Journal of General Jake Shell,
Jericho Reach Theatre
Inquisitor Stride came to see me today, looking like a monarch with robot legs. She was asking a lot of questions, trying to get what she could for free. I played hard ball, but eventually I did have to give her some answers; yes, I am General Shell, no, I can’t hear any saxophones.
They were non-diegetic anyway.
She told me ‘we’ had a problem. Things were going to get tighter than a priest’s dictionary, with General Ghan rotating out to the Periphery.
See, Ol’ Ghan is convinced this isn’t an infantry war. Something about leaving all the ‘stealer fighting to the Deathwatch and the Navy. Me, I say we shouldn’t let those giant, armour-plated, acid-drooling monsters, and city-sized cannon take all the glory.
But with the glory Ghan’s gone and gotten, the bureaucrats are giving him a lot of swat for troop displacement.
Stride told me he’d be keeping all of the fancy lads for himself, and sending us a bare minimum of rejects and vegetables disguised as soldiers. I think she was concerned that she couldn’t hide covert ops amongst a glorified preschool.
I turned my powerful military mind to the problem at hand. After a few minutes, the Inquisitor coughed and left.
Bloody Ghan, thinking we can fight the xenos menace with expendable men. I’ll teach him a thing or too about utterly expendable men.
I probably shouldn’t have recorded that.
Scribe? Be a dear and wipe that out before reporting to Commissar Dennis for disposal.