackmoor. Thanks to getting the noble scions out safely, Blackmoor had been promoted to full-time PDF commander of the district.
When he spotted Dos, his mouth twitched for two full seconds. "Oh, it's you, Commissar Dos. Delighted to see you on your feet." The words carried an edge to them.
Dos felt something burning in his pocket. He fished out the badge; he'd forgotten it was there.
"If you've nothing urgent, I'd be happy to join you for a lazy afternoon," Blackmoor offered. The badge grew warmer.
"No thanks," Dos shook his head.
"Ah, what a pity. I truly hope you get well soon, Commissar Dos. The service to the emperor never ends," Blackmoor replied, while practically fleeing.
Dos sensed that if Blackmoor had stayed a second longer, he himself would have burst out laughing.
The badge was glowing hot.
....
Two days earlier, Mongot White had returned to Hive City. Before he could even change clothes, his drill-clad uncle dragged him straight to his father's study.
When the pair entered the room, Little White found both his parents waiting for him. Every heroic speech he'd rehearsed jammed in his throat. His lips fluttered, but not a coherent syllable emerged; he just stood there, deflated.
Lady White swept her son into her arms, cradling his face and brushing dust from the cut beside his eye, debris from a Leman shell that had burst a sandbag. She smoothed his fringe and dabbed away the blood.
Fighting back tears, she asked, "Does it hurt?"
Mongot knew he'd cry if he spoke, so he shook his head to say he was fine.
"Step outside. Men need to talk," Old White said quietly.
Lady White tried to speak "Dear—"
"Father..." Young White shot his mother a pleading look. He'd always feared his father; from childhood to adulthood, nothing had changed.
Old White sized up his heir carefully. When he'd learned the boy had run off to fight, he'd roared about breaking the stupid boy's legs. But once the boy was out of danger and home, most of that anger had cooled. Especially seeing him now: a smart riding coat shredded to rags, stained with someone's blood.
After a long silence, Old White only asked, "How'd you do?"
"Seven Heretics..." Mongot couldn't meet his father's eyes. Every report meant a scolding.
"Hmph... more spine than your old man," Old White said.
Mongot's eyes lit up. He lifted his head to find his father looking at him with approval, pride shining in his eyes.
In that instant, father and son made their peace.
...
"Getting chilly," Dos said to himself.
He pulled an ordinary greatcoat from a store crate and draped it over his legs, wrapping them as best he could.
Then he remembered he was out of bolter shells; he'd need to requisition more from 0361. Otherwise, once the month ended, those Departmento Munitorum bastards would refuse to honor the chit.
But when he reached the Regimental Command Camp, 0361 wasn't there.
"No rush, still a few days left," Dos muttered. He let the chair carry him toward Hive City. He was bored to death.
Near Hive Three, he realized with chagrin that he didn't have a single Throne Gelt on him. An empty purse can stop a hero, but not a scoundrel.
Who did they think Dos was? A man who'd swindle nobles without blinking. Worst case, he could complain to the Emperor, though it might not help.
To avoid a month of nothing but protein bars, he decided to "offend against the wind" again and hit Young White up for more Thrones.
Besides, it was only a loan; payday hadn't come yet.
[End of Chapter]