Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Imperial Glory - Richard Williams

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Interlude

Nineteen

Interlude

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Interlude

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Commissar - Andy Hoare

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Epilogue

Iron Guard - Mark Clapham

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Epilogue

The Siege Of Fellguard - Mark Clapham

The Hour Of Hell - Mark Clapham

Monolith - Chris Dows

About the Authors

A Black Library Publication

Warhammer 40,000

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Imperial Glory

Richard Williams

‘We ain’t much on paper. A single regiment, a dozen companies, a few detachments of support. Bits and bobs. Not much on paper.

‘But you take a million men and you throw them into the fight. And you keep ’em fighting ’til for every ten you started with you got only one man left. ’Til just the toughest, just the smartest, just the bleedin’ luckiest are still breathing.

‘And then you send them out again.

‘And of the ten men who thought they were tough, nine find they weren’t tough enough; of the ten who thought they were smart, nine find they weren’t smart enough; the ten who thought they were lucky find their luck runs out.

‘Imagine who you’ve got left after that. And then you send them out again ’til you’ve only got one in ten of those still kicking.

‘That’s us. That’s the Brimlock Eleventh.

‘We ain’t much on paper, that’s true. But that’s the only place we ain’t.’

Trooper Rit ‘Mouse’ Chaffey

Brimlock 11th Imperial Guard regiment, Ellinor Crusade

Prologue

There is a tradition amongst the crusading regiments of the Brimlock Dragoons. When each new recruit leaves Brimlock for the first, and almost certainly last, time they are told to look at the planet behind them. Then they are told that that planet is no longer their home. From that moment, their home is whatever ground they stand on, the ground they fight on, and the ground that they die on.

Major Stanhope watched on helplessly as, below him, his men found their final homes. The fight was hopeless, they had known it from the start, but they were standing fast and fighting hard. By the God-Emperor, they were showing the enemy how hard a Guardsman could fight. But one by one they fell and, as each one succumbed, Stanhope felt another part of his soul cut from him. He knew that when the last was extinguished there would be nothing left inside him.

He ached, he burned to be down there with them. To fight beside them, to share these last moments and then march alongside them into the Emperor’s light. But they had forbidden him, they had entrusted him with a task to give their expenditure purpose. He could not resist them. He held the colours, the immortal pride of the regiment, in his hands and, above, the shining lights of a salvation beckoned to him. But Stanhope knew he could not be saved. And yet. And yet.

God damn me, Stanhope thought, and he took hold of the first rung and began to climb.

Charasia – 657.M41 – Year 18 of the Ellinor Crusade

‘You have your orders, lieutenant!’

‘They’re being slaughtered!’

‘I can see just as well as you can.’

‘You might be willing to stand here like a gawping fool, captain, but I–’

‘You take another step, lieutenant, and I will shoot you where you stand!’

Captain Blundell-Hollinshed-Blundell of the Brimlock 11th raged at his insubordinate second-in-command. He had not drawn his pistol, but his threat was very real. He glared fiercely at the other officer: a second lieutenant named Carson. Carson was one of those, Blundell knew, who would never amount to anything, who in eighteen years had never been decorated or promoted, and who would most probably be put up against a wall after this campaign if he was not forced to gun him down in the next few seconds.

There was a look in Carson’s eye, Blundell could see. That stare. Cold, yet calculating. Blundell tried not to glance down at how close Carson’s hand was to his own gun. Everyone knew how fast Carson was supposed to be, how he had survived so long. It didn’t matter, Blundell told himself, this would not be settled by speed. It was a matter of authority and unless Carson wished to place himself in the hands of the crusade’s commissars, he would back down.

‘Return to your position,’ Blundell ordered, keeping his voice calm. ‘And we will stay in the line until we are ordered to do otherwise.’

Carson did not move and Blundell refused to repeat himself. Instead, the lieutenant slowly turned and looked across the valley to where the 11th’s Boy Company was being gutted.

The Boy Company, or the probationary unit to give it its formal name, was an inevitable part of the decision, poorly made in Blundell’s opinion, to allow a portion of the Guardsmen’s wives to accompany them on crusade. Their offspring earned their keep as soon as they were old enough to carry, until, as adolescents, they were permitted into the Boy Company to prove their worth and become proper guardsmen, or alternatively to stay fetching and serving all their lives.

That burning desire to prove themselves sometimes made them fearless, but it was no substitute for experience.

They should have been kept to the rear, that is if anyone could tell where the rear was, or where the front was for that matter, in this damn irritating war. The Brimlock assault had soon booted the Karthadasim soldiers and their mercenaries off Charasia, but they’d left their guns for these pesky indigenous tribesmen who took great delight in snapping at their liberators even as the Brimlock Guardsmen tried to pacify each region.

And now, Blundell considered, the tribesmen had bit on a juicy target. They’d sprung from some hidey-hole after the main bulk of the 11th had passed and struck the rear of the column. The sergeant major in command of the Boy Company had been sniped in the first volley, a mere second after one of the boys had saluted him, unknowingly giving the sniper his target. Without the SM, the company had collapsed. The officer-cadet had tried to organise return fire, but he too had been struck as soon as he had started shouting orders. At that, the rest of them had dived for whatever meagre cover they could find. The ones who raised their guns and tried to shoot were the first targets. Quickly they were down too and the Charasian tribesmen could start leisurely picking off the boys who were cowering, second by agonising second.

They were in a dreadful pinch, Blundell knew, but he also knew that it was almost certainly a diversion. There was most likely a far larger enemy force, just waiting for him to move his company out of position, to have him expose them, before launching their attack. How did he know that? He didn’t. But he trusted in his chain of command. He had sent his report to Colonel Arbulaster and the colonel would decide. Until then, his last orders were to maintain his position in the column and he would do so, until he was ordered otherwise. That was the duty of a Guardsman.

Orders and discipline. That was what made the Brimlock regiments great. That was what held the line at Defiance, that was what had carried them over the trenches at Torrans, and that was what Blundell had tried so hard to impress upon his unruly second lieutenant and the rest of his company.

Carson was still standing there, still obviously nursing a spark of obstinacy. Or posing, Blundell considered, one hand resting on the butt of one of his holstered pistols and the other clasping the back of his untrimmed blond hair. No doubt trying to draw the men’s attention to their confrontation. Well, it was not a confrontation Blundell intended to lose.

‘Return to your post, lieutenant,’ Blundell instructed. ‘You shall not issue any orders to any man until I say otherwise. Understand me? Dismissed.’

‘Captain,’ Carson muttered, and walked back to his men. No, Blundell corrected in his own head, slunk back to his men. He was definitely beginning to master the man.

His men; yes, that was the problem. When Blundell’s own regiment, the 92nd, had been dissolved after the bloody crossing over the Katee on Ordan and had been subsumed into the 11th, he had suspected that he would be given a command at the bottom of the barrel. He had not been mistaken. His fellow 92nder Gomery had warned him. Gomery had told him that the rest of the regiment called it Carson’s company, despite the fact that a second lieutenant, and certainly one with such a stain on his reputation, would never be allowed a command.

Gomery had told him that Carson’s men were devoted to him. But Blundell could tell that that wasn’t true. His men had just grown used to him; that was all. Carson curried their favour incorrigibly, allowing them far too great a liberty and irreverence. Blundell himself had already heard a nickname some of the men had put about for him, ‘Blunder’, and he intended to come down with the severest sanctions the next time he had so much of a whiff of it. And trash encouraged trash; Blundell had been lumbered with several survivors of the regiments from the debacle on Cawnpore. One of them, a corporal named Gardner from the 412th, had emerged particularly maladjusted and without use.

A few of the company showed promise, however. His steward, who’d acquired the name ‘Mouse’, seemed a salt-of-the-earth, hard-working fellow, whilst Colour-Sergeant Towser, or ‘Old Red’ as the men called him, was an inexhaustible pillar of strength and fortitude. Blundell did not doubt that it was he who had kept the company effective in spite of Carson’s indulgence. It was these kind, of men who were the rocks on which Blundell would build the new spirit of the company. He had disciplined them mercilessly on the journey from Ordan to Charasia and drilled out their bad habits and eccentricities, and here on campaign it was paying off. They were obeying his orders in spite of the tribesmen’s provocation and, for all his posturing, their lieutenant could not fight it. Carson had become an irrelevance.

Blundell watched Carson until he had returned to his assigned position, ensuring his obedience. Blundell then returned to his vox-operator to wait for the colonel’s orders. The distant cries of the wounded and dying boys gave him no pleasure, but at least the pitiful situation had allowed him to crush the last traces of Carson’s influence. By the end of this campaign, no one would be talking about Carson’s company any more; it would be known by its proper name as Blundell’s company, and it would be he who would take them on to glory.

A few minutes passed and still there was nothing from the colonel. Still the boys were suffering. A doubt emerged, unbidden and unwanted, into Blundell’s mind. He had won the point with his lieutenant; he had no further use for delay. If only the colonel would reply he could be calm. Whether it was to hold and defend their position against some attack, or to strike out and drive the tribesmen away themselves. Blundell did not care which way. He just needed to be told.

He caught a particular look in the eye of his vox-operator. He stared at him in reply and the operator quickly focused back on his machine. Blundell wanted to question him, wanted to tell him to make sure it was working properly, ensure he was using it correctly, but he knew such questions would be redundant and might be taken for the first signs of panic. He knew he had no choice in the matter. He had told them all to wait for orders; he could not now countermand himself. He could not tell them to wait for orders and then decide that orders were not necessary. If they weren’t, then he should have moved at once, and as he hadn’t, that meant they were.

He stood and faced away from the decimation of the boys, staring at the rest of the regiment. The other companies were manoeuvring, dust-coloured Chimeras transporting some platoons, others marching on foot, a few of the horse dragoons galloping on their mounts, but none of them were coming back towards him. From where he was, he could not discern the pattern in their movements, but he continued to stare into the distance beyond as though he could see some enemy force to which they were responding.

He peered from the corner of his eye in the direction of the regimental colours where he knew the colonel must be. He strained as though he might pick out Arbulaster somewhere within the group, then see him stoop down so as to pick up the vox and give him his orders.

Blundell looked down expectantly at the operator. Still nothing. Now, Blundell suspected, he was beginning to look like a fool. The whole company must have realised that there was no immediate threat to their front, and that the closest enemy was behind and filleting the regiment’s sons. Blundell knew that some of his men had sons in the Boy Company. Sergeant Forjaz was one. What could he possibly say to him if the worst happened? How could he explain why he held him back, why he held the whole company back, when they could have intervened? He knew he could not possibly countermand what he had previously said, but how could he explain that to a father who had lost his child?

Still no orders! Blundell clenched his jaw tight. He should not have been placed in this situation. Arbulaster should not have done this to him. He should have replied. There should be orders!

He turned around, ready to snatch the vox from the operator’s hand and demand answers from command, when he caught sight of what was happening. Help had finally arrived. A platoon of Guardsmen had ghosted along the side of the valley. They were moving fast, but carefully. Blundell could believe that the Charasians, from their positions, would not even catch a glimpse of them, and yet within a couple more minutes the Guardsmen would be right on their flank.

Suddenly, it all became clear. Evidently, the Charasians could see his company further along the valley. They would see his company move as soon as he gave the order and disappear once more. So, instead, the colonel had left his company in position, letting the tribesmen believe they were secure, whilst he brought another force in to catch them before they could run and annihilate them.

Blundell knew he should never have doubted the colonel. He only wished that on this occasion it could be another company acting as distraction, whilst his men went in for the kill.

He paused a moment as he caught sight of the distinctive pair of pistols that one of the attackers had holstered on their hips. He looked sharply down at his company in their positions. Carson, Forjaz, Red, nearly a platoon, they were all missing. Furious, he turned back to the attack just about to begin. Damnation, they were his men!

Carson scrambled over the rocks at the head of his men. He hadn’t given any orders; he hadn’t needed to. His men knew what was happening, and they knew what to do. Every single one of them was a veteran. Every single one had been fighting since the first campaign of the Ellinor Crusade to here. They’d been soldiers for more years than everything else they’d ever been. He had left his position on the line; Red had gone with him, and the men silently laid down their packs and followed after. Words were simply no longer needed.

He had led them hard south, taking them around onto the reverse of the ridge that led back down the valley. They ran in amongst the stacks and rock chimneys which made the craggy terrain look almost as though it were a field of giant wheat made of stone. They went fast, swarming up the slope and over the broken, treacherous ground. Their step was sure, their movement confident and quiet. Anything they had been originally issued which rattled or clinked or flapped had been secured or disposed of long before.

The men grouped automatically in their sections, each man knowing his place in formation behind his corporal. The corporals focused ahead, each one forging his own path so as to avoid congestion or bottlenecks that would slow their advance or draw the enemy’s eye. The sections rushed through concealed gullies, the men tightening into a column to thread their way through narrow gaps between chimneys and then dispersing back into formation once on the other side. They kept low over rises to reduce their profile and, no matter how steep their path became, they always kept their lasrifles in their grasps.

They went fast. Faster than they should. Faster than doctrine allowed. Carson knew it was a risk, but neither he nor any of his men could abide any further delay. Their attack was a strike to the throat that would take grip and then throttle the life from their foe.

It was a risk that paid off. Whilst the Charasians had some fine shots amongst their kind, Carson knew they were not soldiers. The tribe-males had allowed their attention to focus entirely on their victims in the Boy Company; they all wanted to score a kill against their liberators. They thought they had hidden themselves well, but the faint discharges from the Kartha weapons their former overlords had left them were all Carson needed. Their very firing stances, low and crouched over, helped conceal the Brimlock platoon as it closed in on them from their left and behind. There were only a dozen or so metres left between Carson and the rearmost of the Charasian positions and still no warning had been shouted. Just like their targets a few minutes earlier, the Charasians did not stand a chance.

Carson did not need to order the attack. He merely had to think it. His men acted as he knew they would. They sprinted the last few metres and launched themselves at the enemy. The heavy butts of lasrifles smashed against the backs of unprotected Charasian heads, smashing their skulls or knocking them cold so there would be no shouts of pain when the lasrifles were reversed and bayonets impaled their flesh. One realised the danger a moment too soon and Carson heard a xenos shriek that carried over the sound of the continual gunfire.

Grenades, Carson thought, and he saw them fly down into the midst of the Charasian hiding places. Their firing stopped and for a split second there was no sound but a single voice gabbling xenos words. Then there was the crump-crump-crump of the detonations and blood-mist sprayed into the air. The screaming began for real: screams of pain from those struck and of panic from those who had been so confident a moment before, but were now realising the peril they were in. They were turning, desperate to target the threat that had appeared right behind them.

Volley, Carson thought, and las-shots from Brimlock rifles flashed around him. Through the spurs and jagged outcrops, few struck true, but the crack of the shots as they splintered off rock and the hiss of the air as the beams passed nearby convinced the remaining Charasians that they had been outflanked by far greater numbers than a mere platoon. There was no return fire. The Charasians were surprised, a few of them were dead, but the rest were safe in their dug-in positions. If the Brimlock Guardsmen hesitated, gave them even a minute to recover and collect themselves, the Charasians could have stayed put and unleashed a withering fire on the Guardsmen now so visible coming over the ridge above them.

His men had to charge, Carson thought, and that was exactly what they did. As his men leapt down upon their targets, Carson launched himself into a knot of the tribe-males. They were still standing, turning, fumbling to bring their weapons around against the new threat. Carson’s pistols were already in his hands. He clenched the triggers, once, twice and a third time, and the bodies of three of the xenos fighters smacked down onto stone, their faces and chests incinerated by the heat of the las-beams.

There was a sharp, shocked inhalation of breath behind him. He whirled about. Another Charasian had been hidden in the shadow of an outcrop. It was younger, this one, and for a split second Carson paused. His gaze locked with the wide, black-eyed xenos. Its youth was not relevant; it was carrying a gun, it would not get any older. Carson fired. He did not look to see that it hit, he knew it had.

He flattened himself against a rock, taking cover in exactly the same position that his enemy had been in a few seconds before. He listened and the only sounds he could hear were the shots of Brimlock lasrifles and the crunching of stone underfoot as men charged in behind him.

He looked up. All across the slope the Charasians were on their feet and running east, staying on the side of the valley, fleeing from Carson’s men above them and the Boy Company below. It was only now that he could see how many of the enemy there had been. Over a hundred of them were running from the thirty Guardsmen who had attacked them. The Brimlock Guardsmen, winded and unable to keep up, kept firing at the backs of those in flight. Every Charasian tribe-male they killed at this moment was one who would never return to strike at them in the future. Carson saw Forjaz, his bayonet and rifle barrel drenched in the blood of the xenos who had been shooting at his child.

‘Sergeant!’ Carson called over to him, his first word since he had worked away from Blunder. ‘Take a section, check on the boys.’

Forjaz stared for a moment, still wrapped in his paternal blood-rage, then blinked and nodded gratefully. Better that he knew as soon as he could whether his son was living or dead.

The sound of Brimlock las-fire lessened as the surviving Charasians went to ground, disappearing amongst the same kind of rock chimneys and gullies that had hidden Carson’s own attack. They would not go far, they did not need to. They knew the country far too well to be rooted out by off-worlders. A few of them at least would turn back so as to stall any pursuit of the main party and perhaps even to creep back and take their attackers off-guard.

It was a merciless war, on both sides, and Carson suspected he would soon see how little mercy his own side had, for Blunder had finally ordered the other two companies to move and they were coming back for him.

Captain Blundell regarded the awkward reunion of Sergeant Forjaz with his bruised, bloodied, but still living son: man and boy, both shaken, yet both firmly restraining the emotions going through them. Blundell looked away from the embarrassing scene and instead shot a scorching gaze up towards the rocks where Carson, Red and the rest of their platoon were still holding. Blundell would be damned if he was going up there to haul the second lieutenant down again. Carson had to come down to him, and he would wait until he did so and then throw the book at him.

Blundell was furious. The captain did not care who Carson had saved; he was finished in this company. With the help of a senior officer or two – Major Roussell was another who detested Carson – the second lieutenant would be finished in this existence as well. He would be handed over to the commissars and they would put him up against a wall and be done with him.

This waiting game he was playing was not going to save him. Lord General Ellinor himself could appear and could not save him from the facts. Carson had defied Blundell’s orders and that was it. His life was forfeit, and a thorn in Blundell’s side would finally be removed.

‘Captain,’ someone alerted him. Blundell looked about. A trooper was walking towards him from second platoon. It was that piece of Cawnpore detritus, Corporal Gardner.

‘Captain Blundell,’ Gardner said, raising his hand and saluting him.

Blundell automatically snapped off a quick salute in reply. ‘Yes, what?’

And the carefully aimed shot from a Kartha rifle burned through the back of Blundell’s head and blew his face out from behind.

One

The Fortress of Kandhar – 659.M41 – Year 20 of the Ellinor Crusade

The conquest of Kandhar by the Ellinor Crusade ended not with a bang, but with a crackle. It was the crackle of the flames from the funeral pyres that burned twenty metres high around the ruins of the enemy’s last stronghold, cremating the bodies of friend and foe alike. They lit up the dark sky and their light reflected off the low-hanging clouds bathing the cold valley with their warm glow.

The trooper watched them burn through the wide hole in the side of the manor house. He sat in comfort, sunk down in a red, velvet chair. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace to keep the place warm against the cool night air. The men, the rank and file, were huddled around the pyres, the bodies of their dead comrades keeping them alive. But no officer could be expected to debase himself in such a manner, and so the manor house had been appropriately refurbished.

The trooper gazed at the small but happy fire in the fireplace, and then looked outside at the great vengeful flames soaring up in giant columns towards the heavens. There was a beverage on a side-table near his right hand: a good, fine-cut glass with a measure of heavy liquid the colour of oak. It sat there untouched as he drank in the view instead. This was one of the moments, one of the moments of wonder that needed to be savoured.

‘You got the drinks? Where’s a good spot?’

‘Over there by the fire?’

The two officers stepped lightly towards the fireplace, looking to take their ease in the chairs around it. The trooper was sitting so low in his seat that the first of them did not see him until he had nearly sat down in his lap.

‘Oh! Apologies, I didn’t–’ It was then that the officer took a good look at the trooper, as much as he took a good look at anything, and he saw his dirty face, his battered uniform and, most importantly to him, the insignia of a private.

‘What are you doing in here?’

The trooper did not respond.

‘Do you hear me, man? Officers only in here. Get back to your section.’

The trooper’s heavy eyes stayed staring at the fire.

‘He looks pretty far gone,’ the officer’s friend said. He had noticed the stains on the trooper’s grey fatigues: sweat, smoke and most definitely blood. ‘Maybe we should leave him to it.’

‘Damn him!’ the officer replied. ‘He’s just playing dumb. I’ll have your name and regiment, man, and your commanding officer will have a mite more, I’ll warrant, after I’ve had a word with him.’

The trooper still didn’t reply; in fact, he had not moved an inch, even to blink, during the entire confrontation. The officer’s friend shook his head and went to get a steward.

‘Name and regiment, soldier!’ The officer tried to sound commanding, but the order came out as petulant.

‘Very well, I’ll find it for myself.’ The officer reached for the tags around the trooper’s neck. He leaned in and suddenly yelped in pain. The trooper’s hand was clamped around his wrist, twisting it into a lock. The trooper’s head whirled around, he blinked and stared wide-eyed at the officer.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ the trooper asked, his tone one of genuine concern. ‘Why are you shouting?’

‘Unhand me, you dog, or I’ll have you on the wheel!’

‘Is there a problem here, sirs?’ One of the heavy-set, politely threatening stewards closed in, the officer’s friend behind him.

The trooper saw what his hand was doing and released his grip. The officer shrank back, cradling his injury and spitting nails.

‘I want this private’s name and regiment,’ he ordered the stewards, ‘and then I want him slung out of here!’

The trooper stood and presented himself. ‘Major Stanhope, commanding the 1201st.’

‘That’s a lie!’ the officer blurted out. ‘There’s no such regiment. Not on Kandhar at least!’

‘Sir,’ the steward began. ‘Sir?’

It took a moment for the officer to realise that the steward was focusing not on the fraudulent major but on him.

‘What?’

‘Major Stanhope is currently seconded to the 371st, whom, I believe you’ll find, are on Kandhar. Now,’ the steward raised his hand for two of his colleagues to approach, ‘it will be no trouble for us to arrange chairs for yourself and your friend with a very pleasant outlook upstairs.’

‘No,’ the officer retorted.

‘Sir?’ the steward replied with seemingly infinite patience.

‘You’ll not fob us off. He assaulted me.’

The steward allowed a moment to pass to indicate his silent disappointment.

‘In that case, I shall have to ask you to vacate these premises before continuing any further.’

‘Very well.’ The officer turned to the trooper only to discover he had slumped back down in the chair once more. He contained his irritation and rested his uninjured hand significantly upon the hilt of his sword. ‘Major Stanhope, if that is who you are, you will accompany me outside. Do you have a second you wish to contact?’

Stanhope did not reply. He was gone again, once more gazing at the fire.

The officer walked round pointedly to stand right in front of him. Stanhope blinked back and the officer gritted his teeth and repeated his challenge.

‘Of course. Of course,’ Stanhope replied and stood up.

‘Do you have a weapon,’ the officer said disdainfully, ‘or do you need one to be provided?’

‘You’re right. You’re right. Got to have a sword or might get you into trouble. Had a sword somewhere… Where’s it gone?’ Stanhope turned his back and bent down near double, searching under his chair, and incidentally displaying his trouser-covered rump to his opponent.

‘Ah, there it is!’ Stanhope saw the unusual thick sword with its distinctive inward curve entangled under the chair and reached in, grabbed the hilt and gave it a tug. It slipped out halfway and then stuck fast. He grunted in annoyance and took a second grip with his other hand.

‘That’s a fell-cutter,’ the friend exclaimed. ‘He’s a bloody fell-cutter!’

‘Blessed Marguerite!’ the officer gasped.

There was the smash of glass and the bang of furniture being knocked hastily to one side.

‘Aha! Got it!’ Stanhope declared as he pulled the sword free with a great ripping of fabric. He waved it triumphantly in a small circle above his head and then turned his attention back to his challenger. Or, at least, where his challenger had been.

Stanhope looked about in sluggish confusion. The steward righted the table and chairs that the officers had toppled in their flight.

‘Can I get you another, major?’

Stanhope looked down at the empty side-table.

‘Did I have one already?’

‘Yes, sir. The glass broke.’

‘Oh, sorry about that,’ Stanhope said. ‘I suppose I’d better have another then.’ He reached into his pocket.

‘No need, sir,’ said the steward, bowing: the coin that the major had given him for the first drink had been enough to cover a round for an entire platoon.

‘Take it anyway.’ Stanhope pressed another coin into his hand. This one was enough for a whole company.

‘As you say, sir.’ The steward vanished and Stanhope settled back into his chair, jamming his sword underneath again. The fresh drink appeared on the side-table.

‘Shall I stoke the fire for you?’ the steward offered, reaching for one of the lance heads propped up beside it.

‘No, no, leave it be,’ Stanhope replied, as he returned to his moment. ‘It’s happy.’

Medicae Station, Kandhar

The man who would become known as Blanks opened his right eye a fraction. They’d finally turned the luminators down. He scanned the room; all the medicae were gone and the wounded were in their beds. He held his breath, listening intently to the sounds of their breathing. None of them snored. Any troopers who snored had been killed many years before. Hopefully, the medicae had drugged them to keep them quiet just as they had been doing to him. He raised his hands a few inches from his bed and felt the tug of his restraints. There had been some kind of panic today. More wounded arriving. Many more. The medicae had not paid him much attention and had forgotten to shorten his wrist straps after his meal. It was his opportunity.

The medicae were lying to him. They had told him that he had lost his memory because of his injuries and yet he had no injuries. How could he have lost his entire memory and not have a scratch on him? He had been injured before, he had scars, but they were all long healed. He had tested every part of his body and everything functioned as it should. He was not wounded, he was not sick, and that meant they were doing something else to him.

When he had first awoken, he had tried to break free, but he had been too confused and there had been too many medicae standing ready, and so he had been restrained. One of the medicae had tried to comfort him, telling him that the paranoia would fade in a few days and then he could be released back to his regiment, but then another one had said that his regiment were all dead. He asked them why he was being kept here; they said they were only keeping him until he was fit, but he was fit already. More lies. He asked to see his service docket, but they refused. When he continued to ask, they stopped listening to him and started drugging him until he stopped. Tonight was the night that he was going to find out the truth.

He slowly arched his body up. His bedclothes rustled slightly as they slid down him. He pushed his hands behind his back, the fingers from one hand stretching to reach the restraint on the other. It took nearly half an hour to undo one; his muscles should have been screaming, but his body was strong.

Once one restraint was off, the others quickly followed and then, at last, he was out of bed. His legs wavered a moment as they readjusted, but then they responded. He had obviously not been off them long. Another lie. He took a blanket from the bed and padded softly along the ward and out through the door.

There was no alarm. There was no guard. There were wounded, however. There were wounded everywhere: lying on pallets, slumped against walls, standing and trudging slowly down the corridor. The ones nearest him looked up plaintively for a moment, but then saw he was not one of the medicae and so ignored him. He threw his blanket over his head and shoulders and held it close. He started trudging as the other walkers did, looking for his path.

He had tried to get information from the others in his ward, but they had all been officers and uninterested in conversing with a private soldier. However, they had been free enough in talking with one another and he had gleaned the information he needed from that. There was a blue line painted on the floor ending at his ward. He shuffled along it, passing soldier after soldier, bandaged, missing limbs, burned, and with every other injury he could conceive of. None of them were screaming, none of them were crying out, but there was a general groan of suffering that permeated the air. There were no medicae, no one tending to any of them.

He reached a junction and there the blue line intersected with a half-dozen more. A thick red line terminated in another ward the size of a cavern: double, triple-stacked with pallets and more men upon them. There were more than a thousand of them in that one room alone. It was not his destination. He found the thin grey line and started following that. There were no wounded along this path and so he picked up his pace. He jogged lightly down the empty corridors until he found his destination: the records room. In there, he had heard, was a service docket for every patient within these walls. The door was locked, but he was not going to be halted now, so close. He forced his way in and flicked on the emergency luminators. There they were.

There were thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands of them. But they were all ordered and filed. He ran through the aisles until he found the right rack. He searched through them, looking for his service number. There it was. There he was.

He pulled the docket clear and poured the contents out onto the floor. The top sheet was a medical report. It was obviously new; it had nothing on it since a week before, nothing he did not already know. Behind it, though, was his service record, with his number at the top. He picked it up and began to read. Name: Stones, John. Rank: Private, Grade Primus.

And that was it. Every other section, every other page, was entirely blank.

Cloud Hills, Kandhar

Carson and Red met the officers from the 29th early in the morning in a wooded grove in the lee of one of the hills. There was no other place to go where they could not be seen.

As the two parties came closer, Red muttered to Carson. ‘I reccied the woods already, sah. Nothing. You’ll be alone.’

The officer in the lead, Captain Ross, saw them approach. ‘A colour-sergeant?’ he said, talking of Red, but goading Carson. ‘Could you really not persuade a real officer to stand by you?’

Carson would not normally have wasted a second on such a jibe, but today he wanted to relish this. He could feel the fluttering in his body. The anticipation. This might be his last time for a while.

‘A staff lieutenant and a quartermaster?’ Carson retorted, noting the insignia on Ross’s companions. ‘Could you really not persuade a real soldier to stand by you?’

Ross gave a chuckle that had no trace of humour and started to shuck off the heavy winter coat he was wearing.

‘Your chaps got off pretty lightly so I hear. What was the bill in the end?’ he asked Carson.

‘Fifteen in the company,’ Carson replied, ‘about a hundred for the Eleventh overall.’

‘Sounds like you were a bit careless with your platoons, eh?’ Ross said, but Carson knew that he was in no position to stand upon his high horse this time.

‘Heard you got a bit of a bloody nose yourself,’ Carson replied, keeping his tone light and well-mannered.

‘Took us by surprise with that sally at Thal, is all. Caught us out of position. Eighty per cent across the Twenty-Ninth.’

‘Bad luck.’ Carson said, but Ross waved it off.

‘It was the ones that broke who got it.’ Ross said with a smile of vindication. ‘My chaps held together. Wasn’t so bad for us.’

‘There’s a bit of gold piping to it though,’ he continued. ‘There’s not much of the Twenty-Ninth left; it means that Command is going to sit us down and send back our colours.’

Carson scoffed openly at that. ‘They’ll just merge you with another regiment and send you on to the next one. Just as they’ve done with all of us a dozen times already.’

Ross curled his face in a grin. ‘That’s not what I hear coming out of Command. Word is that the Twenty-Ninth is being set for garrison duty.’

‘Garrison duty…’ Carson could not believe it was being considered.

‘That’s right. The colours go home. I stay here. Twenty-five years, twenty years on this crusade and five before that, and after all that the Guard and I are finally saying goodbye. Might be the Eleventh as well. But your lot still have some fight in them, don’t they? Should have been smart like me, Carson, and been a bit less careful with your men.’

Carson had no response to that.

‘Let’s get to it,’ he said, unbuttoning his jacket and throwing it down onto the ground.

The quartermaster cleared his throat. ‘I believe, sirs, that I’m required at this time to ask you to confirm that you are acting of your volition and both intend to proceed.’

‘I do,’ Carson said quickly. The fluttering was in his blood now. The familiar excitement pulsed around his body.

‘Oh yes,’ Ross confirmed.

‘Very well,’ the quartermaster sighed. ‘On your honour, sirs.’ He set off out of the woods; the other officer followed. Red hooked Carson’s jacket up off the grass and went after them. Carson and Ross were finally alone.

‘So this, dear friend,’ Ross said, ‘will be our last time. No holding back, eh?’

Carson could not have agreed more. ‘No holding back.’

A few minutes later, Carson emerged from the woods. Red handed him his jacket and Carson gave him a curt nod of thanks. The other two officers, pale-faced, went to collect their friend’s body.

News of the death of Captain Ross came as little surprise to his fellows in the 29th. Carson’s reputation as a duellist was well known, infamous even. It was his duelling, or at least one particular duel in the first year of the crusade, that had finished his career and consigned him to live out the rest of his career at his present, lowly rank.

Ross had already walked out with him three times, each time coming back wounded and defeated, but still nursing his grudge against the deadly lieutenant of the 11th. At least, his fellows said, this last time Ross had done the decent thing and waited until the end of the campaign.

In past times, twenty, fifteen, even ten years before, the officers of the 29th would have felt slighted at such a defeat. A deadly feud might have erupted, more duels might have been fought, more officers incapacitated or killed. But now, here at the end, none of them was willing to pick up Ross’s cause. Strangely, the idea of confronting a man who had survived two decades of war across the most lethal battlefields and shooting him dead for the sake of honour was less appealing at their age than it had been in their youth. They were tired and they had had enough.

The 29th was struck off the order of battle, their colours were returned home to form the core of a new regiment in a future founding. They were settled on Kandhar, there to keep in check the native human tribes liberated from the Karthadasim. The officers of the 29th and the other garrisoned regiments soon established themselves as the new noble elite of the world and began indulging in the rewards peace offered, that so few of them had survived to enjoy.

And the same fate should have been awaiting the long-serving officers and men of the 11th as well, if there had been any justice in the galaxy.

Two

Imperial cruiser Relentless, Kandhar low orbit

There was no justice in the galaxy, Colonel Arbulaster decided. If there had been then he would not have been rousted from the midst of the victory celebrations, then forced to endure an hour’s shuttle journey into orbit, and all on the general’s whim.

He stepped onto the hangar deck and was greeted by a young Navy officer. Arbulaster hid the scowl of annoyance he had been wearing ever since he’d received the general’s summons behind his bushy moustache and wearily returned the youth’s salute. He introduced himself as acting sub-something or other, but Arbulaster never had much patience for the titles and ranks of the Imperial Navy. As far as he was concerned, as the colonel of a Brimlock regiment, the only ranks he needed to know were those of ship’s captain and higher.

The youth led him off the hangar deck, making polite small talk as they went. Arbulaster limited his responses to small affirmative grunts as he fought down the nausea caused by the flight and his preceding celebratory excesses. He resisted the urge to plug his ears against both the youth’s chatter and the deep-pitched, omnipresent pulsing of the engines which churned his stomach.

They arrived on the command deck and the background pulse became a cacophony created by the constant chatter of the hundred or so crew crammed into the area, all punctuated by a diverse succession of trilling alarms, all obviously routine given the lack of interest the crew appeared to show. Arbulaster did not know how the Navymen could stand it. Every inch of space on the deck had a purpose; it was packed with consoles and arrays, some sunk into the floor, others climbing into small towers. The walls themselves were covered by bank after bank of logistician and cogitator rows, all appearing to be frantically busy even though the ship, as far as Arbulaster could tell, wasn’t doing anything. The bridge itself arched over the width of the deck and above it hung the Imperial aquila, its sculpted wings just as wide as the bridge itself, keeping watch over them all.

The youth asked him to wait and then excused himself. Arbulaster paused a moment and then took a few steps over to one of the more reflective consoles. Whilst trying to maintain an air of interest in the crewman’s operation, he surreptitiously checked his appearance. Hang the inconvenience of the early reveille, if he had been brought here for the reason he expected then it would all be worth it. The rumours had been rife amongst the regimental commanders: the general was standing the Brimlock regiments down; assigning their old, tired Guardsmen as permanent garrisons to the worlds they had won. His days in this seemingly endless crusade, the magnum opus of Lord-General Ellinor, were done. He had survived. He had survived.

His men would live out their days here on these fringe-worlds and help bring them into the Imperium. Arbulaster, however, was going home.

‘Arb!’ a familiar voice called to him. It was Colonel Thabotka, descending from the bridge, a hand outstretched in salutation.

‘Good morning, colonel.’ Arbulaster forced a smile and returned the greeting.

‘Is it morning?’ Thabotka replied breezily. ‘I can’t tell a thing aboard these crates.’

Arbulaster was glad that the ship’s captain was still up on his dais and out of earshot of that last remark. Thabotka was not a Brimlock officer. He was, in Arbulaster’s opinion, with his manners and his casual familiarity, not a Brimlock officer in almost every respect. Instead, he was from Hellboken, one of the dozen other planets which had contributed Guardsmen to the crusade. Despite this, and even though they were of equal rank, Arbulaster knew well enough to treat him with a great deal of courtesy, for Thabotka was on the general’s staff. It was they who were making the decisions on which regiments were staying and which were fighting on.

‘Listen, Arb,’ Thabotka continued blithely, ‘the general’s real wrapped up right now; these negotiations have been nothing but delay after delay. I’m here with his regrets, but so you don’t have a wasted journey, he’d like me to have this chat with you instead.’

‘Of course,’ Arbulaster replied. He felt his chest tighten. Thabotka was the kind of man who would begin by saying how much he liked you, and finish by sticking you a task as rotten as a gangrenous leg. He was more than a staff colonel, he was the general’s personal enforcer. When there were rewards and medals to be given, the general appeared. If an unpleasant conversation was to be had, he sent Thabotka.

They left the command deck behind and adjourned to one of the chambers set aside for the general’s use. One corner of the cabin had a pict viewer playing the latest transmission of the Voice of Liberation with its regular thundering denunciation of the crusade’s foes. The rest of the wall-space was festooned with trophies of animals and xenos. In different circumstances Arbulaster, a game hunter himself, would have been most interested in examining them more closely. As it was, he kept his attention fixed upon Thabotka.

The staff colonel muted the pict viewer, picked up a small case of lohgars from the desk and offered one to Arbulaster. Arbulaster picked it up and caught a strange scent from it.

‘Exotic, isn’t it,’ Thabotka remarked. ‘You know where it’s from?’

‘No,’ Arbulaster said as he accepted Thabotka’s light.

‘It’s from right here. From right on Kandhar,’ Thabotka said. ‘Turns out the humans have been growing it here ever since the Great Crusade. Before that even. Even the Karthas liked it.’

Arbulaster grunted. ‘Hard to imagine us all sitting down with the xenos and sharing a puff.’

Thabotka gave a chuckle, both friendly and insincere. ‘I like you, Arb. It’s always a pleasure when our paths cross.’

Arbulaster stayed quiet as Thabotka lit his own and carried on, chewing the words out with the lohgar still in his mouth. ‘The general needs you to do him a favour, Arb. He needs you to do the whole crusade a favour.’

Arbulaster didn’t dare draw breath.

‘You ever heard of Voor?’

‘No,’ Arbulaster replied.

‘No reason you should.’ Thabotka continued. ‘Never heard of it myself until a few days ago. Pioneer world. Colony set up about a century ago, sent out from Frisia. Mostly uninhabited. Turns out, though, that we may have left a bit of a mess there.’

‘Have we ever even set foot on it?’

‘Didn’t need to. An orkoid ship, or rok or whatever they call it, crashed there about a year ago. The general reckons it’s probably a leftover from that ork armada which crossed our path back in ’56.’

‘I thought Ingertoll and the Navy got ’em all?’

‘So did I, Arb. So did the general. But with Ingertoll and his staff biting it in the fight, who did we have who knew for sure? Captain Marcher says that the Navy knew. He says the Navy reported to Command. Maybe they did. Back then all I know was that every single eye at Command was focused on Cawnpore, Carmichael and the 67th.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ Arbulaster said quickly. ‘The Eleventh was fighting on Ordan for most of ’56.’

Thabotka chuckled again. ‘You know, Arb, of all the Brimlock officers I’ve met, I’ve never met one who was on Cawnpore. I find that a truly amazing coincidence considering how many Brimlock regiments we sent there.’

Arbulaster bristled at that. Rank had its privileges, but he could not remain silent at Thabotka’s insinuation.

‘I am certain that you have access to my service record if you doubt my word, colonel.’

Thabotka held up his hand in mock defeat. ‘Of course, of course, Arb. Never doubted you. Never doubted you at all. And that’s why the general trusts you with this Voor business. There’s probably nothing to it. Command reckons that none of the orks even survived the crash. You’ll just need to head over, fly the colours, let these Voorjers feel protected.’

But his reassurances fell on deaf ears. Arbulaster knew that Crusade Command was notorious for filling their briefing dockets from the closest source of information to hand. Arbulaster had seen dockets chock-full with detailed information about tithing, imports and exports and the names of long-dead governors, whilst only vaguely alluding to certain facts, such as the planet’s highly toxic atmosphere, freezing temperatures, constant darkness, perennial monsoons or tunnelling hyper-predators.

‘If none of them survived, why isn’t Command leaving this to the local PDF?’

‘They don’t have them. No PDF. No Administratum. No arbitrators. Not even an Ecclesiarchy mission.’

‘Nothing?’ A suspicion slid into the back of Arbulaster’s mind. For a world, even a colony, to have no trace of the Imperial institutions had a most definite implication.

‘That’s right, Arb. Appears our Voorjers are very keen on their independence.’ Thabotka’s stress on that last, near treasonous word was unmistakeable. ‘But the general is a generous man, so he’s going to give them exactly what they’re asking for. And that brings me on to the other favour you can do him.’

Arbulaster climbed on board the shuttle taking him back to the planet’s surface and back to his regiment. He held his orders, both sets of them, and also a listing of the officers and men who were being reassigned from other regiments to replace his losses. He had not glanced at it yet, and even if he had, the names of Major Stanhope and of Private ‘Blanks’ Stones would have not yet meant anything to him.

Troop ship Brydon, transporting Brimlock 11th en route to Voor

Blanks had come to miss his paranoia. The unnerving fiction that everyone had been out to get him was starting to feel strangely preferable to the truth that everyone, absolutely everyone, was entirely uninterested in him. The men of the second platoon of Carson’s company were not malicious, they were simply unrelenting in their apathy towards him. He hadn’t needed to have picked up his nickname from the blank pages of his service record; it could easily be used to describe the expression in the face of every man in the platoon to whom he started speaking.

The mystery of his service record had at least been resolved. Apparently, his had never made it to the medicae station, but the officials had filled one in for him as a placeholder while waiting for a reply from Crusade Command. As soon as that had come in, they brought it to his bedside. Blanks had read it carefully. It was the typical banal record of a soldier who had fought for nineteen years and yet never been promoted. There was a list of campaigns, a smattering of minor disciplinary matters, a single limp commendation and that was all. What a great disappointment it had been to have the great question of one’s life answered and to be revealed as such a mediocrity.

He had stopped causing trouble then, and when he was finally discharged with orders to report to the 11th, he went without a fight.

He no longer even felt bitter towards his platoon-mates. He had started to understand what they had gone through during the crusade, what he must have gone through as well, but with the blessing that every trauma, every stain on his memory had been wiped clean. When he had first joined the platoon, he had put his kit down on an empty bunk, only to have the man on the bunk above scream at him to get out of his mate’s place.

Blanks had got up and the man had instantly fallen back to sleep. He would have no recollection of the incident in the morning. Blanks had eventually found space at the far end of the room near the ogryn, who appeared to have attached himself to the platoon. No one slept there except Gardner because of the smell. And, he learned later, no one ever slept in the empty bunk below the man who screamed at him, because his mate had been hit by an eldar needle-shot on Azzabar that had burned him alive from the inside.

The subsequent days in the Brydon’s hold had been little different. The company had a regular routine of drill, exercise, meals and rest. Blanks followed along as best he could. A trooper named Mouse introduced him to the gambling games they played, to fill up the empty time in the evenings. The other troopers took an interest in him long enough to win his back-pay, and then they closed their company to him again.

Blanks did not care about the pay. It was in regimental scrip that couldn’t be used anywhere that had anything worth buying. He did not even miss the conversations that he’d had whilst he’d gambled it away. They had been awkward. The men of his platoon spoke in their own language of short, truncated sentences, whose fuller meaning had been established over the years that they had been in one another’s company. Their words were riddled with obscure references to battles long-fought and men long-dead. During one game, another trooper had walked past, looked at the position on the board and made a noise like a straining animal. The other players creased up in laughter and Blanks could only stare on while he waited for the game to continue. But that one occasion where Mouse had asked about him had been even worse.

‘You don’t know anything?’

Blanks fished out his tags. ‘Just what’s on here. Trooper John Stones. Thirteenth Dragoons.’

‘The Thirteenth?’ Mouse said. ‘I heard they all bit it in the drop on Jug Dulluk last year.’

‘That’s what I’ve heard as well.’

Mouse paused at that, frowned and unconsciously tucked his lower lip behind his teeth in thought.

‘You don’t remember anything?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the first thing you remember?’

‘Waking up in a medicae station on Kandhar.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘I was tired. I fell asleep.’

Mouse asked again and Blanks told him what he could. While the 11th and the 29th and every other Brimlock regiment that had survived the crusade completed the lengthy process of reducing the fortress-world of Kandhar, he had been tucked up safe in a bed, trying to bring the man he had been back from the darkness. None of the medicae knew how he had come to be there; their only interest was keeping him quiet and then turfing him out. The 13th Dragoons had been wiped out, so there was no one there to ask. But even that small piece of knowledge caused him trouble.

The grey-haired sergeant of the second platoon, Forjaz, had called him aside:

‘This thing, about you being one of the Thirteenth.’

‘Yes, sergeant?’

‘Don’t spread it around any more.’

‘I haven’t,’ Blanks said. ‘I haven’t spread anything, sergeant. I don’t know anything, just that that was my last regiment.’

‘That’s what I’m talking about. Don’t spread it around any more.’ Blanks still did not understand. ‘I’m only looking out for you. They can be a superstitious lot, Guardsmen. They hear you’re the only survivor of a regiment that got hit, it starts them thinking.’

‘Thinking what?’ Blanks asked.

‘That maybe you think you’re special?’ Forjaz replied, irritated at the question. ‘Maybe you think you’ve been touched by the Emperor?’

‘I don’t, sergeant.’

‘Or that maybe you’re lucky? The kind of luck that means you’ll walk away even when the rest of your platoon bites it.’

‘I don’t think that at all.’

‘Good,’ Forjaz said bluntly. ‘But maybe some of the others do. If they think they’ve got a man of destiny amongst them, it starts them thinking. It starts them thinking that they don’t want to be the trooper that takes the shot that was meant for you. That they don’t want to be the trooper who follows you on some mad charge that means their death and your glory. They don’t like men with a destiny; they tend to get everyone else around them killed.’

‘I don’t,’ Blanks stated. ‘I don’t think I have a destiny. I just want to serve.’

Forjaz paused a moment. ‘Who?’ he quizzed. ‘Who do you think you serve?’

It was a question Blanks hadn’t expected. Guardsmen served. There was a never a question of who; you served Him. ‘The Emperor,’ Blanks said.

‘Wrong,’ Forjaz corrected. ‘Out here, there is no Emperor. You serve me. You serve the lieutenant. You serve the platoon. You serve the man beside you. That’s how we make it through. All together. You understand me? If you wanted to be a hero, you shouldn’t have joined the Guard.’

Perhaps, Blanks considered, Forjaz had had good intentions. But it was plain even to Blanks that if Forjaz knew something, it would have gone around the company a dozen times already.

Forjaz was the only man left in the company whose wife and children had won the ballot to travel with the regiment. His family, along with the others, were required to keep their own company. His wife worked for the gastromo, his daughters helped the medicae and his son was himself a cadet-sergeant in the Boy Company, soon to join the ranks as a full Guardsman. They were kept separate on board ship from the unmarried men and those rest periods when the men talked, Forjaz spent in the married men’s quarters.

It was this that made him an odd man out. He ran the platoon with precision and efficiency, and could bawl a private out with the best of them. But unlike Lieutenant Carson, whom the men adored, and Colour-Sergeant Red, who struck terror into them, Forjaz was only ever simply obeyed. The men of second platoon respected his rank, but he was not one of them.

Forjaz might have been an odd man out, but he certainly was not the oddest man out in the platoon. That honour belonged elsewhere.

‘Yes, I’d agree. It’s too late for you now,’ Ducky, the company medic, told Blanks as he waited with the rest of the platoon for their routine examinations.

‘What?’

Ducky hissed through his teeth as he studied the chart in his hand. ‘We’re going to have to take that foot.’

‘What? What’s the matter with my foot?’

‘It’s quite abnormal, I’m afraid. Almost mutated. The toes are hugely splayed and elongated. Your big toe is nearly entirely dislocated. I’m surprised you can even wear those boots.’

‘The boots feel fine. My foot feels fine. Which one are you even talking about?’

Ducky stared down, then stared at the chart, then turned it upside down.

‘Ah, my mistake, trooper. That’s a very healthy-looking hand you have there.’

There was a chortle from the other men, not so much at the laboured wisecrack, but at Blanks’s confusion.

‘Are you really the medic?’ he asked.

‘That’s what it says on my badge.’ Ducky replied. The lanky Guardsman with the permanent half-grin proudly displayed a piece of white plastic he had pinned to his uniform. It had ‘MEDIC’ handwritten on it in black ink and a crude copy of the medicae helix drawn below.

‘That’s not official,’ Blanks said.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Ducky replied sternly.

‘No.’

‘That’s a shame. I need all the help I can get.’

And so it went with Ducky. If you got him alone he could be serious and sensible enough, but put him in front of a group and he couldn’t help performing. The constant barrage of puns and jokes were almost involuntary, a nervous tick developed either as a symptom of his madness or as the only way he had kept himself sane all these years.

When working, however, Ducky could be very serious.

‘Are you having trouble remembering anything that’s happened since?’ Ducky examined Blanks’s torso. His chest was as big as a barrel and had old scars and burns enough to make his skin look diseased. Whatever the problems with his mind, Blanks’s body was in great condition, especially amongst the ageing Brimlock troopers. Doubtless that was the reason that the old hands of the platoon had given him no trouble when he joined.

‘No. That’s been fine.’ Blanks sat up on the slab in the tiny med-chamber the regiment was allowed. ‘The medicae before, they told me it was probably shock. That it might just be a matter of time.’

Ducky ignored him. ‘And you don’t remember anything before. Nothing of your old regiment? Nothing of Brimlock? Not even a sight or a smell? Nothing in your dreams?’

‘No, it’s all blank.’

‘Hence the name.’

‘Yeah,’ Blanks said, ruefully. ‘Why do they call you Ducky?’

‘There, my friend, you have a choice between the mundane and the slanderous,’ Ducky said, studying the auspex readings on the panel beside him. ‘The mundane is that my name is Drake and that your average trooper is unable to resist such an obvious soubriquet. The slanderous is that I am a coward who tosses away his lasgun and ducks for cover at the merest hint of an enemy.’

‘And that’s not true?’

‘Oh, no, it’s true. But the reason I do it isn’t because I’m a coward.’

Blanks thought on it a moment. ‘Why is it then?’

‘It’s because I don’t want to kill people.’

Blanks laughed out loud, but Ducky was serious.

‘That’s another joke, right? It’s a good one.’

‘I’ve seen a lot of men die. Some of them even had my hands in their chests as they went. But none of them died because of me. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.’

‘You’ve never killed at all?’ Blanks said in disbelief. ‘How long have you been in the Guard?’

Ducky looked up from the auspex readings. ‘I’m only a Guardsman because they put the pen in my hand and the gun to my head and I didn’t want to put them to the trouble of cleaning my brain off the wall. Humanity owes the Emperor its existence, and He can have my life if He so chooses. But I can’t give Him another’s. It’s not my right.’

Blanks was stunned. He had never heard such sentiments expressed before. Had he been a commissar he would have been obliged to execute Ducky on the spot. Killing, especially killing enemies of the Imperium, was not an ethical dilemma, it was a religious imperative.

‘I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, if that’s what you believe,’ Blanks said.

Ducky was not fazed by Blanks’s attitude. ‘I think, private, as you come to know this platoon and this company, you will find that there is one and perhaps only one characteristic that all of us share.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘That we do what it takes to do what we do and live with ourselves afterwards.’ The smile had vanished from Ducky’s face.

‘Can we just get this over with?’ Blanks stood up, eager to be away from the medicae bay and its strange occupant. ‘When’s my memory coming back?’

‘Are you sure it isn’t already? You certainly salute well.’ Ducky’s voice had a touch of a sneer.

‘I guess you’d just call that habit,’ he spat back.

‘Well, I’d call it an automated learned response personally, but that’s why I’m the doctor and you’re the patient.’

Blanks felt his hands clench into fists. ‘When, Ducky?’

Ducky examined the auspex readings one last time. ‘Your memory’s not coming back.’

‘Not ever?’ If this was another of Ducky’s jokes, Blanks was going to deck him.

‘Would you like a second opinion?’

‘Yes!’

‘That uniform does absolutely nothing for your complexion.’

A few moments later, Blanks had stormed away, venting his irritation on the examination slab rather than Ducky’s face. Left alone, Ducky sighed and shook his head. He felt sorry for the trooper, but there was no doubt. The signs of Commissariat mind-cleansing were there if you knew what you were looking for, and no Imperial medicae was going to try to reverse it, so that was that. He could only wonder what the poor wretch had ever done to deserve it.

Three

It was at times such as these that Arbulaster rued the great distance between himself and Crusade Command that prevented him from reaching out and throttling the boneheaded incompetents who worked there with his bare hands. Discreet inquiries! That was what he had wanted. Discreet inquiries! A scratch of someone’s back, a word in the right ear. He most certainly had not wanted this!

He paced, furious, back and forth in front of his second-in-command, Major Brooce, who was holding the two offending communiqués. The first was from the office of the High Admiral stating that all battleships capable of planetary bombardment were fully engaged and that none could be spared to make a round-trip to Voor, even just to bomb a small part of it. The second one was from the office of the Imperial Governor of Voor, who had been copied in on the first communiqué which included a lengthy study demonstrating that any such bombardment on the scale necessary would cause such ecological damage to the planet as to force the colony to be abandoned. It included a short personal note from the governor herself, somewhat wryly observing that they had only begun colonising the world a century ago and that she had wondered how long it would take the Imperium to want to start blowing pieces of it up. That note had been copied into the office of Lord-General Ellinor.

Discreet inquiries. That was what he had asked for. But how could he wield his influence effectively from inside this rust-bucket of a ship, speeding into the abyss? Thabotka had certainly known what he was doing, packing them off so quickly; with a few weeks on Kandhar near the general, he might have manoeuvred himself out of it altogether. Even if not his men, at least himself.

‘Shall I take care of it, sir?’ Brooce offered.

‘And how would you do that?’ Arbulaster replied, still seething.

‘Clarificatory communiqué to all parties concerned citing that the original request was truncated, mistranslation by the astropath concerned; strongly refuting any suggestion that you will not be carrying through your duty to the greatest capacity possible. The usual.’

Arbulaster thought on it. ‘Yes, yes, Brooce, take care of it exactly like that. Good. Very good.’

Brooce had learned a lot from him, Arbulaster decided.

‘Yes, sir,’ Brooce said. ‘And, sir? The officers have arrived.’

‘What officers?’

‘The new officers, sir. Your personal interviews. We have delayed them as long as we could.’

‘Oh, Blessed Marguerite, if I must I must.’ Arbulaster found such rituals excessively tedious and entirely pointless. He could make a far better judgement of a man after observing him in action for ten minutes than he could after days of courteous conversation. Then he remembered exactly who he had been given, and the details he had read in the service records. Perhaps it would not be entirely pointless in that particular case.

‘Get them together, Brooce,’ Arbulaster said, retreating behind his desk. ‘And tell Parker to save you-know-who for last.’

Major Stanhope sat in the colonel’s antechamber with the five other transferring officers. He had been waiting a long time and the benches around the sides of the small room were not comfortable, but he did not mind. A steward had come round and offered them tanna, and the other officers chatted amongst themselves as their drinks were poured. Stanhope heard their conversation, the careful verbal reconnaissance that each man was performing, testing the ground, determining their rung upon this new ladder. They noted the rank markings, they noted the medals, they noted the insignia of their former regiments. They asked innocuous questions in order to determine who had been promoted to captain first, who was assigned command of a company first, who had been the first to see combat. Such things mattered to them, even here at the end.

Except, of course, it was not the end. Not for them, perhaps. They all knew it was to be the last campaign of the old Brimlock 11th. But after it was done and the men were granted their release, the regiment’s colours would be sent home, laden with its battle honours, and would be used to raise a new Brimlock 11th. And the colonel and a few chosen others would accompany them as the colour-guard. Of the ten million men who had left Brimlock at the beginning of this crusade, only the colour-guard would ever set foot on their home world again. There they would be fêted, rewarded, promoted, and then they would form the elite of the new regiments, reborn under colours soaked in history, and they would go and wage the Emperor’s wars in another part of the galaxy.

None of the other officers spoke to Stanhope, but that was fair as he did not speak to any of them. They noted his rank, they noted his medals, but then they noted his old insignia and the thick curved blade hanging from his belt frog, and they knew that he was no competition. Stanhope did not notice their glances; instead, his eyes were fixed upon his drink. He had put a blob of honey on the inside of his cup and watched the thick, golden liquid slowly ooze down towards the brown tanna. They touched and, for a few moments, the honey retained its shape like oil in water, one liquid separate within another; then they intermingled and the honey disappeared.

The door to the colonel’s office opened and the adjutant poked his head out. He called for a Captain Ledbetter and the officer dressed in the uniform of a cavalry captain put his cup to one side and, with a trace of self-satisfaction, followed the adjutant in. The jaws of the other officers tightened a fraction and they occupied themselves so as to appear nonchalant. As Ledbetter went in, they all heard the colonel’s voice raised in hearty salutation.

One by one, the other officers had their names called and they walked through the oak-panelled door. Stanhope blinked and realised that he was alone. He looked down at the undrunk tanna in his hand. It was cold. He put it down and decided to stand. He stamped his feet a little to quicken the blood, and stretched and adjusted the fell-cutter in its scabbard, so it hung flat against his thigh.

‘I’m very pleased to be here,’ the officer enthused. ‘The Eleventh has quite a reputation.’

Arbulaster tried to recall the name of the officer he was interviewing. He stole a glance at the docket on his desk. Ah yes, Lieutenant Mulberry of the sappers, being consolidated from the 713th Heavy Pioneers. He should have guessed it from the beard; it seemed to be part of the uniform for sappers, though in Mulberry’s case it appeared to have grown through an omission to shave, rather than through any deliberate intent.

‘Glad to hear it, lieutenant,’ Arbulaster replied, hoping that Mulberry wasn’t going to try and reach across the desk and shake his hand. ‘The 713th had quite a reputation as well, hope you’re going to keep our standards high.’

‘I’ve certainly got a lot of new ideas to try out, sir,’ Mulberry beamed.

New ideas, Arbulaster thought? That sounds like the last thing the regiment needs.

‘New ideas?’ Arbulaster said. ‘That sounds like just the thing the regiment needs.’

‘I’m so pleased to hear it,’ Mulberry replied and Arbulaster saw his hand come out from behind his back and begin to reach across.

‘Dismissed!’ Arbulaster snapped and Mulberry jumped to attention, saluted and strode out. The adjutant closed the door behind him. ‘Shall I send in the last one, colonel?’

Arbulaster looked down at the sole docket left upon his desk.

‘Hold on a moment.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Arbulaster picked the docket up and flipped it open to the service record. Stanhope, R. B. de R. H. 639.M41, a second lieutenant with the newly raised Brimlock 33rd assigned to the Ellinor Crusade: 642, promoted to first lieutenant after the assault on Ketta and awarded the Bronze Halo; 643, awarded the Abject Hope in the storming of the fortress-city of Hanzi; 645, promoted to brevet captain during the action on Dahar; 646, awarded the Ellinor Star for the counter-boarding of an enemy cruiser in the Bukhat system; 649, promoted to major and given command of a whole regiment of margo auxilia, the 1201st. Then the Brimlock Crown, the Victory Laurel, the Bellum Opus, induction into the Order of St. Marguerite.

But, after the 1201st was dissolved after Ghilzai, nothing. Nothing for the last four years except for a litany of transfers. Stanhope had been bounced from one regiment to another, each colonel moving him on as soon as they could.

There were no citations, no reprimands, no rationale, nothing on the docket at least, but Arbulaster had heard the stories. Dereliction. Desertion. Insubordination. Intoxication. Assault. He had wondered why an officer with such a reputation had not been despatched by a commissar or a provost. That was one favour which his contacts at Command had been able to grant. A brief reply had come back: someone watched over him.

Stanhope, whether he knew it or not, had a guardian angel. And Arbulaster had not survived as long as he had by defying the angels. He didn’t have to like it though.

Arbulaster composed himself. ‘Very well, Parker.’

The adjutant nodded, showed Major Stanhope in and then exited discreetly. Stanhope stood at attention in front of the desk.

‘Stand easy,’ Arbulaster ordered automatically.

So this was the wretched Major Stanhope. Arbulaster was not surprised and not impressed. He had made the effort to shave on this occasion, but his cheeks were hollow and his reddened eyes sunk deep in their sockets. His uniform had obviously been fitted in more fortunate times and now it sagged slightly where a once-powerful frame had wasted away.

Arbulaster let the silence linger. He had found no quicker, more effective means of gaining the measure of a transferring officer: whether they shifted a fraction with discomfort; whether they, Emperor save ’em, actually started talking unbidden. Stanhope did neither, he merely stood easy, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his eyes focused on a point slightly above the colonel’s head. No, Arbulaster realised, they were not focused, they were glazed.

‘Damn it, man, are you on it now?’

‘On what, colonel?’

Arbulaster could not bear to spend any more time with this man. He cut to the chase.

‘I don’t care who you were, major. I don’t care what you’ve done. You are an officer under my command and that means you have two gods: the Emperor and myself. But unlike Him, I am a benevolent god. There are a hundred reasons why I might shoot you, but there’s only one for which I’ll damn you and that is if you do anything that results in the disruption of my regiment. You understand me?’

‘Yes, colonel.’

‘We have a vacant company command for you,’ Arbulaster said with reluctance. ‘Lieutenant Carson has been managing the shop there for the last few years. Done a damn fine job of it too. They’re good men. They don’t need much officering. Should suit you well as you ain’t much of an officer.’

Stanhope did not respond despite the slur and so Arbulaster finished him off.

‘One last thing, Stanhope. If you would be so kind as to arrange matters to ensure that, after today, I never see you, never hear from you, never read your name, and am troubled by as few reminders of your existence as possible, I would consider it a personal favour.’

‘I’ll try my best, colonel.’

‘See that you do.’

Arbulaster found that Major Stanhope was as good as his word. He absented himself from the colonel’s world and the colonel returned the favour by pointedly omitting to endorse the transfer orders that would allow him to take command. Arbulaster had enough to fill his time as he swung the 11th’s last campaign into gear.

The governor of Voor, despite their earlier ‘miscommunications’, proved helpful enough and, as the Brydon emerged from the warp, transmitted all the terrain information they had. The rok had landed on one of Voor’s secondary continents, covered with forest or jungle. Arbulaster set his men to work to assess the most likely drop-sites. He had no intention of landing on the coast and spending weeks, more likely months, trekking inland. He would drop in, as close as was safe, and have the whole matter concluded in days.

Alongside the officers, there were new men to integrate into the regiment: two full companies of infantry under Captains Tyrwhitt and Wymondham, a few more of Mulberry’s beards and, to Arbulaster’s particular satisfaction, Captain Ledbetter’s horse dragoons.

Arbulaster had been a horseman himself in the Brimlock planetary militia before the crusade was called and he was commissioned as a major in the armoured fist companies of the 282nd. He was not, despite appearances, one of those befuddled backward commanders that Brimlock occasionally produced who were convinced of the ultimate battlefield supremacy of the man on horseback. Ledbetter’s horsemen would be useless in the jungles around the rok’s crash-site, but afterwards, once the rok was taken, they would be indispensable.

Arbulaster sat at the heart of the whirlwind of planning and preparation, making quick yet confident decisions, with the assurance of great experience. He found that old feeling of the excitement and anticipation of a new campaign buzzing within his bones, and then he realised that it was for the last time. And then, despite his frenzy of activity, there was one, even older feeling that he had thought he had long overcome and yet now could not shake: fear.

One could not be afraid of one’s death in the service of the Guard. Your chances of survival were too far beyond your control. One only had to step into the wrong drop-pod, the wrong transport, the wrong piece of ground. One could not do that for twenty years and fear for one’s life each time, not and keep your mind together. But now this was the last. Now he could see how close he was. Now he realised the value his life could have if he could survive it all just one more time. He was marching into battle: some men would die, one of them would be the last. He could not let it be him.

Finally, five days after the Brydon had entered the edge of the system, it reached orbit and the 11th began their deployment. Despite all their preparation, the orks and their rok would have to wait a few days more. The 11th were not descending on them. They were descending on the governor.

Four

Voor – 660.M41 – Year 21 of the Ellinor Crusade, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 1

The Brimlock 11th paraded in a precise column through the dusty main street of the capital, Voorheid. Arbulaster had ordered the column with a great deal of care so as to make the most impact on the rag-tag inhabitants of the capital. At the fore came the regiment’s company of horse dragoons, the self-ordained elite of the Brimlock regiments, resplendent in their ceremonial armour. Behind them came the infantry, nearly eight hundred men marching in step with lasguns shouldered and fierce expressions on their faces. And then, the finale, the regiment’s vehicles: the Chimeras which bore the infantry to battle, the Griffons with the gaping maws of their heavy mortars, and then the mighty Leman Russ battle tanks of the armoured company, which could grind the entire city beneath their tracks.

At the very head of the column were the regiment’s colours: a single banner portraying the image of Brimlock’s patron saint, Saint Marguerite, crested by the double-headed Imperial eagle and, on each side of her, stylised images of the ornate rifles for which Brimlock was renowned. In battle the colours were kept carefully sheathed until the critical moment when they might be unfurled to inspire the men to victory; on occasions such as this they were displayed by one of the horse dragoons, guarded on either side by the four colour-sergeants of the regiment, and at the head of those was Arbulaster himself.

Not all was quite how he might have wished, of course. The horse dragoons who had originally been mounted upon magnificent greys, through replacements and generations of breeding, were now a patchwork of different colours. At least, however, the horses still ran, which was more than could be said for many of the regiment’s vehicles. The armoured company were the remains of the 920th Armoured, which had been folded into the 11th after Azzabar. They were a hodge-podge of different models and classes, all requiring constant maintenance from their crews and the regiment’s tech-priest.

The transport Chimeras were in an even worse state, having been cannibalised to keep the tanks of the armoured company functioning. At the beginning of the crusade, the regiment had been equipped with enough Chimeras to carry every man as a dragoon regiment should. The men, however, lasted longer than the machines and so now there were barely enough to carry two of the ten infantry companies.

As for the men themselves, while they all appeared to wear the classic uniform of the Brimlock regiments, twenty years of repair and replacement had left every man with slight variations, whether in pattern or material or colour. The differences even extended to their insignia, as the stubborn veterans of the other regiments that had merged into the 11th kept something of their original regimental markings, merely shifting them to make room for the new. Simply by examining the uniforms alone one could trace back the hundred or more regiments which had now merged into one. Arbulaster understood the men’s recalcitrance; he himself had been loath to give up the insignia of the 282nd even after its losses on Mespots had led to its dissolution.

The trained eye, then, would have identified the many signs of wear upon the 11th, but the trained eye would also have recognised what else those signs indicated: that these men were survivors and killers in equal measure.

The people for whom Arbulaster had arranged the procession, however, were far from trained. The ragged occupants of what laughably passed for Voor’s capital city watched from the side of the street and the windows of the squat buildings. Their clothes and their skin were marked with dirt. Even though the Guard had come at their invitation to rid them of a foe that threatened their lives, their mood was quiet, their eyes hidden by the shadows cast beneath their wide-brimmed hats.

None of them cheered. None of them doffed their hats. None of them even called out in praise of the Emperor. Arbulaster had taken the effort to make the procession appear more as a parade than an invasion and had had Captain Drum play a triumphal hymn over the vox-casters on his tank, but it made little difference to the sombre expressions of the crowd. They simply stared.

Arbulaster knew what these people were and he knew what they were thinking. They were not pioneers, they were escapees: men and women who had thought to flee the strictures and the duties of citizens of the Imperium by running to this virgin world, leaving all the institutions they loathed behind.

For a hundred years or so they had been allowed their liberty. Now, they thought, here the Imperium was finally coming after them. First the Guard, then the Administratum with its tithes, and then the Ecclesiarchy with its witch-hunts. And then what would follow after? No matter what Arbulaster did, the colonists of Voor would always resent him and his troops, and so he had organised this display of strength. Let them resent him if they must, but they would fear him too.

Arbulaster glanced over to where the governor was watching them. She would know that this was not simply a procession; she would know that Arbulaster had called her colonists here so that they might meet their new masters.

Voorheid, Brimlock landing area, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 2

‘I hear your colonel near got his arse bit off by the governor’s pets yesterday.’

Carson turned from watching the Valkyries landing and taking off around him to the Voorjer scout beside him.

‘I didn’t hear that,’ Carson lied. He had heard it; everyone in the regiment had heard of the altercation between Arbulaster and the governor in their private discussions. Apparently, Arbulaster at one point had cause to raise his voice and had inadvertently awoken the governor’s pair of leathertooths which had been asleep beneath her desk.

Carson did not know if the colonel had actually been injured, but he understood that his exit from the interview had been extremely swift.

‘I hear Sarel and Hendril still got bits of his breeches between their teeth,’ the scout carried on, highly amused. Her pronunciation of Low Gothic was harshened by her clipped and guttural Frisian accent

Carson left the scout’s jibing alone. Her name was Van Am and she was one of the Voorjers who had been living on the Tswaing continent before the rok’s crash, now assigned to help guide the 11th through the terrain and lead them to the orks. She was young, not particularly pretty, but with an attractive youthful vigour about her, and at present she was extremely nervous.

She tried to hide it behind an aggressive, no-nonsense demeanour, but in doing so she made her anxiety all the more obvious. Obvious to Carson at least. He doubted that the rest of the 11th’s pathfinder detachment had even acknowledged her existence.

The pathfinder detachment consisted of Mulberry, his bearded sappers and, as far as Carson could discern, enough plans and print-outs to paper the hull of a battleship. They were still poring over terrain maps and arguing over the best place to site the regiment’s operational base, even though in a few hours’ time they would be there to see them in person.

Carson was there to protect them in case they needed to descend to the jungle floor. Major Brooce had told him he had been assigned because the colonel had particular faith in him. Carson suspected it was more likely that no senior officer had been willing to be cooped up with the ‘beards’ for most of the day.

With the pathfinders wrapped up in their own disputes, and with their Valkyrie pilot delayed, it left conversation between him and Van Am regretfully inevitable. Regretful because, as Carson was perhaps the first representative of the galaxy-spanning regime known as the Imperium of Man she had ever personally encountered, she appeared determined to convince him of the many betrayals of her people by that same Imperium.

‘Don’t take it personally, lieutenant,’ she concluded. ‘I didn’t trust you before I met you. I thought it was a mistake inviting you in the first place. We should have dealt with it all ourselves.’

‘Do you really think you would have been able to?’

Van Am gave a short snort of irritation. ‘That’s just what I expected from your kind. You can’t conceive that anyone could take care of themselves without being in the grip of the Imperium, without the high and mighty Guard to rush and protect them, without your witch hunters and your judges burning out the innocent along with the guilty, without your priests preaching blind devotion to your dead Emperor. You think we’re soft? Have you any idea what we’ve been through here? What we’ve had to struggle through and survive? How many we’ve lost just to make this our home? Of course you don’t.’

Mercifully at that moment Carson saw their pilot, Zdzisław, approach and Van Am went quiet.

‘Commander!’ Carson called to him. ‘How are you today?’

‘It’s a beautiful morning, lieutenant.’ The mechanical Zdzisław stood at attention and snapped off a crisp salute. His chin was freshly shaved, his ashen hair was neatly combed and his right eye still twinkled blue, and that was perhaps all that was left of the original man. Everything else had been constructed afterwards. The rest of his face, his arms, his legs were metal; Navy bionics in the critical places, hand-welded plates and gears in the rest. They were his legacy of twenty years secondment to the Brimlock 11th.

Carson caught the look of restrained horror on Van Am’s face out of the corner of his eye. ‘Are you all set?’ he inquired.

‘We’ve the party plan already; shouldn’t take more than a few hours once we get the old bird in the air.’ Zdzisław’s natural voice had been lost during the raid on Kaswan Bay and instead his words emanated in a toneless electronic dirge from a vox-box fitted in his throat. What made it all the more eerie was that Zdzisław, to appear more human, had managed to wire his metal jaw to move, but could not synchronise it with the words. It flapped randomly as he spoke, as though he were a puppet laughing madly at its own joke.

‘You know about the aerial disturbance around the crash-site?’ The rok itself was still generating an interference field which stretched out for miles around it, preventing any flyers from coming close.

‘The governor’s office has given me what they have. They don’t have much, but our path should be safe.’

‘Excellent,’ Carson replied and finally turned to the Voorjer woman who was still gaping horribly at this man who had been so violently disassembled and so painstakingly put back together. ‘Holder Van Amersfoort, this is our pilot, Squadron Commander Zdzisław.’

Zdzisław politely held out the metal bones of his hand. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

Van Am had enough sense about her to take hold of the cold grip and shake it. Her movements were as mechanical as the pilot’s.

‘It’s holder actually. The correct title.’

‘Apologies, holder.’

‘Van Am,’ Carson continued the introductions, ‘is the governor’s granddaughter.’

Zdzisław let his head fall a fraction and then jerked it back in the approximation of a nod. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

Van Am stared at Carson. ‘I never said that.’

Carson held her stare lightly. ‘Do you really think that I’d allow myself or my men to go into danger alongside someone without knowing exactly who they are and what they might do?’

Van Am blinked. ‘No. I suppose not.’

‘Perhaps a rule to live by, then,’ he told her curtly and then followed Zdzisław towards his Valkyrie. Van Am went after them and received a second shock when she saw Zdzisław’s flyer. Many pilots, over time, grew attached to a particular craft. They would name it, record its victories, even start to believe that its quirks and defects were part of its own personality. Zdzisław had gone further. Much further. He was not fond of his Valkyrie, he was in love with it, worshipped it, was obsessed with it. Over the years he had painted every inch with lavish, elaborate, sometimes explicit, talismanic images. Each one he considered a labour of love, a symbol of his passion and gratitude for every occasion that the Valkyrie had taken him into battle and brought him home again.

The other pilots kept their eccentricities far better hidden, yet still Zdzisław had been promoted to squadron commander, in part because his devotion made his Valkyrie the most reliable, the most exceptional vehicle in the flight.

Van Am, however, had no clue as to this. She could only watch as Zdzisław went through his regular rituals of stroking and caressing the flyer’s nose, whispering into one of its vents, whilst his co-pilot performed the more mundane pre-flight checks.

Those completed, they took off, leaving the huddled settlement of Voorheid behind, and were soon jetting over the blue ocean. Van Am had taken a seat opposite Carson, but stayed silent throughout the trip. Carson was content not to have to shout over the Valkyrie’s engines and instead turned his thoughts to a more serious matter than how to handle a young woman frightened for her world. That matter was his prospective commanding officer, Major Stanhope.

The colonel had warned him about Major Stanhope, or rather he hadn’t. A Brimlock officer, when speaking to his junior, would never malign another, especially when that officer was the junior’s commanding officer. It simply wasn’t done. But the fact that the colonel, when he told Carson of the new appointment, did not recommend Stanhope as ‘good’ or ‘solid’ was far more damning than a whole litany of indictments from an officer of another world.

Stanhope was not one of us, Arbulaster had told him. Carson had heard that charge levelled at several officers during his career, applied to weak-kneed saps who fainted at the first sight of the enemy, to shell-shocked officers who spoke to flowers and expected a reply, to psychotic butchers who smeared themselves in blood and declared themselves the Emperor’s True Prophet. It was an accusation that meant nothing in specific and everything in general.

Carson’s relations with the former company commander, Captain Blundell-Hollinshed-Blundell, who was as ill-fated as he was ill-named, had started badly and continued in the same vein. The captain had been appointed towards the end of the Ordan campaign; Carson had returned with his company foetid and coated with mud from a long patrol slogging through the Katee river delta. Rather than present the company to their new commander in their bedraggled state, Carson had given them a few hours to rest and clean themselves up. Blunder nearly charged Carson with mutiny as a result for retaining command for that time.

Blunder’s drilling had not been petty vindictiveness, though; it had been ambition. It was an ingrained, insatiable ambition amongst the officer corps. Each one wanted promotion. Each one wanted to be part of the colour-guard. All of them craved the immortality that glory would bring with such a fierce desire as to push them to insanity. And none of them hesitated to spend their men’s lives in their quest, especially now in the crusade’s last gasps where colour-guards were going home after each campaign.

Such immortality, however, almost invariably came at the cost of the lives of the men who served under them.

Carson had expected the same from Stanhope, but when they finally met that morning, he had been surprised.

‘Lieutenant Carson? Major Stanhope,’ Stanhope had introduced himself at breakfast in the officers’ mess.

Carson rose to stand to attention, but Stanhope stopped him. ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to disturb.’

Instead, Stanhope sat down with him. Carson regarded him as he adjusted his sword as he sat. He looked tired, even for early in the morning, and his uniform was rumpled as though he had slept in it.

‘It’s good to meet you finally,’ Stanhope said.

‘Yes, major,’ Carson replied. ‘You were on the Brydon with us?’ Carson had been waiting for the major to appear for weeks on board the ship, but he had never emerged.

‘The colonel tells me that there is some kind of administrative delay in signing the transfer papers. It appears I’m still not officially part of the regiment and so obviously can’t take command of the company. I thought it best for the men that I not be hanging around while my status was still… uncertain.’

His sentiments made perfect sense, yet Carson still instinctively disbelieved him.

‘I hope my absence did not cause you any problems,’ Stanhope concluded.

‘Not at all.’ Carson found the honorific ‘sir’ on his lips, but could not bring himself to use it for this man. ‘And have the administrative delays now been overcome?’

Stanhope didn’t reply, he was staring at Carson’s breakfast. ‘Would you like me to call a steward over?’ Carson offered.

Stanhope looked up, puzzled. ‘If you’d like something to eat?’ Carson continued.

‘No, no. I’ve eaten already,’ Stanhope replied. His eyes rolled lazily in their sockets as though searching for something in his own head. ‘The administrative delays, no, I’m afraid not. Tomorrow, the colonel says.’

Arbulaster really was playing Stanhope along as long as he possibly could, Carson considered. He waited for Stanhope to continue, but the silence stretched between them. Stanhope appeared to have no other conversation besides his initial objective and Carson did not want to continue eating while being watched. Instead, he stood and Stanhope instinctively did the same.

‘If you’d like to inspect the men first, major, I would be happy to arrange it.’

‘What?’ Stanhope said, surprised. ‘No, that’s fine, lieutenant. I’m happy to wait until everything’s official.’

‘Very well,’ Carson said; again the ‘sir’ stuck behind his tongue. Instead, he saluted. Prompted, Stanhope saluted in response and then walked away. Carson stayed standing until the major left the mess and then sat back down, shaking his head, to finish his breakfast.

‘We’re getting close,’ Van Am shouted, bringing Carson back to the present. ‘Look out the window.’

Carson did. For a split-second it looked like they were flying over a grey continent of dark tangled rock. They were clouds so thick as to appear almost as though the flyer could land upon them. They stretched across the entirety of Carson’s view, from one end of the horizon to the other.

The Valkyrie descended beneath the clouds and Carson caught sight of the black water of the ocean beneath. Then, in an eye-blink, they crossed the coast and were over the jungle.

He realised Van Am had leaned forwards and was staring out of the same porthole.

‘We’d barely touched Tswaing when the rok hit,’ she said. ‘We had just a few settlements on the coast. We thought we might be finished when we saw it coming towards us. First reports said it might be a planet-killer, thought we might have to abandon the place, everything we’ve done here. But the impact wasn’t as big as we’d feared. It had slowed itself down as it entered our atmosphere. I tell you, we thanked the Emperor then, thought it was a miracle.

‘These clouds, they formed after it hit. After the fire. The jungle didn’t burn easily, but then the temperature dropped, and that and the lack of sun are slowly finishing the jungle off.’

Carson glanced at her. She took it for concern.

‘Don’t mistake me. That was lekker by us. We would have had to clear the jungle anyway. The cold killed the disease bugs, forced the critters to move north to where it’s warmer. We even thought we could move up our timetable to expand.

‘Once the fire stopped, we sent out a flyer to inspect the crash-site. That’s when we discovered the interference. The first flyer didn’t come back, we didn’t know what had happened to it. Its vox cut off and we never heard from it again. The second we sent was a lot more cautious. As soon as the pilot felt the controls go, she dived and headed clear.

‘We sent in a group on foot. They made it all the way to the impact crater, didn’t see a single ork. The rok had buried itself under the ground.

‘They should have left it buried, but they didn’t know then that it was the orks. They were just trying to find the source of the flying hazard. They found the rok quickly enough, the interference was coming from inside. They went in and there they found them: thousands of orks all dead, all dead from the impact. Piles of them in every pocket in the rok. Caverns full of war machines smashed beyond repair. They searched for whatever was generating the interference, but you can’t tell ork tech from junk and so they decided to blow the whole thing.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Carson asked.

‘We’re farmers, lieutenant. We didn’t have anything that would make a dent in it. We told your crusade. It crashed here because of you, we figured the least you could do is get us the explosives to finish it off.’

‘And did we?’

‘What do you think? Our request’s probably still on the desk of some doos at your Command. We were still waiting when our men on the crater got hit. The resupply team found them all dead. Clubbed to death most of them, others nearly torn apart. All their rifles, all their weapons gone. That’s when we first saw them, the orks. We didn’t know what they were, but we knew they weren’t native. The resupply team didn’t hang around to ask questions. We reported that to your crusade as well and that’s when they started talking back. Not help, just more questions. More delays.

‘Fok to that, we said. You weren’t going to lift a finger. We’d sort it ourselves. It took a couple of months, but Grandmother got a hundred men off the farms and sent them over. By that time, though, the orks had the crater. Our boys couldn’t even get close. Their boss was a muggie, didn’t have the nerve for a real fight. He lost a few men and turned them round and ran. That’s when they came and took us from the villages on the coast. Said they couldn’t be sure that the orks wouldn’t cross half the continent to butcher us in our beds.’

Van Am was interrupted by Zdzisław’s voice crackling around the cabin.

‘We’re over the first prospect point. I’ll open the hatch to allow you a better view.’

The occupants of the Valkyrie attached themselves to safety lines and the rear hatch opened. The green canopy appeared almost grey in the dim light. It covered the landscape like a sea, pooling into the deep crevices and breaking around the peaks showing the bare soil, baked hard by the now absent sun.

Mulberry and his beards were quickly standing near the edge, alternately checking their auspexes and peering out of the craft to try and see the jungle floor. It was soon apparent that they were not happy and Mulberry returned up the craft to Carson.

‘This is all dashed useless I’m afraid, Carson. Can’t see a dashing thing down there in this light. And there’s certainly nowhere to land. We’re going to have to go out on the dangle, I’m afraid.’

Carson nodded and passed the message through to Zdzisław to be ready to have the team abseil out. He worked his way to the rear and started clipping himself on. Van Am followed him and did likewise. He leaned over and took her hand to stop her.

‘Ma’am, no disrespect, but you’re not going down there.’

He expected her to snap back at him, but she just snorted in derision. ‘As I said, lieutenant, it’s holder. From landholder. No disrespect, but this is my land and no offworlder is going to tell me where I cannot go. But I’ll let you drop first, so if there are any fearsome critters you can shout us a warning as they take a bite out of you.’

Carson relented. He let her go and returned to his own harness. ‘So long as there aren’t any leathertooths,’ he said. ‘I hear they find the arses of Brimlock officers extremely tasty.’

That took the Voorjer girl off-guard. Van Am did not know if the Brimlock officer was joking with her or mocking her, and his dead-calm expression gave her no clues.

‘Your man, the muggie,’ Carson said, switching the subject. ‘He wasn’t wrong. I’ve fought orks. I’ve seen what they do. They care little for their own lives. Even less for those who aren’t of their kind. Some fights you can only win by not starting them in the first place.’

‘Maybe,’ Van Am said. ‘But if you stay dependent on others to fight your battles, to protect what you call your own, can you ever consider yourself truly free?’

Carson could not help shaking his head at that. In all his years, he had never heard such naïveté. On Brimlock, in the Imperium at large, freedom was not even a luxury, it was a myth. But he could see the conviction in the girl’s face and knew better than to try to dissuade her.

Survival, that was all that mattered. Your own and those for whom you cared. That was why he was still fighting. He’d had it confirmed with the medicae before he left Kandhar; one way or another this was to be his last campaign. The only thing left that mattered to him was that his men survived, and he would allow no idealistic Voorjers, no glory-seeking officers and certainly no dried-up, defunct commanding officers like Stanhope to threaten that.

With that in his mind, he checked that his pistols were fastened securely by his side, tugged on his harness, took a hold of the rope and jumped down through the trees of Tswaing.

Five

Voorheid, Brimlock landing area, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 5

It had taken two further days of pathfinder flights before an acceptable landing site had been agreed. Arbulaster signalled the Brydon to ready the DOV and finally signed the transfer orders allowing Major Stanhope to take command of Carson’s company.

Carson was already awake when the notification arrived. Now he had given up on the medicae’s ineffectual drugs, he found he only needed a few hours a night. Along with the notification was the standard form request from Stanhope for a handover inspection. Carson glanced at them and took them straight to Red.

The handover inspection from one officer to another was a serious event; new commanders took it as an opportunity to pick as many holes in the unit’s readiness as possible, for after this they were liable for any flaw or defect the unit possessed. The unit’s sergeants took it as a personal crusade to ensure that as few flaws were found as possible. Red rousted Forjaz and Booth at once and the three sergeants then woke the whole company and had them cleaning their body armour, polishing their lasguns and buffing their helmets within a few minutes.

They were glad they had done so, for when the time came and the company stood to attention outside the makeshift barracks, they discovered that Major Stanhope was not the only new member of the regiment present: a dozen yards back Commissar Reeve was also watching the proceedings, his visor down against the sun.

The commissar had also joined them after Kandhar and he had already made an impression on the men. He was an easily recognisable figure. He dressed in the ubiquitous uniform of a commissar: black cap, black coat, black boots. His one touch of personalisation, however, was that his coat was studded with skulls: hundreds and hundreds of miniature skulls.

The skulls were not for decoration, they were kill markings. Except for a commissar they would not have been kills. They would have been executions.

‘First platoon, ready for inspection, sah,’ Red told Carson and Stanhope. Stanhope nodded and led Carson down the line without stopping until he reached the end. He looked back and Carson waited for some comment, but there was none. Instead, Stanhope simply passed to the second line.

Forjaz then stepped forwards. ‘Second platoon, ready for inspection, sir,’ he said. Stanhope acknowledged him and started again, Carson a step behind. There came a point, Carson knew, when dirt became so ingrained in a fabric, or gunk so fouled a machine, that it could never be fully cleaned or made to operate again. The same was true of certain members of the company who, after twenty years of combat, had developed such dysfunctions that they could never fit back into the clean-cut press mould of the model Imperial Guard infantryman. Marble could never be stopped from jury-rigging any weapon he was given in order to improve it, Zezé from sweating through any uniform he wore in minutes and Repton from hissing when he spoke through the wounds on the side of his face. Nothing could be done to make the lumbering ogryn Frn’k at all presentable, nor to tear him from the side of his adopted brother, Gardner. Blunder had nit-picked a list of issues as a long as a lasrifle, but Stanhope merely walked past them with no expression, his face waxen.

For a moment, Carson believed that the entire inspection would pass without incident, but then Stanhope stopped in front of Ducky.

Ducky stood perfectly at attention, his equipment all present and correct, with one glaring exception.

‘Where’s your weapon?’ Stanhope asked.

‘Sir, it’s missing, sir,’ Ducky snapped back.

Carson could see Reeve over Stanhope’s shoulder focusing on the major. Technically, a soldier could be shot for losing his weapon, yet Ducky had declared it as easily as he might have commented on the weather.

‘The campaign hasn’t even begun, private. When did it go missing?’

‘Sir, on a pathfinder flight yesterday, sir.’ In fact, he had hurled it out into the undergrowth as soon as his feet had touched down in the jungle. Ducky, thankfully, did not share that detail.

‘And you have requested a replacement?’ Stanhope readied to move on.

‘Sir, no, sir.’

The reply brought Stanhope up short. ‘You’ve not?’

‘Sir, no, sir.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Sir, I don’t intend to use it, sir.’

Carson swore in his head, cursing Ducky and his damn misguided principles. The man had earned five separate decorations for tending to and retrieving wounded men under horrendous fire, and he had been stripped of them all, one by one, because he refused to kill and refused to lie about it.

The whole company was focused now on Stanhope.

‘What’s your name, trooper?’

‘Sir, Private Drake, sir,’ Ducky replied with the cool, slight smile that Carson knew he would still be wearing when they put him up against a wall.

‘Private Drake,’ Stanhope considered, ‘I do believe you may be the only sane man here.’ And with that, he turned on his heel and carried on down the line. Carson was shocked still for a moment and then followed after. He checked on Reeve, but the commissar was looking off at another unit marching past. Ducky had got away with it. How could one man be so damn lucky?

Stanhope’s review of Booth and his third platoon passed with as few incidents. By the time Stanhope finished the inspection and dismissed the men, Carson had grown more suspicious. Perhaps the major had not wished to condemn a popular man in front of his comrades. If he truly was a coward, then he would just send the notification to Reeve and he would do the rest. But in that instance, Carson might be able to placate him. He walked with him back to his room.

‘I’ll have a new weapon issued to Private Drake and ensure he holds onto it.’

‘Do not bother on my account,’ Stanhope replied indifferently. ‘I meant what I said.’

Carson was surprised; perhaps Stanhope would not be a disappointment as a commanding officer after all.

‘I only hope the commissar feels the same way as you do, major.’

Stanhope passed through the wide portal back into the barracks. ‘I wouldn’t concern myself with Reeve. He wasn’t there to stand judgement over your men. He was there to stand judgement over me.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Stanhope gave a thin smile. ‘Because he’s following me.’

Carson could not hide his look of disbelief.

‘It’s true,’ Stanhope continued. ‘Every time I’m transferred to a new regiment, there he is. For four years now, from the 99th to the 263rd to the 371st to here.’

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why would he being doing that?’

‘Honestly, lieutenant, I don’t know. We’ve never so much as exchanged pleasantries. I can only imagine that he has some hook into me and is waiting to reel me in.’

Carson regarded Stanhope. He knew of his record; he knew he had been a hero once, but his best days were years past. No amount of official gratitude, no goodwill for such endeavours, no matter how glorious, would hold a commissar back from his duty.

‘So Reeve was there to judge you,’ Carson said sceptically. ‘Do you think you passed?’

‘You mean was I acquitted? Well, I suppose we will see. By tomorrow dawn, if I’m up against a wall, then we’ll assume not,’ he turned to Carson. ‘By the way, I’ll be engaged much of the day. If orders come through, just carry them out. Don’t worry about getting my say so. I’ll check in with you before the evening.’

‘Shall I assign one of the men as your steward or would you prefer to pick one yourself?’

Stanhope opened the door, revealing little of the dark room beyond. He stepped in, making it clear that he did not wish Carson to follow. ‘That won’t be necessary, lieutenant. You can keep your fighting men in the fighting line. I can shine my own boots and button my own jacket.’

Carson was surprised again. Having a personal steward or batman was not simply a commander’s perk, it was the only practical thing. Even the most fastidious procedural directives acknowledged it was better to have commanders spend their time commanding their men, rather than buffing their gear.

‘You are a major.’ Again, the ‘sir’ stuck on the tip of his tongue and travelled no further.

‘Yes, lieutenant, but a major what?’

‘What?’ Carson said, confused.

Stanhope raised his eyebrows, but did not continue the thought.

‘Very well,’ he concluded as the door closed. ‘You can have one man bring me any messages or orders first thing in the morning. That is all.’

They were getting close, Arbulaster felt. They were getting very close. The crew of the Brydon were making their final preparations to release the DOV. The landing site was ready, he had approved the schedule to ferry the troops and armour across afterwards in order of priority to complete the deployment of the DOV and ensure its security. The pathfinders had not seen any orks in the vicinity, but if there were any his advance guard would be in position long before they could pull together a force of any size. He just needed a few more hours without interruption from that hectoring governor and they would be done.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Major Brooce interrupted him. ‘Commissar Reeve would like to speak with you.’

The commissar’s name poured ice-water on Arbulaster’s irritation. ‘The commissar?’ he said. ‘Very well. Very well.’

‘Shall I send him in, sir?’

Arbulaster glanced around at the mess in the control centre caused by days of feverish activity and at the number of men nearby who would doubtless overhear every word.

‘No. No need. Take over here, Brooce, and send someone to tell him I’ll meet him outside my study,’ Arbulaster decided. ‘Do emphasise outside, will you Brooce?’

‘I will, sir.’

Brooce sent off one of the troopers and Arbulaster strode off to his study. As he went he took the opportunity to straighten his uniform surreptitiously. You didn’t give these fanatical black-coat bastards an inch if you could avoid it. You never knew what they were going to choose to care about from one day to the next.

Arbulaster fastened the clip on his high collar just as he arrived at his door. Reeve wasn’t there yet, so he would have a few moments to ensure that he left nothing out that might catch the commissar’s interest. He walked in.

‘Thank you for seeing me, colonel,’ Commissar Reeve greeted him from beside his desk.

Arbulaster swore silently in his head. ‘Of course, commissar.’

The commissar did not walk to meet him, he merely stood where he was. He had obviously been a big man in his youth, but that had clearly been decades ago. He was old and, as he had aged, his body had shrivelled back in on itself.

Arbulaster walked up to the desk, but Reeve’s position prevented him from going around and sitting in his chair. It was yet another of the petty power-plays that were so endemic amongst the Emperor’s political officers.

Arbulaster refused to be thrown off-guard, or to sit down in the visitor’s chair, which would allow Reeve to sit in his position behind the desk. Instead, he stayed on his feet. He stopped in front of Reeve, but did not salute. Brimlocks did not salute commissars unless they had assumed the responsibility of a line officer.

‘You wished to speak with me?’

Reeve did not respond at once. He merely stared at the colonel as though with a single glance he could see every lapse in judgement Arbulaster had ever made. But Arbulaster was not unnerved by it. If Reeve thought that he could be intimidated by a look, he was sorely mistaken. Arbulaster had survived five different commissars in the course of the crusade; he knew they bled red just like any other man.

At length, Reeve finally opened his mouth. Each time he did so, Arbulaster half-expected to hear a death-rattle, but Reeve’s voice was clear and smooth.

‘I was observing the inspections this morning and I happened to see your Valkyrie flyers. One flyer in particular.’

Arbulaster had no doubt which one he was referring to.

‘Tell me, colonel,’ Reeve continued, ‘who is responsible for the condition of those craft?’

The Valkyries were the Navy’s craft, and each one was the pilot’s responsibility. Arbulaster knew that, and he knew that Reeve knew that as well. He knew that neither was the right answer.

‘I am responsible for the condition of that craft,’ Arbulaster replied; he had played this game before.

‘Then you are responsible for that vandalism to it?’

This was the reason that Reeve had pulled him away from their imminent deployment on Tswaing? He lowered his opinion of the man another notch.

‘They’re devotional images, commissar. The pilot, you understand, is most devout.’ Devout, yes, Arbulaster thought to himself, it was simply that his devotion was to the flyer rather than the saints.

‘They are obscene, colonel. A single devotional image is all that is allowed. We cannot have the Emperor’s blessed fighting craft appearing like some tattooed merchant crewman. They will be removed.’

So this was the kind of commissar that Reeve was, Arbulaster considered. A petty obsessive who would commend a man for taking a breach, then have him flogged for having his boots dirty. Or perhaps it was simply another power-play to enforce his will over his line officer from the start. Either way, Reeve would have to learn that he was not dealing with some wan subaltern; even commissars had their place, and their place was not to impede the fighting effectiveness of his regiment with their righteous whimsy.

‘I will see to the necessary arrangements, commissar,’ Arbulaster replied, ‘as soon as it is possible. At present, you appreciate, we are approaching a critical juncture.’

‘I appreciate it entirely, colonel. You are a busy man, I understand.’ Arbulaster hoped for a moment that that might have been it. Of course, it wasn’t. ‘So I have made my contribution to sharing your workload and have attended to this matter personally. I have given orders for the crew to be issued with the necessary equipment, the pilot especially. I think it rather fitting that he should remedy the damage he has caused. Unless,’ Reeve paused and fixed Arbulaster with his sunken gaze, ‘you have any objection?’

He didn’t. Zdzisław would have a fit, but if he was going to fire off and snap Reeve’s withered old neck then so much the better.

‘No objection. Do as you see fit.’

‘Excellent. The colonel of my last regiment often had objections. I am glad it will not be the case with us,’ Reeve said. Arbulaster noticed that, at the mention of the old colonel, the commissar’s hand had gone to one of the skulls upon his coat and he was stroking it a fraction.

‘Nine hundred and eighty-nine, colonel. In case you were counting.’

Arbulaster snapped his eyes up. In that instant he felt a touch of chill. ‘An impressive record,’ he managed to say. Reeve merely nodded and then took his leave, leaving Arbulaster alone. The man had killed nearly a thousand men, nearly as many men as he had left in his whole regiment. He’d killed more Imperial troopers than probably any single individual foe they had faced. In the Emperor’s name, what kind of madman was he?

As much as Arbulaster regretted it, Zdzisław would have to be on his own. Arbulaster had permitted such customisation in the past. The regiment was a thousand strong, but those thousand were what was left of a million Brimlock troopers, across fifty regiments, who had begun the Ellinor Crusade. He knew that to survive such a journey took its toll upon the mind as well as the body. He understood his men, and where it did not disrupt the regiment he had made allowances. He allowed for the totems, the trophies, the lucky bullet cases, the dubious relics; he allowed for Captain Drum, his bizarre garb and the vox-amplifiers he had fitted on his tank to blast out battle anthems; he allowed for Captain Gomery and Mister Emmett; he even allowed for Lancer Diver and his immodest post-battle displays. Arbulaster would tut and shake his head, but after all this time, he didn’t care what a man wore, or didn’t wear, so long as he was back in his uniform and ready to march before sun-up the next day.

He had seen other officers try to fight such things in their regiments, try to enforce uniformity in the face of the inevitable insanity that gripped any man after a lifetime of war. Those officers who attempted to keep the appearance of complete normality in their regiments were driven mad themselves. Mad, or up against a wall before the black-coats or their own men. Well, Arbulaster was not going to let either of those happen to him. He was not going to fall now, and certainly not at the hands of Commissar Reeve.

He returned to the control centre and released his fear as frustration over the vox with the Brydon. The Navymen there picked up their pace and, an hour later, four days after the 11th paraded through the streets of Voorheid, the Brydon launched the DOV, the giant outpost vehicle, with its drop-cradle towards the chosen site.

The DOV left a burning streak through the sky as it entered the atmosphere. Then, as it approached the surface, the drop-cradle’s thrusters ignited and the staggering force they generated slowed the DOV’s descent, vaporising the vegetation beneath it and allowing the vehicle to settle in place. Only a few minutes later, the first Valkyries swooped in, delivering their cargo of men to defend the DOV and deploy it into a Brimlock outpost, a full base of operations for their expedition on Tswaing. The campaign proper had begun.

Six

Brimlock outpost DOV-A, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 7

Carson caught sight of the ork war-party as it crashed through the jungle. The orks had the scent of their quarry in their nostrils now and were chasing it hard to run it to ground. Their prize was still a dozen paces ahead of them. It was big, bigger even than the orks, though its own skin was pale. It ran like a bull, head down, arms pumping, smashing the smaller branches in its path into splinters. But it was slowing, tiring, and the orks pressed after it all the harder.

It managed to reach the base of one of the giant trees and collapsed there a second, chest heaving. It glanced to either side, but then it heard the war-cries behind. It turned and stood at bay. It reached down onto the ground, like a wrestler preparing to charge, and roared its defiance at its pursuers.

The orks paused a moment, catching their own breath, relishing the imminent kill. They readied the clubs, stones and spears they carried. The ork in the lead, wearing a headdress of teeth and fur, raised a bone sharpened into a pick and led his warriors in a mighty bellow of their own in reply.

Got you, Carson thought, and he pulled his trigger. The las-bolt from the heavy pistol struck the ork right in its gaping maw. Its eyes bulged wide as the back of its mouth and the top of its spine were incinerated in a flash. It dropped its bone and clutched feebly at its throat as it fell, not a mark on it.

The jungle trail erupted with light as a volley of las-fire burst from the undergrowth. The fire was focused, with three or more shots hitting the closest orks, incinerating their faces, throats and the side of their heads. An autocannon opened up, its shots whipping through the foliage like angry insects. Those struck tumbled to the ground; the rest of the orks, caught by surprise, wavered a moment, unsure which way to face. There was a second volley, and a half-dozen more ork bodies hit the dirt. Inexperienced troops, caught so completely off-guard, would break. They would dash for cover directly away from the fire and thus expose themselves to the second line of ambushers placed to strafe fire down the length of the other side of the trail. Veterans would never have allowed themselves to clump together so, they would strike back along the route they had come, even while their comrades behind them would strike forwards looking to flank their attackers.

Orks, being orks, just charged straight down your throat. Even as the third volley lashed out, the orks were ploughing into the jungle towards their unseen adversaries. Ahead of them, shapes in grey uniforms, stained brown with dirt, started to rise from the ground to run. The orks bellowed again, hacking and slashing at the undergrowth as their attackers ran from their charge. For an instant it looked as though they had broken out through the ambush, and it was at that instant that the second line, stationed behind the first and not on the other side of the trail, opened fire.

The Brimlocks of the first line ran, one hand on their hot lasguns, the other holding down their tanna-stained helmets. No one needed to remind them to keep low as the las-fire flashed over their heads at the orks running after them. The second line shot twice more, as those of the first line dove into their firing positions and whirled around, ready to add their fire. But the orks’ charge had been shattered and the few of them that reached the second line were impaled by a half-dozen bayonets even as they raised their clubs to strike.

‘Hold your fire!’ The order echoed across the line.

The last ork stumbled away. Even orks could sometimes be made to see the sense of living to fight another day. There, in front of it, however, stood the great white bull-monster that the war-party had chased into the killing ground. The monster swung a huge branch and smacked the ork off its feet.

The ork crumpled, unconscious, and fell into the leafy undergrowth. Across the rest of the jungle there was a moment of silence as the survivors drew breath, waiting to see if it truly was the end, or whether another threat was to emerge.

‘Good job, Frn’k,’ Carson called. The bull-monster, an ogryn with a corporal stripe tattooed on his arm, nodded and picked up the ork at its feet. He slung it over his shoulder, then turned and gave Carson a crude salute.

‘Now keep it safe,’ Carson continued. ‘That one’s for the colonel, special delivery!’

There was a smattering of laughter from the jungle and, one by one, K Company began to emerge from between the trees.

‘Section leaders, count up and clean up. Booth, take a squad up-trail, look out for any stragglers. We’ve got what we came for. I don’t want any surprises.’

Carson rolled over and sat up. He unstrapped his helmet and shook out his dirty blond hair. A caterpillar dropped into the mud, righted itself, and crawled away.

‘Sorry for the inconvenience, I’m sure,’ he muttered. He then rested his hand on his thigh and lowered his head. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he said to himself. He did not move. ‘All right.’

He twisted around to check on the men. Booth’s platoon had already disappeared up the trail. Carson thought it unlikely that they would be disturbed, however. The company had been scouting the jungle for two hours already and this was the only band of orks they’d encountered. Red had distributed cremator-packs to the men and they were torching the bodies. Frn’k the ogryn had instinctively returned to Corporal Gardner and was trying to carry both the ork and Gardner’s heavy autocannon at the same time, while Gardner patiently tried to get Frn’k to drop the ork.

Carson noticed that Red was coming over to him. The company’s colour-sergeant carried his lasgun in his off-hand, while in his right he wielded ‘Old Contemptible’ his iron-black mace. It was an anachronistic weapon to wield on the battlefield, to be sure, but one that had proved its worth, in raids such as this, where prisoners needed to be taken.

Carson did not know why they had been sent out to bring in a prisoner. The order had come to him from Major Roussell, straight from the colonel, so he could not argue against it. Perhaps it was simply habit, just as his men knew exactly how to set up the ambush without specific orders. Habit formed by many repetitions.

But there was nothing that the commissar’s interrogators would get from the ork that Carson had not already learnt from killing its kin. He looked at the leader he had shot as a cremator turned it to ash. Its body was underdeveloped and its skin was light, not nearly as tough as the fully-matured orks he had fought in space. It was no survivor of the rok’s crash; it was a new-spawn. No matter how few orks had survived the impact, their kind was now growing within the dirt of Voor.

Red was closing on him quickly. Carson turned away and placed one of his pistols in his lap, so that it might appear as though he was correcting some fault. Red would not believe it, though; Carson’s pair of heavy pistols had not misfired as long as he’d had them. They were beautiful pieces: each one had a rorschbone stock, customised to fit regular Guard power-packs, a sculpted antique lock and breech, and finely-etched patterns down their barrels – wings on one, vines on the other. But their true beauty was on the inside. There, embedded within, was a glistening power-amplifier that made his shots twice as deadly as a regular lasgun. These pistols had made him what he was today. They had to take some of the blame at least.

Carson felt, rather than heard, the colour-sergeant standing over him. One expected such a big, blustering NCO to stomp around, smacking the earth with every step, but Red could be as silent as a breath, as many drowsy sentries on both sides had learnt to their cost.

‘Red,’ Carson pre-empted. ‘What’s the bill?’

‘One injured, sah. Corporal Marble.’

‘How bad?’

‘Put his foot on some bug-hill. Twisted his ankle and split his lip. Ducky’s taking a look at him. He’ll get him walking.’

‘Good.’ Carson surreptitiously tested his leg again. Still nothing. He played for time. ‘Remind me to put Frn’k up for a commendation when we get back to Dova.’

‘A commendation, sah?’

‘You don’t think he deserves one?’

‘Of course, sah. Just think he’ll prefer a day’s extra rations over a sheet of paper he can’t eat.’

‘Good point. Let’s do that. And let’s see if we can’t get his commendation on some kind of rice-paper as well. Then he can have his cake and eat it,’ he said, chuckling half-heartedly. He looked up at the fearsome colour-sergeant’s stone expression and thought better of it.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caused Carson to twist again to look back at the rest of the company. Mouse was there, moving quickly from body to body ahead of the cremators, checking them for anything of value.

Red saw him as well. ‘Private Chaffey, get your miserable self back to your squad!’ he shouted.

Mouse snatched up guiltily from the body he was inspecting. With a second’s defiance, he triggered the cremator before scampering away. Carson sighed.

‘I do wish you’d give up on him, Red.’

‘He’s a parasite, sah.’

Yes, Carson reflected, Mouse was. But on Mespots, he had traded for the promethium that prevented the company dying in the desert; and on Kam Daka, it had been he who had bribed the tribesmen to allow them past the rebels’ positions. But then again on Azzabar, the wrath of the eldar had come down on their outpost for days, until Red happened upon the large jewels that Mouse had looted from their warriors’ armour. Carson had torn a strip off the private after that. Red had made it plain that he wanted him handed over to the black-coats, but Carson had refused. There were no extra points in war for playing by the book. As much as Red detested him, Mouse was a resource and Carson would keep him as long as his worth outweighed the risk.

Red was watching him intently now, waiting for him to give the order to move on. Carson tried his leg again. Still nothing, but he had run out of excuses.

‘Do me a favour, Red. Keep the men occupied for a few minutes.’

‘Ah, right you are, sah.’ Red twitched his moustache and pursed his lips in concern. ‘Shall I get Ducky up here for you as well, sah?’

‘No, no,’ Carson waved him away. ‘A couple of minutes, that’s all I need. Then I’ll be right as rain.’

‘Yes, sah.’ Red gave a crisp salute and turned back to the company. ‘Right, you shockers, peg your ears back and listen up!’

Colonel Arbulaster and Major Brooce walked through the construction site of the regiment’s forward base. All around them, troopers were stripped to their shirt-sleeves, hefting, carrying, assembling and digging. Just half a day before, this part of the jungle had been indistinguishable from any other of the hundreds of miles around them; then in the grey dawn the Brimlocks had arrived. The down-blast of the drop-cradle’s engines had scorched and flattened the vegetation beneath it. It had landed, released itself from the DOV it held and then launched again, creating an even wider circle of devastation around it. The Navy had done their part, now it was down to the Imperial Guard.

The DOV, or Deployable Outpost Vessel to give it its full name, was an integral part of a Brimlock campaign. No matter to what part of the galaxy a regiment might be sent, no matter what xenos world they might find themselves upon, the DOVs provided the Brimlocks with secure forward strongholds. Arbulaster had a great respect for them. It was from them that the 11th had fought off the eldar at Azzabar, from them they had beaten back the Tarellian dog-soldiers at Takht, and from them they had stamped down upon the uprising at Kam Daka, even though they had been outnumbered by over a hundred to one. And now this DOV was rising from the jungle.

The external wall had been the first thing to be assembled and put in place. The regiment’s sappers in their worker-Sentinels had dragged the cornerstone blocks into place and drove them into the ground to provide a firm base. They’d installed the sentry guns on their tops, and supervised the men as they carried the armour plates from the DOV to create the wall. As the last section was welded into place, Arbulaster had felt a great surge of relief flow through him. The inside of the walls was a familiar place of safety. It was a little piece of Brimlock carved out far from home.

Everything was going to schedule and Arbulaster had not heard another peep from Commissar Reeve. He was in an expansive and generous mood.

‘Do you know what makes the Brimlocks the greatest of the Imperial Guard?’ he asked Brooce as they walked past the salient being erected for the landing pad.

‘Yes, sir.’ Brooce replied.

‘It’s because– What?’ Arbulaster broke off mid-sentence.

‘Sorry, sir. Did you want to answer that one yourself?’

Arbulaster harrumphed. ‘No, I was… Don’t horse around, Brooce. I was going to say–’ Arbulaster caught Brooce’s temperate, long-serving expression. ‘Very well. Very well. What were you going to say?’

‘I thought you wanted me to say ‘the men’, sir.’

‘The men! Marguerite’s breath, it’s not the men!’ Arbulaster exclaimed, then heard a sudden silence as the noise of the work on the salient suddenly halted. He turned and met the questioning stare of the dozen men on the scaffolding.

‘Well?’ he demanded of them. ‘Did your beard call a break? No? Then get back to it.’

The men returned to their jobs and Arbulaster returned to Brooce. ‘You really think that that pile of rookery droppings is what makes Brimlock great? You remember home don’tcha? You remember recruitment? You think any of those pale-skinned nambies with muscles like suet could be the match of a Catachan, or a Cadian, or a Finreht Highlander?’

‘No, sir.’ Brooce snapped back obediently.

Arbulaster led him over towards where the medicae and the officers’ wives were establishing the base hospital.

‘It’s not the men. They are what they are. Pack of grumbling old women…’

‘Yes, sir.’

And now Arbulaster noticed that a couple of the old wives were giving him the evil eye. He tipped his helmet to them and led Brooce back to the central bastion.

‘Not that I mind a bit of grumbling, Brooce. I’ll let you into a little secret, a little command insight for when you have a regiment of your own. When your men are grumbling, you know everything’s as it should be.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Oh yes. You’ve got nothing to fear from a grumbling soldier. They build up hot air and it’s just them releasing it. No, it’s when they stop grumbling that you’ve got to worry. Because when a soldier stops grumbling about his lot, it means he’s planning to do something about it! And when soldiers take action into their own hands, Brooce, it invariably ends up with someone up against a wall. Either them or you. You know, if that tight-rod Carmichael had allowed some honest Brimlock grumbling, then that whole debacle with the Sixty-Seventh might never have happened.

‘We might be the greatest complainers in the Guard; that would be no surprise,’ Arbulaster continued. ‘But no, we’re not the largest, we’re not the fastest or the toughest out there. What makes the Brimlocks the greatest of the Imperial Guard is this!’

Arbulaster encompassed the entire base with a single grand sweep of his arm.

‘Building! We build, and we’re the best damn builders in the Guard. These other regiments, they take a place, they move on, a year later they find they’ve got to take it back again. Not us. What we take, we hold. You come back a hundred, a thousand years, and what we built will still be there, ready for us to defend. And that is what makes us the greatest.’

‘Very profound, sir.’

Arbulaster shot his second a look, but Brooce maintained his imperturbable expression.

‘Sir,’ Brooce glanced at his chronometer. ‘You asked me to remind you when–’

‘Is that the time? Throne, yes, yes, let’s see what we’re up against.’ Arbulaster hastened back the way they’d come. The gate lowered at their approach and a squad of sentries joined the officers as they went out onto the scorched plain. There the Valkyries stood on their temporary landing field. The flyers were being refuelled by Trojans carrying promethium tanks and Zdzisław was giving his pilots their final briefing. Arbulaster and Brooce stood a distance away, while they concluded.

Arbulaster noticed that their blue flight-suits were covered in flecks of paint and recalled then that they had spent the entire previous day painting over the ostentatious devotional images and battle art on their craft at Commissar Reeve’s instruction. He looked over again at the four Valkyries sitting in the midday sun, looking just as they had when they were first rolled off the assembly line, each one indistinguishable from the rest.

‘Was there anything you wanted, colonel?’ Arbulaster turned at the sound of the familiar, artificial voice and nearly gasped at the sight of him.

‘No, no…’ Arbulaster muttered, fighting the urge to recoil. He had never had a problem with Zdzisław’s injuries before. To him they were merely the mark of a determined warrior. And yet today, for some reason, he found them gruesome. Nothing had changed physically, yet there was a cold, dead look in Zdzisław’s one natural eye. For the first time, Arbulaster realised that this was not a living man before him but rather an animated corpse. ‘Just to say, good luck, the Emperor protects.’

‘Thank you.’

Arbulaster tried to make the best of the unfortunate situation, as was his way when his own self-interest prevented him from doing anything to change it. ‘She looks good out there, doesn’t she?’ He motioned to what he thought was Zdzisław’s craft. ‘All the ladies love a new coat once in a while, eh?’

Zdzisław didn’t reply. Instead, he walked away, flight helmet in hand.

‘Commissar Reeve–’ Brooce interjected.

‘Yes, he has a lot to answer for,’ Arbulaster muttered.

‘–is here, sir.’

Arbulaster felt the silence behind him. ‘Afternoon, commissar.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Reeve replied. Zdzisław stopped by the Valkyrie’s nose and made to hold out a hand to touch it, to caress it as he had done before each flight hundreds of times before. But then he dropped it, as if there were no point and stepped perfunctorily up onto the ladder.

Colonel Arbulaster, who had seen villages and crops put to the flame, who had seen fathers and mothers blown apart going to their children’s aid, who had seen men forced to shoot their comrades caught on razor-wire, still found his heart quickening a fraction as he watched Zdzisław haul himself, without ceremony, into the cockpit of his Valkyrie and pull the canopy down.

‘I should have had him flogged,’ Reeve said suddenly, ‘but there seemed little left of him that would feel it, and the Navy can be so precious about their pilots. Still, an example should have been made.’

‘Of course, commissar,’ Arbulaster found himself agreeing. The rest of his words were lost as the engines of the Valkyries ignited and Zdzisław led his flight into the sky to get the regiment’s first proper look at their enemy.

Seven

Arbulaster had had the company commanders gather on the shooting deck. It was close to the top of the bastion, with only the vox tower and the flagpole flying the Brimlock colours above it. It was designed to give a commanding view of the area, whether for sniping the enemy or the local wildlife. Here on Voor, though, all it gave was a commanding view of the limitless green that stretched off to the horizon in every direction. Armies of orks might be encircling the outpost and an observer wouldn’t have an inkling.

As he had requested, his officers were already assembled by the time he, Brooce and Reeve arrived. Most of them had been taking their ease in the canvas chairs, but they shot bolt upright as soon as he entered.

‘Stand easy,’ he told them, quickly scanning the room. All his company commanders were there, with one exception for which he was most grateful: Major Stanhope. He saw the Voorjer girl, Van Am, standing apart from the rest, wearing the same unimpressed look she seemed to have every time Arbulaster met her.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Arbulaster began. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met en masse before. I hope you’ve been using the time to get to know the new arrivals.’

There was a respectful chorus of agreement that Arbulaster had long ago learnt meant that they hadn’t so much as said a word to them.

‘Good,’ he said firmly. ‘Captain Ledbetter here is joining us with the two companies of horse left from the Fifty-Sixth and Lieutenant Mulberry has already been doing great work taking charge of our sappers. Captains Ingoldsby, Tyrwhitt and Wymondham will be reporting to Major Brooce who commands the line companies and lastly Major Stanhope, who unfortunately has other duties and cannot be with us, will be under Major Roussell who commands the light.

‘To you new bugs, I hope you will have already made yourselves known to Captain Drum, who commands our armoured detachment, and Major Rosa, our artillery. If you wish to avoid having your troops either run over or shelled I recommend you keep on good terms with both of them.’

There was a chorus of polite laughter and the veterans exchanged nods of acknowledgement with the newcomers, both sides assessing their relative positions. Arbulaster ignored the wisp of tension in the air and double-checked his own officers. The dark-skinned giant Colquhoun was staying quiet in the corner next to the diminutive red-haired Fergus. Gomery had fortunately not brought Mister Emmett on this occasion, the plump and smiling Rosa for once was not snacking, and Drum, the spindly clean-shaven tank commander, had mercifully confined his war-paint to a discreet white line across his nose and cheeks on this occasion. Roussell appeared sober, but was still stealing glances at Van Am. She had noticed and shifted her stance. Her long coat gaped open and Roussell’s eyes flicked down to glance at what might be revealed, only to see a heavy machete on her hip and a holstered autopistol behind it.

Arbulaster sensed Reeve make his presence felt beside him.

‘And, of course, we all recognise our new officer of the Emperor, Commissar Reeve.’

Reeve paused a moment before addressing them.

‘Ranks and privileges are not my interest, only the fortitude and vigour by which His servants enact His will. There is only one authority on this world, and that is His.’

There was certainly no laughter, nods or glances after that.

Breaking the silence, Arbulaster strode over to the grand table in the centre of the room. He keyed in a few strokes and the surface flickered and came to life, displaying a topographical map of the area. Two icons appeared there: the first, the familiar red and black roundel of the 11th; the second, a leering green-etched orkish glyph. He allowed his officers a minute or so to peer over the map.

‘This,’ Arbulaster continued, pointing to the roundel with a stylus, ‘is here. DOV-A, or Dova as the men call it.’

He moved the stylus to the green glyph. ‘This is the ork rok. I’m told its original Crusade Command designation was 692 Brutal Fury. Brooce?’

Arbulaster took a half-step back to allow his second to talk them through the specifics and the speculation. He had long ago learned that it was good command to do so. Brooce had a chance to act outside his shadow, and he had a chance to watch his officers and not be observed himself.

Brooce began: ‘We have only been able to acquire limited information on the rok so far. From the size of the crater, however, we estimate that the rok did not strike the planet at full speed, rather that it must have slowed before it hit. Either some kind of re-entry engines or something more… alien. That, and the interference the rok is still generating, leads us to presume that some or all of its point defences may still be operating. We expect to acquire more detail shortly. Squadron Commander Zdzisław is leading a flight of Valkyries to the crater in order to reconnoitre for any defences or other activity. He shall feed those images straight back to this room for our consideration. Major Roussell? What’s the current status of the other matter?’

The languid commander of the light companies shifted closer to a respectful stance. ‘Received a message just before you arrived, major. We’ve caught one of the beasts and are hauling it in for the commissar’s interrogation, prior to our own… dissection.’

‘Good,’ Brooce replied crisply. ‘Pass on my commendation to Lieutenant Carson.’

Roussell shifted again, this time in discomfort at Brooce’s implicit criticism that he had not led the raiding party himself. Arbulaster suppressed a smile and contented himself with a slight twitch of his eyebrow. The petty antagonism between his two infantry commanders was well-known and had kept him amused for half a decade now. One needed to find these little diversions in a life of boredom, violence and horror, and both officers were careful enough not to commit the colonel’s cardinal sin of ‘affecting the regiment’. Brooce had a point though, Arbulaster reflected; Roussell had become lazy, spending so much time resting on his former glories that the other officers joked that his backside looked like it had been awarded the Imperial Laurel. If Carson hadn’t killed the wrong man all those years ago, Arbulaster would have put him in Roussell’s place right now.

‘Dova base, Dova base, this is Valkyrie G for Galaxy.’ The robotic words crackled over the speaker on the shooting deck.

Brooce activated the transmitter. ‘G for Galaxy, this is Dova base. Go ahead.’

‘Valkyrie flight holding at aquila five. Ready to descend. Request clearance for mission.’

‘Commander,’ Arbulaster spoke up. ‘This is the colonel. Any trace of the interference at that height?’

‘Negative, colonel. I expect interference once we go below aquila two.’

‘And how low do you think until you can get a clear picture through that cloud?’

‘Below five hundred, colonel.’

‘Understood. You are cleared for mission, commander. Good luck.’

High above the ork rok, Zdzisław acknowledged the colonel. He looked out into the white cloud, pressing up against the cockpit and hiding the rest of the Valkyries from view. He switched the vox to call out to them.

‘Valkyrie flight, this is G for Galaxy, acknowledge and confirm vox-net is active.’

‘Leader, this is D Doctrine, acknowledged and confirmed.’

‘Leader, this is P Pius, acknowledged and confirmed.’

‘Leader, this is T Terra, it’s all bang on here!’

The pilot’s enthusiasm made Zdzisław smile, with what little of his natural face remained. It was the first time he’d smiled in the last two days. He knew that his Valkyrie was the same bird as he’d always flown. He wasn’t so befuddled that he thought a simple lick of paint would stop her being who she was. It didn’t, it had just made her hate him.

He checked that all was well with his co-pilot sitting behind him. They had left the other crew back at Dova to save weight.

‘It’s all buttoned up, skipper. Ready when you are.’

‘Link the vox-net with Dova and confirm Dova receiving.’

‘Linked,’ the co-pilot replied and then heard Dova confirm. Now, if one of the Valkyries could get a picture, even if it was embroiled in the interference, it would be retransmitted from the other flyers so it would appear back at Dova. With that, they were ready.

‘Valkyrie flight, I’m descending. Hello, D for Doctrine, are you there?’

The voice of Zdzisław’s second, Lieutenant Plant, crackled through: ‘Here, leader.’

‘Stand by to take over if I lose contact.’

‘Okay, leader, good luck.’

Zdzisław powered back the throttle. The whine of his bird’s engines quietened and she started to descend. He brought up the display from the nose-picter, pointed straight down. There was nothing to see yet but more cloud, getting darker and darker as they dropped. He called out his height as they went. He felt the first tug at his controls as they hit twenty-five hundred metres. There had been a vain hope, voiced during planning, that perhaps the interference would not extend directly above the rok, but Zdzisław had not given it credence. To his mind, this interference that jostled his flyer in the sky could only be one of two things: first, a defence mechanism, designed for use in space, to disrupt assault boats and boarding actions, which given that orks adored the chance to carve their enemies apart in person seemed unlikely; or second, a by-product of whatever had functioned to slow the rok’s fall as it plummeted towards the surface of Voor. In neither situation would it make sense for it only to project out and not above as well.

Nineteen hundred metres and Zdzisław felt the invisible force from this ork machine kick his bird to one side. He burned the jets for a moment to stabilise and then throttled back again. She hated him for this. First he had allowed that commissar to bully him into painting over her decorations, stripping her of all she had done, and now he was forcing her down to be pummelled by these ork ghosts in the air.

Seventeen hundred metres and the Valkyrie was slewed to one side. Zdzisław yanked the stick back around to compensate, but she bucked and protested beneath him.

Sixteen hundred metres and the ghosts tried to spin her; Zdzisław turned the nozzle adjusters and overrode the equalisation to steady her with a burst.

Fifteen hundred metres and Zdzisław was thrown near out of his metal body as the bird flipped under him. Alarms rang, the co-pilot swore and the cockpit display lit up with a battery of red lights, as the engine thrust that had been fighting gravity to keep them up was now accelerating them ever faster down. The numbers on the altimeter blurred and Zdzisław desperately twisted the nozzle control. Then the ghosts struck anew, and the bird lurched to one side and flipped again. Zdzisław shoved forwards on the throttle and the angry engines roared. Zdzisław tipped the bird’s nose down and away from the rok and powered clear as quickly as possible.

His heart was thudding, someone was yelling in his ear, his co-pilot was heaving behind him.

‘This is G Galaxy responding.’

‘Leader!’ It was Plant on D Doctrine. ‘Confirm condition.’

‘Operational at this time. The old girl gave me a bit of a fight. We’ll check to see if anything’s shaken loose and return to aquila five.’

‘Glad to have you back, leader. Are you clear?’

‘Clear.’

‘This is D Doctrine, beginning descent.’

‘Acknowledged, D Doctrine. Watch for the daemons at fifteen hundred.’

‘Will do, leader. Going down.’

‘Okay, D Doctrine. Better luck.’

But D Doctrine did not have better luck. The ghosts came for him in force at twenty-one hundred and by eighteen hundred he was boosting clear. P Pius came in on a different vector and made it to sixteen hundred, before nearly stalling his engines and dropping a hundred metres as a dead weight. Zdzisław heard the shaking in the pilot’s voice as he recovered.

All the pilots could hear the growing impatience in the signals from Dova as T Terra began his descent. T Terra was determined and he rode his Valkyrie all the way down to thirteen hundred. Zdzisław watched on T Terra’s nose-picter through the vox-net, as the clouds below him went from a white to a dirty grey, hoping against hope that he had been wrong in his estimate of how low the cloud descended. At eleven hundred T Terra was swatted from the sky, and he went spiralling away from the crater-site. His vox went out but the picter stayed transmitting and Zdzisław, the other pilots and Dova watched in horror as T Terra fell below cloud cover five miles from the crater and they saw the jungle much too close beneath. They were helpless as the Valkyrie continued to spiral out of control as the green canopy raced up towards it. But then flames burst around the picter as T Terra’s engines fired at full blast and the fall slowed and stopped.

‘Sorry, leader, bit of a close shave there,’ the officers back at Dova heard T Terra report back.

‘Quite a show,’ Arbulaster muttered. The images from the Valkyrie’s picter had been fed back and displayed across the entire table. As T Terra fell, every officer in the room was falling with him. None of them had looked away as it happened, but now the moment had passed, a few dared to step back, take a draught from their drinks or glance out at the calmer jungle outside their own windows. Reeve, of course, was unmoved; he looked almost bored. Van Am also, Arbulaster noticed, appeared unaffected, rather she was staring at him, waiting to see what he would do.

‘Brooce,’ Arbulaster said quietly. ‘Get me a private line to Zdzisław.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Brooce configured a handset and passed it over.

‘Zdzisław here.’

‘Commander Zdzisław, it’s the colonel.’ Arbulaster stepped away from the other officers.

‘Yes, colonel.’

‘Is that it then?’ he asked curtly. ‘You said five hundred metres. None of you even came close! Are you just going to keep throwing yourselves in until you run out of fuel or do you bluebells have any better ideas?’

There was a long pause at the other end of the line, and Arbulaster for once considered that he might have overdone it. These were Navymen, not his Brimlocks, and if they decided to fly off, well, he could request they be court-martialled, but that would be of precious little use to him here and now.

‘There may be another possibility…’

Arbulaster heard him out, considered the risk and approved it. He stepped back to the table, which had returned to its tactical view, displaying the positions of the flight of Valkyries as they moved into position for their next attempt.

Zdzisław’s plan was to descend not one at a time, but all four Valkyries together. If whatever was generating the interference had limited capacity then it might be possible to overwhelm it. The danger, though, was clear. For best effect, the four Valkyries would have to descend close together, targeting the interference at a single point. But with such limited control, if one should strike another then both craft would be lost. Arbulaster, though, with his officers, Reeve and Van Am all watching, felt he had no choice. He would trust Zdzisław and his pilots to keep themselves safe.

To test Zdzisław’s theory, he and D Doctrine descended as a pair. Zdzisław started getting buffeted at twenty-two hundred, but coaxed his bird down to thirteen hundred before aborting. D Doctrine, however, had a smoother ride. Only once Zdzisław pulled back, did the ghosts attack him with a fury. He made it down to eight hundred metres and Arbulaster willed the details of the crater to appear on the table showing D Doctrine’s picter, to get the picture now and have this damned mission finished already. But eight hundred was still too high. D Doctrine was rolled, flipped twice and spun before the pilot finally managed to break away. Arbulaster stopped himself from tugging at his moustache in annoyance, but the theory, at least, had been proved. Now nothing remained but to try it out for real.

Zdzisław watched the icon for D Doctrine edge across his viewer until it settled in position. The four Valkyries were formed up in a spiral to reduce the chance of collision, and facing out so that if any of them hit their engine-burn they would head out rather than in. They were at the closest quarters, yet would be utterly reliant on their instruments. It all made tactical sense, but the formation gave Zdzisław the eerie feeling of four warriors standing back-to-back, making their last stand. The other pilots called in ready. He gave the order.

‘Valkyrie flight. Descend.’

He kept his eye glued on the spacing between his flyers. In mid-air collisions, you could not rely on conscious thought, they happened too quickly; you only had instinct and you had to pray that your instinct was right otherwise you were simply dead. At twenty-five hundred, right on cue, P Pius reported the first twitch. Zdzisław acknowledged, there was little else he could do. By twenty hundred he could see P Pius’s engines firing as the pilot tried to compensate for the buffeting, T Terra had felt the first knock, but Zdzisław, in the third position above, was still flying smooth. At sixteen-fifty, P Pius’s icon suddenly swivelled in its place on Zdzisław’s display and the pilot’s terrified scream burst over the vox as his flyer was spun. He hit his thrusters and powered clear. Then T Terra started reporting the ghosts’ attack. The close call during his previous run had not dampened his enthusiasm.

‘I’m going to make it this time, leader!’

‘Hold formation as best as you can.’

‘I’m going to make it!’ Then he swore violently at his bird over the vox as he wrestled it down. At ten hundred the ghosts pummelled him hard and he was thrown across the sky, but he was ready for it and flicked the engines around and regained control.

‘Crossing eight hundred!’ he said triumphantly over the vox. Zdzisław could hear the Valkyrie’s distress in the background. ‘Activating picter!’

Back at Dova, the officers looked down at the table as the cloudy image appeared there. Still not close enough.

Suddenly, T Terra shouted and Zdzisław’s proximity alarms shrilled. The ghosts had struck the flyer hard in the nose and it flipped back. The safety distance between the two flyers vanished in a split-second and Zdzisław’s instinctively powered forwards. It was the right choice. T Terra grazed the back of his tail, spinning end-to-end. Only as it passed did Zdzisław hear the pilot’s warning. D Doctrine heard it as well and hit his engines the same as his leader. For D Doctrine, however, the instinct was wrong. The screen at Dova flashed white as T Terra’s nose-picter pointed up to the sky. For an instant, they saw the shadow of another Valkyrie racing towards them. Then the screen went black.

Inverted, T Terra had collided with the other flyer, the two armoured undersides smashing against each other. D Doctrine’s hull structure held, but the flyer was knocked clear of the spiral and the ghosts came for it.

‘D Doctrine. Aborting! Aborting!’ Arbulaster heard the pilot shout.

‘Commander Zdzisław, report!’ Arbulaster demanded of the blank screen, but there was no reply.

‘Report, damn you,’ Arbulaster urged again, and this time he was answered.

‘This is–’ and then the transmission was interrupted by the howling of the air through a breached cabin.

‘Repeat that.’

The voice, faint over the rushing air, responded. ‘This is T Terra! Aborting! Aborting!’

‘G Galaxy,’ Brooce interrupted firmly, ‘report your status.’

As if in response, the screen flickered back to life and Zdzisław’s artificial voice resounded over them.

‘Crossing five hundred.’

For the first time, through the cloud, they could see the details of the ground below. The image was shaken and blurred but it was there and Zdzisław was still going.

‘Four-fifty.’

‘Excellent work, commander,’ Arbulaster said with relief.

‘Four hundred,’ was Zdzisław’s only response.

The view of the crater was clear now and the officers clustered around closely. The orks were there. The crater was pock-marked with dark splotches, huts and other primitive buildings, which made up the burgeoning settlement around the rok.

‘Three-fifty.’

‘That’s enough, commander. Abort,’ Arbulaster ordered. Zdzisław did not respond. ‘Can he hear us, Brooce?’

‘Acknowledge, G Galaxy,’ Brooce said clearly into the vox.

‘Three hundred.’

‘Respond, G–’ Brooce began again.

‘Aborting,’ Zdzisław replied, but the ground below kept coming closer. ‘She’s fighting me.’

The rok skewed from the screen as Zdzisław tried to steer the flyer away.

‘She won’t, she’s not–’ he began. They had crossed two hundred now.

‘Pull out, commander!’ Arbulaster instructed, and at the same time, they could hear the co-pilot start shouting at him to do the same.

One hundred, and now the officers around the table stood back from the sight, as if it were them falling towards the ground.

‘Engines stalled,’ Zdzisław said, even now his toneless voice not wavering. ‘Come on, girl. Come on.

‘Forgi–’ Arbulaster heard, and then the vox went silent and the screen went blank.

There was silence on the shooting deck. The officers stayed fixed on the black screen, unwilling for a moment to raise their heads and catch another’s eyes. Then the table lit up again. The cogitator had pieced together the imagery from the Valkyries’ picters into a single plan. As they watched, it began running its identification routines, highlighting the likely nature of the shapes the images had captured.

‘There it is,’ Arbulaster breathed. There were the orks. There was a settlement. It was indisputably defended and fortified. But here it was, all laid out before them.

The room crackled as the vox-net reactivated. This time, though, it was not the mechanical, yet so human voice of Zdzisław.

‘This is Flight Lieutenant Plant in D Doctrine requesting permission to recover G Galaxy.’

Arbulaster cleared the roughness in his throat. ‘This is the colonel. Is G Galaxy within the interference radius?’ he asked, though they all knew the answer. They had all seen it happen before them.

There was silence on the vox-net for a few seconds, then: ‘Yes, it is, colonel, but we’re willing–’

‘Then your request is denied, flight lieutenant. Valkyrie flight is to return to Dova at once. Objective has been accomplished.’

‘Colonel,’ Plant began again, ‘please reconsider, we are–’

‘Brooce, cut the vox-net,’ Arbulaster interrupted, and Plant’s words died in mid-air.

Now, Arbulaster looked around at each of his officers.

‘Here we are then,’ he told them. ‘Here is the face of the enemy and here are my orders. We will proceed here, we will annihilate them and then we will be done. Gentlemen, you all have work ahead of you. Get to it and make it happen.’

His officers all concurred and Arbulaster watched them as they began to plan the offensive. There was one man there he did not regard, however; the man who had no role in their planning and who excused himself shortly after. That man was Commissar Reeve.

Eight

Jungle Trail, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 17

‘Kay-Vee!’ Stanhope heard the shout as the whine of the lascutter shut off. ‘Kay-Vee!’

At the front of the column, the beard shouted again, as the ancient tree he had cut through groaned and shifted a fraction to one side. ‘Kay-Vee!’

The tree, slowly at first but gathering speed, fell to one side, as stiff as a well-trained trooper passing out during parade. Stanhope watched the men fall upon it with their machetes and hatchets, stripping it of its leaves and branches, so that it might be hauled out of the column’s path.

Kay-Vee, Stanhope remembered. It meant ‘Beware’. Cadets for the Brimlock officer corps learned it in their first weeks at schola and they took such phrases with them on their regiments’ journeys through the galaxy. Words once whispered after lights-out to warn their bunk-fellows of an approaching magister were shouted loud as the enemy’s shells fell on them, or terrible monsters burst through flimsy walls and tore men apart.

That fraction, that tiny fraction of cadets who survived to return to Brimlock as colour-guard and perhaps become magisters themselves, brought new words back with them. Exotic, mysterious words that laced their speech and fired the imaginations of the cadets of the next generation. Most did not catch on, some took a grip but then were forgotten with the changing fashion, but the best became so deeply ingrained, that within a few years they were as traditional to Brimlock as Saint Marguerite herself.

Such development was not limited solely to words. Tanna itself was a Valhallan beverage brought, so the story went, to Brimlock by a returning officer of a colour-guard, who had fought alongside the ice warriors. So too were the fell-cutters. The first auxilia recruits from the tribute world Marguerite were not intended to be soldiers at all, only labourers. They had been unarmed, except for some local chopping blades called falcatas, which a regimental commander had purchased for them so they could cut back the woods around his camp. Yet when that regiment was ambushed by the enemy and surrounded, far from safety, the margoes had gone to their rescue and assaulted the foe’s positions with only their blades, allowing the regiment to break out and escape. None of the margoes had survived their sacrifice, but that commander took the blades and their story to their home. After that, Brimlock never recruited the men of Marguerite as labourers again. They were only ever raised as soldiers, issued with lasguns and flak armour, and carrying those same chopping blades that had brought their people such honour. And so the fell-cutters were born.

The Imperium valued Brimlock solely for its industry: its skill at making guns, the men to fire them and the vehicles in which they could be transported. But truly what was great about Brimlock was that its regiments went and found the best the galaxy had to offer, brought it home, distilled it and then spread the result with the next generation.

The best the galaxy had to offer, and sometimes the worst as well. Stanhope felt the need again. His fingers shook a little as he eased them into the small slit in his jacket. He took something from its hiding place and slipped it into his mouth, as he pretended to mop his brow. Then he relaxed and went back to watching the jungle, as it slowly retreated before the might of the Imperial Guard.

Carson walked down the line of his men. They all had the equipment contents of their packs laid out in front of them on their groundsheets: lasguns, pistols, spare power packs, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, bayonets, ration cans, canteens, cremators, toilet articles, mess kits, fire-lighters, medicae treatments and more. It was an oft-repeated witticism amongst the armoured fist companies that the light infantry carried the most and travelled the slowest. There was an element of truth in it; while the other companies could rely on their Chimera transports to carry their heavy gear, a light company were most often deployed in terrain where the Chimeras could not operate, so anything they needed they had to carry themselves. Still, it did not mean they had to become beasts of burden and, as he went down the line, Carson tapped those extraneous items that would weigh his men down and make them less effective on the raid he was about to lead.

It had been ten days since the Valkyrie flight over the crater. Ten days since Commander Zdzisław went down. Though he had been a Navy man, he had been attached to the 11th as long as anyone could remember. But, as ever, there was no time for mourning or regrets. The images of the crater showed exactly what the colonel had expected. The ork survivors had established a fortified position around the rok, and that meant he would not risk sending his infantry in unsupported, they would have to get their tanks there, and that meant cutting a path through the jungle.

The beard, Mulberry, had reckoned it would take five or six days to cross the fifty miles from Dova to the crater. Now, ten days later, the crater still loomed in the distance, taunting them. Van Am had been right. It hadn’t been the trees, they fell quickly enough to the lascutters and plasma fire; it had been the ground. It was relatively flat around Dova, but as they tore the jungle away further in, the beards found the terrain a mess of rocky slopes, sudden valleys and concealed pits. Even the tree roots themselves were stretched out across the surface, the oldest ones as tough as stone. The largest were as thick as a man was tall and had to be cut through to allow the tanks and trucks to pass. The advance continued, with little for Carson’s company to do but stand and watch the jungle, guarding the beards from an ork attack that had yet to emerge.

Carson did not know what game the orks were playing. If he had been in their position, he would have been harassing the column ever since it left Dova. The colonel knew how exposed they were and was taking every precaution to ensure they were not surprised. Infantry patrols constantly circled the head of the column, and Drum’s tanks and Rosa’s heavy artillery stayed close at hand. But Carson had fought orks before, and knew that they did not shy from a fight, even when their enemy was ready for it.

To relieve the tedium, Carson asked for and was granted permission to lead raids far further from the column, deeper into the jungle ahead. He had no shortage of volunteers for his raids from the men either, as the beards were a dab hand at roping in any man standing idle. The prospect of scouting into the unknown, and maybe biting it from an ork or a jungle beast, became far more appealing after one had spent a day trying to push a Leman Russ battle tank up a debris-strewn slope. All of his own company stood up and, as soon as word got around, the men from other companies started putting themselves forward as well.

Carson accepted as many as he thought the company captains might allow; he knew he had an imposing reputation amongst them, but he was still a second lieutenant and that rank would only ever allow him so much liberty. His own company captain, or rather major, had the rank but did not appear inclined to do anything with it.

The first day after he had taken command, Stanhope had spent ‘engaged.’ Carson had assumed that Stanhope was involved in Arbulaster’s planning sessions, but Mouse reported back at the end of the day that the major hadn’t left his room. Then Carson thought that perhaps Stanhope was looking to ease the transition for him, to allow him to continue to command as he had done before, until the campaign proper began. But then the morning came when the regiment was due to march, and a message came that Carson should retain command.

Stanhope appeared before they left, his uniform stripped down so that, aside from the fell-cutter, he appeared almost as a regular private. Carson had inquired about his dress and Stanhope had curtly replied that regulations permitted officers to remove identifying rank markings as required where enemy snipers were suspected to be operating. If Stanhope’s face had not been deathly serious, Carson would have laughed in it. It was true, the regulation was there, but their enemy were orks, who fought only with blood-curdling charges, deafening roars and noisy guns. After that, Carson thought Stanhope might simply be cripplingly paranoid, but that was not the truth either.

It was on the fourth day, when Mouse told Carson what he had noticed about the plants Stanhope kept in his room, that Carson realised the truth. Stanhope had surrendered. He had given up. Not to the enemy, but to the war. He was a leader who no longer wished to command. He was an officer who did not want to give orders, or have others look to him for them. He was a soldier who had no interest in living; yet one’s service to the Guard was for life, and the Brimlock mindset did not allow the self-curtailment of that term.

When first Carson realised, he had been annoyed at having such an officer foisted upon him. Then he had been sympathetic. Then he had appreciated the advantages in having a commander who wished to be nothing more than a private soldier. The company had Stanhope’s name upon it, but it stayed Carson’s in all but that name and he did not have to struggle with another Blunder to keep it. That appreciation had lasted three days before, as is the way with all humankind when given what they want but not what they need, his mood had soured back into irritation. What gave Stanhope the right? Carson asked himself. Why was he allowed to call it quits, to surrender his duty, when all around him were expected to uphold theirs?

Carson’s patrol was ready. He had chosen second platoon to come with him today and the men sat, packed and loaded. Van Am and a half-dozen of her Voorjer scouts were coming as well. He had consulted her before undertaking his first long patrol and she had told him that if he planned to find his way back at all, then he should ask her to go with him. And so he had. In truth, the Voorjers had limited knowledge of this area; it was a tiny part of a vast jungle that the colonists had barely scratched. But her scouts, hunters mainly, could move quietly enough and Van Am was determined to maintain her worth and so took every opportunity to be of use, from identifying the less pleasant fauna to demonstrating the crampons the Voorjers used to climb trees, pick fruit and get their bearings.

Van Am wandered over to him, her hunting rifle carried in the crook of her arm.

‘Are we waiting for the major?’

Carson saw Mouse approaching and directed Van Am towards him. Mouse presented himself to his lieutenant and saluted.

‘What’s the word?’ Carson asked, knowing what the answer would be.

‘Major Stanhope sends his compliments, sir, and entrusts you with command of the company for the day.’

Carson nodded perfunctorily, then rose and swung his pack over his shoulders.

‘Any reply, sir?’

‘Tell him…’ Carson started, his irritation catching his tongue. Then he paused for a moment and took a breath. ‘You know what to say, Mouse. Tell him the usual.’

With that, Carson called his men to their feet and Van Am and her voorjers led them into the jungle.

The command Salamander vehicle hit another of the beards’ makeshift ramps and the jolt very nearly made Brooce bite through his tongue.

‘Have a care, Parker,’ he admonished his adjutant at the wheel.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the driver replied without thinking, his focus on the circumnavigation of the barricades and the men constructing them ahead. Brooce looked out the side at the troopers as they dug and cursed, and then looked over to his passenger.

‘It appears as if the transit camp is well on its way, sir. Once we’re through the rest of the trees it should be close enough to act as a launching point for the main attack.’

Arbulaster glanced over in the direction Brooce was indicating with little interest. He then returned to looking out his own window. He’d been nursing this mood for days now, ever since the Valkyrie went down over the crater. He’d been acting very oddly as well. After the senior officers had had their fill of analysing Zdzisław’s pictures and retired, Arbulaster had asked Brooce to gather the service dockets for all the men in the regiment. Brooce offered to have them summarised if the colonel could give him an idea of what he was looking for, but Arbulaster waved him away, saying that he had no fear of bumph.

Two days later, Brooce had delivered a half-dozen boxes full of records to his quarters. The colonel had spent the next three evenings dining in private, poring over the dockets. On the fourth morning he told Brooce to remove the boxes and instead compile for him all correspondence related to Carson’s company since the last campaign. He then went out on inspection. Brooce went to accompany him, but he said he wanted to keep it informal this time around. Brooce had the correspondence ready by that evening and handed it over to the colonel anticipating some kind of explanation. There was none.

Two days after that, Arbulaster asked Brooce to convene a field advancement panel to consider any and all proposed promotions, decorations or commendations. The promotions at least would only be temporary, subject to consideration and confirmation by Crusade Command, but he’d said plainly that they shouldn’t go into battle with gaps in the command structure.

When the findings of the panel were issued, Brooce went through them, hoping for some clue as to what had obsessed his colonel. There was only one matter relating to that company, the approval of the application to commend one ogryn called Frn’k. And it was that commendation that Brooce now held in his hand as they bumped along the track towards the head of the trail.

Brooce was not the kind of man who worried. If he was a worrier then ten years with the 11th’s officer corps and six years as Arbulaster’s second-in-command would have finished him off long ago. No, Brooce was not a man raised to worry. He was a man raised to be concerned, however, and such behaviour from his colonel in the midst of a campaign had him more concerned than he had ever been.

Whatever it was, Zdzisław’s death was the spur. It had triggered something in the colonel’s mind which had caused him to divert his attention from the ongoing operation and led him on this peculiar quest. Brooce knew it was down to him to say something. It was his duty, both as his second and his fellow officer. Arbulaster might be putting not only the operation but his own life in great danger if Reeve grew suspicious. Brooce had been able to deflect the commissar over the last few days, but Reeve would act on little more than suspicion if he decided that Arbulaster was not fit to command. The hundreds of little skulls upon Reeve’s coat were ostentatious, but effective, and Brooce had the unerring feeling that they watched him whenever he was in Reeve’s company.

He had to say something, but he could not just come out with it. Brimlock men, and their women as well perhaps, simply did not discuss such things. When, during the invasion of Gandamak, Major-General Macnaughten learnt that a column of camp followers had been ambushed by a tribe of treacherous allies and that his wife and children were dead, they gave him a gun and an armoured division to wipe that tribe from the face of the planet. No one had tried to talk to him about his feelings!

‘Have you had a moment to review the notification for the Navy, sir?’ Brooce decided to open with. ‘Over their loss?’

Arbulaster looked over and focused on his second, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

‘What’s that?’

‘Over the loss of Commander Zdzisław and his flight officer?’

‘Oh,’ Arbulaster remembered. ‘No, not yet.’

Brooce continued: ‘I tried to be circumspect with the wording. After all, we don’t know what we might find when we reach the site. He might still be alive.’

Arbulaster dismissed the thought out of hand. ‘He crashed ten days ago, right in the heart of them. If he hadn’t died then, he would have done so by now.’

Now for the plunge. ‘Yes, sir. And I’ve made it clear in the notification the importance of the mission and that he understood and accepted the risks. There certainly shouldn’t be any blame attached to the regiment or to your command, sir.’

That last sentence caught Arbulaster’s attention. ‘Me? Why should anyone blame me?’

It was not the reply Brooce had expected. ‘I’m saying there certainly shouldn’t be any blame attached to you and that the notification makes that clear…’

‘It wasn’t my fault, major,’ Arbulaster said without a hint of doubt. ‘Zdzisław said it himself, the Valkyrie was fighting him. It doesn’t matter if you believe in that claptrap or not. He believed, and his confidence was shot. That’s what killed him, and I know exactly who’s to blame for that.’

He caught sight of something on the side of the track.

‘Pull her up here, Parker,’ he ordered the driver and stood up out of the Salamander.

‘Commissar!’

Reeve, who was watching the beards supervising the men, turned and regarded the colonel. Arbulaster carried on.

‘We are presenting some of the commendations tonight, commissar. There is one where your attendance would be much appreciated.’

Reeve said nothing, as he always did when he did not consider that a response was required. Arbulaster was undeterred.

‘It is an ogryn, very dedicated. You know how they especially venerate those of your position. If you were there, I do believe it would be ten times as inspirational as if I presented it alone. Will you attend?’

Reeve considered it for a moment.

‘This is Ogryn Frn’k attached to Major Stanhope’s company?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I accept, colonel. I have some other business with that company. I will attend.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Arbulaster couldn’t care less as to Reeve’s reason; getting the commissar there was all that was important. ‘Tonight then, commissar. At the new transit camp.’ He tapped the driver’s helmet and sat back down as they powered off to the head of the column.

Carson’s patrol advanced quietly through the jungle. The going was relatively easy. Unlike the jungle areas close to the coastal settlements, which had once been cleared by the colonists but which now had grown back as an impenetrable mesh of thorn thickets and underbrush, this jungle was old. The battle for supremacy had been won long ago by the great trees whose canopy blotted the light from the ground and thereby suppressed the growth of any competition. There was no grass, no flowers; all that covered the ground was a thick carpet of dead leaves. The only other plant-life that prospered were the parasites: the creepers, vines and mosses that drew their life from others. In the half-lit gloom and deep shadow, the trunks of the giants stood like pillars in a dark and limitless cathedral. In such a place, the men needed no reminding to stay silent and so their progress was accompanied only by the crackle of the dead leaves underfoot.

Van Am held her hunting rifle ready in both hands. They were pushing further forwards today than they ever had done before. Their target was the great ring of grassland that stretched five or six miles from the crater. When the rok had impacted, super-heated fragments of it fell on the jungle, starting wildfires in every direction. On her first expedition, she had discovered the crater surrounded by a blackened plain of charred vegetation. The Valkyrie pilots had reported that that plain was now green. Arbulaster had considered this a significant boon, allowing his tanks to cross the final stretch in a day. Carson, though, wanted to ensure that it was just grass and fireweed and nothing more pernicious that would delay the column even further.

The jungle was quiet. Quieter than Van Am had ever known it. Her grandmother had sent her to Tswaing fifteen years before, to ‘prepare her’ as she had cryptically pronounced. But the young Van Am found the isolated Tswaing settlement little better than a prison. It was surrounded by the jungle and tree branches encroached over the settlement’s walls. The jungle appeared to her a gloomy and dangerous place, very different to the wide plains of the farms near Voorheid where she had spent her earliest years. It held that same sense of oppression that her grandmother claimed the first colonists had been trying to escape. The young Van Am endured her exile with little grace, paying scant attention to what her keepers tried to teach her of survival there. Her uncooperative attitude only shifted after one of her guardians finally lost his temper and let slip that her grandmother would be granting her all her land in Tswaing, thousands of acres, the settlement included, when she turned fourteen.

It shocked her. The sudden sense of ownership, of responsibility, struck her hard. On Frisia, scarcely any usable land existed outside of that possessed by the Imperial government. The rights and deeds over what little there was were a source of immense pride to a family and were vigorously defended. Even on Voor, only some of the colonists, those who had worked off their indentured service to the Imperium, were allowed to own the land they worked. The rank of landholder was treated with dignity and respect. To have a chance at it so young… Van Am was determined to prove herself worthy of it. When she travelled out into the jungle again, the trees and animals no longer felt like her gaolers, rather she saw them as her wards. They were savage, yes, even deadly, but she knew that if they should kill her it would only be because she had not learnt them well enough.

But now she could sense the sickness of her land. The alien chill caused by the clouds overhead was slowly killing the plants. As the plants died, so did the creatures. Even on her first expedition to the rok the jungle was still full of the sounds of life. Now it was quiet. There were only the orks and the Guardsmen, trespassers both.

She saw a slight commotion at the head of the platoon and they halted. One of the Voorjer scouts approached to report to the command section, and she and Carson went to the front of the platoon to see for themselves. Another party had stopped there at some point before. Orks were not subtle creatures and the evidence of their residence was easy to see: the carpet of leaves had been kicked aside where they had walked, they had clumsily felled a tree for wood to start their fires, and they had left the bones of the creature they had cooked and eaten in the embers.

Carson ordered the platoon to deploy from its file to encircle the area. The men split and advanced cautiously on either side, Forjaz taking his section to the left, Corporal Marble taking his to the right. Only once they were in place did Carson lead the command section forwards to investigate.

The lieutenant had made an impression on Van Am. The other Brimlock officers she had encountered were exactly as her grandmother had predicted: hide-bound, crude and old. They were all old, even the troopers. They were veterans, to be sure, but as far as Van Am could tell that just meant that they had learned one way of warfare and stuck to it. Even when they did patrol, they stayed close to the path, their link back to Dova, back to warfare they understood. They felt secure there and, in thinking so, they automatically considered everything outside to be hostile, everything including the jungle itself. They spooked themselves believing that the orks were phantoms, able to move through the terrain with ease, without making a sound.

Carson was the only one of them who had shown he thought differently. While the others clutched their lasguns tight, keeping them ready to fire in an instant, Carson kept his pistols holstered. He walked through the jungle with none of the others’ instinctive fear. He knew that the truth, as the patrol now saw before them, was very different. It was the orks who were on the alien world. The jungle was even more unfamiliar to them than it was for the Guardsmen. Carson appreciated what Van Am had tried to tell the rest: the jungle was not against them, the jungle was neutral.

As Carson went to look at the remains of the creature, Van Am examined the tracks. ‘A few dozen, their path is curving back towards the crater. Not orks though.’

‘No,’ Carson replied. ‘But it’s something they brought with them. Look at this.’

She went over.

‘Do you know what this is?’ He pointed at the remains of the carcass. She looked at it and scowled in disgust. The body was squat, bulbous, without arms; but the face, the face was almost human.

‘No. What is it?’

Carson picked up one of the bones, broken in two to drain the marrow. ‘A walking larder. They follow the orks, eating anything that moves, and then the orks eat them.’

He looked down the trail for a moment. Van Am watched his face while he thought, the slight deepening of the lines on his brow, the intensity of his gaze, the sudden focus when he made his decision.

‘We follow them, but we stay off their path,’ he said and began dictating the new marching order. His men obeyed his commands quickly. Van Am saw that they did not obey him out of fear or obligation to his rank, rather because they did not want to disappoint him. She could understand why; the lieutenant cast an aura of confidence about him. He knew as little as she did as to what lay ahead, yet as he gave his orders, she could believe that he had planned it all from the beginning.

‘Holder?’

Van Am blinked. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you all right?’

She swung her rifle barrel up to grip it with her other hand. ‘Perfectly fine.’

They moved out cautiously at first, but quickened their pace as they progressed and did not encounter the enemy. After a few minutes they saw a mound of leavings on the trail; they were pungent, warm and very fresh. Spurred on, Carson and Van Am closed the distance up to the head of the column. Suddenly, one of the men in the lead made a frantic signal and dropped. In the split second it took Van Am to realise what he was doing, the other Guardsmen had all flattened themselves to the ground and she felt Carson tug at the side of her trousers to bring her down as well. They lay there, utterly still, for a long minute, waiting to see some sign of whatever had excited the scout. Nothing. Carson rose to his haunches and ghosted forwards. He reached the front of the patrol; it was the trooper they called Blanks. Carson made a gesture with his hand and Blanks replied in kind. She watched the silent conversation until finally Carson nodded and motioned her to join them.

Ahead of them was their quarry. There were not a few dozen but sixty at least of the orkish herd animals. Their features, which had appeared merely freakish on the corpse, were grotesque upon the live examples. They were bunched together, butting and biting at each other in bad temper. A dozen gretchin armed with poles and spears prodded them to keep them marshalled together, and at their rear was the largest ork Van Am had ever seen. It pulled the remains of an unfortunate jungle creature from the jaws of the herd and flicked its whip. The loud crack urged the gretchin to shove the herd forwards down the trail and it moved with a great cacophony of screeches, growls and snaps. The ork did not care about being quiet. It felt secure, confident, as though it were the master of this place.

Van Am was ready to put a shot through its head to demonstrate how wrong it was, but Carson gave no move towards an attack. Instead, he was looking ahead, at the line of grey light now visible through the trees and the curve of the slope of the crater beyond. They were nearly at the edge.

They shadowed the ork and his herd the rest of the distance until finally it emerged from the trees. There, back on familiar ground, the herd beasts picked up speed and waddled away on their two legs. The ork cracked the whip again and the gretchin went careering after them to stop them dispersing. The patrol reached the edge of the treeline and looked out.

The green expanses the Valkyrie pilots had seen were not grasslands but miles and miles of lichen and mould carpeting the ground. The few trees that still remained were covered with the black and yellow fungi eating away at them. Hardened mushrooms with wide umbrellas were still low to the ground, but were growing quickly to take the drying trees’ place. Their thick stalks were covered with their smaller cousins, sticking out like flints. Others grew in clusters, like sickly-coloured flowers, while still more littered the ground, their appearance varying from crystal-latticed eggs to piles of leavings. The perverted landscape flowed all the way to the rise of the crater in the distance, and from that crater the leering orkish glyph carved from stone looked over its lands with pride.

For Van Am, it was a monstrous vision, a living bruise on her jungle. She finally began to understand that she could not merely kill these xenos, she would have to burn her planet to be rid of them.

Nine

Carson’s company had slotted into the lines of men marching back from the head of the path to the new site of the transit camp. Although Drum’s tanks and Ledbetter’s cavalry were able to return to the greater safety of Dova each night, the infantry needed to be housed closer to the front. So, as well as carving a path through the jungle, the overworked beards had also constructed the transit camps, clearing nearly twenty acres of jungle around the path for the fort and the dead ground surrounding it. Every few days, all work at the front halted as the beards moved the fort a half-day’s march up the trail to the next area they had cleared. The whole process took an immense amount of effort across such terrain and it slowed down the overall advance, but it was steady and it was secure.

As the company marched into the camp that the colonel had designated Fort Eliza, after his wife, the beards in their construction Sentinels were hurrying to place the last sections of the wall behind the glacis and trench dug around the camp. The skies were growing black. The ever-present clouds blocked the light of the setting sun and so day rapidly turned to night. Only at the line of the horizon could hints of orange and red be seen through the cracks in the darkening grey.

Red led the men to the tent cluster where they were billeted. Forjaz and Booth came around with the evening rations and the men groaned at the sight of them. Officially the company had been ‘rested’ during the day and so their lot had been drawn to be the first on sentry duty. They had half an hour to cook their rations as best they could before they took their posts to stand watch, as the other companies took their time to eat in the central mess. The men grumbled as usual but without much rancour. At least, once they were done, they could have an uninterrupted night’s sleep. And the men of second platoon were additionally fortunate because Mouse, having been excused the patrol, had had a full day to get up to his usual business and knew the wisdom in being generous. He had acquired cheese, pudding, fruit and pastries and, having eaten his fill already, handed the rest around.

‘Crumpet?’ he said, offering it to the circle.

‘Yes, muffin?’ Ducky said from the other side of him.

Mouse turned around. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh sorry,’ Ducky continued, taking it. ‘I thought we were trying out new pet names for each other.’

Mouse shook his head at the medic’s antics and moved on to Marble. ‘Anything for you?’

Marble, nicknamed such because of eldar gun-gems he’d picked up ‘for research purposes’ on Azzabar and managed to sneak past Commissariat inspectors by hiding them internally, was busy re-rigging his lasgun yet again.

‘Do you have a micro-energy regulator?’ he said without looking up. ‘It’s still overloading when you ride the pull too long.’

‘How about a scone?’

Marble looked at him, exasperated, then glanced back at the scone, took it, and went back to his task. Mouse carried on round to Gardner.

‘What about you, corporal? Got a few day-old loaves here that might be good for Trouble.’

Gardner looked them over. ‘Where’d they come from?’

Mouse sighed. ‘Why’d you ask that, corp? They ain’t got a name on ’em.’

Gardner frowned for a moment, but then took the sack and headed off over to the corner where Frn’k was sitting. The ogryn ate separately to the rest of the company so he wasn’t tempted to take their food and they weren’t nauseated by his smell. Mouse finished distributing his haul to the rest of the platoon. Blanks sat a small distance from the rest of them, feeling neither welcomed nor excluded. It was time to change that, he decided. He approached Mouse.

‘So, where’d they come from?’ he asked.

‘You as well, Blanks?’ Mouse narrowed his eyes. ‘Funny, I know you don’t remember anything, but I didn’t take you as the sort to stick by the law.’

Blanks regarded Mouse carefully, then picked out a piece of cheese and took a bite from it. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said, and smiled. Mouse chuckled at that and, with that small gesture, there was an opening.

‘I tell you,’ Mouse began. ‘Sticking by the law doesn’t say anything about you. Down in the rookeries, there ain’t laws. None that matter. That’s where you learn what you’re willing to do and what you ain’t.’

‘Is that where you started?’

‘It’s where I’d still be if I hadn’t volunteered.’

‘You’re not a conscript?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Mouse exclaimed. ‘None of us are. We’re all volunteers.’

‘That’s right,’ Ducky added. ‘Brimlock is very strict on that. They’ll only conscript you if you’re not smart enough to volunteer.’

‘We all had the choice,’ Mouse continued. ‘The choice to starve, the choice to get locked up, to have your back whipped on the factory lines or catch your death working the outside of the dirigibles.’

Ducky perked up. ‘A man offered to sell me a dirigible once, but it turned out to be a lot of hot air.’

Blanks ignored him. ‘Maybe you’ll see it differently when you go back.’

‘Go back?’ Mouse exclaimed. ‘None of us are going back. One-way ticket when you join the Guard. They’ll fork out to lug you halfway across the galaxy, but they won’t for a return trip.’

‘Apart from their favourites,’ Ducky amended.

‘Apart from them. Room for a few to go back with the colours. The clinkers, you know, the ones with the medals, to found the next Eleventh.’

‘The officers?’ Blanks said.

‘A few of ’em,’ Mouse said. ‘The colonel, of course, and anywhere he goes he’ll take Brooce with him. The Rooster’s already been promised a place; he won it after Mespots. Drum’s too barmy. Rosa wouldn’t fit. The new one, Ledbetter, he’s a good bet, they like to take a tin belly with ’em. Some of the sergeants as well, ’cos you need a few who actually know the end of a lasgun. Red’d be top of the list, I’d wager.’

‘Won’t be Forjaz,’ Ducky said. ‘He’s got so many kids in tow it’d be quicker to bring Brimlock to us.’

‘Will they take Carson?’ Blanks asked.

‘Well, he killed the wrong man, didn’t he. They can’t take him.’ Mouse shrugged and carried on. ‘Would you head back, Ducky? If they gave you the chance?’

‘They’re not going to offer it to someone like me.’

‘Yeah, but just saying if they did?’

The half-smirk that Ducky perpetually wore dropped away. ‘Go back to being a street cutter in the rookeries? All that ails you cured, thrice the price, no guarantees, no questions asked? Sewing up the cuts on drunks, picking out arbitrator buck-shot from the arse-cheeks of part-time anarchists? Lightening the load of women in trouble in a rat-infested flophouse? No, not again. Never again.’

Ducky looked around the circle. ‘I’m here. It’s a new colony. They’ll need medicae and they won’t care where they’ve come from or what they’ve done, and they won’t ask you to kill, and everyone you save is going back to a life, not going back into the grinder. I’m staying.’

The circle was silent for a few seconds before finally Blanks took the lead. ‘So, you’re going to settle down here and find some pretty Voorjer nurse to bat her eyelashes at you and learn at the feet of the master?’

‘I think I’ll leave devoorjing the local girls to the lieutenant,’ Ducky languidly replied, his half-smirk once more in its rightful place.

The circle cackled loudly with salacious glee and envy. For all that the striking young woman leading the Voorjer scouts had remained hard-nosed and resolute in front of the senior officers, her focus on their lieutenant whilst out on expedition had been obvious to the company’s old hands.

‘She won’t get anywhere sniffing around him,’ Marble said, closing his lasgun up and joining them. ‘None of the others ever have. He doesn’t do anything.’

‘Oh, I bet he does. He’s just picky I bet,’ Mouse countered. ‘If I was an officer and I looked like him, I’d be picky I tell you.’

‘If you were an officer and looked like him,’ Blanks said, ‘you’d help yourself as much as you liked.’

Ducky interjected. ‘If Mouse was an officer, Emperor help the rest of us.’

The circle laughed again, but their smiles froze as Forjaz pounded up to them. ‘Look lively! Look lively!’ he shouted. ‘The brass are coming. Up! Up!’

The laughter stopped instantly as the men ditched their rations and sprang to their feet, groping for jackets, clasps, laces and buttons. Forjaz told Mouse to run off and get the lieutenant.

‘What does the bleeding colonel want with us?’ Mouse muttered.

‘I must’ve forgot to inquire when I showed him into the parlour!’ Forjaz bit back. ‘And it’s not just the colonel, it’s the new black-coat too.’

If Forjaz thought his men were moving fast before, then they suddenly jumped up a few notches. Within a few breaths, the men of second platoon were in a rough formation. Forjaz smacked them into crisp lines and took his place to the side, just as the brass appeared from between the tents. They were chatting jovially between each other or, more accurately, Forjaz realised, the colonel and Major Brooce were chatting amicably while the commissar walked, unengaged, beside them.

The colonel came to a stop a metre away from Forjaz and looked at him expectantly. Forjaz took a step forwards and whipped off a crisp salute: ‘Sergeant Forjaz, sir. Second Platoon, K Company.’

Arbulaster returned the salute. ‘Excellent, sergeant. Stand your men easy, I hear you’ve pulled the short straw and are up on first watch?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘I’ll not take up too much of your time then. Now,’ he turned to the platoon lined up beside the fire, ‘which one of you men is Ogryn Frn’k?’

The ogryn stood in line towering a metre above every other man. Forjaz’s eyes flicked to the colonel’s face, but his expression had no trace of anything but honest curiosity. Forjaz gave a nod to Gardner and Gardner discreetly elbowed Frn’k in the thigh. The ogryn looked down puzzled at his friend for a moment and, at Gardner’s gestures, slowly raised his hand.

‘Excellent!’ Arbulaster said without a trace of sarcasm. ‘If he could step forwards and… er…’ He gestured at Gardner, ‘If his friend wouldn’t mind helping him along.’

Gardner led Frn’k to the front of the platoon, still uncertain as to what was going on. They were quite a pair, Arbulaster reflected. He did not know which of them looked more savage: the shambling ogre or the brute of a corporal who had covered himself in trophies made from the detritus of war. Once they were still, and the ogryn was at a semblance of attention, Arbulaster motioned to Brooce who passed over a sheet of paper.

‘I have here,’ Arbulaster announced, ‘a commendation for Ogryn Frn’k, currently attached to the Brimlock 11th, K Company, 2nd Platoon. To whit, that on 058.660.M41 Corporal Frn’k carried out an individual act of heroism by which he led a group of enemy warriors into a prepared position and subsequently did single-handedly capture a vital prisoner. As this was in direct face of the enemy and at great personal risk to himself, his actions are worthy of commendation.’

Arbulaster handed the paper to the ogryn who took it carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Try not to eat it, there’s a good man,’ Arbulaster said as he patted the ogryn on the chest. ‘Commissar? A few words?’

Arbulaster stepped away and beckoned to Reeve. The commissar came forwards, each step accompanied by the chink of his kill-studs striking together. Forjaz felt himself push his chest out even further. He did not dare look Reeve straight in the eye. No soldier ever benefited from a commissar’s attention, all one could hope for was to be forgotten as quickly as possible. And so he looked past Reeve and thereby had a perfect view of the expression on Gardner’s face as Reeve stepped into the light to address the platoon. In a brief second, Forjaz watched Gardner go from shock, to anger, then pale to terror.

‘Major Stanhope,’ Reeve declared as the officer appeared at the edge of the gathering. ‘You are just in time.’

Forjaz glanced over at Stanhope. He was standing bolt upright, but Forjaz could tell he was on it again and wasn’t about to intervene.

‘Blessed are the small minds,’ Reeve began, ‘for they are easily filled with faith. This ogryn here, less than human but no less a servant of the Emperor, is an example to this regiment. Though today we have commended his actions alone, I have faith that all of you here are equal to his dedication.’

Forjaz did not hear the commissar’s words, his only concern was Gardner. He was deathly white and looked ready to pass out. Forjaz wanted to get him out of there at once, but he did not dare draw the commissar’s attention.

‘And with that faith in my heart,’ Reeve continued, ‘I deliver to you a gift.’ Reeve held his hand up. From behind the tent came two soldiers that Forjaz didn’t recognise. They carried another between them, tied and bound, struggling. As they came closer, though, Forjaz realised it wasn’t a man, it was an ork.

The two soldiers dumped the ork in front of the platoon. ‘That very prisoner which has brought us here today.’

The ork was bound head to foot, yet it squirmed and slithered along the ground, trying to break free of the bindings. The platoon broke from its ranks, those closest retreating, those at the ends lapping around so as to have the ork encircled. Forjaz took the opportunity to step up and shove Gardner into Frn’k and push them both back towards the tents. Marble, who was never without his jerry-rigged lasrifle, raised it to shoot the ork dead.

‘Hold!’ Reeve ordered him, and Marble held. Reeve stepped across the circle, ignoring the ork, and held out his hand. ‘I commend you on your keenness, soldier, but this one is not for you.’

At Reeve’s insistent look, Marble unstrapped the lasrifle and handed it over to him. Reeve took it and held it out to the man next to him. Ducky picked it up, not knowing what was happening.

‘Private Drake, I understand that the Emperor has never granted you the opportunity to rid the galaxy of one of his foes. That will change now. You will kill this animal that lies before us and join the rest of your fellows as one of His defenders.’

Reeve stepped away. ‘Back, all of you. Give him room. We do not wish this night to end in accidental tragedy.’

The rest of the platoon did as they were ordered. Ducky, the focus of their attention, looked aghast.

‘No, no,’ he said, almost stammering, to Reeve, ‘it’s not my place. Frn’k took him, it should be his… honour.’

‘The ogryn has already received his honour,’ Reeve replied. ‘This one is yours.’

‘I can’t take it for the whole platoon, we should draw lots.’

But the scarred and wizened Reeve would not budge, ‘You have been chosen, private. I insist. It is an order.’

Ducky looked at the ork on the ground. It looked up at him, its xenos face twisted in anger and hatred. Its life was dedicated to destruction and death. It would be a mercy, a kindness to the entire galaxy to end it. But then, the decision that Ducky had made so long ago not to kill had never been about the enemy. Xenos or human, it did not matter. His duty to his god and to the Guard did not matter. It had only ever been about how he could live with himself in this damned universe.

‘No,’ Ducky decided. ‘I won’t.’ He lowered the lasrifle.

‘You’re refusing a direct order?’

‘Yes,’ Ducky said and the platoon held its collective breath, knowing he was about to die.

‘That is unacceptable.’ Reeve pulled his pistol from his coat and fired straight into Marble’s leg. Marble howled in pain and collapsed, clutching at the burn.

Forjaz instinctively took a step forwards, but saw Reeve’s pistol pointed at him. ‘Hold your position, sergeant, or your life will be forfeit.’

Reeve whirled the pistol back to point at Marble. ‘Kill the animal, Private Drake, or my next shot will be to the head.’

But Ducky was already pointing the lasrifle at Reeve. ‘So will mine, you black-hearted parasite. Leave us alone.’

Reeve’s cold gaze locked with Ducky’s furious glare. Forjaz looked desperately to the colonel to intervene, but Arbulaster merely looked on with a sombre expression. No one else dared move. No one wished to aid the commissar, no one dared oppose him. No one but Ducky, whose finger was trembling with rage around the trigger.

Reeve was unfazed. He was outnumbered and surrounded, and yet he had them all in the palm of his hand. He lowered his pistol slowly.

‘If you wish to kill me, private,’ he said, taking a step towards him, ‘you had best hope to do so with your first shot. For if you do not, then I will have you and every other man of this platoon ended. And I will take my time in doing so. It will be slow and there will be pain, and only when they have scratched their throats raw with their screams will they be granted the mercy of death. Or, private, you will follow my orders and this will all be over.’

Ducky felt his hands shake wildly. Reeve would do it too. He would have them all killed for the slightest reason, and Ducky had just given him that.

The ork on the ground was bucking and snarling, ignorant that its fate was being decided. Ducky ignored it, his world full only of the grey eyes and the scornful expression on the commissar’s sunken, ancient face. He raised the rifle to his shoulder to reduce the shaking, his eyes watered as he squinted down the barrel at his target in the middle of Reeve’s forehead.

‘Just do it!’ Marble shouted.

For a split second, Ducky stopped shaking and stood perfectly still. Then he swept the rifle down towards the ork. He shoved the butt down and pulled the barrel in, back towards himself, as though about to club the xenos to death. And then he pushed the trigger. The lasrifle fired, then sparked and exploded. Ducky fell in silence his face a mass of burns and blood, his uniform burning from the misfire.

‘What in the Emperor’s name is going on here?’ Carson appeared, Mouse trailing behind.

Reeve, for the first time surprised and unsure what to do, retreated. He stepped away and strode off into the darkness with the two Guardsmen he had brought. Carson did not wait an instant. He drew one of his pistols and shot the ork clean through the head as Forjaz and the rest of second platoon scrambled to save Ducky’s life.

‘Well,’ Arbulaster commented to Brooce as they boarded a Valkyrie to fly them back to Dova. ‘I think that went far better than expected, don’t you?’

Brooce did not know how to begin to frame a reply. Fortunately, the colonel did not need one.

‘Did you see his face, Brooce? Did you see it?’

‘Who? The commissar’s?’

‘Not him! The other one. Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ He activated the intra-vox. ‘We’re all on board, Plant. Up, up and away!’

Ten

Carson watched the medicae try to patch Ducky’s face back together again. He had been standing there for two hours already, but the surgeons were still working. They had no one else to attend to aside from Corporal Marble and a private who was laid up after a mishap with a las-cutter. Carson had not even known that the colonel was here. He had been giving his report to Major Roussell when he had heard the news. By the time the platoon had taken Ducky to the medicae tent, none of the senior officers who had caused the disruption could be seen.

Carson ordered Red to get them to their sentry posts. They would be early but it would be better to spread them out and give them a sense of purpose. At the very least, none of them would be falling asleep at their posts tonight. He held back Forjaz and got the story from him, then went inside. Stanhope was already there, watching the surgeons work.

‘Seems like you weren’t the only one Reeve was interested in after all,’ Carson said.

There was no response.

‘Where were you?’ he continued.

Stanhope said nothing. He just stood there like a ghost, a presence without substance.

Carson went over to talk to Marble. He had needed little attention beyond a bandage for his las-burn. He was distraught, over Ducky rather than his rifle. Ducky, he said, must have ridden the trigger too long and overcharged it. He kept on swearing that he hadn’t known that when he told him to shoot the ork. Carson forgave him, though he knew it wasn’t his place to do so. Even so, Marble took comfort from it.

Carson stayed there until he realised the sentry shift was nearly done. The company found him waiting for them at their tent cluster. The hours in the dark had not done much to cool their tempers and several of them wore murderous expressions.

‘Listen close all of you,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s nothing about this that isn’t rotten. Rotten to the core. But Ducky has shown us the way. No matter how that circumstance came to be, when it came down to it he put the company first and himself second.’

He heard the men shift uneasily. He carried on.

‘Now, as likely as not, there’ll be a battle tomorrow. Maybe our last one. Think on that and get some sleep.’

The company fell out and retired to their tents. He stopped Gardner, though, and pulled him over.

‘I understand you have something to tell me, corporal.’

‘No, sir,’ Gardner answered stiffly, but Carson could see the murderous intent in his demeanour.

‘Yes, you damn well do. This Reeve character, who is he? How do you know him?’

‘I don’t–’

‘Don’t lie to me, corporal,’ Carson hissed. ‘You’re worse at it than your big friend. Forjaz saw you. You recognised him. So you tell me, why’s he got my company in his sights?’

‘That I don’t know, sir. Honestly, I don’t. But I have seen him before,’ Gardner replied with menace.

‘When?’ Carson urged.

‘At Cawnpore.’

‘He was on the Execution Boards?’ Carson said, incredulous.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The one that ordered your brother…’

‘Yes, sir. They didn’t tell us the names, and he didn’t wear that coat of his, but I wouldn’t forget his face.’

‘I understand.’ The man was committed, Carson could tell. There was no way to deter him, only to stop him heading out this night and deflect him down a more favourable path. He shook the corporal fiercely. ‘Now listen, there’ll most likely be a battle tomorrow. Maybe our last one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A great battle. A lot of confusion. A lot of death. Think on that,’ Carson felt his meaning could not have been more clear. ‘Now get some sleep.’

After that, Carson took his own advice and retired for the night. His sleep was restless, though, filled with the stories he had heard of the Cawnpore Execution Boards. They hadn’t just taken the mutineers out and put them up against a wall, they had ordered them tied, spread-eagled, across the mouths of Basilisks. When the artillery fired, so he had been told, there was nothing left of the men except their arms, still tied to the cannons, and their blackened heads, which would roll to the ground. At which point the barrels would be lowered and the next mutineers strapped on. He had seen men die in worse ways on the battlefield, but to do that to your own kind… The image plagued his dreams, first seeing his men strapped on and fired through and then the arrival of his turn. As he was raised up and he looked down the barrel he could see the officer about to give the order to fire. It was Stanhope.

‘Lieutenant? Are you awake? Have you heard the news?’

Carson cracked an eye open. Someone was inside his tent. Someone who was reaching for him. As his mind struggled from sleep his body reacted. He grabbed out with one hand, struck cloth, gripped tight. His other hand already held the bayonet he kept by his side. He yanked the shape down and rolled on top of it.

‘It’s me! Wait! Wait!’ the shape whispered in a panic as it felt the sharp point of the bayonet at its throat.

Carson’s mind awoke and found the firm body of Van Am tensed beneath him.

‘M’sorry,’ Carson muttered and took the knife away. He then coughed in surprise as Van Am punched him in the kidney.

‘Damnation, you could have killed me,’ she muttered, flustered. Carson rolled off and made to sit up, but found he couldn’t.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You haven’t heard?’

Carson ordered his body to stand. It refused. ‘Heard what?’

‘The attack. It’s going to be tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? Well, we thought that might happen, didn’t we.’

‘You didn’t know for sure? They said the word had gone out to all the company commanders.’

‘Then it would have gone to Stanhope, wouldn’t it?’ He started to lever himself up just using his arms.

She sensed his effort beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said with a grimace. He felt her sit up beside him, felt her cool hands on his shoulder, on his arm. He gave up the struggle and allowed himself to fall back on his bed.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked her again.

She rolled onto her side. Carson felt her body pressing into his, the heat of her flesh burning his own. Her scent flooded his nostrils, the mixture of the familiar sweat and dirt that all bodies acquire after two weeks in the field and beneath that the heady essence of the female. He could not see her in the darkness, but he knew she was above him, looking down at him, her hair falling around her face, grazing his cheek.

He felt nothing.

He felt her lean in and he put his hand up against her chest to stop her. Her hand encircled his wrist and tried to push it aside, but he held firm.

‘Truly?’

He nodded and then realised that she could not see him in the darkness. ‘I’m afraid so.’

She retreated, sitting back on her knees. ‘So,’ she said after a moment’s silence, ‘is it just me, or is it all those like me?’

Carson knew what she was implying. ‘No, I’m not that way either.’

‘Then what way are you?’

‘I’m just…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m simply not in the game.’

He could tell that that answer had not satisfied her.

‘I think it would be better if you–’

‘Don’t send me away,’ she whispered softly. ‘Don’t send me away. There must be a dozen pairs of eyes who saw me come in here, and they’ll be watching us still. If you send me away so quickly… What will they think of me if they saw I could not interest you even a little?’

‘If your reputation is your concern, I’m surprised you came here at all.’

Van Am flashed from anxiety to amusement. ‘Perhaps, lieutenant, you and I have different ideas as to what I wish my reputation to be.’

He had no argument to that, but merely let the uncomfortable silence linger.

‘How is your man? Your medic?’

‘Blind,’ Carson answered curtly.

‘You weren’t there. And even if you were, what would you have done?’

‘I’d have done something. He was one of my company. I would have done something.’

‘If you had tried to stop it, Reeve would have just had you shot. And then shot Ducky as well.’

‘Reeve?’ he spat. ‘Commissars are human like the rest of us. They bleed and they die. I’ve seen them. There’s nothing special about them, nothing that we don’t create in our own minds.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ she replied thoughtfully. ‘My grandmother and the rest, they came here to be free of men such as him. To live free of Imperial dogma, to worship the Emperor, but to do it in their own way. To have lives of choice, not of blind suppression. And they found here… and we have had a century of freedom before men like Reeve have come chasing after us again.’

She was talking of the commissar, but Carson could tell it was not him alone she resented. It was all of them.

‘A century, yes, before the galaxy caught up. And then your grandmother called for help.’

Van Am grew defensive at that. ‘Don’t make light of her decision. It was an impossible one, but she had to make it. And we will have to carry the consequences.’

Carson felt the sudden coolness form between them. He had not wanted Van Am here, but he did not want her to leave carrying hatred for him. He reached out and took hold of her arm gently. ‘You should know, she made the right choice.’

Van Am covered his hand with her own and held it a moment, then moved away.

‘I think that should be time enough,’ she decided, sitting up.

‘Now it is you not considering my reputation,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughed at that, quietly but freely.

‘Such a shame.’ He felt her hand, cooler now than it was before, on his temple and tracing up into his hair. ‘You’re beautiful, Laurence.’

‘Perhaps. In my day.’

‘No. You are more so now than you could have been back then. Your men, they all love you. They’d give their lives for you. Maybe that’s it? How can one woman compare when you have a whole company who adores you.’

He did not reply, and she knew he would not be drawn further. She sighed one last time.

‘Would it really be so bad? Just two trails crossing in the dark. We may die tomorrow. And even if we don’t, after you take the crater, I will go back to my farms and you will go back to your stars.’

Carson shook his head.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘we won’t be leaving.’

‘No?’

‘You really do not understand who we’re fighting, do you. The orks, they are not like any other foe you can imagine. You cannot just kill them once. Their spores float around them, they’re in the air. You can go through every jungle on this planet, you can shoot every one of them that lives, burn their bodies, and in a few years this place will be teeming again. Voor has not been attacked, it’s been infested, and you and your militia will never be enough.

‘On every world the crusade has encountered with this menace we have left a garrison, sometimes one regiment, sometimes two, sometimes more, all for that very purpose. Whether we take the rok tomorrow or not, we’re here for good.’

‘I see,’ Van Am said quietly. ‘I must go. I hope your man recovers.’

‘Thank you.’

She paused a moment. ‘If you had been there, if you could, would you really have stopped Reeve? Even if it meant…’

Carson did not hesitate. ‘Yes.’

Van Am turned to leave, but stopped suddenly as she saw a group of torches flash by. Men were running outside, quiet but urgent, all over the camp. One of them burst into the tent beside Carson’s and woke the officer sleeping within. Carson heard a mumble of voices, and then a sharp exclamation cut through the night air: ‘Attack! The orks are attacking!’

Carson tried to jump up, but his body collapsed beneath him. He swore and cursed. Not now. Not now!

Van Am stepped to help him, but then stopped short. ‘I’ll get Red, I’ll get one of your men.’

‘No!’ Carson demanded. ‘Help me up.’

‘But you don’t want them to see–’

‘I don’t give a damn how it looks. My men need me! Help me up!’

Corporal Dennett stood sentry on the fire-step of the fort wall and watched the darkness. He had little choice; there was nothing else to look at. The camp behind him was shuttered, the external floodlights were extinguished, any torches inside the tents were on a low-light, and the hopeful light from the moon and stars was smothered by clouds of dirt and ash. Without his noctocle he would not be able to see his own hand before his face. As it was, even with the small noctocle strapped over one eye, he had to strain to make out the detail beyond the walls. There was the ditch the beards had ploughed, the shallow glacis they had constructed with the spoil; beyond that were the stumps of the trees that had been lasered down so as to create a dead ground around the fort.

Beyond those were the ghosts of the trees which had been allowed to stay standing, the barest lines of their trunks and branches visible through the noctocle. Dennett counted himself lucky to have caught sight of the orks at all. He watched them now as they crept towards the wooden walls. They appeared to be having no trouble navigating in the blackness.

Dennett had fought orks before, he knew them to be tougher, stronger, more resilient than men. It seemed to Dennett that the same was true for most of the xenos races that the crusade had encountered. Each one outstripped men in some capacity: the eldar with their speed and their technology, the orks with their numbers and their savagery, the Karthadasim and the bewildering array of spined, horned, bestial mercenaries in their employ. And yet they had all been defeated by armies of men; men, who Dennett knew to be little more than weak, pink, fragile, with little granted by nature be it in defence or attack. How had they done it?

Through the noctocle Dennett could see that some of the orks were grouped together, holding aloft crude ladders made from the giant trunks and branches from the trees. A few hours earlier, those same logs the orks now carried had been felled by the beards. There must be some irony in that, Dennett reflected, but he doubted that either side would appreciate it. When he had fought the orks before, he had been one of the 74th, one of Ingertoll’s Ironsides. It had been they who had spearheaded the last strike against the Waaagh, had boarded the rok when it had been in space, had laid the explosives to cripple its engines and send it spiralling into the sun. Few of the 74th had survived. Those few believed they had succeeded. Those who had passed since had at least been spared this, the sight of the orkish taint upon another world.

Dennett heard a whisper from the man beside him and passed it along. The first of the orks were closer now, approaching the glacis. If he had not seen them by now, though, he most certainly would have heard them. They believed they were being stealthy, but they were young, little more than new-spawns. For all the fighting instincts that orkoids were spawned with, there were many lessons you only learned through experience. And sometimes the price you had to pay for that lesson was your life. There was probably some irony there as well, Dennett mused.

‘Fire!’

The volley of las-fire flashed along the length of the fort walls, illuminating the shocked orks for an instant before it burned into their flesh. They yelled in pain and surprise; some bodies dropped, others stumbled. Dennett had targeted one of the ladder carriers at the front. He had gone for the face, hoping for a kill-shot, but the ork had swayed a fraction just before the volley and the shot had struck the side of its temple instead. Dennett saw the shot hit, saw the ork’s head flick to one side as the shot scorched into it, saw it roar then shake itself and continue on. Dennett cursed. He had been tempted to go for the kill. He should have known better. He shifted his aim down and went for the legs.

‘Free fire!’ The order came just a second later from the officer a few yards away.

Dennett heard the whine of his lasgun as it finished its cycle and fired again. This time the ork, who had started to charge, stumbled. It lost its grip upon the ram and brought its two kin behind it down as well. The ram lurched and swung out of control. Better, Dennett judged.

The floods burst on, transfixing the orks with light for the moment it took for their red eyes to adjust. Dennett’s noctocle flared in his eye like a starburst before it cleared, shutting down automatically before it overloaded. He saw clearly now the sheer numbers of the wave of enemies about to break against them. The orks, blinded, surprised and confused, did what they always did when confronted with the unexpected: they charged, some of them even dropping their siege tools, so gripped were they by the instinct to rush forwards. They charged up the glacis towards the wall, waving their blades high in the air, thinking the slope would take them straight up to the walls, and then they tumbled down into the trench, pushed forwards by those behind, striking their kin as they flailed for purchase. Dennett heard their cries of alarm beneath him and then the plaintive blows as they vainly tried to chop through the thick trunks of the base of the wall.

‘Grenades!’ the order came down.

These ork whelps may have sprung from the ground born for war, but Dennett and all the other Brimlocks had lived it these last twenty years. The whelps had thought to try to take the 11th unawares. But Dennett and the other sentries had seen them coming even before they reached the dead ground, had alerted their officers who had roused the camp and readied the platoons that were now pouring fire into the outclassed besiegers. All the while the misguided orks slowly crept forwards, still believing that the advantage was theirs. It was time, Dennett thought with relish as he reached for a fragmentation bomb, to teach these newest pustules of the orkoid galactic pox the difference between instinct and experience, between savagery and soldiery.

Dennett activated the bomb, held it those crucial few seconds to ensure there would be no time for the foe to throw it back, and then tossed it down into the trench.

Carson heard the distinctive crack of the frag grenades as he struggled from his tent, his arm locked around Van Am and trusting her to take his weight. They staggered over to where his company was already formed up. Standing orders for such night flaps as these were for only those companies closest to a wall to respond to the attack.

He knew he must look ridiculous, reporting for duty, half-dressed, his arm slung over a woman. None of his men said anything and, to their credit, most did not think anything either. Red instantly came over and helped lower him to the ground. There were no orders, not that he could move out even if he were ordered to. Stanhope had turned out, looking almost as ridiculous, still dressed as a common trooper. He could see Carson’s predicament, but took no steps to take command. After what had happened earlier that night, Carson would not have let him anyway. Damn him, Carson thought, he’d ride to battle strapped onto Frn’k’s back before he’d let that man near his company. He just had to pray that his body responded before Major Roussell found a use for him.

Eleven

Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

The ork attack was in chaos. The trench hidden between the glacis and the fort wall was filled now with their dead. Those who survived the murderous shrapnel of the fragmentation grenades found themselves trapped there, having ditched their rams and ladders in the confusion of the Brimlocks’ fire. A few of them started trying to climb back up the glacis to go back and retrieve them, and they were easy targets for the troopers’ guns. The rest were left to hack desperately at the wall itself, trying to heave apart the wooden posts. Then the autocannons in the closest corner tower opened up and swept down the entire length of the trench, blowing both the dead and the living apart without discrimination.

For a few moments then there was relative peace. There was no sound from the trench aside from the high-pitched growls of a few squig pets, either mourning or eating their masters. Dennett lowered his hot lasgun. Behind him, the camp was still rising, officers were sending back for orders, sergeants were yelling men into their ranks. Dennett heard a horse whinny as an alarmed trooper pulled too tightly on its reins, and then the rumble of engines as the beards awoke their Sentinels. He heard some of his fellow troopers ask if that was it. One of them suggested that it had just been a raid to test their defences and steal from them an hour’s sleep. Another that the orks had seen how their first wave had been slaughtered, and had then tired of the fight.

From the darkness beyond the dead ground, a single horn sounded. First one, then another, then dozens. A light, a torch, flared amongst the trees. It split into two, then four, then dozens, then hundreds to either side as each ork warrior lit its torch from that of its neighbour, until the arc of fire stretched across the width of the jungle horizon.

Dennett heard the thudding steps of another company of troopers as they ran up onto the wall and took up firing positions alongside them. He heard the autocannon crews in the towers call for more ammunition and the profanity uttered by the trooper who had proposed that the orks might have tired of the fight. Dennett leaned forwards again, sighted his gun and stroked his Ironsides insignia once more. An ork could no more tire of war than a man could tire of his own breath. They could only be killed, all of them, and that was exactly what Dennett intended to do.

‘How many of them are there?’ Major Roussell asked again, as he prowled around inside the tent at the centre of the camp.

‘Looks like at least a thousand,’ Captain Gomery replied again.

‘How many more might there be?’ Roussell asked again.

‘We don’t know,’ Gomery replied again.

Roussell stopped suddenly, the conversation was going in circles.

‘Are they attacking just the west wall?’ he asked.

‘So far.’

‘Are they going to attack the other walls?’

‘We don’t know,’ Gomery replied again.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, we can’t see into the jungle and the rok is still fouling up the auspexes.’

‘Well what use is that?’ Roussell exploded.

Captain Gomery bridled a bit. He wasn’t some lagging corporal Roussell could bawl out at the drop of a hat. He was an officer, and almost as senior as Roussell. He’d been a leader most of his life and even back at the cadet schola on Brimlock it had been he who’d captained the field game squad to a nearly unbeaten season, not Roussell. Gomery secretly suspected that if it hadn’t been for Arbulaster’s disapproval of Mister Emmett, then he would have been promoted above Roussell a long time ago. He certainly wouldn’t be here waiting for orders while Roussell paced up and down like a ratling trying to decide on his dinner.

‘Have we got through to Dova yet?’ Roussell cast about.

‘I don’t know–’ Gomery started.

‘Then go and find out!’

Gomery stared, piqued, at Roussell for a moment, then picked up Mister Emmett, tucked him under his arm and strode outside.

Roussell watched Gomery depart with not a little relief. The man had been trying to oust him from his seniority for three years now, ever since the 92nd had been decimated crossing the Katee River on Ordan and the survivors had been folded into the 11th. He’d never let up about his nearly unbeaten season as team captain in his last year at schola either, as though prancing up and down a field and kicking a ball had anything to do with an officer’s competency to lead men into battle. Even now he still carried a ball around him wherever he went, painted to look like a face with white daubs for its eyes, nose and mouth.

Roussell had no idea who the real Mister Emmett was, or even if there ever was one, but he praised the Emperor for him because that was all the colonel needed to see to ensure that Captain Gomery was never going to be promoted again.

Roussell knew that, as the senior officer, he was in charge, but he had been left here practically alone. The only other major up at the fort with him was the artillery commander, Major Rosa, and you couldn’t trust an officer whose idea of a day’s work was to sit down with paper and pencil and a cogitator in order to work out how to hit something five miles away. That wasn’t proper officering. The colonel and Brooce had gone back to Dova, so had Drum and his tanks. The orks weren’t supposed to be attacking them at night when they were battened down safely in their fort. Why now and not during the day when they dispersed along the trail and it was Arbulaster or Brooce who would have to put their reputation on the line?

Brooce had it in for him; he had been trying to oust him from his seniority for ten years now, ever since the 371st had been the first to go in on Mespots and the survivors were folded into the 11th. In fact, Roussell wouldn’t have put it past Brooce to have set him up, leaving him in command when he knew an attack was coming, so as to blacken his eye. Roussell had served the entire crusade, he had won over a dozen victories in the first ten years, he had a chest-full of clink, his place in the colour-guard had been guaranteed even then, and he had steered clear of all disgrace since. But it would all be for nothing if a costly debacle could be pinned on him here at the last!

But the battle was going well, too well. The orks’ first attack had been beaten back without loss by Captain Wymondham’s company on the west wall. Tyrwhitt’s company, as the closest company encamped, had automatically moved up to the wall to add their firepower. The remainder of the line companies were either on the other walls watching out for flanking attacks or were forming up as a ready reserve in the centre of the camp. Rosa’s mortars were deploying and in a few minutes would be dropping ranging shots on the ork’s horde. Everyone was doing exactly what they should be… despite the fact that he had not issued a single order yet!

It was a nightmare! If they won the battle without him issuing a single order then he would look a fool, as though he had slept through the whole thing. But as everyone was doing exactly what they should be doing and everything was going splendidly, any order he did give would be to get someone to do something that they shouldn’t be doing and he would look like an idiot. Worse, if everything then stopped going splendidly, it would be his order that would get blamed for turning the tide against them. And if he issued an order to order everyone to do exactly what they were already doing he would look like an incompetent who didn’t know what his troops were already doing. And if he issued an order to order everyone to continue doing what they were already doing he would draw even more attention to the fact that they had all been doing exactly what they should be doing without any orders from him! He was trapped. Utterly trapped.

Another runner came into the tent looking for orders, his helmet and uniform both stained brown.

‘Lieutenant Carson sends his apologies, sir, and requests orders for his company.’

Roussell eyed the runner suspiciously. He wasn’t a young man, but then none of them were. He was heavy-set with a powerful frame, his skin mottled and scarred, though his stare was as wide-eyed as a child’s. But if he came looking for orders he had come to the wrong place.

‘What’s your name, trooper?’

‘Private Stones, sir.’

‘Don’t know you. Where’s the second lieutenant?’ Roussell stressed the ‘second’. Too many people, officers and men alike, seemed to forget Carson’s proper rank. Carson, Roussell knew, was another one who would have ousted him from his seniority if he could. Then he could have both the light companies to himself. But he’d killed the wrong man and he was never getting out from under that.

‘He’s indisposed, sir.’

‘You mean he’s in that Voorjer trollop.’ Roussell mocked Carson’s success with her because he’d had none himself. ‘Tell him he can stay there! Stanhope’s company stays in reserve. They shall not engage until and unless they receive orders to do so.’

He swept away from the man, dismissing him. But Blanks didn’t leave.

‘And if attacked, he should still not engage?’

Roussell tried to peer down at the private; however, he found it difficult to peer down at the taller man. ‘Are you trying to be smart, man?’

‘No, sir. Merely trying to understand your orders fully. Sir.’ Blanks replied. Roussell did not miss the slight lengthening of the pause.

‘Of course he should engage!’ Roussell snapped back. Carson wasn’t going to get the chance to have his men stand passively by as they got hacked apart and then blame it on his orders! ‘He should do exactly as he should do at all times until ordered otherwise.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘Most definitely not!’ Roussell fumed.

‘Understood, sir,’ Blanks left. Roussell would have called him up on failing to salute an officer if he had not then been distracted by Gomery walking back in, still carrying Mister Emmett.

‘Signals in touch with Dova. They’re waking the colonel; they’ll patch it through here.’

‘Excellent.’ Roussell started stalking again impatiently. Soon someone else would be giving the orders and it would be their reputation on the line and not his. He noticed Gomery was staring at him.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Orders for my company?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Roussell considered for a moment as he prowled. ‘First, though, the orks.’

‘Yes?’ Gomery asked impatiently.

‘How many of them are there?’

Thousands of them. That’s how many there seemed to be to Dennett as he pulled his gun’s trigger, listened to it whine as the power cycled back and then pulled the trigger again. His shoulder ached and his cheek was burning from being pressed against the overheating gun, but he continued to fire as quickly as he could.

The las-shots poured from the top of the wall like bolts from the heavens, but their effect was far less impressive. The ork was tough; a single lasgun shot, more often than not, would scorch its hide but not bring it down. The troopers had to hit their targets two or three times in succession to get the kill. Dennett himself had hit one ork five times in a row; each time the ork lurched, but then shrugged off the injury, before the sixth shot made it tumble.

Tyrwhitt’s troopers had already mounted the wall and were adding their own fire, but as fast as they all shot, it wasn’t enough to hold the horde back. The orks had swarmed across the dead ground and the glacis, and as soon as they had reached the trench they had lobbed their torches up into the blinding light of the floods and onto the wall. Some were thrown too short and rebounded off the ramparts back onto the heads of the orks in the trench, but the rest sailed high, slow enough for a man to dodge normally, but not when crammed onto a firing-step, pressed up close with fellows either side.

The torches smacked home onto Brimlock helmets, and troopers all along the wall jerked away from the flames, believing themselves to be alight. They shouted in alarm and stepped back from the step, dropping their guns and batting at themselves. The men either side of them stopped firing as well to aid them or to defend themselves against their fellows’ wild flailing. The las-fire lessened and the orks bellowed in triumph and hoisted up their makeshift ladders again.

The officers shouted at their men to keep shooting; the sergeants stepped up behind them, smacking the panicking men and hauling them back to their posts, kicking the torches off the back of the walls for the next company coming up in reserve to douse. The autocannons in the high towers continued to spray their fire, unable to miss the mass of ork warriors beneath them, but it was not enough. Even as the singed troopers picked their lasguns up again, the ladders were thumping onto the ramparts.

‘We’re to stay put?’ Carson questioned Blanks. He could stand on his own again and Van Am had returned to her Voorjer scouts.

‘Unless attacked,’ Blanks replied.

Carson turned to the assembled company. His eyes flicked briefly to Stanhope, but the major was simply staring over to the west, lost in some personal reverie. Carson drew his breath and opened his mouth to give his orders, but whatever he was going to say was lost in the explosion.

‘Fix bayonets!’ Captain Wymondham had shouted a few minutes before as he fired his pistol into the face of a climbing ork. They were crawling all over the wall now. The autocannons had targeted the base of the tree-trunk ladders where the orks had bunched together and swept them clean, but there were too many ladders and not enough guns.

The orks dropped their weapons and used the logs as though they were ramps, charging up on all fours like apes. The troopers concentrated their fire on those at the front, the orks’ bodies erupting with the red shot as they cartwheeled off the trunk-ladders, dying in mid-air. But then the troopers faced agonising seconds, while their guns recycled and the ork behind the first kept charging on. That ork got two metres more before the red shot lashed out again, and the one behind it got one metre further.

The orks bought each step with lives, but they were willing to spend them, until finally they were close enough to leap from the end of the ladder and cannonball into the knot of humans ranged against them, smacking them aside.

Dennett halted his fire and grabbed his bayonet. He ducked down, brought his lasgun back, swore as he burned his fingers on the barrel and slotted the bayonet home. A thick green hand slammed down on the rampart right by his face. Dennett snapped his head up and looked straight into the red burning eyes of an ork who had climbed up the sheer wall. It shouted unintelligibly into his face and let go of one of its handholds to grab him, catching the lip of his helmet. Dennett tried to rip it off, but the chinstrap had caught and wouldn’t come free. He hauled himself away from the wall and the ork held on tight, dragging itself over the rampart.

Gun and bayonet lost, Dennett fell down the earth slope behind the fire-step and the ork rolled with him, both of them punching, scratching and kicking at the other with all the strength they could muster. Its barks and grunts filled his ears, its pungent fungoid smell invaded his nose.

They hit the ground tangled together, the ork pressing down upon him. It heaved and Dennett felt his throat tighten, and then a sudden release as his chinstrap broke and the ork ripped the helmet from his head. The xenos monster towered over him in the night and gripped the helmet with both hands, ready to smash it down on Dennett’s head and break his skull apart. Dennett scrabbled in the dirt behind his back for anything to defend himself with, but he was too slow and the ork hammered down with a cry of victory.

Dennett clenched his eyes shut as the ork’s cry turned into one of outrage as it found itself plucked from the ground and lifted effortlessly into the air.

Dennett looked and there above him stood another monster, this one standing twice the height even of an ork and made of cold, grey steel. The Sentinel held the struggling ork aloft in its hydraulic claw and, without missing a step, the beard at the controls activated the las-cutter and sliced the ork to pieces. Dennett shielded himself from the rain of cleanly cut segments of ork.

All around him, the Sentinels of the support company were climbing the earth slope up to the ramparts. The troopers fighting on the walls made way to give them room. The Sentinels ignored the orks already on the ramparts, instead making straight for their targets: the log-ladders. One Sentinel was not quick enough, and an ork leapt onto its cockpit. The beard inside fired his pistol, but the ork held on and wrapped its hands over the man’s head and crunched. The Sentinel overbalanced and fell forwards, smacking down on the log-ladder and knocking it from the wall.

The rest of the Sentinels took a grip on the logs but did not push them off; rather they pulled and dragged them over the wall and into the fort. The climbing orks clung on as their ladders were launched forwards, but the Sentinels merely twisted their grip to turn the logs upside down and wiped the orks off like a gentleman using a boot-scraper.

Dennett scrabbled back up the slope. Everywhere men were cheering, and he found himself cheering as well. The orks remaining on the ramparts were outnumbered and swiftly skewered by the merciless Brimlocks. Dennett found his gun, the unused bayonet still in its socket, and took his place again on the fire-step amongst his jubilant fellows.

He looked out onto the floodlit dead ground, now fully deserving its name as it lay carpeted with ork corpses, and the furious ork warriors cutting handholds into the wall. He raised his gun once again to pick them off and so did not see the shape in the darkness beyond the floodlights. He heard the boom, however, and looked up just in time to see the giant comet of fire burning towards him.

Roussell did not hear the sound of the mega-bombard firing, but he did hear the explosion that cracked the western wall and reverberated throughout the camp. And when he heard it, he muttered his thanks to the Emperor. Finally, all was not going to plan.

Arbulaster’s angry, flustered voice erupted on the vox in front of him.

‘What the throne is going on up there?’

Roussell replied crisply. ‘We’re under assault, colonel. Several thousand attackers. We’re coming under heavy fire. All companies are in defending positions. Transmitting details now and awaiting your orders.’

Roussell breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Back at Dova, the colonel would be receiving all the data he needed so as to decide what actions were best. The battle was finally out of his hands.

Twelve

Carson arrived to find the western wall still burning. The bodies of a half-dozen troopers littered the earth slope at the point of impact. Their platoon-mates were tumbling down either side of them in disarray, Captain Wymondham calling uselessly after them from the ramparts, his company dissolving around him. Carson heard the explosion again from beyond the walls and Wymondham was plucked from where he stood and thrown in a flaming arc through the air. The survivors around him rolled down the slope to extinguish themselves and then kept running.

The wall had held so far, Carson saw, but that wouldn’t matter if there was no one left defending it.

‘Stop ’em, Red,’ he ordered, pointing at the fleeing men. ‘Booth, take the north section up to the tower. Forjaz, you’re with me.’

Carson led Forjaz and second platoon up the slope, his thrice-cursed legs pumping hard. An ork appeared, hauling itself up over the wall. Carson drew his pistol and snap-fired as he ran. The heavy shot burned through the xenos’s face and caused its brain to explode inside its skull. Another ork appeared. Carson flicked his hand and his other pistol was there, firing. The second xenos met the same fate as the first.

Second platoon crashed into the top of the wall and threw the climbing orks back. Frn’k bounded up, snapping an ork’s neck and knocking it off the ramparts with a smack of his hand. Then he suddenly dropped down onto his hands and knees and the autocannon strapped to his back was in the perfect position to fire down the length of the wall. Gardner, following right behind him, was there ready to pull the trigger, and he and his ogryn cackled with glee as the climbing orks fell from their tenuous fingerholds and scrambled for cover.

Further along the wall, Tyrwhitt’s men were holding their footing against the attack. Carson snatched a glance over the wall at the dead ground. This assault had been too light and he quickly saw why; it had consisted only of those orks who had survived the previous waves and had been caught in the trench below. The next wave proper was holding its position beyond the range of the floodlights. They were waiting for a breach.

As if at their request, the mega-bombard fired again. Carson ducked instinctively, but this shot went wide, striking further down the wall, incinerating in an instant half a squad from one of Tyrwhitt’s platoons and the dozen orks climbing up at them.

With that bombard, it would be deadly to stay where they were. The orks could pound them with impunity, and until their main force attacked, his men could do nothing but sit there. Better to send second platoon back to the rest of the company at the bottom of the earth slope; a few observers in the towers could give them warning enough to get up to the ramparts.

‘Message incoming from Major Roussell,’ Peel, his vox-officer, started. Carson took the proffered handset and held it to his ear. The voice of Major Roussell crackled back at him.

‘--- All companies --- Defend the western wall --- No retreat --- Hold the wall at all costs --- Order direct from the colonel --- Stay on the wall ---’

Direct from the colonel? Carson swore under his breath. The colonel was nearly forty miles away, why in the blazes was Roussell deferring to him? And why were they piling the men onto the wall like ducks on a shooting range?

‘That’s it. I’m going to take it out,’ one of the platoon announced a few paces away. Carson looked back. It was Blanks, and he was already strapping on a noctocle he had taken from a dead corporal and readying to move out. He wasn’t going to ask permission.

‘You bleeding well stay in line, trooper, or I’ll have your guts on the end of my poker,’ Forjaz ordered him.

Blanks stopped, suddenly confused, though only for an instant.

‘Yes… yes, sergeant.’

‘What did you say?’ Carson pushed his way over to him.

‘I’m sorry, lieutenant,’ Blanks corrected himself. ‘I only meant to say that I volunteer...’

Carson grabbed his arm. ‘You think you can do it?’

Blanks looked up at him. ‘Yes. I do.’

Carson looked at the man. No one should be volunteering to do such a task, certainly not on their own, and yet, even crouched here behind the ramparts waiting to be blown to oblivion, this new man to his company had such an air of confidence about him that Carson actually believed he could.

‘What do you need?’

‘Just a permission slip, lieutenant, in case an officer stops me.’

‘Mouse!’ Carson shouted, and the trooper scurried across. ‘Give Blanks one of my absence slips.’

‘Sir!’ Mouse claimed. ‘You know I don’t keep any–’

‘Don’t bull me, trooper,’ Carson told him and Mouse reluctantly reached inside his coat.

‘Forjaz,’ Carson continued, ‘you go with him. Watch his back.’

Forjaz was speechless for a moment. Surely, he thought, the lieutenant knew it was suicide. Feeling Carson’s stare upon him, however, the hard-bitten sergeant muttered ‘Yes, sir’ with a shaky voice.

‘I’ll be quicker on my own, lieutenant,’ Blanks said, taking the plas-sheet that Mouse produced.

‘I’m not sending a man out there on his own. That’s not how we do things,’ Carson replied. And I don’t know you, he mentally added. Maybe you are what you seem and maybe you’re not, but either way I’m not letting you run wild.

Carson watched the two men hasten towards the gate in the southern wall. He doubted Blanks would succeed, but Forjaz would keep his head. Forjaz would come back alive and most likely bring Blanks with him.

‘Incoming!’

Even though they were already crouched behind the ramparts, the platoon ducked instinctively at the sound of the mega-bombard. This time, however, the explosion was followed by the sound they all dreaded to hear; from further down the wall the shout began:

‘Breach! Breach!’

Forjaz paused a moment when he heard the shout, but Blanks did not. He knew what his mission was. There were nearly a thousand men in Fort Eliza, more than enough to defend a breach so long as their officers kept their heads. Given time, however, that mega-bombard could make a dozen more like it. That was the real threat and so Blanks kept running, and Forjaz cursed and hurried after him.

The breach wasn’t fatal. The shot from the mega-bombard had struck the glacis and deflected up, striking the wall there, a quarter of the way up. It had smacked into the wall and the earth behind, but it had not shattered and instead rolled back into the trench, crushing the orks floundering there. With the top half of the wall caved in, the shot formed a giant stepping-stone over the barrier and into the fort.

It wasn’t much, but for the ork warriors who had been forced to wait in the darkness beyond the dead ground, even such a crack was encouragement enough.

‘Red! Red!’ Carson called as the orks roared in slavering anticipation. Red, bless his flaring nostrils and scarlet face, was there.

‘Ready, sah!’ the colour-sergeant acknowledged. ‘Right, you shockers, after me!’

Red no longer commanded only first platoon. He had bawled, shoved and bullied sixty more men from the late Wymondham’s company into line. Now, at their head, Red manoeuvred them like a giant stopper to plug the breach. The construction Sentinels moved ahead of them, carrying empty crates, spars and drums to fill the gap.

Gardner opened fire out over the dead ground again. Carson looked and saw the horde plunging towards them, the light of the floods casting their green skins grey. This was it. Gardner’s weapon and the other autocannons firing along the wall barely scratched it; the mortar shells that Rosa’s men were now lobbing into their midst were not enough. If the western wall was to be held, then it would be with only lasgun and bayonet.

Major Roussell heard the news of the breach. Established procedure in the instance of a breach was to construct a second line; however, adhering to established procedures was not a cast-iron defence in a court-martial. Following a direct order, on the other hand, was. Guard officers were not excused the use of their initiative in the pursuit of victory, but orders were inviolable. And so Major Roussell used his initiative and relayed the news to the increasingly exasperated Arbulaster and waited for orders.

‘Grenades!’ Carson commanded. The orks were racing for the breach now. For all their bulk they had a surprising turn of speed. Each one of them was running at full pelt, but even in such a mass, they were not stumbling or tripping over each other. Their base, unerring warrior instinct kept their charge intact, and they were going to beat Red’s scratch company to the breach. They shoved their weapons between their teeth and, dropping onto all fours, they bounded up the impromptu ramp made by the bombard shot and launched themselves at Tyrwhitt’s defenders.

The orks, however, would not beat the Sentinels. The beards at the controls manoeuvred the striding engines of war up the incline with the ease of long experience. Now the orks had committed their full force, Carson’s men and the Sentinels would only have to hold their attack for a few minutes until the companies still held in reserve all around the camp could come up. Then any ork that made it through the breach would be met by hundreds of lasguns.

Carson heard another squawking on the vox, but did not care to hear Roussell exhorting them still further. But the beards in the sentinels had listened. They paused a moment and then, with the same expertise with which they had advanced, they swung their walkers around and marched back down again.

Carson could not believe his eyes. He looked in askance at his vox-trooper, but he was already staring back towards the camp; in every corner the reserve companies had halted as well. Then, following a chorus of new orders, they too turned to retreat.

‘What’s that idiot done?’

‘Yes, major, follow established procedures if you are not certain the breached wall can be saved,’ Colonel Arbulaster repeated over the vox, while the sounds of the Valkyries lifting-off could be heard in the background.

‘And the companies still engaged on the wall, colonel? Can you just confirm?’ Roussell queried.

‘Is your secondary defence line already established?’ Arbulaster’s voice seared with sarcasm.

‘No, colonel,’ Roussell reported conscientiously.

‘Then they’ll have to buy you the damn time then, won’t they.’

‘Hold position, sir,’ the vox-trooper replied. His voice had not quivered, but Carson could see that beneath the brim of his Guard-issue helmet the man’s face had paled.

Carson felt the blood thundering in his ears. Roussell was hanging every man at the wall out to dry. Carson was going to kill him, if he didn’t die here first.

Blanks flew through the darkness. He and Forjaz had run over to the southern wall, ignoring the flood of men who streamed past them towards the breach, and dropped down the other side of the main gate onto the hard track beyond. With the orks focused on the new partial breach in the western wall, speed was more important than stealth.

They had dashed down the track, almost as though they were fleeing the battle, until they were outside the range of the floodlights. There they had switched to the noctocles and looped up into the woods and around to where Blanks was certain he had spotted the ork mega-bombard.

As they went, Blanks could see the glowing outlines of the trees and the morass of tangled undergrowth through the noctocle. It was difficult terrain even in the day; at night, at a run, it should have been nigh impossible, and yet every time he put down his foot it found somewhere firm, every time he stretched out his hand it grasped solid wood to steady his step.

Behind him, he heard Forjaz breathing hard at the exertion, but he had barely broken a sweat. A tree had fallen across his path; he leapt and vaulted across it. He did not know how his body knew to do such things, it just did. Maybe this is what he had been in his old regiment: a runner, a messenger, someone who might deliver the vital ammunition to the gun team, the spare part to the broken-down tank, or return the critically wounded man to the medicae.

He saw the outline of the ork on the other side of the tree trunk just before he crashed into it. They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Blanks felt his elbow strike the beast’s throat, then found his bayonet in his hand plunging into its eye. He pulled it free, rolled to his feet and flung it hard in front of him. The other ork made a bubbling noise as it sank to its knees, Blanks’s bayonet embedded in its neck. It was only then that his instincts stopped firing and his thoughts caught up.

‘You’re a violent bastard, aren’t you,’ Forjaz said from atop the fallen trunk, regaining his breath.

‘You need to stop?’ Blanks asked.

‘No,’ Forjaz bit back, but his heaving chest said otherwise.

Blanks stepped warily over to the gurgling xenos, watching its eerie green outline through the noctocle. Its eyes were fixed, but its arm was still flapping a fraction. Its brain was trying to send signals to its arm to pull the weapon free from its neck, but its arm no longer understood the brain’s instructions. It hadn’t been like this at the ambush; there he had been in the third line, the orks had been shapes through the trees and then scorched corpses on the ground. He had seen them alive and dead, but he had not watched them die.

He trod down on the arm to stop it moving, twisted the bayonet and cut it free through the flesh, opening the ork’s throat. It slumped, dead, into the undergrowth.

‘Rearguard, do you think?’ Blanks asked.

‘Unlikely.’ Forjaz sat on the trunk and pushed himself off, his breathing still heavy. ‘They’re new-spawns. Whelps. They were probably doing the same as us. Trying to sneak around the back.’

‘Orks sneak? I thought they only went straight for you.’

Forjaz stared at the trooper. ‘Of course they sneak! You never fought them before?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Perfect,’ Forjaz spat.

Ahead of them, the woods lit up as the mega-bombard fired again.

The shot flew across the same path as the last. The wall exploded, throwing fragments of wood, earth and pieces of both the orkish attackers and Tyrwhitt’s defenders up into the air. As the shower of blood, flesh and dirt fell to the ground Carson saw the yawning gap that had now been created, as though the orkish gods had swung an almighty hammer and smashed their way through.

‘Get the breach! Get the breach!’ Carson bellowed to his platoon, but the orks were already there. They were ugly, snorting animals, daubed with war-paint decorating their bodies with the symbols of their gods, wielding clubs and cudgels hewn from the jungle trees, and picks and axes made from sharpened spars and rocks. They roared with bloodlust as they charged forwards over the trench of their dead and into the fort.

‘First rank, fire!’

The orks at the front were sliced to pieces by the criss-crossing las lines.

‘Second rank, fire!’ It was Red. As soon as he had realised that he would lose the race to the breach he had formed the survivors of Wymondham’s company up within the camp itself. Now he was calling out the ranks as quickly as he could, disciplining the fire against the cycle time of the lasguns to work them at their utmost effectiveness. Against a human foe it might have been enough, but orks were not human.

‘Gardner!’ he shouted to the corporal still blazing away on the autocannon that Frn’k had braced against his shoulder. ‘Redeploy!’

Gardner released his trigger and smacked the ogryn on the side of the head.

‘Trouble, we move! Quick march!’ The ogryn grunted and then heaved both the autocannon and Gardner bodily into the air. When they reached the rest of second platoon, Frn’k simply dropped to one knee, holding the gun like a bazooka, and Gardner was firing in an instant.

The platoon poured their fire down onto the endless ranks of orks streaming inside. Even as some of the orks turned to meet the threat, the toughest of the first wave, screaming and scarred, reached the ranks of Red’s company, only to be pierced by the tips of the troopers’ bayonets.

But the orks did not feel pain as men did. Each attacker had to be crippled or killed to halt them and, even impaled, they still clawed at the troopers. Red’s company lost their firing routine, as their line crumbled into a brutal close combat they could not win. Red launched himself forwards, swinging ‘Old Contemptible’ high to bring it crashing down on ork heads. Carson flicked his pistols up to help him, but one of his troopers blocked his shot.

‘Get out of the way!’ he snarled, but the trooper was already moving, running down the slope towards the melee, drawing a heavy, curved blade as he went. It was Stanhope. He was not yelling; he was deathly silent, his energy entirely focused. He reached the combat just as Red fell back, face crumpled by an ork fist. The ork grabbed the sergeant by the arm to finish him off and Stanhope whirled the fell-cutter in his grip and brought it down.

The fearsome reputation of the fell-cutter, and the margoes who wielded them, was well-deserved. Though it looked like a sword, its use bore little relation to the swift, slender blades that Brimlock officers and cavalrymen carried, which were designed to thrust at their opponents; the fell-cutter’s sole purpose was to cut, and that it achieved with great effect.

Stanhope’s first blow chopped straight through the arm holding Red and carried on going, slicing the cap off the ork’s knee. Even as it fell back, the beast behind it grabbed straight for Stanhope who spun and drove the blade into its stomach, its curve sliding it up behind the ribs. Stanhope shoved it away, pulled the sword out and, bringing it round like a windmill’s sail, chopped the ork’s head in two.

Carson adjusted his aim and blew out the brains of the third ork about to swing a stone axe down upon the major’s back. Stanhope did not notice, he only kept on fighting.

The volleys of fire began haltingly again as the foremost orks reeled back for a moment. Stanhope fought through the beams, miraculously untouched by his own side, but Carson knew this moment’s brilliant madness could not last.

A few orks had stepped back, but that was nothing against the tide behind them pushing them further in, and the orks redoubled their charge.

The mega-bombard fired again and struck the southern tower and Tyrwhitt’s heavy weapon crews firing there.

‘Sir!’ Gardner called as he continued to fire. ‘Need more ammo!’

Carson heard the sound in the wind, the screech that would turn into a deathly roar as though now the planet was coming for them. Any retreat under these conditions would turn into a rout as the orks launched themselves upon them, but he had no other hope.

‘Message from Valkyrie flight, sir,’ the aide reported to Major Roussell. ‘They’re incoming, requesting targeting instructions.’

‘Targeting?’ Roussell declared. ‘There’s an ork horde outside our walls and they want us to tell them where they are? Tell them to look out their damn windows.’

‘They’re coming in rather fast, sir. If they have to fly-past first to recce then it will delay–’

‘Yes, yes, very well.’ Roussell gritted his teeth in annoyance, yet he could not allow any evidence that he had been negligent in his duties. ‘Give them the coordinates of the breach. The orks will have taken it by now, they’ll be massed there. They can fire free.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Crouching low in the dark undergrowth, Blanks watched the mega- bombard being reloaded. Its crew of dozens of gretchin swarmed across its surface, trying to hoist a new shot into its wide gaping mouth. One of them slipped and fell inside, leaving the others to burst into hoots of laughter, curtailed by one of the ork overseers cracking its whip. The defences around the mega-bombard were exactly as Forjaz had feared. Formidable. Aside from the overseers, nearly fifty ork warriors stood close at hand. These were not the thinner, smaller new-spawns they had fought before; these were fully matured. Even hunched over they were as tall as men, the muscles of their arms as thick as a man’s torso. At their head was an even larger ork carrying a stone hammer and adorned in armour made of bent metal rings. It was obviously enjoying the carnage the mega-bombard was inflicting.

‘That’s him, that’s the warboss,’ Forjaz muttered, lying beside Blanks. ‘I don’t know what your plan is, but if you think you’re going to pull some one-man-army bollocks and try to storm it with just the two of us, I’ll shoot you myself.’

‘Understood,’ Blanks replied. In truth, he did not know what his plan was. He hadn’t had a plan even when he volunteered, he hadn’t been thinking; it’d been instinct. The mega-bombard was the primary threat, it had to be destroyed. He could not destroy it from a distance, and so he had to get closer. It had all been obvious to him at the time, but now he was here he found himself reaching for knowledge in parts of his mind and finding them empty. But then he heard the sound of the wind, and that was when he stopped thinking and started letting his instincts rule his actions.

‘Give me the hand-vox,’ he told Forjaz.

‘Who’re you going to call?’ he asked, mockingly, as he handed it over.

But Blanks wasn’t going to call anyone. Instead, he tore open one of the panels and went to work.

Forjaz shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. They’re never going to risk sending another lot out here.’

Blanks sealed the panel, then took off his helmet and secured the hand-vox into the lining inside. He stood up and hurled his helmet into the branches of the trees above the mega-bombard.

‘What the–’ Forjaz began. ‘Unless you’ve been stashing atomics that’s not going to do–’

‘Run!’

The helmet hit the branches and dropped onto the ground. With their natural thieving instinct, three of the gretchin sprang from the gun to grab it. The biggest of them smacked aside the other two, scooped it up and proudly planted the helmet on its head. As it jeered in triumph, the mega-bombard and the entire jungle around it exploded in fire.

Thirteen

Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

Corporal Gardner clicked the last catch of the autocannon into place and wiped the grease off his hands with a rag. He was putting the gun back to bed. It’d had a busy night. It had held the breach until the Valkyries had screeched down from above the black clouds. They annihilated the mega-bombard and everything around it in their first run and then set about the main body of the ork force still piling into the breach.

The sudden attack from the air, coupled with the stubborn defence by the four companies that had stayed on the wall, had been enough to break the assault. The orks streamed away, back across the dead ground, into the cover of the trees. Gardner had carried on firing until the last body he could see stopped twitching.

Even though the orks had gone, the companies remained at their posts. It was only after Major Roussell was finally convinced that the wall had been held that he ordered the reserve companies forward. There was to be no pursuit into the dark, unfamiliar jungle, of course, but they took control of the dead ground to burn the carpet of ork bodies that lay there. The soldiers of these companies, who had sat out the battle waiting on the second line, at least had the decency to look embarrassed as they passed the bloodied defenders of the western wall.

Carson’s company was stood down and the men returned to their tents for the second time that night, but this time few could return to sleep. Instead, each man followed their individual rituals to calm themselves from the fire of battle: Frn’k ate, Mouse prayed, Booth drank the spirits from which he otherwise abstained, Prosser wept quietly, and Red collected up the property of the men who had died. Gardner stripped and cleaned his gun and planned how to kill Commissar Reeve.

He had killed an officer before, Captain Blunder, though in that instance it had been an accident. All it had been was a simple salute, but that salute had given the sniper his target. Gardner had been lucky to have been under the scope of a marksman experienced enough to wait and pick his target, and then go to ground rather than blaze away to scrag a couple more before being picked off himself.

The incident had taught him that the best weapon to use against one of your own was the enemy. He could imagine how it might easily be done to another of his unit; when fighting such xenos monsters as the crusade had encountered one depended so greatly on the support of those beside them that, should one of them delay even a second it might make the difference between life and death.

But killing a commissar in such a manner was harder. Those commissars who chose to lead from the front did not last as long as Reeve had. He would stay close to the colonel and Gardner could not rely on the enemy to kill him there. He would have to do it himself.

Even the thought of murdering a commissar was treason; worse, heresy, for they were the representatives of the Emperor’s will. Should a Commissariat interrogator pluck that thought from Gardner’s mind they would execute him for that alone. Such draconian measures were designed to instil terror, to ensure that a commissar’s personage be treated as inviolable by any and all who might question him. Gardner, however, found it liberating. If the punishment for the thought of the sin is no greater than the punishment for the sin itself, then there was nothing to be lost in its completion. He had thought it as soon as he recognised Reeve’s face the evening before. All that remained was the action.

He would keep it simple. Simple worked. He would just walk up to him and then, with a single las-blast, there would be justice: justice for his brother and the hundreds others like him who were condemned after Cawnpore. He’d already filched a pistol for it. Couldn’t use a lasgun, no; it would be too obvious to hold. Reeve would be on his guard as soon as he saw it. But a pistol, he could just reach inside his uniform as though he were delivering a message.

He zipped the autocannon back into its cover and stepped around the slumbering hillock of Frn’k whose lips were still smattered with food. He and Frn’k had been together for four years, since they had both joined the 11th after Charasia, and they had fought side by side ever since. But Gardner would not wake him up for this. He would not understand. In many ways ogryns were monsters, but in others they were children. They venerated commissars second only to the Emperor. Even after Frn’k saw what Reeve did to Ducky and Marble he still could not comprehend what had happened. He thought it some horrible mistake. He would not understand why Reeve deserved to die; he would only get in the way.

Gardner stepped out of the tent, the pistol a reassuring weight beneath his armour. Reeve was here, Gardner could feel it. Mouse had told him that one of the Valkyries, instead of returning to Dova, had landed inside the camp. It had to be the colonel, come to inspect the battle-site and tear a strip off Roussell, and if the colonel was here, then Reeve would be here too.

He walked through the camp, taking his time. Hurrying would draw the attentions of others. He reached the major’s tent in the centre. There were two sentries at the entrance and so Gardner held back, lingering in the darkness. Officers were definitely inside talking. He could wait. His stood and watched for a few minutes then he casually reached under his chest armour as though to scratch and stroked the hilt of the pistol.

‘What are you doing here?’ a voice said behind him.

Gardner felt his breath catch. He turned quickly to see Carson standing there. Carson saw the moment’s guilt in Gardner’s face and the hand disappearing under his armour. He pressed against it and felt the object beneath. With a savage tug, he pulled Gardner’s hand free and yanked the pistol loose. He looked at it for a moment and then regarded the corporal once more.

‘He’s not there,’ Carson said at last. ‘Reeve’s still with the colonel at Dova.’

‘What’s that, sir?’ Gardner replied dumbly.

Carson grabbed him by the collar, dragged him into the lee of a wares container and shoved him against the side.

‘I told you to wait.’

Gardner grimaced. ‘How can I? How can I when we could bite it any second? We nearly died tonight. You, me, all of us. If I die and he lives…’ He let his bitterness hang in the cool night air.

Carson had had enough. First, Marble and Ducky, then Van Am, then the attack and Roussell’s idiocy, his patience was worn out.

‘You sorry, selfish, son of a bitch!’ he whispered furiously. ‘You shoot him here? Now? They’ll take it out on the rest of us! I haven’t carried this company for ten years, just for you to get every one of them put up against a wall!’

Gardner was no wilting violet, but he was still taken aback. Carson had never spoken to him, or to any other man in the company, in such a manner.

‘Sir?’

‘Shut your mouth! Listen to me. They know about your brother. If they don’t already, they’ll find out when he bites it. If Reeve dies then they’re going to come for you, and through you they’ll get us.’

‘They won’t–’

‘They will. So when he dies you need to be nowhere near him.’

Gardner pushed himself free of Carson’s grip. ‘If I can’t go near him, how am I going to kill him?’

‘You’re not. We are.’

Gardner hesitated.

‘This is one of those sacrifices, corporal, that has to be made for the men one serves beside. You and I, we both understand that.’

Gardner nodded and did not resist as Carson led him out and pushed him away in the other direction. Carson watched him for a few moments to make sure he went and then doubled back, tucking the confiscated pistol away in his own jacket, ready for the real fight.

‘I have no trouble hearing your answers, pilot, I have trouble understanding them,’ Roussell reiterated. ‘What do you mean when you say that it just “popped up” on your targeting auspex?’

‘Exactly what I said, major,’ Flight Lieutenant Plant, who was not accustomed to being addressed so sneeringly, replied. ‘The location of the orkoid war engine appeared as a priority target as we were beginning our first run and we altered our attack accordingly. I presumed that it was someone here on the ground who had tagged it.’

As the flight lieutenant spoke, Roussell noticed Carson slip in through the door. He ignored him; Roussell had deliberately invited only the company commanders to ensure that Carson did not attend, and yet the man had come anyway. Still, he did not want to have the further interruption of having a spat trying to get him out, he was having trouble enough with this debriefing as it was.

It should have been straightforward enough. Roussell considered that it was quite clear that he had been responsible for the victory, he just wasn’t certain how. In past actions of a similar nature, he’d found it prudent to deliver the formal debriefing to his subordinates as soon as possible, to ensure that they were all aware of the official record and knew not to contradict it in their individual filings. Here he had been, all set to grant a measure of credit to the Valkyrie pilots for their assistance in chasing the orks away after the success of his plan to contest and defend the breach, when this dim-witted bluebell unveiled the mystery of the targeting coordinates. Roussell would not have cared, but if the pilot was going to file it to the colonel then the colonel was going to quiz him, and if he didn’t have an answer he’d look an idiot.

‘I have always encouraged my sub-commanders to exercise their initiative in battle,’ Roussell said smoothly. ‘I’m sure that there were several units who were placed and could have advised as to coordinates. Major Rosa?’

The podgy artillery officer woke from his doze with a start. ‘Your observers would have been in place to “tag”’ – Roussell’s tone made clear his disdain for Navy slang – ‘this war engine, would they not?’

Rosa readjusted his spectacles. ‘Yes, well, perhaps. But I must admit that with our heavier pieces back at Dova we were focusing on the ground outside the walls and the, er, softer targets there.’

‘You misunderstand, major,’ the flight lieutenant interrupted, not inclined to make life easy for Roussell. ‘To be clear for the record, we were not voxed with coordinates; it was a Navy signal direct from the target.’

‘That was us,’ Carson announced. ‘Two of my men, Sergeant Forjaz and Private Stones, volunteered to make a flanking excursion and take down the bombard. They transmitted the signal from its location.’

A look of concern crossed the flight lieutenant’s face. ‘Did they survive the attack?’

Carson turned to him. ‘Both men reported back a short time ago, alive and uninjured.’

‘They’re to be commended. They were just in time, we were only just able to divert from our initial–’ the flight lieutenant began, relieved, but Roussell interrupted, clearing his throat loudly. He wanted to shut up the Navy pilot before the topic of the first targets arose again. Now he knew that Carson had held the breach, he thought it wiser not to make the lieutenant aware that he had given that position as the original target. It would be an excuse for Carson to finally call him out and kill him as he’d done so many others.

‘If that’s all accounted for then? Let the record show the commendable actions taken by these two men who were under Major Stanhope’s command.’ There, Roussell thought, the matter was closed and he was safe.

‘Some of your time?’ Carson caught Stanhope as Roussell dismissed the assemblage. ‘In private?’

Stanhope nodded wearily and led the way to his tent. ‘I’ll put a note in my filing,’ Stanhope began as they went, ‘to ensure that the colonel has an accurate account of who authorised the attack on the bombard and who led the company at the breach.’

‘Do not trouble yourself, major,’ Carson replied off-hand. ‘The colonel and Major Brooce are perceptive men. They will discern the truth.’

‘Still, for the record–’

‘Do you really think that I care what the record says about me?’

Stanhope paused for a moment and regarded him. ‘No, I do not.’ They walked a way further and Stanhope began again. ‘This man Stones is something of a mystery. Boosting the signal of a hand-vox is one thing, but setting it to transmit a Navy targeting sign is quite another.’

He noticed that then, Carson thought. He must not be on it at the moment. He was actually trying to be friendly. Collegiate. Obviously he thought that fighting side by side at the breach had drawn them together, that the two of them might actually confer and share command of the company. He was deluded, but Carson would hold his tongue until they were in private.

‘More than that, even,’ Carson said, keeping his tone even, ‘if you had heard Forjaz’s report.’

Stanhope heard the touch of censure in the lieutenant’s words. He had not been there to hear Forjaz’s report; he had not even known whether the two men had survived or not until Carson announced it. He suspected he knew what Carson wished to talk to him about. He had witnessed it, they all had. It was not the way things should be done, but Stanhope was not going to hang him for it.

‘Your relations with the governor’s granddaughter are of no interest to me,’ he said as he entered the tent, ‘if that is your concern. Your appearance together at the call to battle was… unfortunate, but I’m sure that you will be more discreet in the future.’

It was then that Carson decided to let Stanhope really have it.

‘I don’t want to talk about Stones. I don’t want to talk about Van Am. I want to talk about Ducky.’

‘Private Drake? What about him?’

‘What in damnation were you doing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean: when you stood there and watched as Reeve shot two of my men.’

‘Take care as to your tone, lieutenant.’

‘I’ll take whatever tone I please with you, you washed up, clapped-out, pitiful excuse for an officer. What gives you the right? Eh? What gives you the right to sit out the rest of the crusade? To stand and watch while men of mine are crippled, not by the enemy, but by their own side? If this is how you treated your own men, no wonder they got murdered. Do it to your own command, but why did you have to come and take–’

Carson felt the side of his face explode. He stumbled back, blinking in surprise. He focused and saw Stanhope standing there, fist still outstretched, knuckles white. Stanhope stood stock still for a moment. He had shocked himself with the punch; it was as if it had come from another person. It was that instant of delay before Stanhope’s fighting instincts kicked in that prevented Carson being knocked to the ground in seconds.

Stanhope swung again, more deliberate, this time putting his weight behind it. Carson deflected it and tried to grab the arm, but Stanhope was still moving forwards and tried to ram his temple into Carson’s nose. Carson twisted his face out of the way and Stanhope’s crude head-butt smacked into his ear. Blessed Marguerite! Carson thought, he hadn’t taken the aloof Stanhope to be such a dirty fighter.

The sudden panic lent extra urgency to Carson’s muscles. He grabbed the major around the head and punched him in the side of the neck, then felt the pain in his side as Stanhope tried to hit him in the kidney. Stanhope tried to yank free of the lieutenant’s grip, but Carson brought his other arm around, grasped hold of Stanhope’s hair and brought his leg up to protect his own groin and knee Stanhope in the face. Stanhope, with a rabid strength Carson hadn’t suspected he had, shoved them both forwards. With Carson off-balance, the two of them fell back, Carson’s knee raised, his foot pressing into Stanhope’s stomach. He kicked hard and Stanhope was fairly launched back across the tent and stumbled to the ground. He grabbed the side of his bed to steady himself and readied for another attack when he saw the pistol in Carson’s hand.

The two officers held position for a few moments, both of them panting for breath.

‘I wondered what it was going to take to get you to fight,’ Carson said finally.

‘Go ahead,’ Stanhope snarled. ‘That’s what you like, isn’t it? I’m not so addled that I don’t know your reputation, lieutenant. How many duels have you fought? How many men, how many imperial officers have you murdered with those guns? More than any single one of the enemy. More than Reeve even?’

Carson’s expression froze. ‘Don’t you dare compare me to him.’

‘You’re right. Reeve kills men because he thinks that’s his job. You kill because you enjoy it. I saw it in you yesterday with Reeve’s ork. I can see it in you now. What would you have done? What would you have done if you had been there sooner? You couldn’t have done anything.’

‘I’d have stopped it.’

‘No, you couldn’t. You’re a second lieutenant and second lieutenants can do damn all. Twenty years, Carson, twenty years of fighting; your men love you, your commanders trust you, so why have you never been promoted to a rank where you can make a difference? It’s because when Ellinor’s fat fool of a son picked a fight with you, you wouldn’t walk away. And when he told you a time and a place, you met him there. And when his shot just creased your shoulder, you didn’t disarm him, you didn’t injure him, you shot him through the heart. People said you were proud. You’re not proud. You’re sick. You kill because you like it, but you killed the wrong man. And that’s why you couldn’t save your precious Private Drake last night.’

Carson felt it now, he felt the urge come on him. His mind knew that this was lunacy, that he’d get put against a wall, but his blood did not care. All it could feel was the power, the power of having another life completely at its mercy, a hugely complex organism and the unique identity that it had developed which could be snuffed out by the slightest move from him. It disgusted his mind, but his blood called out for it. His whole body tensed with the effort of the struggle. But then his body betrayed him.

Very slowly, Carson toppled backwards. His pistol fell from his hand and thumped onto the ground. Every muscle was clenched and shaking and he could not release it.

Stanhope stepped towards him and saw the rictus on his face. ‘Carson?’

‘Get…’ he managed through clenched teeth, ‘…Red.’

Fourteen

Red emerged from Stanhope’s tent, his normally severe face softened a touch.

‘Is he up?’ Stanhope asked crisply.

‘He’s moving, sir. He’s not on his feet yet.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Red looked away. ‘It’s not exactly my place, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the lieutenant.’

But Stanhope did not relent. ‘I’m asking you, colour-sergeant. In fact, I am ordering you.’

Red snapped to attention, standing stiff enough to support the whole of Dova, and Stanhope saw defiance blaze in him.

‘Axomitic gas,’ Carson said from the flap of Stanhope’s tent. He was in his shirt-sleeves and swaying, but he was upright. ‘And if you have any questions, Mister Stanhope, I’d be obliged if you directed them to me.’

Red saluted quickly and disappeared, most unsettled at being caught between the two officers, and at the rebellious streak that had emerged in him. Stanhope let him go and followed Carson inside.

‘You can walk again?’

Carson half-sat, half-collapsed on the bed. ‘I find your presence irritating, Stanhope, but not permanently debilitating.’ He gathered his jacket and slowly started to put it on. Stanhope waited for the explanation.

‘There’s little to it. It was a Kartha booby-trap, the second week on Kandhar. We got out quickly, but I wasn’t quick enough.’

‘We were told axomitic gas was instantly fatal.’

‘No, it takes a few seconds. Time enough to use the auto-injector. Did it never strike you as odd?’ Carson asked. ‘We were given myecyclone to inject ourselves with if we were exposed to a gas that was supposed to kill you in a split second?’

Stanhope nodded gently. ‘It doesn’t normally pay to question orders.’

‘It doesn’t pay to follow them blindly either, does it? You know that.’

Stanhope straightened up, disliking the lieutenant’s inference. ‘And so the myecyclone didn’t work, is that it?’

‘No, it worked alright. It’s the cure that’s killing me,’ Carson said.

Stanhope did not know what to say to that. ‘Only the Guard could issue a remedy that does exactly what the poison does, only takes longer to do it,’ Carson continued. ‘And it won’t be clean; anyone who’s ever lost all control of the lower half of their body can tell you that it isn’t clean. It’s happening more often, each time is longer, spreading further, and soon it will be permanent.’

‘How long do you have?’

Carson pulled his jacket on and started fastening the buttons. ‘Of use? Not long. The medicae said that when it reached this stage, it wouldn’t be long. Until I’m finished completely? They couldn’t say.’

He stood up off the bed and faced Stanhope eye-to-eye. ‘So now I know your little secret and you know mine. Both of them. I imagine you’re thinking right at this moment whether you should have me removed from command. I think you could. But I think you won’t. Because then you would have to run the company, you’d have to be here for these men. And here is the last place you want to be. You need me and we don’t need you.’

Carson walked out, leaving Stanhope alone. Stanhope breathed hard, stamped his foot and looked up to the canvas above him and the clouds and the stars above those. Carson was wrong about one thing. The company did need him. They needed to know that there was someone there, not to replace the lieutenant, but to succeed him.

But Carson was right about him. Stanhope unbuckled his sword from his belt and sat down and began to twist off the base of the hilt, revealing a small compartment. He took a dry leaf from inside and put it in his mouth. He did not wish to be here. The men of the company needed someone, but it did not need to be him.

In the silence of the morning the sentries at the fort’s gate heard the rumble of a convoy approaching them from the east. They voxed the news to Major Roussell and he hurried over. Finally, it was Captain Drum’s armour, and as pleased as Roussell was to add the armoured company to the garrison, he was even more keen to rub Drum’s face in the victory he had missed.

Hard as Roussell found it to imagine, the flamboyant tank commander fought not to garner personal glory but for the sheer thrill of riding his tank into combat. Why on earth would any sane man want to do that? The answer, of course, was that Drum wasn’t sane, he was howling mad. Roussell had never understood the crazy fool, and certainly did not understand why the colonel overlooked the man’s eccentricities. He disliked him intensely as a result. And it didn’t help that a population of the wives and widows thought Drum’s ridiculous, tightly-cut costumes rather dashing and paid him a good deal more attention on his arrival than they had ever done Roussell.

The pitch of the rumble rose as the vehicles got closer and Roussell waited for the first of them to emerge around the curve of the track leading to the fort. Nothing appeared, and then the rumble was overshadowed by the whoosh of a Valkyrie coming in low, ready to land.

‘Colonel!’ Roussell acknowledged Arbulaster and saluted rather briskly. He’d had to run from the gate to the landing area and was not best pleased about it.

‘Major.’ Arbulaster returned the salute with equal discourtesy.

‘Captain Drum has not yet arrived, sir. I do believe he may have taken a wrong turn on the way here,’ Roussell reported with satisfaction. ‘I’m not sure if he may have missed some instruction during one of his wardrobe changes...’

‘Unlikely, major,’ Arbulaster replied without humour. After an entire night of authorising every single action Roussell took, including lavatorial demands, he was quite sick of the sound of him. It was a pity really, he had once been a rather talented and highly courageous infantry commander, but over-quick promotion and the assurance of a place in the colour-guard had curbed his audacity and he had shrivelled into paranoid mediocrity.

‘Captain Drum is on his way to the start point. As you should be, major, if you intend the infantry to play any kind of role in taking the crater.’

‘The attack... It’s still going ahead today?’ Roussell was a little astonished.

‘Of course it is,’ Arbulaster replied. ‘What did you expect, major? A few weeks R&R to recover from missing a night’s sleep?’

‘No, of course not,’ Roussell started, mortified.

‘They’re on the run and we can hit them hard. They’ve played right into our hands.’ Arbulaster laid a comradely hand on Roussell’s shoulder. ‘We didn’t want them boltholed in their rok up there. No! We wanted to get them out, have a stab at us where we’re ready for them in a rok of our own. And they broke themselves on it.’

‘Yes, I–’

‘After all, why do you think I put you out here in the first place?’

Arbulaster’s intention in ordering the infantry into fortified positions at night had had nothing to do with luring the orks into an attack, but if there was credit to be had he intended to grab his fair share before Roussell had the lot.

At Roussell’s insistence he briefly inspected the breach, sombrely looked over the bodies of the men as they were buried in the trench and finally ordered the walls they had died defending be brought down.

It might have appeared a trifle heartless, but Arbulaster was past caring about a few troopers. His message was clear. Fort Eliza had served its purpose and kept them safe for a night; now their entire force was going to be thrown against the ork rok and he wanted none of his men being tempted to retreat from the field to hole up back here. It was to be all or nothing for them, as it was for him as well.

The Brimlock 11th sat on the ground watching the beards cut through the trunk of the last tree in their path.

‘Kay-Vee!’ The call went up, though every man there was already aware. The tree toppled to one side and the seated men raised a ragged cheer. Lieutenant Mulberry pivoted his Sentinel to face them and then leaned the cockpit forwards in imitation of a bow. The sarcastic cheer was replaced by a ripple of genuine laughter, which in turn dissipated before the angry bawling of the regiment’s sergeants.

‘On your feet! On your feet! In your sections! In your sections! Ready march!’

Drum’s tank men rose to their engines and Ledbetter’s horses whinnied and stomped the ground.

‘One moment.’ The colonel’s voice cut through it all. He stood upon Drum’s tank using its vox-amplifiers.

‘In his name.’

The cavalry dipped their lance points and the men lowered their heads.

‘The Emperor expects each man to give his strength, his spirit, his all, as he gave for us.’

The colonel made the sign of the aquila; most men followed, a jaded few did not.

‘For death in His service is no end, for those that fall shall live on in His light.’

Those with faith in the crowd nodded along; it was the truth, they’d always been told so.

‘Now, men of Brimlock, raise your voices. For Marguerite, for the Crusade, Purge the xenos! Destroy them all! To arms! To war! The Emperor calls! For the Emperor!’

‘FOR THE EMPEROR!’ the regiment swore.

The cavalry raised their lances and the bugler called the advance. The tanks growled back to life and eased forwards into the lichen, Drum standing proud upon the lead tank, dressed in the brocaded jacket of an ancient Brimlock cavalryman. Rosa and the heavy artillery rolled out next, the Griffon mortar vehicles following in the tracks of the tanks. Finally, the infantry companies fell in, Roussell first leading the two light companies, behind him Brooce commanding the line, and by his side the command section flew the regiment’s colours high.

Beneath those colours marched the Brimlock 11th, the mind of each man plagued with the fear that they would die here, at the last. The mind of each man but one. One lieutenant, whose thoughts were not focused on his own death, but on the death of Commissar Reeve. Today that death, he swore, was guaranteed.

Fifteen

Fungal plain, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

Killing a man on a battlefield, even a man on your own side, was simple. Hundreds of men, sometimes thousands, died on every single one. Killing a man universally loathed and despised was even easier.

Killing a commissar, supposedly a direct representative of the authority of the God-Emperor of Terra, was very different. Their daily meat and wine was to be hated and despised. No one even remotely careless or sloppy ever made it to wearing the black coat and the skull insignia of the Commissariat. Commissars had the inherent authority to execute immediately and without explanation any trooper or officer who they suspected of cowardice, incompetence, treachery or taint, as judged solely by themselves. Some armies, some entire campaigns, had been saved as a result of quick and terminal action taken by a commissar to remove swiftly from the command structure any who had been infected with fear, madness or disease. But mostly they contented themselves with ruling troopers and officers alike with an iron fist in an iron glove, exacting terrible punishments for the slightest infractions that caught their attention.

Carson considered that conspiring to kill one of their number might just attract that kind of attention. He could not simply walk up to Reeve and shoot him. Even if he did not mind dying himself, the revenge would be taken out on his men as well. Therefore, the attack would have to be untraceable, completely deniable, and it would have to succeed first time, or his entire company might as well line up against a wall and save the firing squads the trouble.

They were setting a quick pace, quicker by a fraction than the rest of the regiment. The column was beginning to stretch out. These fungus fields were bizarre. Many of the orkoid fungi shared properties with the fully formed orks themselves. Some were the same colour, others even had knots and growths that resembled ork heads and muscles. This was no longer a trek through a jungle on Voor, this was an invasion of the skin of a single giant organism, whose many natural defences were ranged against them.

He could hear the whoops of Ledbetter’s cavalry ahead. Many of the ork survivors of their assault the night before had stumbled back to the fungus jungle and dispersed, scavenging for food and water, and a place to finally rest. They were awoken now by the rumbling of Brimlock tanks and struggled from shelter to find horsemen all around them, firing las-shots into them at near point-blank range.

The column’s progress was fast, faster than even Arbulaster had expected. The ground was soft underfoot. It was made up of the ash of the trees that had once been there, the trees that had burned when the rok had struck. And on top of that ash now grew the bizarre array of fungus that sustained the orkoid species. The few stumps that remained were so riddled with these parasitic growths that they crumbled easily before the shells of the armoured company. The treads of the tanks and the hooves of the cavalry’s horses found easy purchase in the ground-mould, but kicked up such a cloud of spores that the infantry following behind were covered. Arbulaster gave the armoured company permission to open their throttles, and they surged ahead.

The ork resistance was non-existent, in any case. Everywhere they were running, and the cavalry was harrying at their heels, and now amongst them came the tanks of Captain Drum, straight towards the crest of the crater that hid their last objective.

On top of the leading tank, Drum stood and sang in sheer pleasure. He hadn’t engaged the vox-casters yet and the sound was lost beneath the bellows of the machine-spirits. The orks, with their clubs and spears, scattered before the engines of forty-first millennium warfare. Drum stood tall, outside of the protection of the armoured turret, and rode the vehicle as though it were a giant shield and he was some ancient chieftain being borne into battle.

Captain Ledbetter galloped back towards him, running to ground a confused ork who had broken in the wrong direction. Ledbetter leaned forwards in his saddle as he swept his chainsword down and hewed through the ork’s back. It dropped, its spine severed, and Ledbetter tugged his reins as his horse instinctively swerved away from the falling body.

Drum doffed his tricorne hat and waved it at the horse dragoon as he circled, about to return to his squadron. Ledbetter pointedly ignored him, but Drum did not care. He was happy. He was more than that; he was ecstatic. He was not quite sure when he had gone mad, he was not even certain he was mad at all. He had been born literally by the side of the production line in a factory on Brimlock, his mother one of thousands of menial servers who laboured in that one plant alone. He was raised by her side, watching the manufactorum adepts assemble the revered engines of war, and here he was, having gone from crewman, to officer, to commander, to captain through this crusade, riding such a beast and leading his armoured company into the fight on a far-distant world. What a life it was compared to that which he would have lived had he stayed on the production lines. What a life the Guard had given him!

Drum swept back his cape, raised one knee-high boot and stomped twice on his tank’s turret.

‘Aiken, clear the path!’

‘Aye, sir,’ the reply came from his gunner. The turret rotated a fraction to target a knot of hardened fungus stalks and Drum whooped as it roared. He began to sing again.

Ledbetter ducked a fraction in his saddle as the tank’s cannon fired and silently cursed his instinct. Even his horse had had that trained out of him. Was he not even this animal’s equal? He spurred it forwards from the advancing line of tanks and revved his chainsword to clear it of the ork’s remains.

Ahead of him, the rest of his squadron were chasing the band of orks they had rousted. As Ledbetter watched, he saw one of the beasts trip and roll. The lancer who had been after it was taken by surprise, stabbed and missed. His horse broke its step to avoid getting its legs entangled and galloped on with the rest. The fortunate ork rose unscathed and then launched itself upon one of the squadron’s stragglers, caught the man’s leg and managed to rip him from the saddle. It raised a meaty fist to smash in the back of the prone lancer’s head and Ledbetter sliced its arm through at the elbow. The ork did not even have time to howl in pain before Ledbetter’s back-cut mutilated its face.

A good kill, Ledbetter considered, as he watched the fallen lancer clamber wretchedly to his feet. But it would not be enough. Not enough to be selected as one of the colour-guard. He had already failed it twice, the first time with the 74th when it was dissolved after Mespots and a second time with the 56th just a few weeks ago. He had been so certain that time, but no, the regiment’s commissar had vetoed him and his colonel had not cared enough to fight. Now he had to prove himself again, in just these last few days, or he would never return to Brimlock and prove to his family what he had become.

But there! There on the hills before them was a challenge that would burn his name onto the list for the colour-guard.

The orks weren’t running away. They were running towards.

A warband had appeared over the rim of the crater and had marched halfway down the slope on the other side. Their presence had formed a rallying point for the orks running from the Guard out of the fungus jungle. They scrambled up the slope, up off the more level ground where the cavalry dominated, and joined the warband’s ranks. That single ork warchief suddenly found himself commanding not one, but two, three, then five warbands’ strength as more and more of the scattered orks sensed the growing concentration of power and instinctively flocked in its direction.

The cavalry chasing the stragglers now found themselves being assailed by rocks, clubs and spears hurled by the ork line. Carson saw a single horse stumble and toss its rider. The rest of his squadron instantly broke off their pursuit and circled back, protecting their fellow with fire from their pistols while he remounted, before they all withdrew together. It was a tiny victory for the orks, but it was enough to provoke bellows of mocking hoots and chanting directed at the horsemen’s fast-retreating backs.

‘Finally, Brooce,’ Arbulaster commented, standing in the open hatch of the Salamander, ‘the orks are showin’ a bit of backbone.’

‘About time, colonel.’

‘Damn right. Not going to do them any good, though,’ he chuckled. ‘Soon as Ledbetter gets himself out of there, our ill-tuned Drum will have a field day.’ Arbulaster adjusted the focus on his monocular a fraction. ‘Vox the captain. Tell him to pick his targets. Break ’em as quick as he can, hammer straight through. We’re not stopping for a few orks today.’

‘Bloody idiots,’ Mouse exclaimed. ‘Don’t they clock what those tank cannon are gonna do to ’em?’

‘Not if they’ve never seen tanks before,’ Blanks said.

‘They’re gonna get murdered,’ Mouse said, with no small degree of relish at the prospect of a swift, crushing victory that he would not even have to fight in. Now the armoured company had gone forwards, the light companies had taken its place in the vanguard. Second platoon had an excellent view of the tanks churning over the moss-covered ground towards the orks on the slope, but Blanks had noticed something wrong.

‘Look at that!’ Blanks pointed. ‘The cavalry!’

Arbulaster had seen it as well. Ledbetter was not leading the cavalry back, they were reforming to charge.

‘Blessed Marguerite! Is every single one of my officers mad?’ He whipped the monocular away and grasped his vox-officer. ‘Get me Captain Ledbetter now!’

The vox-officer tried. ‘Sir, there’s no reply, sir. Maybe it’s the interference…’

‘My copper-bottomed arse, it is. I can see him from here! Get him! Get anyone to stop that charge!’

But the vox-officer of Ledbetter’s command squad did not respond. Arbulaster could only watch, half-incoherent with rage, half-gripped with the irrational fear that these orks, after killing the cavalry, would somehow drive the rest of the column back and be the end of him.

Ledbetter’s cavalry were going to die. The slope began gently but then skewed upwards. No horse would be able to climb it straight; the charge would founder and then the ork mobs would jump down amongst them and tear them apart. Yet none of this seemed to deter the steady lines of grey and gold horsemen on their steeds. They spurred their mounts quickly from the trot to the canter to the gallop with little delay, their explosive lances held firmly upright, ready to let their points drop at the last moment. They hit the base of the slope and began to climb, the horses slowing despite their riders’ urging. The line of orks now had no fear for they too instinctively saw how the attack would stall. But then another rider entered the scene, and his mount was far more formidable.

‘Don’t you ever! Don’t you ever!’ Drum called, hunched down on the back of his metal monster, as its thundering engine powered it forwards and it slewed into the path of the charge. For a moment, Drum’s crazy stunt worked and the horsemen began to slow. But then the cavalry’s bugle sounded again and booted heels dug into horses’ flanks. Ledbetter’s veterans knew how to deal with an unexpected obstacle in their path. The cavalry ranks split, going left and right to flow around the tank before them. Their orders were clear, they knew this might be their last chance at glory, and they were not stopping for anything.

Drum sprang to his feet on the tank’s hull, his cape flowing in the wind and kicked the turret twice.

‘Sing for me, my beauty. Sing!’ he shouted and his battle cannon fired at the cavalry’s front rank.

The shell was aimed short, but that barely lessened the impact. The case of the shell exploded in the face of the horsemen and, in an instant, three of them, man and horse together, were little more than bloodied ruins that tumbled and somersaulted to the ground. The mounts of those either side stumbled and fell, tossing their riders, already dying from the overheated shell fragments that had struck them.

The cavalry’s horses were desensitised to the sounds of war, but nothing could have kept them calm in the face of such a thunderclap and they broke their gallop, whinnied and reared in alarm at the carnage, the men upon them no less stunned at what had happened. Even those horsemen distant from where the cannon had struck gaped in astonishment, then outrage, and pulled their horses up.

The cavalry’s charge was over, the lancers wheeled away to the side or halted in shock. Unmoved at the destruction he had caused, Drum braced himself on his tank’s turret as it turned upon the orks above him, delightedly hooting at the spectacle he had given them. They did not realise that that was just a taste of what was about to happen to them. Drum saw the rest of his command move into line beside him, drawing into close range. He gave the signal and his tank rocked savagely as it and the other nine war engines of the armoured company fired. He did not wait to see the results. Instead, he thumbed the control for the vox-amps upon his hull and called out:

‘On! On! On!’

The armoured company struck the base of the hill and their tanks appeared to rear up like giant metal mounts in order to climb. The orks’ javelins and other thrown weapons clattered harmlessly off their thick armour. As soon as the tanks’ front ends landed, their battle cannon fired. At such short range, they could barely miss and huge chunks were blown out of the ork warband. As the cannons fired, the heavy bolters mounted in the tanks’ hulls opened up as well, firing explosive bolts at the crumbling ork line. Surprised by these strange weapons, the orks followed their instincts and charged at the tanks and struck them with their clubs and cleavers. The tank drivers barely noticed the slight loss of grip as the ork warriors tripped or were caught beneath their tracks.

Their victory was already, literally, crushing. But as the tanks moved up, the legendary orkish endurance kicked in. Those who appeared dead or crumpled into the earth began to pick themselves up and try to jump on the tanks from behind. The only force who could take the crater, as well, was the infantry. Carson’s company was the closest and they hurried to keep in contact with the tanks. For all the destruction caused, the survivors were maddened nearly to a frenzy, and so Carson’s men had to take them down hard.

‘On! On! On!’ Carson shouted to his men as they stumbled up towards the crater rim. He fired his pistol at one of the ork warriors clinging onto the outside of a Leman Russ and trying to batter its way through the armour of its hull with a heavy stone. His shot hit the creature in its side, but it ignored it, entirely focused on the slight dent it was making in the tank’s side. Carson paused for a split second to aim and then incinerated the side of its head with his next shot. He cursed silently at his slip; he could not afford to be distracted now, here, in the middle of the fight. He had to get his men through this first and then he could deal with Reeve.

‘Stay in close, you dogs!’ Red lambasted the men again. His face was more crimson than ever, having to both shout and run, but he had to keep up with the charging tank beside them. The whole company did. It was the only way this haphazard assault would succeed.

Carson fired a shot, killed another enemy, then spun his pistol back into his holster. In battle, he tried to keep his hands free as much as he could. It was an old habit, one he had picked up after Red had dragged him from that foxhole on Torrans in his very first battle. He was fast enough that, if he needed his gun, it would be in his grasp in an instant; but if he kept hold of it he thought like a trooper again, worried only for his own position, concerned only for his next shot. Without it, he could see the whole battle. Without it, he thought like an officer. He had been a third lieutenant back on Torrans, Red a regular sergeant. He could never have believed they would survive this long.

Stanhope clambered up the slope, sweating like a pig. It was not the exertion, it was far worse. He instinctively touched the hollowed out hilt of his sword. He had discovered it was empty that morning. He was out. He had thought back, trying to sift the real memories from the haze of the previous night, but he only checked it when he used it, and using it blotted out the memories before. That was the point of it after all, to dull the mind and live solely in the present.

He struggled to piece it together. It had been after Carson had collapsed, he remembered that, and he remembered the explanation as well. He remembered his hand going to the hilt then… Had there only been one left then? Had he taken more in those final few hours of the night? The tiny pocket in the lining of his jacket was empty as well, as was the cut in his cuffs. How could he have taken them all?

Whatever the cause was, he was stuck with the outcome. It had been long enough since any regiment had allowed him into full battle, and now he was going in completely cold. The sweating was not even the physical withdrawal; it was far too soon for that. It was just the knowledge that he would be without until they returned to Dova. Forget the battle, that knowledge alone terrified him enough.

It made everything harder. The slope was steeper, his lasgun heavier, the fabric of his uniform rougher against his skin. The air bit harder in his lungs, and when he blinked the lids scraped over his eyes.

He crested the hill and before him there lay the rok. He had seen the images that Zdzisław had provided for them at the cost of his love and his life, but plans and layouts were nothing in comparison to the sight before him.

The crater, which appeared a mere pockmark upon the surface of Tswaing from above, swept in a smooth curve a kilometre either side of the impact point. At the centre itself, the orks had dug down. Driven by Emperor only knew what impulse, they had excavated a massive pit, until, digging deeper and deeper, they had reached the rok that had failed to brake in time. The dirt they shifted had been dropped in a heap of spoil. That first heap had mounted higher and higher, and, as they had tunnelled deeper, they were forced to shift the spoil to four more mounds, one roughly in each direction of the compass.

The top of each mound had been made into a rudimentary fortress. They were littered with collections of crude log walls and xenos icon-towers. There was little to distinguish between them, but Stanhope found his mind automatically supplying the objective codes that the colonel had assigned with his usual inimitable style: Chard and Drumhead, the two furthest forts on the far side of the crater; Bitterleaf, the largest spoil-heap right on the edge of the pit; Endive behind it, overlooking Bitterleaf’s right, and the closest and smallest, to Bitterleaf’s left, appropriately labelled Acorn. It was there that his company would attack.

That morning, while the beards cleared the final stretch of road and the men sat idle, chatting over tanna, Stanhope had been one of the senior officers who had stuffed themselves into the cramped compartment of the command Salamander to hear Arbulaster’s plan of attack.

The fortifications on top of the spoil-heaps were the key to the rok, he had said. If the 11th could take them and hold them, then Rosa’s artillery could call down its barrages on any part of the crater with pinpoint accuracy. Conversely, if they were not taken, the regiment would have to fight its way through the cluttered dirt paths of the ork settlement with its flanks constantly endangered. The spoil-forts had to be taken, sooner or later, and in his mind there was never any doubt that it must be sooner. He knew that by the time they crossed the fungus jungle they would have only half a day to defeat the rok’s defenders so utterly as to make counter-attack impossible. If they did not, then the regiment would have to endure yet another night assault, and this one with the regiment right in the enemy’s heart.

Arbulaster’s plan, therefore, was straightforward, fast and brutal. It was in the best traditions of the Brimlock Dragoons, or at least that was what Ledbetter had announced as the details were unveiled.

Noon was long past, but the sun was still high in the sky. Not that the orks inhabiting the crater knew what the sun was. None of them had ever even seen it. All they knew was that the thick cloud permanently over their heads sometimes filled with a grey light and sometimes didn’t. Theirs had been a chaotic morning. The warboss had led away two thousand of their warriors the day before to kill this new group of pink-skinned aliens who were marching towards their domain. The warboss had yet to return, though some of the warriors had reappeared. The warboss’ second had had them brought to him, and they told him of the attack, of the sudden burning light that had sprung from the aliens’ walls, the scramble over the ditch that blocked their path and the death they found there, and finally the fire from the sky that had erupted all around them.

The warboss’ second was confused; the aliens still lived and the warboss had not returned. This was not victory. Defeat was not something that he understood. The Stone Smashas did not suffer defeat; defeat was what they inflicted on the other ork tribes that eked out a primitive existence beyond the crater. The Stone Smashas knew only victory, which was why it was they who controlled the crater and the riches they had unearthed from the pit.

Given a day, the baser instincts of the warboss’ second would have reasserted themselves. He would have realised that while a single ork still lived there could be no defeat, only a continuation of the fight. He would have realised that the warboss was dead, killed in the first Valkyrie attack upon the cannon, and would smack the heads of his challengers together, take control of the Stone Smashas and lead them against the aliens once more. Given a day. That day, however, was a luxury that Arbulaster did not allow.

Just as with their fellows who’d been surprised in the fungal plain, the first warning many of the orks had was the rumble of Imperial engines. They stopped in the middle of their daily tasks and looked up to the crater rim and saw the outlines of the Brimlock tanks emerge over the crest.

For many armies, many species, that would have been the end. Their units were dispersed across the crater and beyond. Their leader was missing and no one had stepped in to replace him. They were surprised, unprepared, and under attack by metal beasts that none of them had ever encountered before. Some armies would have broken and run, others would have withdrawn to their last defences in confusion looking for their units, looking for their commanders, looking for some kind of instruction. Orks being orks, however, took hold of their weapons, looked to the largest warrior in their midst to lead them, and then followed their instincts: they charged.

Sixteen

Impact Crater, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

‘First rank, fire! Second rank, fire!’ The orders rolled out again, timed to perfection from long experience. Carson’s men held a tight line, each man no more than a pace away from his fellow beside him. Van Am and her Voorjer scouts did the same, tacking onto the end of the line and picking their shots in their own time. The orks had little to throw back at them and so there was no need to seek cover. The troopers knew it was far better to stay close to their comrades and concentrate their fire. The tank beside them thundered as it fired its main cannon. Down the slope, a knot of orks disappeared in a bloody cloud of spores kicked up by the shell’s explosion.

The cloud dispersed and the orks’ latest push against them dissipated. Carson was not yet concerned. This first wave of tiny, ragtag bands was little threat while his men held the crater rim. Each one would emerge from the edge of the settlement on the slope below, bellow, stomp and roar. Then they would try to climb up to reach their enemies and the Brimlock fire would send them tumbling back down again.

Gradually, though, the orks were learning. The small groups stopped trying to rush up the slope on their own. Instead they waited for more and more of their fellows to join them before beginning another attack. Each assault left ork bodies in the dirt, yet each assault was stronger than the last. That was the way it always was with orks, Carson knew; if they did not win at once they simply wore you down, keeping you under continual pressure, exhausting ammunition, fuel and men. All you could do was pray that when their final assault came you still had the strength to withstand it.

The shouts and calls of the orks echoed up to the soldiers. More warriors had filtered in from the rest of the settlement and they were once more psyching themselves up to throw themselves headlong into the Brimlock guns. Then, from somewhere beside Carson, a single voice began to sing. For once it was not Captain Drum, rather it was Private Heal. He began to sing an ancient song of his home, from one of the far-flung continents of Brimlock. It told of war, of victory, of defiance and death; of ordinary men facing the extraordinary. Heal finished the first stanza and was about to launch into the second when another voice rose above his:

‘Private Heal! Shut your gob, you appalling shocker! We fight in silence until told otherwise. You understand me?’

‘Yes, colour!’

‘Shut it!’

The men of Brimlock needed no war-cries to scare the enemy; they needed no shouted oaths to bolster their courage. They were not animals or xenos filth. They fought as professionals, in disciplined silence, punctuated only by the crisp commands of their officers. When their wild and wailing foes charged they found themselves facing a grey line as still as death, and that shook them all the more.

As if in concurrence, another tank commander chanced a shot at long-distance into a cluster of orks, and their own belligerent hooting transformed into cries of alarm. It would delay them a few minutes more.

Carson looked behind him, down the slope they had climbed. Laid out below he could see the shape of the attack forming. On the column’s right, Brooce and Deverril’s companies were embarked in their Chimera transports and had turned sharply at the base of the crater. While the orks’ attention was focused on the troopers at the rim, these mechanised dragoon companies were flanked almost a quarter of the way around the crater’s circumference in order to strike for Endive, hoping to catch it undefended. In the centre, Arbulaster was massing three companies for the main attack on Bitterleaf. Fergus and Gomery’s companies were just breaking ranks to start their climb, clambering over the lines of dead orks that Drum’s tanks had crushed. Ahead of them, Arbulaster had given command of the main assault to Roussell, and Carson could see the distinctive, leonine major struggling up the slope at the head of his troops.

Carson mentally urged him on. The sooner he arrived to hold the rim, the sooner Carson could redeploy to assault his company’s objective: Acorn. The sooner they could launch their assault, the fewer orks they would have to deal with and the faster Carson could capture it. The faster Carson could capture Acorn, the more time he would have to pursue his other, personal, objective.

Roussell finally approached the crest. He looked less than content, and it was not merely physical exertion or the sight of the Voorjer woman standing a few paces away from Carson that was souring his mood. The colonel was taking no chances with the dogmatic major and had attached himself to Roussell’s personal squad for the assault upon Bitterleaf.

Roussell could not object – it was supposed to be an honour after all – but all of the officer corps recognised it for what it was. A slap in the face. An indictment of his failure to lead during the raid the night before. A removal from the decision-making process.

In a way, this was exactly what Roussell had wished for; no matter what transpired in the battle, no liability would be placed upon him. The heroics of his early career would survive untarnished by any reversal in this final battle, and if he survived, his place in the colour-guard was secure. However, Carson could see that there was just enough pride left in Roussell for him to resent his relegation.

The only resentment that Carson had felt as the colonel announced that particular deployment this morning was that he’d had to hide his elation. Where the colonels went, so too did their commissars. Later on, Carson wanted no one to recall any reaction from him at the opportunity the colonel had given him to kill Reeve.

‘Major,’ Carson announced briskly over the renewed sound of las-fire from his men.

Roussell halted, out of breath and unable to speak as his men moved past him and into position. He glowered at the second lieutenant standing in front of him, hands clasped calmly behind his back.

‘I transfer defence of this position to you, sir, as per the execution of the colonel’s battle-plan,’ Carson said, throwing in a salute to annoy him further. ‘The crest is yours.’

Roussell opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he said was lost beneath another booming shot from the tank’s battle cannon. Carson smiled thinly at Roussell’s frustration and then he and Van Am turned sharply away. He saw that the ork attack had been broken again. That was the shortest yet; obviously they had decided that a frontal assault was not for them. Carson could see the growing mass of orks still amongst the settlement buildings stretching to either side as their instincts told them to strike the flanks. And on one of those flanks stood Acorn. Now it was to be a race.

‘Company!’ he called. ‘Advance Quick! On me!’

Stanhope’s sweating had nothing to do with terror now, it was pure exertion. All his strength was focused on keeping his legs pumping. Right foot down, push up, left foot down, push up. Up, up, up. That was the only direction that mattered. He had already tightened the strap on his sword belt to stop it flapping at his waist as he ran. Now he shouldered his gun so he could lean forwards and scrabble at the earth with his hands as well.

The men around him were doing the same. They all knew that speed was paramount. Less experienced men would have needed to be bellowed at and whipped by their sergeants to get them to make such an assault. These, however, were veterans; their sergeants could save their breath. For all the bellyaching and trouble such veterans gave on- and off-duty, when it came to a battle, when the margin between life and death was a split second hesitation or the wavering of an inch, their caution for their own safety was as scant as a body’s concern at losing a few cells. The unit, the platoon, the company, was everything, and the unit was safest if it reached the summit of Acorn first. And so the troopers all ran as hard as they could. And Stanhope was amongst them.

The battle cannon fired again behind them. Stanhope was too busy to duck, but the shells were fired high anyway, as high as they possibly could be to avoid hitting the climbing troopers. They struck the topmost battlements, blowing apart a wall segment of sharpened stakes and toppling one of the xenos icon-towers. A shower of dirt and debris covered the leading infantry. That was too close, Stanhope decided; that should be their last shot.

He pushed on up, gaining a lead on the other troopers. A broken stake-wall was in his path. Rather than losing ground by trying to go around, he pulled himself up through the hole the battle cannon had made, past the corpses of the orks that had taken cover behind it. The tanks had reduced the defences on the nearest face of Acorn to splinters, but their fire could not reach over the curve of the slope. Once they reached the flat top of Acorn, it would be the men who’d have to push through the ork defenders, take the fort and hold it.

The top of Acorn was only a few yards away now and Stanhope broke his step to pull out his fell-cutter. He realised that he had come to the head of the attack; he would be the first one over the top. For a second, his mind went back to a very different battlefield, one where he had given the orders, yet others had had to pay the price. But this was not Cawnpore, and here no one had been foolish enough to look for his orders again. This would be an appropriate way to finally end it.

He took the final few steps and an ork warrior erupted from the hidden ground above, bellowing in his face. Stanhope had no breath to reply in kind. Instead, his strength fed his fell-cutter. It swung to meet the ork’s cudgel, blocked it, and sliced right through. Stanhope instinctively jerked away as the severed end of the ork’s weapon flew past his ear. Irritated, the ork punched out, its fist still holding the stub of its cudgel.

The fist struck the side of Stanhope’s helmet. The ork hadn’t been able to get its full weight behind it, but still it left his head ringing. He stepped back, found little purchase on the slope and nearly stumbled. His guard was down and the ork readied for its finishing blow. Then it yelped in pain. A trooper beside Stanhope had speared it with his bayonet. The ork grabbed for the gun, but the trooper had already withdrawn the weapon and was stabbing into the xenos’s face. The bayonet punched against the hard bone above the ork’s nose and was deflected to the side into the eye-socket. The point went through the ork’s red eye and into its brain beyond before the trooper pulled it out again.

Stanhope saw the ork reel away, clutching its face. Someone shouted an order behind him and a well-aimed Voorjer bullet turned the other side of its face into a blackened mess. The trooper who had come to his rescue turned back to him.

‘Find your bloody feet, troop!’ Blanks shouted in his face. Stanhope already had and, hauling the ork corpse aside, surged on beside him.

The volley from Van Am and her Voorjers, and Sergeant Booth and third platoon, had cleared away the orks lying in wait to spring upon the climbing Guardsmen. Behind Stanhope, second platoon was following in its path, while to his left Red was at the fore of first platoon, staving in the back of an injured ork’s head with ‘Old Contemptible’, as Carson’s pistols flashed in his hands, killing still more of the xenos.

Stanhope looked only ahead of him. Through the struts of the icon-towers he saw the orks they had raced there boil up over the other side. Blanks paused, snap-shooting and slicing through the knee of one of them, and Stanhope took the lead again.

Red was shouting something about forming a firing line, but it was too late for Stanhope. He was already charging. His body was protesting at further ill-treatment, but his mind demanded more and his muscles provided. He angled himself at the closest ork and raised the fell-cutter, still unbloodied, above his head. An ork at speed was as powerful as a bull, but in its inexperience it had expended its energy hurrying up the backside of Acorn and found it had little left to give.

It drew back its cleaver, telegraphing its downward swing. Stanhope brought the fell-cutter down, not forwards but backwards, spinning it around like a windmill’s sails. He sidestepped the ork’s blow and brought the heavy blade up in an uppercut against its undefended belly. The ork arched its body back and Stanhope’s blade cut through air until it caught the underside of the ork’s chin and sliced its face in two. Stanhope shoulder-charged the flailing ork and knocked it to the ground.

All around him, the lines of green and grey were colliding, the bellowing ork warriors swinging their weapons and the silent Brimlocks firing their rifles at point-blank range, before lunging in with their bayonets. Even though the Imperium had arms that could devastate continents, its victory here would once again be gained by its exhausted soldiers grappling toe to toe with its foes.

Las-shots, bayonets and cleavers struck home, and as the orks fell so did men, as the luck of twenty-year veterans finally deserted them. The rest fought on, knowing flight to be more deadly than combat, clustering in small groups of men who were closer than brothers. Zezé impaled an ork with a thrust, but it just reached out, gripping the barrel, and ripped the blade clear. Repton came in alongside and plunged his own weapon into its now exposed armpit, holding it steady like a fish on a hook for one critical moment so that Heal’s shot blew straight through its head. While another warrior was distracted trying to grab the elusive Mouse, Forjaz kicked out its knee, stunned it with a second blow as it stumbled, and opened it up for Mouse to get the kill.

Stanhope swung again at the warriors who opposed him; heavy, cutting swings that severed heads and limbs. The smallest tricks sufficed to mislead many of his tough, yet inexperienced opponents, and those who worked past his guard encountered Blanks by his side, striking throats, eyes and tendons, deadlier even with his small blade than Stanhope was with his sword.

Suddenly, a volley of las-shots cut across the melee. First platoon was firing. Fragmentation grenades flew overhead, exploding amongst the orks. The surprised ork warriors reeled back for a few moments to counter this new threat.

Stanhope thrust his sword down to finish off the ork at his feet and nearly collapsed. It had been less than a minute since he had crossed over the top of Acorn, yet already he felt the fury of the initial assault had dissipated. He caught himself before he fell and willed himself on, but this time his body refused, wasted from the apathy and abuse he had inflicted upon himself over the years.

As his strength went, another part of his mind took hold. It was the officer he had suppressed for three years. The officer scolded him worse than Blanks had done. It ranted at him for leading such an unsupported charge. The excuse that he had not given anyone orders rang hollow in his head; he had led and they had followed. They were his responsibility whether he acknowledged it or not, and he’d had to be saved again. Red and first platoon were pushing forwards, Forjaz was trying to haul second platoon back to link up with them and form a single line that could repel the stream of the orks that were still climbing. That should be you, the officer in his mind berated him. It should be you pulling them back into order, dressing the line, detaching a force to flank…

That thought caught in his head, and he was struck by a horrible suspicion. A suspicion confirmed when, beneath the sounds of the volley fire from first and now second platoons, he heard new sounds of combat from the right. He stumbled over and thumped against a log barricade for support. Booth and third platoon were not following directly behind; Carson had thought of everything. Instead, they were climbing around the summit of Acorn, aiming to strike at the vulnerable flank of climbing orks and prevent them reinforcing the top.

The success of Stanhope’s wild charge, however, had pushed the orks back too quickly. They too were skirting around the summit to try and surround the platoons on the top. Now one of those forces was about to slam straight into Booth and third platoon.

Booth, a great moustachioed sergeant, with an attitude chiselled from the same block as Red, led from the front and so was the first one of third platoon to see the danger. He acted at once. He knew that, with his men undeployed, strung out in column, clutching to the slope behind him, they would come off worse once the orks got within reach. He abandoned his attack and ordered his men to climb up, straight up, to the comparative safety of the other platoons at the top. The orks saw their enemy break and run and climbed after them, only for their leader to reel back, flesh blackened from las-fire. The orks looked in the direction of the shots to see Sergeant Booth balanced coolly on the slope, lasgun in hand.

‘You greenskins keep your hands off my lads,’ he muttered and fired again as the orks turned their attention from the fleeing troopers and directed it solely at him.

On top of Acorn, Stanhope pounded back to second platoon where the distinctive shape of an ogryn carrying an autocannon was crouching. ‘Gardner!’ he ordered. ‘Redeploy!’

Gardner glanced at him, confused, but did not release the trigger.

‘Redeploy, corporal!’ Stanhope demanded. Gardner shook his head as though he couldn’t hear.

‘Hold the line!’ The shout came from Forjaz, who was striding over.

Stanhope had no time to argue. The instant the autocannon burst finished he smacked Frn’k on the side of the head. ‘Trouble, we move! Quick march!’ Stanhope shouted.

Frn’k, half-deafened by the fire over his head, felt the blow, made out the words and responded as his brother had trained him. Gardner yelped as Frn’k heaved him and the hot autocannon into the air, but the ogryn had already spotted Stanhope pointing where he should go.

Gardner swore blue murder for the few seconds that he was carried along, but as soon as Frn’k deposited him where Stanhope had indicated he saw what the major wanted from him. The orks climbing after third platoon did not know what an autocannon was, but they learned quickly as Gardner sighted down the steep slope and pressed the trigger. The orks had no cover and nowhere to run, and Gardner blew them off the slope without hesitation, methodically cutting across them, adjusting his aim as he fired to catch them all.

The men of third platoon raised a ragged cheer as they saw the carnage Gardner created and they climbed up to form behind him. All but a group of four of them, who started climbing down to recover Booth’s body.

‘Third platoon,’ Stanhope ordered. ‘Form on me!’

‘Third platoon,’ Carson countermanded, as he approached. ‘Form on me!’

The troopers of third platoon knew who their true commander was and looked to Carson for orders.

‘Form line here! Fire in your own time! Push ’em back!’ Carson rattled out and third platoon obeyed. ‘Gardner! Redeploy!’ he continued, and Stanhope watched as, with first and second platoons advancing over the summit, Carson led third platoon to seize the far side of the top of Acorn and cast the orks down.

Less than a minute after they had taken it, Gardner was pouring autocannon fire straight down the throats of the orks still trying to reinforce the annihilated defenders at the top. First and second platoons took up supporting positions, and Carson voxed and ran the company’s pennant up the side of an orkish icon-tower. The message went back. Acorn was taken. The main attack could begin.

Seventeen

The sounds of the regiment’s main column starting to move into the edges of the settlement towards Bitterleaf echoed up to Carson on Acorn, but he did not have time yet to focus on that battle. He’d seen Stanhope staring at him as well, but he didn’t have time for him either. Instead, he was on the vox, ordering his support weapons to be brought up and his wounded and dead taken down.

Another benefit of attacking first was that the medicae were standing idle until your wounded came in. They got the best care they could out in a place such as this. A shame it wouldn’t be enough for Booth. Carson hadn’t been able to spare more than a glance at the body, but even from that he could see that Booth had not died easily. Blessed Marguerite, let Booth and the others he had lost in taking Acorn be the last he should ever lose. At least Booth had no family back at Dova that would need to be told. Carson wasn’t sure how he could face Forjaz’s wife and children if he died.

He told himself that they were not a factor in the decision he’d made. Why he was going to take Red with him and not Forjaz. He’d known Red the longest, had fought beside him more times than he could remember, he had a level of trust with Red that he didn’t share with any other under his command. Still, it made it damn convenient why Forjaz should be the one left behind.

At that moment, the husband and father himself appeared and reported in.

‘All the men are digging in, sir. The Voorjer lot as well,’ he said. ‘The ’skins won’t shove us off.’

‘Good. Well done, sergeant. Now, you know what Red and I are about?’

‘Yes, sir. No problem with it at all, sir,’ Forjaz carried on, unbidden.

‘Thank you,’ Carson replied. ‘Command of the company is yours then until we return. If Rosa brings his mortars up here, make room for them, but if he tries to bring a Griffon tell him that it’ll have to be his men to shove it up here. Don’t take anyone off the defences. Especially not Gardner. You understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t even let him out of your sight.’

‘I understand, sir.’ And he did. This wasn’t the first time they’d had to do this after all. ‘And what about the major, sir?’

‘What about him?’

‘If you want me to look after him–’ Forjaz began, the dark intent in his voice unmistakeable. Carson cut him off.

‘That will not be necessary, sergeant,’ Carson said formally. ‘This is our last time, the last time for the whole regiment. We’ve done our job today. We’re done and he’s done. He’s no danger to us. Leave him be.’

‘And if he tries giving orders again?’

‘The men know who to follow, sergeant, just make sure he doesn’t see us leave.’

Carson left Forjaz to engage the major while he went off to meet Red. There was small chance that Stanhope wouldn’t notice his absence eventually, but he would not be able to prove anything. And, as sharp as he appeared today, everyone knew that his word could not be taken seriously. He could safely ignore him.

One person he could not ignore, however, blocked his path.

‘Lieutenant,’ she said.

‘Holder,’ he replied.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Reconnoitre. I’m taking a small squad out of the fort. Vital part of a static defence.’

Carson watched her reaction. She let a half-smile play on her lips to show that she wasn’t fooled; but then, Carson reasoned, she was on their side, after all.

‘Good hunting,’ was all she said, and let him go.

Carson stepped beyond the battlements on the quiet south side of Acorn. Red was already waiting for him there in the shadow of a stake-wall.

‘You have it?’ Carson asked.

Red held it up.

‘You have any problems with Mouse?’

Red’s grim features turned even grimmer at the mention of the company rogue.

‘He said it cost him more money than expected, sah.’

Carson was not bothered. ‘I’ll settle up with him tonight,’ he said, and then saw a trace of pride emerge in his colour-sergeant.

‘I may have dissuaded him already, sah.’

Carson did not want to ask, and so didn’t. He inclined his head and the two of them started down Acorn and on their circular path towards Bitterleaf.

The first assault on Bitterleaf began within half an hour of the fall of Acorn. By that time, Brooce on the far right was already reporting multiple mechanical breakdowns amongst his Chimeras with a resulting delay of the attack on Endive. Drum’s tanks were suffering as well, and only two-thirds of armoured company were ultimately to lead the drive and clear the way through the settlement.

The ramshackle ork buildings, constructed from a mix of wood, mud and the more rigid fungi, proved little obstacle to tanks, however; they simply flattened and outright demolished whatever was in their path. The warriors of the Stone Smashas who were still milling in the settlement had nothing to oppose them and so could only hammer on the tanks’ hulls as they drove past. On those few occasions that tanks became wedged, the Stone Smashas emerged from the sides with heavy hammers and picks to try and bash them open, but Roussell’s infantry following close behind drove them off far enough for the vehicles’ battle cannons and close-quarter weaponry to be effective.

As the individual Stone Smasha bands found their instincts failing them, they looked for direction, and flocked to Bitterleaf where they saw the banner of the warboss flying. The warboss, of course, was not there, but his second had finally decided to seize leadership of the tribe and had chosen to make his stand there.

As it happened, there was more to Bitterleaf than it merely being the largest of the spoil-heaps. The Stone Smashas, in excavating the rok, had discovered huge cannons embedded on its surface. Most of these had been destroyed on impact, but a few of the smallest ones still appeared operational.

When first they had been found, none of the orks had known what they were. Most ignored them or tried to break them down to create more of the metal weapons that gave the Stone Smashas the edge over their rivals. Some, however, didn’t. In the days that followed, these orks drifted towards the cannon, obsessed with them to a fanatical degree. The other orks ignored them mostly, but left them food so that they could continue to tinker. The watershed day came when one of them, having been drawn deep inside the rok, emerged with a large hunk of metal which it proceeded to put in the nearest cannon’s barrel before pulling a lever it had found.

The resulting explosion wiped out the ork and all those who had crowded around him, but it fired the interest of a legion more who sought to be able to repeat such explosions and direct them against the enemy.

The smallest of these cannons to be recovered from the rok became known as the mega-bombard. It was light enough to be dragged with the Stone Smasha warriors to obliterate any of the other tribes that opposed them. The other three were larger and so were left on Bitterleaf to deter any from trying to take the valuable crater from its rightful owners.

The strangeness of their shapes, mixed in amongst the icon-towers and defences on Bitterleaf, along with the incongruity of such savages having such a level of technology, caused the Brimlock officers poring over the recording from Zdzisław’s Valkyrie to misidentify them, believing them to be makeshift cranes or counterweights used in digging out the pit.

And so when the tanks of the armoured company, who had hitherto been invulnerable to the primitive ork weapons, saw the first one fire at them as they approached Bitterleaf they were, somewhat understandably, surprised.

‘Blessed Mother Marguerite!’ Drum exclaimed, breaking off his latest rendition. The mega-cannon shot appeared like a meteorite burning through the atmosphere towards them. It struck short, ploughing through a line of ork hovels before finally coming to rest. Drum watched the dwellings catch fire. He had two choices: advance and gamble that his tanks could destroy that cannon with their own, or retreat and gamble that they could escape its range and keep their hides. He activated his vehicle’s vox and screwed the dial to transmit to his company.

‘Men of steel, slow and fire! Ork guns are only good for grabbing our attention,’ he signed off with a smirk. If there was just a single gun, his tanks could take it, if the orks themselves didn’t drop a shell and blow it up first!

But before the armoured company could respond, the rest of the Stone Smasha’s battery had their say. The second mega-cannon fired from amongst the structures on Bitterleaf, sending its shot high and scattering a squad of Roussell’s company following up behind. The third one, through fluke or skill, struck just in front of the armoured company’s line. The tanks were driving close together so as to clear the path and so, as the shot barrelled into the left-most tank, it clipped its neighbour as well. The stricken tank was crushed by the fireball, whilst the other blew off its tread and ground to a halt.

The remainder of the tanks fired their turret-weapons, the shots grouped around the site of the first mega-cannon. The shells flew true, but impacted against the maze of scaffolding and other constructs on the top of Bitterleaf.

Drum had seen enough. He did not care how the orks had managed it, but he had lost a third of his active force without scratching the enemy. He flicked the vox on again.

‘Armoured company, turnabout and retreat! Repeat, turnabout and retreat!’

‘Scratch that order,’ the colonel’s voice crackled over the vox. ‘Captain Drum, your company is to reverse only. All armoured units acknowledge. Reverse only. Don’t let these xenos filth see your backs.’

Drum twisted the vox to the private channel as he heard his tank commanders acknowledge the colonel’s orders.

‘Colonel, if we only reverse we’ll be as slow as–’

‘I comprehend the difference, captain,’ Arbulaster replied. ‘Do recall that I am out here as well. I have three companies of infantry here who are all now sprinting for their lives. The orks will counter-attack now they see us retreating and we cannot abandon them. Acknowledged?’

‘Acknowledged, sir,’ Drum agreed and turned his battle-hymn vox-amplifiers to maximum in the hopes that the noise itself would keep the orks at bay.

‘The armour, sah. It’s retreating,’ Red called.

‘What?’ Carson replied and leaned up to see. They were both hunched in the lee of an ork hut, covered by the shadow of another icon-tower bearing a leering orkish glyph. They’d spent twenty minutes carefully working their way across the settlement, hiding and scurrying through cover, to reach close enough to Bitterleaf’s slope to be ready when Arbulaster’s Salamander disgorged its passengers, and now the whole damn force was in retreat!

Red knew the obvious course of action – retreat with the rest of them – but he could also see that certain mood in the lieutenant: that strange determination which had destroyed his career and threatened his life over the years.

‘We can’t keep going back and forth, we’ll be spotted. They’ll be back here, Red. The colonel will be back here.’

As would the orks, Red knew.

The orks came, as both the colonel and the colour-sergeant knew they would. They had fallen back before the tanks’ irresistible advance and now emerged from the side-streets around Bitterleaf to snap at their heels. The heavy bolters affixed to the tanks’ hulls opened up, firing their explosive bolt shells into the most enthusiastic of their pursuers, whilst the tanks’ turret guns swivelled to keep pelting Bitterleaf.

Their slow speed allowed their gunners to place their shots carefully, but unfortunately the same was true for the orks manning the mega-cannon. Most shots still flew wild, but a few landed too close. With shells of such size, even a near miss could cripple a vehicle and two more tanks were disabled, one even knocked onto its side by the force of the explosion. Both tanks were abandoned by their crews before their pursuers overwhelmed them.

The second mega-cannon demonstrated the dangerous temper of such war machines when operated by creatures working on programmed instinct rather than knowledge. An ill-handled shell detonated as it went into the weapon’s barrel and made a new crater in the side of the spoil-fort. The third mega-cannon proved deadly, however. Another tank had swerved beside the one the cannon had immobilised with its first shot in order to rescue its crew. The mega-cannon’s operators barely nudged it a fraction of a degree and fired again. The hapless crew running to safety suddenly dived away as the shot impacted, but the rescuers could not escape as the massive shell struck them dead-on. The sound of Drum’s battle-hymns cut off as he and his crew were obliterated.

Arbulaster saw the icon representing Drum’s tank flash and fade out on the hologram display inside the Salamander. He felt Reeve’s gaze bore into him from where the commissar sat, on the other side of the cabin. He resisted the urge to order the driver to turnabout and speed away. He could do nothing that smacked of cowardice, or even of hesitation. Reeve was looking for an excuse, any excuse, to prove that Arbulaster had failed.

‘An unidentified threat.’ Arbulaster addressed his words to no one in particular, but they were meant for Reeve to hear. ‘A minor set-back only. We will swiftly counter.’

He opened a new vox-line. ‘Major Rosa, acknowledge.’

‘Here, colonel.’ Even over the vox, it sounded as though the rotund major was unwrapping another ration bar.

‘Do you have your firing solution?’

‘We are offering it to the cogitator-spirits now, colonel.’

‘Keep this channel open. Confirm when ready to fire.’

‘Acknowledged,’ Rosa replied.

It would take Rosa a minute or so to confirm. Arbulaster looked down at the hologram. The three infantry companies were out of the confines of the settlement, out of immediate danger. The armoured company had chewed up the orks that had tried to counter-attack, but at a cost. Only one tank was still functional. Of the rest, all but two could be recovered and repaired, but for the objective of the push on Bitterleaf the armoured company was operationally eliminated. Arbulaster glanced at Reeve, sitting calmly, dressed in that ridiculous skull-robe he wore, no longer even looking at the map between them but looking only at him. He’d already made his decision, Arbulaster realised. Reeve was going to kill him. He was going to kill him today.

‘Fire ready, colonel,’ Major Rosa’s voice crackled back over the vox.

Arbulaster stepped out of the dark interior of the Salamander, taking the vox handset, and onto the open deck. He wanted to see this in person.

‘Fire. Fire!’

Major Rosa relayed the command to his Griffons, self-propelled heavy mortars with short, snub barrels large enough for a man to fit down them, and in each one the officer in charge gave the order to fire.

Arbulaster peered hard at the Griffons on the crest of the crater behind him. He did not expect to see much evidence of their firing, but hoped to see something just the same. The tell-tale smudge of smoke above each one was enough to inform him that their barrage was underway. He turned round to Bitterleaf, counting down the seconds he had estimated for the rounds to fly up, turn over and come crashing back down. He reached zero and a series of small, but visible detonations wracked the top of Bitterleaf. Inside the Griffons the crews would be watching for their strike, making minute adjustments before beginning their well-drilled routines to reload and fire, reload and fire, as fast as humanly possible.

Beyond Bitterleaf, Arbulaster fancied he started to see tiny strands of light on Endive. He went back inside the Salamander and confirmed that Brooce and Deverril were finally assaulting that fort. Brooce reported in that their opposition, as anticipated, was light. The bulk of the orks had bunched around Bitterleaf and Bitterleaf, Arbulaster reflected, was about to have the sky fall down upon it.

The mortar rounds fell upon the spoil-fort without respite. For a full half-hour, Carson and Red watched from their hiding place in the icon-tower where they had gone to ground. They said little to one another; Red knew that the lieutenant did not need reminding of how exposed they were.

They were hundreds of yards ahead of the Brimlock line and just as likely to be struck by their own side as the enemy, as no one knew they were there. Carson held the rifle close. It was not a lasrifle, and certainly not of Brimlock design. He could not use a las-weapon to kill Reeve: the effect would be unmistakable and worse, sharp eyes would spot his position. So Carson had asked Mouse to procure this, and Mouse had acquired it from one of the Voorjer scouts, no questions asked.

Had the Voorjer known what Carson intended to do with it, he may have been more cautious, for Carson was going to implicate him and his comrades in the death of an Imperial commissar. But Carson knew that Arbulaster had no love for Reeve and would not investigate too thoroughly. He hadn’t for Blunder after all. All he needed was a convincing story as to why a Voorjer bullet might have struck Reeve, and Van Am had, unsuspectingly, given it straight to him. These were the same rifles that the first expedition had carried to the rok and had been lost there. Unlike the lasguns, the orks had already captured several Voorjer rifles, and that would be story enough.

The two of them watched the remaining mega-cannons as they were abandoned by their crews and then destroyed by the mortar rounds. The first toppled over forwards, ploughing through the defences in front of it before it crashed to a halt at the bottom of the spoil-heap. The second’s ammunition detonated, scything the area around it clear of all other structures and life, leaving a scorched bald patch as the only evidence of its existence.

Bitterleaf was ready for a second assault, but still the Griffons fired, adjusting their aim to a target behind the fort where the orks must have believed they were safe. Ledbetter’s cavalry had appeared just as the Griffons began their firing, but they had held themselves apart from the rest of the regiment, refusing to acknowledge any orders they were sent or budge from their position.

As the full hour approached, Carson was suddenly struck by doubt. What was the colonel doing? The light was already dimming; he had to advance. He had to take Bitterleaf and then the rest of the crater before night fell.

What the colonel was doing was waiting for the orks’ natural instincts to resurface. They had been forced from Acorn and Endive, Bitterleaf was no longer defensible, and they had lost their mega-cannon. Other races would have withdrawn to their final bastions at Chard and Drumhead, held there, and used the night to slip away. But orks were not like other races. When no other options presented themselves, orks, being orks, simply charged.

This was the Stone Smashas’ last gasp. Their leaders had finally marshalled all the forces they could and were throwing them all into the fight. The green tide poured from the pit behind Bitterleaf, growing as it spread, and absorbed the smaller warbands that had scattered throughout the settlement. It emerged as one giant pincer, the orks avoiding the flattened trail left by the armoured company and advancing as far as they could using the settlement for cover. On the Brimlock right, the orks ignored the troops quietly holding Endive in favour of the large mass of enemy deployed in front of the hated Griffons. Arbulaster saw the threat and formed up four of his infantry companies. On the Brimlock left, the orks would have to run straight past the defences on Acorn and so he allocated only a single company, Gomery’s, and also, puzzlingly, himself to defend that flank.

‘What in damnation’s name?’ Carson exclaimed as he saw the command Salamander lead Gomery’s company into the shadow of Acorn. He and Red desperately shuffled around in their hiding place to turn their firing position around.

‘Do you still have the range?’ Red asked.

In all honesty, Carson didn’t know. He looked down the sight, recalibrating for the distance.

‘I believe I can,’ he said finally, slowly shifting to cover the Salamander’s advance. That was true; he could make the shot, given enough time. The time he had, though, was only as long as it took Gardner to realise the golden opportunity Arbulaster was offering him.

Gardner pulled the trigger and his target blew back, knocking down its fellow warriors climbing behind. The orks’ pincer focused first on Acorn and, for the second time that day the orks tried to scale a contested slope. Carson’s men had responded with full force, cutting down the first wave with ease. Now the second had to clamber over their dying fellows. They bellowed their defiance to no avail. For all their determination, their savagery, they simply could not scale the slope with such firepower ranged against them.

‘Trouble! Feed me!’ Gardner bellowed over the cannon-fire. The change in sound of the ammunition feeding in from its can told Gardner he was running low.

‘Grab another can!’ he yelled and the ogryn obediently turned around to pick up another. Gardner squeezed off another few rounds and then released the trigger to give the cannon a few moments to cool.

The light was fading fast and the shapes of the orks were increasingly indistinct against the churned up fungus that covered the crater’s floor. Gardner saw Gomery’s company coming around the base of Acorn, ready to deliver the final blow and roll the orks back for good. Gardner watched as the captain unslung his pack and removed Mister Emmett. Gomery held the ball out from his body and looked up, judging the distance. He took three quick steps and then hoofed it high into the air. The small ball with a crude face painted on went flying into the orkish horde.

‘Bully!’ he shouted to his men. ‘Get after him! Points for the first man to touch him down!’

His men cheered and advanced behind their captain. One of them would find Mister Emmett, one of them always did. All of Gomery’s men knew he was mad; he was still team captain, playing games back at schola. They had learned, though, that a mad officer who looked after them as his team-mates was far better than any sane one who treated them as so much human ammunition, so at times such as these they allowed his madness to infect them all.

Frn’k, with the care of a conscientious child, placed the new can beside the autocannon. Gardner got ready to fire off the last burst of the old can, when his attention was distracted. Advancing alongside Gomery’s men was Arbulaster’s Salamander, and inside it would be the colonel, and beside him would be Reeve.

‘He’s seen them, sah,’ Red reported as he watched Gardner through his monocular. Carson cursed silently again. Arbulaster’s command squad was still inside their Salamander; he could see nothing of Reeve at all.

‘Take us up as close as you can, Parker,’ Arbulaster ordered the driver. The hull-gunner was already firing his heavy bolter into the ork lines. The driver came to a halt on the near side of Gomery’s company, which was still advancing quickly. Arbulaster checked his pistol and power sword and made to exit.

‘Are you egressing?’ Reeve queried. His voice carried no intonation, but Arbulaster sensed a note of fear underneath.

‘Of course, commissar,’ Arbulaster replied. ‘We leave counting cartons to the staff officers at Crusade Command. Regimental-level officers should lead from the front. Guard doctrine, is it not?’

‘It is,’ Reeve replied, but Arbulaster would not let it go at that.

‘Will you be remaining within the Salamander?’ he asked, all politeness.

‘I will not,’ Reeve said and gathered himself to leave.

‘Very good,’ Arbulaster replied. He climbed out of the Salamander’s cabin and jumped down from its tailboard. He did not show it, but inside he was as sick now as he had been when he took his first command. There was nothing more he could do except rely on others. He glanced at Carson’s company firing from the slope of Acorn; they had the perfect angle on his squad, he could give them no better opportunity. Now all he could do was get out of their way.

‘Forward!’ he cried, and ran as hard as he could.

This was it, Carson knew, as he saw first the colonel and then the rest of his command squad pile out of the Salamander. He saw a flash of a bone-covered cloak and tried to track it, but Reeve had already landed on the other side of the vehicle. His shot was blocked.

Gardner watched Reeve stand up after his landing. He was right there in front of him. All he had to do was move his gun a fraction, just a few inches and he would have his brother’s killer in his sights.

‘Trouble! Another can!’ Frn’k had been idolising the commissar ever since he’d given him that commendation, and Gardner did not want him to see this.

Frn’k was confused and held up the can he already had.

‘Another one! Get another one!’ Gardner ordered and the ogryn dutifully turned around to pick up another. Reeve was striding away now, going after the colonel’s command squad, which had surged ahead after Gomery. Gardner fired off three rounds at the orks and then, not daring even to blink, slid his aim those vital few inches.

Carson saw Reeve’s peaked cap appear over the tracks of the Salamander. He was coming forwards. Another second and he would have him. Another second. Then Carson’s vision blurred as the Salamander accelerated away. Reeve was completely exposed. Carson nudged his sight back a fraction and pulled the trigger.

Gardner pulled the trigger.

Alongside Gomery’s company, Arbulaster suddenly heard a voice on the vox-channel blare with news that almost made him collapse in relief.

‘The commissar is down!’

It was Ledbetter. His cavalry had finally decided to intervene and now were galloping around the side of Acorn to where Reeve had fallen. Arbulaster fired another couple of shots at the beaten orks and looked back. It took him a few seconds in the poor light to identify the crumpled stormcoat on the ground.

He flagged down the Salamander and climbed onto the tailboard. ‘Parker! We have to go back for the commissar. Make certain he’s retrieved.’ And if he was still living, Arbulaster added mentally, make certain he wasn’t for much longer.

‘Good shot, sah. You hit him!’ Red shouted.

Carson’s breath was caught in his lungs. ‘No, I didn’t.’

He had not seen his shot impact, but a lifetime of marksmanship told Carson he had missed.

‘Blessed Marguerite,’ he whispered, tossing the Voorjer rifle to one side and then turning to Red.

‘It’s nearly dark enough now. Let’s get back before Forjaz has kittens.’

I’ve hit him, Gardner thought as he saw the coat collapse in on itself. I’ve done it. The words were all that ran through his mind. His body retained enough sense to push the autocannon back towards the retreating orks and then he felt the familiar large presence beside him.

‘’Nuvver can?’ Frn’k asked and laid the second can down beside the first.

‘Reload,’ Gardner said, and realised his voice was breaking because his mouth was so dry. He licked his lips. ‘Reload!’ he said louder, and he reached to release the empty can while Frn’k held the new one in place.

Gardner let his hands work automatically. He had never thought about what he would do afterwards. Some vestigial belief-form had led him to expect that the Emperor’s retribution for assaulting one of his servants would be instant. That the clouds would roll back and he would be scourged from the earth as a traitor. Had anyone even noticed?

The colonel certainly had, Gardner saw as he triggered the autocannon at the orks once more. His Salamander was returning, Arbulaster standing on the tailboard, but before he arrived the fallen coat was surrounded by horses. Ledbetter’s cavalry. Gardner watched as the colonel disembarked and marched up to them. Ledbetter trotted out to meet him and a furious argument erupted between them. Meanwhile, his cavalrymen were carefully lifting Reeve’s form up, ready to lay it out over one of their saddles. Ledbetter turned his horse from the colonel and, at an order, the cavalry trotted away, leaving Arbulaster alone and infuriated even as all around him his forces won his final victory.

Eighteen

Objective Bitterleaf, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

Colonel Arbulaster stood on the Salamander’s hull and looked out from the top of Bitterleaf. It was fully dark now, but the crater was theirs. The last spoil-fort had been captured and his men were dragging the ork bodies into piles to burn.

It was another victory, it was to be his last victory. He should have been proud, triumphant, perhaps even a little saddened that his time leading the regiment was nearly at an end. That was what the men expected, and so that was the show he was putting on. In truth, he felt nothing like. His head was stuffed, his blood was pounding in his ears, he couldn’t breathe and he could barely see. A single thought echoed in his head: get away. Get away from the battlefield, get out of the crater, get back to Dova.

Reeve had been dealt with, but that damnable pious fool Ledbetter had taken him away. A load of nonsense about having no trust in his command, some rot that he had ordered Drum to fire on Ledbetter’s cavalry so as to stop them charging. The vox records bore him out, of course, but one could never convince the fanatics in the cavalry of anything they did not wish to believe. Ledbetter felt aggrieved, and when he saw Reeve fall, his mind concocted all sorts of conspiracies, so much so that he had removed his men entirely from the Brimlock camp and trusted only his own medicae to treat Reeve.

And that was how Arbulaster had learned that Reeve still lived. He was wounded, of course, perhaps mortally. Arbulaster hoped so, for short of leading a direct assault on Ledbetter’s company and wiping them from the planet, he had no other ideas on how to reach the commissar.

Arbulaster had made sure to cover himself, though. He’d had Lieutenant Mulberry quietly poke around the site where Reeve had fallen. Arbulaster expected Mulberry to come back with nothing so he could safely attribute the incident to ‘general enemy fire’, and indeed Mulberry found it difficult to discern the different weapon impacts given the number of times that piece of ground had been fought over that day.

Working under the lights from his Sentinels, however, Mulberry had made an intriguing discovery: a Voorjer bullet embedded in the slope of Acorn close to where Reeve had been standing. Mulberry looked at the angle and determined it had to have come from inside the settlement. As all of the Voorjers had been on top of Acorn, none of them could have made that shot.

Mulberry mentioned it to the colonel out of tangential interest only. In his opinion, no bullet fired from a Voorjer rifle could have travelled through a man and that far into the bank behind him. He soon found, however, that the colonel was of a different opinion, and soon a portion of Mulberry’s findings were documented, alongside accounts from a variety of different amenable troopers attesting to the fact that they had come under fire from ork marksmen wielding captured Voorjer rifles. Whether Reeve died under Ledbetter’s care or not, Arbulaster would have the final say as to what had happened to him.

Arbulaster felt how close he was, to the end, to the finish line, but he wouldn’t be safe until he was back behind Dova’s walls. Back there, he was protected, in control of everything around him. Out here, every single second he thought he would hear the shot, the explosion, the whistle in the air that would kill him. He could not bear being out here another moment. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He had to stand there upon that tank and shine proud over his troops, because that was what was expected.

His hands were shaking, and so he gripped them together as tight as a vice behind his back. He couldn’t stop his eyes blinking and so he tilted his head so they were hidden below the brim of his helmet. He felt his knee begin to twitch; he was going to fall off this damn tank and break his neck if he wasn’t careful, and wouldn’t that be a fine way to go!

‘Did you need something, sir?’ Parker spoke up.

‘Get off with you,’ he shouted back to him. He kept his voice gruff so as to prevent it cracking. ‘Give me a moment’s peace.’

His staff obediently left him to it, no doubt believing that their colonel had been momentarily gripped by some nostalgic emotion. That would have been acceptable; ah the old boy’s got a heart after all, they might say. Let them think that, Arbulaster thought, far better that than the truth.

He turned around, taking immense care not to lose his balance, and clambered down off the back of the tank. His knee gave out midway and he landed heavily in the dirt. There, in the small space between the Salamander’s tracks, he realised he was hidden from view. He collapsed onto his backside and tore open his collar and top-buttons with his shaking hands. He gasped in shallow breaths of the fuel-tainted air, panting like some first-day dispatch runner. He hugged his knees into his chest and buried his face between them while he desperately tried to regain his control.

Don’t let them see me this way, was all Arbulaster could think. Don’t let them see who I really am.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. The worst of it had passed. He pulled himself back to his feet and started to straighten himself up again. It had been less than a minute, but each second had been like an agonising hour fearing that he might be discovered. He brushed off the dirt from his uniform and turned the corner around the tank track and back towards the regiment. Not a moment too soon, as he saw his second stepping carefully across the slope towards him.

‘Brooce!’ Arbulaster called to the major. His second had done well this day, grabbing not only Endive, but leading his troops back to crush the orks’ other pincer, catching them from behind as they threw themselves at the four companies Arbulaster had deployed to protect that flank. He had no hesitation in leaving Brooce in command.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Call one of the Valkyries in. I need to get back to Dova, start the ball rolling on the next phase. And I should get in touch with our men back at the capital. I don’t know where that female’s granddaughter has disappeared to, she might have heard something. If word gets back to that female about what’s next before we’re ready, might get a bit sticky.’

Arbulaster saw the look on his second’s face. He had been talking too quickly; Brooce could tell something was wrong. He needed to cover himself, make as though everything was to plan. He forced himself to give the major a hearty smile. ‘Plus, I’ve got a little surprise for the men when they get back. Just need to do the last prep. Little reward for them.’

‘Oh?’ Brooce said, happily surprised. ‘Good show, sir. I’m sure that’ll do just the job. What’ve you got?’

Arbulaster tapped his nose.

‘Ah, I see,’ Brooce said. ‘I’ll keep the old flap buttoned.’

Arbulaster had nothing, of course, but he would have a few days to concoct some return celebration once he was back in safety behind the walls of Dova.

‘I’ll have Parker take me over the rim and meet the Valkyrie on the other side. Don’t want to take any chances of frizzing another.’

‘Actually, sir, that’s what I was coming to tell you, there’s one already inbound. It’s the Navy crews, they’re requesting permission to form a search party and go after Zdzisław.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Arbulaster brushed it off without thinking. ‘They’ll just have to wait until the Valkyrie has dropped me off to come back.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Brooce saluted and turned on his heel. Arbulaster paused for a moment and then stopped him.

‘Wait, major.’ Brooce halted and turned back. Arbulaster sighed heavily. ‘Zdzisław pranged his bird on the far side of the crater. It’s an hour’s march at least. We can’t have a bunch of bluebells stumbling around out there in the dark. Hold them here for the night. Then send ’em out with one of the light companies in the morning. Keep a picket around that pit tonight and then root out anything left inside tomorrow and get everything sewn up. Day after you head back to Dova. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brooce nodded.

‘Good. Oh, and Brooce?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Don’t tell the bluebells the change in plan ’til I’m in the air.’

And with that, Arbulaster felt the fog in his head clear, his chest release, and the air pour into his lungs. He knew he shouldn’t be leaving, but he didn’t care. For twenty years he had stood in the fire, held firm in the face of bullets, bombing raids, berserkers and terror machines. He had seen his men diced into confetti by xenos weapons, or filleted from the inside even as they stood before him, and his only reaction had been to stand up and lead the charge. Twenty years of war in the Emperor’s name. Well, this last one He owed him.

‘To Booth. No better sergeant to protect you from your officers,’ Heal toasted.

‘To Booth!’ the other troopers around the fire toasted and drank. It was a muted celebration. Nothing to do with the dead. There were always dead, even with victory. It had everything to do with their camp being on the edge of Bitterleaf and with them having marched across a jungle and fought two battles in a single day with barely an hour’s rest.

For Carson and Red, however, their fatigue would have to wait. Once the casualty list was exhausted they wandered off together.

‘The story’s gone well around the regiment, sah,’ Red reported.

‘And the troopers believe it?’

‘Not about the ork marksmen, no. They all think the Voorjers somehow pulled it off.’

Carson considered it. ‘Are Van Am and her men in any danger? They’ve not stopped with us as they’ve done before. They’re keeping a very low profile wherever they are.’

‘Not from the troopers, sah. They’d give ’em a parade if they could. They’re saying that all Reeve had in his pockets were more of them little skull-trophies, for all the troopers he was planning to shoot on the way back.’

‘What about Gardner?’ Carson asked. ‘Does he know?’

‘He knows of it. Doesn’t believe it though.’

‘I’ve told Forjaz to keep a close eye on him. Closer than he did on Acorn. You do the same, Red. If he looks the least bit twitchy, bring me in to talk to him again.’

‘Right you are, sah. Let’s just hope the tin bellies don’t go digging around themselves.’

Carson looked about the different campfires checking for someone. He should be out, but would he be over here? A slight commotion over on the right told Carson he was.

‘Come on, Red. Let’s get it straight from the horse’s mouth.’

They crossed through the camp until they had caught up with their target.

‘Lance-Corporal Diver,’ Carson hailed him.

‘Yoo halloo, lieutenant,’ Diver hailed him back. He sat on his horse, lance in hand, not a stitch of clothing on him. He did it after every battle. Something about cleansing himself or some such thing. The cavalry always considered themselves the best, the most pious, of all the Brimlock units and, as such, developed all sorts of strange ideas about sin and salvation. Lancer Diver’s was a unique peccadillo even for them.

‘I’m concerned, lance-corporal, about the health of dear Commissar Reeve.’

Diver shook his head sadly. ‘Aren’t we all. Aren’t we all.’

‘Do you know how he is faring?’

Diver considered it. ‘He’s being monitored carefully. Whatever struck him has buried itself too deep to be extracted without worsening the damage. I don’t think he’s woken up yet.’

Carson relaxed a fraction. ‘Should we not be sending him back to Dova?’

‘Oh, no,’ Diver said, shaking his head and placing his lance across his thighs. ‘The captain, that is Captain Ledbetter, will not let him out of his sight. After all, if the colonel tried to kill him once, he might well try again.’

‘The colonel?’ Carson said, surprised.

‘Oh, yes. Why, who else could have ordered Drum to try to kill our captain and so leave the commissar without protectors?’ Diver said gleefully, pressing his bare heels into his mount’s flanks to spur him to walk on. ‘We don’t know the how, but we certainly know the who. Take care and keep your pecker up!’

So, Ledbetter was determined to demonstrate some kind of connection with the colonel. That meant he would have to keep Reeve away from the regiment until he recovered, if he ever did.

‘It sounds very promising,’ he said, turning to Red. ‘Thank you for your help today. It worked out well enough in the end.’

‘So long as Chaffey doesn’t open his mouth, sah,’ Red scowled. ‘Or have it loosened for him.’

‘Why don’t you call him Mouse? Everybody else does.’

‘That’s cos he’s not a mouse, sah. He’s a rat.’

‘Quite a collection we’ve built up, eh, Red? A mouse, a marble, a blank slate and one solid piece of Trouble.’

Red grunted noncommittally.

Carson, relieved, and feeling the effect of the toasting liquor and his tiredness, was gripped by a fit of whimsy. ‘What do the men call me?’

‘Don’t know, sah,’ Red said, closed off.

‘Yes you do.’

‘Wouldn’t like to say, sah.’

‘I am telling you to,’ Carson pressed.

‘Not my place, sah.’

‘I am making it your place.’

‘It’s Dead-Eye, sah. Cos you’re a fine marksman.’

‘I am, but that’s not what they call me.’

‘It’s Crackshot, sah.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘It’s Two Guns, sah,’ Red said, his imagination running short.

‘Really, colour, you are trying my patience. Now this is a direct order, what do they call me?’

‘Well…’ Red said with a type of anguish Carson had never seen on his face. ‘You know how your first name is Laurence, sir?’

‘Yes… Is that it? Is it Larry? Laurie? It’s not Loll is it? I had enough of that when I was a boy. It’s not one of those?’

‘No, sir. It’s Florence.’

‘Florence… Florence? Florence!’ Carson laughed loudly. ‘Excellent! How exceptional. From now on you must call me Florence as well.’

‘I’d prefer not to, sir. Out of respect.’

‘Red, I’ll never doubt the respect you have for me.’

‘Thank you, sir. But I didn’t mean you, sir. My wife’s name was Florence.’

Carson suddenly felt the warm glow of the liquor recede.

‘Your wife?’

‘Yes, sir. Florence Elsie Towser.’

‘I didn’t even know you were married. She wasn’t one of the wives who came with us?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You said her name was… She had… she’d already passed into the Emperor’s light?’

‘Oh no, sir. She was as right as rain when I volunteered.’

‘Then why did you say…’

‘Well, she must be dead now, sah,’ Red commented. ‘It’s been twenty years for us, but with all the time we’ve spent travelling... system to system, through the warp and all… It’s been a lot longer for them. They’re all dead, aren’t they?

‘But it’s what you sign up for, isn’t it, sah,’ Red continued. ‘They tell you up front, you’ll never go home. And even if you did, even if you got picked as one of the colour-guard and they sent you back express all the way, it’d be the place you started, but it wouldn’t be home.’

‘So you left without her?’

‘Had to. There was nothing else for it. No honest work in the rookeries, and I could never turn my hand to thieving. So there it was. “Starve, steal or soldier”, that’s what they say in the rookeries. It’s even on the recruiting posters now. So I chose soldiering. And I’ve not done badly by it. It’s kept me fed. Kept me warm. And I know that every week she was alive, my Florence went up to the recruiting base and she was given my pay.

‘And then this came. Back on Kandhar, back when we got on board ship to come here, I got a message from the Munitorum. My account.’

Carson took the paper and looked at the figure at the bottom.

‘Well, Red, you’ve got quite a surplus here.’

‘I know. And that’s how I know she’s dead.’

‘I…’ Carson started and then stopped. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, sah. Now, sah, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Of course,’ Carson said and let him leave. Carson stayed put for a while, then left to track down Van Am.

Major Brooce stared thoughtfully at the piece of paper in his hand as he sat in the signallers’ tent. It was the communiqué back to Crusade Command, notifying them of the victory. Arbulaster had, for the first time, left him in charge of it. It was a simple enough task, but as a message that might be read direct to the First Lord High General, and possibly repeated across the sector by the Voice of Liberation, commanding officers tended to be quite jealous about the responsibility. Still, Brooce had had plenty enough examples to copy and now it was finished, all but for one detail.

‘Good evening, sir.’

Brooce looked up and saw Lieutenant Mulberry. ‘Oh, good evening, lieutenant.’

‘Just here with requisition orders,’ Mulberry said conversationally, taking a puff from his long clay pipe. ‘Going to need quite a bit of oomph if we’re going to bury that thing tomorrow.’

‘Good,’ Brooce replied without interest.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you look like a man with a problem, sir. Care to run it by me? We’ve got a good head for solutions, us beards.’

Brooce regarded the cheerful lieutenant. If it had been the colonel sitting here rather than him, Brooce doubted Mulberry would have tried to be so familiar; and if Mulberry had tried, the colonel would have sent him away sharpish with a flea in his ear. Brooce was about to do the same when he had a sudden change of heart. Did he really wish to model his way of command after the colonel’s in every single way? Brooce had seen his face before he left, had seen the agitation, the hint of terror in it. But he had not wished to share it even with those closest to him and, whatever it was, it had led him running back to Dova.

Brooce knew he himself was to be one of the colour-guard, he knew the colonel needed someone to return with him to confirm all his adventures and the heroic role he had played in them. After he was done with that, Brooce wanted a regiment of his own, to build a reputation of his own. He had immense respect for the colonel and gratitude for all he had done; he simply did not want to end up like him, isolated and gnawed away by something inside. With that in mind, he turned the paper over to the lieutenant.

‘For immediate dispatch, Crusade Command, Ellinor Crusade,’ Mulberry read. ‘On 072660M41, the Brimlock 11th Regiment (Consolidated), under the command of Colonel Arbulaster PC VL OSV, engaged with a sizeable orkoid force numbering several thousand warriors at _____ on the Imperial planet of Voor. Despite being greatly outnumbered, the Brimlock attack was pressed home at close range and with determination and coolness in the face of fierce resistance. After several hours’ fighting, the enemy force was annihilated and the regiment took full control over their fortified base in the name of the Emperor, of Brimlock and of the Ellinor Crusade. Praise the Emperor, all glory to His name.’

‘It’s very good, sir,’ Mulberry concluded, handing the paper back. ‘Just the one detail left.’

‘The name of the battle.’

‘Is it that important, sir?’ The lieutenant took the opportunity to sit.

‘Of course it’s important. How many battles do you remember that didn’t have a name?’

Mulberry thought about it. ‘Well, none come to mind.’

‘Quite. And you normally just name it after the nearest town or landmark or the like, but this entire continent has barely been scratched. There are no towns, no settlements; we don’t even have names for the mountains.’

‘What about the name of the rok: Brutal Fury?’

Brooce stared at him. ‘Much as I respect the fine, talented strategists at Crusade Command, they can get rather excitable when it comes to nomenclature.’

‘Why not just the battle of the crater then?’

Brooce considered it. ‘Needs to be a bit more specific.’

‘Orks Crater? Orks Rift? Ork Gulch?’ Mulberry started to reel off.

Brooce stared at him. ‘Don’t be facetious, Mulberry.’ The lieutenant managed a look of contrition. ‘No, it needs a proper name. I wonder where that Voorjer girl is?’

‘Ah, I might be of use there,’ Mulberry exclaimed, jumping up. ‘I spent quite a bit of time with her on the path from Dova, to try and get her help filling in my map.’ He pulled a folded sheet of laminate from his uniform and laid it out. ‘She had a lot of local names for places hereabouts… How close does it have to be?’

‘Not very,’ Brooce admitted. ‘You know of the Battle of Defiance, of course?’

‘Oh, of course,’ Mulberry nodded, ‘Lord Ferresley’s greatest victory, it’s compulsory study.’

‘Ever wonder why it was named after a town that was over fifty miles from the actual site of the battle?’

Mulberry searched his schola education. ‘I thought it was because that was the place he spent the night after the battle.’

‘Yes, but why did he spend the night there? It was so he could name the battle after it rather than any of those towns with Vostroyan names nearby. He would rather have been hanged than split the credit with the Vostroyan commander.’

‘Is that true, sir?’

‘Oh yes, he told me so himself. Lord Ferresley had an undoubted ability to win battles, it’s true. But even that was outstripped by his ability to win the credit afterwards. So what’s the closest?’

Mulberry arched his thumb and forefinger across the map, measuring the distances. ‘Looks like either Bronkhorstspruit or Schuinshoogte,’ he announced.

‘Anything a little less… foreign?’ Brooce ventured.

‘These mountains here, they’re very close by, she had a name for those. That would be perfect.’

Brooce read the map, and then read it again to be sure he had read it right the first time.

‘I think she might have been having some fun with you there, lieutenant. Would you care to read it?’

‘Beeg Nokkers? What’s funny about that?’

Brooce stared at him harder this time, but Mulberry appeared completely innocent. ‘I’d prefer not to have a name that will provoke guffaws in every cadet studying the regimental history.’

Mulberry still appeared confused, so Brooce peered closely at the map.

‘What’s this one?’

Mulberry looked where the major was pointing. ‘That’s just a cabin they put there on one of their climbing expeditions. It’s just a shack really. There are no people there.’

‘High Point.’

‘Or high place. It’s not a name, it’s just a description.’

Brooce was already marking it down on the communiqué, however. He handed it over to the signaller who started the transmission to Dova, which would then be redirected off-planet and to Crusade Command. Mulberry saw the look of satisfaction on Brooce’s face.

‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ Brooce said as he left. ‘I do believe it’s all downhill from here.’

Interlude

Orkoid birthing sac, Tswaing, 659.M41 – One year prior to the Battle of Highpoint

The creature that would become the ork known as Choppa shifted in his birthing-sac. He was uncomfortable. Confined. It had never felt this way before. He had always felt safe and protected inside it, but now he felt cramped, constrained. The sac had shrunk, or maybe it was his body that had grown bigger. Either way, he wanted out.

His nails had not yet toughened, but still he managed to use them to score a groove on the inside. He dug his fingers into the groove and pulled it apart. After a moment’s resistance, the sac tore and split apart. Choppa felt a new sensation, that of loose earth between his fingers. It crumbled as he grasped at it; he had never felt anything crumble before. He liked it. He tried the taste of it, then felt the muscles of his face grimace and scowl. The taste he did not like and he spat it out. He was angry now. He had never experienced it before, but he recognised the sense of power he felt with it.

He grabbed the soil in front of him and started shovelling great handfuls of it. He did not know what was before him, but he knew that his future was out; there was nothing left back inside for him. He felt his fingers break out of the earth, and he reached up until there was nothing more to grasp. He pushed with his other hand, shuffled forwards and straightened his spine to shove his head through as well.

He felt a chill on his hand, outside the soil. Something moved past it; something light, just brushing over his skin. He felt his mouth and throat reverberate into a growl. He tried to speak but more soil fell into his mouth. He spat again, as hard as he could this time, and pushed himself up with all his might. The top of his head broke out. He felt the air sweep over his hairless scalp and around his pointed ears. He pushed again and he felt his face scrape free. He opened his red eyes and saw for the first time.

There was a figure there. He was facing in Choppa’s direction, but he didn’t see him. Choppa saw that the figure was in light while he was in darkness. Choppa looked up and saw the twisted gills of a blackened toadstool casting shade where he emerged. The figure looked his way and Choppa held still. He knew it was bad to be seen. The figure pulled something from the ground, turned and walked off. When he was out of sight Choppa moved again. He pulled himself entirely free, pushing the canopy of the toadstool out of his way and stretching out to his full height. The figure was larger than him, he could tell. That meant he was small. That meant he didn’t have power. He was not safe. He must find more strength to protect himself. He looked in the direction the figure had gone and then in the direction he had come from. It was a simple choice. He took his first step after the figure.

His steps were halting at first as he swayed and staggered, grabbing at the fungus growths around him to keep him steady. His balance came to him quickly, however, and then he could walk with more confidence. He could see the figure ahead of him now. He saw him bend down and pull something from the ground. He straightened up, looked closely at what he held in his hand, then pulled a small object from around his neck and blew into it. Choppa heard the noise. The figure was calling others to him. Perhaps he had seen Choppa, perhaps he had let him follow after him so as to bring him to these others. Others would be coming here and Choppa knew that would be bad. He knew he was weak. If he faced others then he would have to be strong.

He took a step back and lowered himself behind a thorny stalk. He put his weight on it as he crouched and felt it bend a fraction at the base. Its roots were loose in the soil. It was weak as well. He went on again, interested, then pulled, and it came free in his hands. Choppa gripped it tightly. This was strong. He was strong now and so had nothing to fear. He rose and left his hiding place behind. The figure blew on his object again and stood there waiting. Choppa walked up behind him and, as the figure turned, swung his weapon hard down on his head.

His enemy’s head jerked away at the blow. The enemy whirled around and snarled and Choppa struck him again. The enemy stumbled this time and Choppa went after him to strike him once more. This time, however, he raised his arm and so Choppa’s blow struck that and not the head. The enemy’s other hand curled into a ball and struck Choppa in his body. Choppa felt pain for the first time. It made him even more angry, and from that anger he felt even more power flow.

Choppa took a step back; the enemy did as well. Choppa noticed that where he had struck the enemy’s head a liquid had spread from the wound. He felt his own midriff where he had felt the pain. There was no liquid there. That meant he was winning. He saw the enemy reach down to his leg. He had a weapon as well. Choppa swung again, but this time not for the head; rather, he struck at the enemy’s knee. The enemy howled and fell over. Choppa stood over the fallen enemy for a moment. Did that mean that he had won, he asked himself? His anger had the answer and he struck the enemy once more, twice more, a dozen times more until his face was covered by the liquid. Now Choppa knew he had won.

His enemy no longer moved and Choppa took his time studying the body. Then he looked at his own. It was only then that he realised that he and his enemy looked the same. Choppa found it curious, but it did not concern him greatly. The shape of things did not matter to him nearly as much as what was strong and what was weak. And he had proved himself the stronger here. The enemy’s weapon intrigued him, though. He pulled it from its strap upon the body. It resembled the stalk he himself carried, but it was bigger, its surface was harder, it did not bend no matter how hard Choppa twisted it. It was stronger.

He tossed the stalk away and took the enemy’s weapon as his own. It was then that he realised he was being watched. Another creature, this one like his enemy but far smaller, was looking at him. Was this one of the others that his enemy had called? Without hesitation, Choppa turned in the small one’s direction.

The small one darted away from him into the shadows beneath the tall fungus canopy and Choppa chased after him. The creature scampered through knots and tendrils attempting to escape, but Choppa merely knocked them aside and his longer strides quickly brought him close. Then the small one ran out from the cover and into a clearing. There were more creatures here. These did not resemble anything that Choppa had seen before. Their bodies were bulbous and they had no arms, merely large mouths that they were using to chomp up the shoots and knobs of fungus at their feet. The small one scurried through their midst, leaping nimbly away when their mouths snapped at him.

Choppa followed, but as he approached they all turned on him. He used his weapon and struck the first of them in between its eyes. It keeled over and the rest of its kind flew into a panic and jumped away in every direction. Choppa thought of continuing after the small one, but now the animal carcass at his feet caught his interest. He was feeling weak again, but this time the weakness was not in his arms but in his centre. He felt hollow, drained.

Instinctively, he put his hand upon the carcass’s flank and tore a wodge of meat from it. The meat and his hand were covered in the liquid, but this time it did not feel like victory. Instead, he had another impulse. He shoved the meat into his mouth and tried to chew and swallow at the same time. He choked and coughed and nearly spat it out, but this taste he liked. He chewed for a while first this time and only then tried to swallow. Each piece sliding down his gullet filled his centre with its warmth. This was good.

While he was eating he saw that the small one had returned and was watching him again from a greater distance. Choppa thought of chasing him, but he was enjoying the meat too much to bother. The small one was gone by the time he’d finished. His head felt heavy now and so he returned to the blackened toadstool from whence he had emerged and dug himself back into his hole to sleep.

Choppa slept and rested, and then dug himself up once more. It did not take long before he saw the small one again. He chased after him and again he led him to where the meat-beasts were. For the first few days, the two of them followed the same pattern and the small one left him while he ate, but on the fourth day he stayed. That day, once Choppa had eaten his fill, the small one approached and took a bite of the remains. Once he had swallowed it, he stood before Choppa, pressed his tiny hand to his pigeon chest and said something:

‘Nabkeri,’ he said.

Choppa looked at him blankly. He repeated himself, but Choppa did not know what he meant. He walked away as though disappointed, but then he looked back and beckoned for Choppa to come with him. Choppa was no longer hungry, but he did not tire as he had before after eating, and so he followed.

Nabkeri led him a distance, further from his hole than he had ever been. He finally brought him to the edge of another clearing. In this clearing there were mounds. Not fungus mounds, but shapes made of the earth. Choppa saw gaps in them and realised that they were hollow inside. Creatures that looked like his enemy, that looked like him, were sitting around and walking amongst them. Nabkeri pointed at them.

‘Boyz,’ he said. Then he pointed at Choppa.

‘Boyz,’ he repeated, gesturing emphatically. Choppa did not respond. Nabkeri set out towards the village and wanted Choppa to come as well, but he refused. He could see that there were many of them, and only one of him. These boyz together were strong, far stronger than he, and so he would not face them. Instead he disappeared back into the lands he knew.

Over the days that followed, however, he returned to the village many times to watch these boyz. He told himself at first he did so in order to determine how to beat them, but as he watched them more and more he realised that there was another yearning he felt inside of him besides anger, hunger and fatigue. He wanted to be amongst them and yet he denied himself the company he desired.

That changed the day that Nabkeri appeared before him, telling him to follow. This time Nabkeri took him neither to the meat-beasts, which Choppa could now find himself, nor to the village, but to somewhere, something, else.

Choppa and Nabkeri watched the new-spawned ork struggle along the ground. Its knee was turned inwards at an unhealthy angle and so it could not find its footing. It was weak. Choppa would need no weapons for this. He advanced towards it, preparing for the kill. The new-spawn pushed itself up from the ground as it saw Choppa approach and then scrambled backwards in fear. Choppa caught it with ease and tossed it onto its back. It flailed with its hands to keep its attacker at bay, but Choppa knocked them aside and took a grip around its neck, readying to rip its throat out. Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement in front of him and he felt tiny scratches on his face. Nabkeri was attacking him. Choppa grunted in indignation and swatted the gretchin away with his free hand. Nabkeri dodged away and started to screech.

‘No kill! No kill! No kill!’

Choppa turned back to the new-spawn in his grasp who was trying unsuccessfully to pull Choppa’s fingers away. Choppa readied to make the kill when Nabkeri flew at him again.

‘No kill da boyz! Boss no kill da boyz!’

Choppa paused, comprehension beginning to seep into his well- insulated brain. Nabkeri now turned his attention to the new-spawn, scratching its face.

‘Da boss! Da boss!’ Nabkeri shouted at the new-spawn and pointed a tiny green finger at Choppa. The new-spawn mewled in pain at the treatment, but eventually Nabkeri began to get through to it.

‘Da boss… Da boss…’ the new-spawn began to say along.

‘Da boyz,’ Nabkeri said, pointing at the new-spawn, then pointed at Choppa. ‘Da boss!’

‘Da boss,’ the new-spawn agreed, and Nabkeri batted at Choppa to have him stand up off the new recruit. Choppa did so and, as he did, Nabkeri’s demeanour shifted abruptly. The frantic peace-maker switched in a flash to the cautious horse-trader. Nabkeri walked around the prone greenskin, checking everything about it. He peered in its ears, pinched at its skin, prodded at its paltry belly. He rolled back its upper lip to check its teeth and the new-spawn snapped at him only to receive an irate scolding from the gretchin before he returned to his inspection. Nabkeri finally focused on the new-spawn’s knee as his particular concern. He probed it thoughtfully and then brought Choppa over.

‘Dok it,’ he said.

Choppa did not understand.

‘Dok it! Dok it!’ Nabkeri began to rant, and he mimed what he meant. Choppa followed what he thought the gretchin was demonstrating, took a hold on the knee and the calf, and then wrenched and twisted as hard as he could. The new-spawn howled this time, but Nabkeri was ready. He grabbed a certain piece of fungus from his belt and jammed it into the new-spawn’s mouth. It bit down and swallowed, and then it stopped shouting. The look on its face showed it was still in pain, but it could no longer make a noise. Nabkeri returned to Choppa and seemed pleased with what the ork had done. Choppa dropped the leg and the new-spawn rolled onto its side.

Choppa understood what Nabkeri had done, but he did not yet understand why the gretchin had bothered. The new-spawn was weak. The weak got killed. If one happened upon someone stronger than you, you found something that made you stronger still and then you killed them. He wandered off to find another meat-beast and then return to watch the village.

Nabkeri found him a few days later and took him back to the new-spawn. It was walking properly now and it was stronger. Nabkeri had obviously been showing it where the meat-beasts were, for it had killed one of them and was beginning to eat. Choppa emerged, ready to fight for it, but as soon as the new-spawn saw him he ducked his head subserviently and moved aside, allowing Choppa to eat first. Choppa did so, eyeing the new-spawn suspiciously and left nothing for him.

When he had finished, Nabkeri had them both follow him and took them to a new place where Choppa saw the largest meat-beast he had ever seen. As they approached, this one did not flee, but rather pawed the ground with its three-toed foot and lowered its head to charge. Choppa and the new-spawn threw themselves to either side out of the way of its attack. The meat-beast turned to chase after Choppa, but then found the new-spawn clinging onto its back. It spun around to try to shake the new-spawn off and Choppa launched himself at it. The two of them together brought it to the ground and got the kill. Once again the new-spawn let Choppa eat first, but this time Choppa only ate a fraction and then allowed the new-spawn to eat the rest.

Once more a new concept was diffusing into Choppa’s mind. He had thought that a weapon could only be something inanimate, a rock or a club, something he could hold. But a weapon could be another creature as well. Having others made him stronger, but only if they were under his control.

Off to one side, Nabkeri grinned in satisfaction as he saw Choppa motion for the new-spawn to follow him, then he knuckled over to the carcass and started to chew fast before the other scavengers arrived.

With Nabkeri’s help, Choppa added a dozen more new-spawns to his burgeoning warband. Many of them, he found, emerged close to where he had done and then later, nearabouts to where he had killed his first enemy. The same process worked on each. He would prove his strength to them by besting them in combat. Then, as soon as he had his hand around their throats, he would demand they recognise him as boss. Hunting together, they could take any meat-beast they wished, but Choppa knew a far greater challenge awaited them. He returned to the village often to count the number of warriors they had, and each time he did so he realised that, even with his warband, together they were still weak.

The time came when one of the new-spawns came running up to Choppa. There were so many new-spawns now that Choppa had found himself having to create names to tell them apart. The first new-spawn he called Badrukken after his knee, then there was Noshgobber after his appetite and increasing girth, Gruffdreggen after his destructive tendencies and so forth. He needed no name to refer to himself, of course, and to the rest he was always simply Da boss.

This one he’d called Krumpkopperd for the great smack to the head Choppa had had to use to subdue him when they first fought. Krumpkopperd had news. He’d seen more boyz, the boyz from the village. A whole bunch of them were coming out together.

Choppa’s first thought was that they knew about him. They knew he was growing stronger and so had set out to finish him off before he could threaten them. Well, he would not wait to be attacked. He would find them first. Krumpkopperd had seen them heading towards one of the meat-beast clearings and so Choppa gathered the new-spawns together and went after them.

They tracked them down not far from the clearing. They were moving quietly and carefully, but they were on Choppa’s home turf and his new-spawns merged amongst the shadows cast by the toadstool canopies. It was not all the village boyz, only about the same number as Choppa had new-spawns. It was good enough, though, and Choppa was about to give the signal to attack when he noticed that Nabkeri was amongst their gretchin slaves. As though he could sense his gaze, Nabkeri stared straight at where Choppa was concealed and shook his head, making a motion for patience.

Choppa was ready for battle, but still he paused. Nabkeri was amongst them, and that meant he was an enemy, and yet Nabkeri was still helping him. So perhaps one could pretend to be an enemy and yet still be a friend. Choppa found this thought too confusing. Instead he and his new-spawns followed the village boyz to the clearing and watched them catch the meat-beasts. They used spears and nets, but Choppa saw they were still not as good as he and his new-spawns were at catching the meat-beasts. He took pleasure in that.

The village boyz ran after the meat-beasts for some time before they had finally caught all they wished. Some they had killed, others they had tethered and were dragging away. The gretchin scampered behind the tethered meat-beasts, trying to prod them forwards and avoid their sharp tails. The village boyz and their trophies gathered themselves together and then started back. They were going slower, Choppa realised, they were laden down and tired now. One or two of them were even sporting injuries incurred from the meat-beasts. They were weaker than they had been before. Now was the time to strike.

As the party approached the path where Choppa was waiting, Nabkeri suddenly jumped onto the largest meat-beast’s back and bit it hard between its eyes. The meat-beast went mad, bucking and tearing at its leash. The other gretchin swarmed over it, while Nabkeri slipped down and bit through the meat-beast’s leash. Its bucking turned into full-fledged spasms as it found itself free and it spun to try to knock the gretchin away. The village boyz turned to see the commotion and that was the moment that Choppa bellowed the charge.

The fight was over quickly. The village boyz were distracted, several had waded amongst the meat-beasts to try to restore order and found themselves set upon as the attack drove the meat-beasts to even greater frenzy. Choppa caught one off-guard and brained it. The rest of his new-spawns launched themselves at the defenders, two on each one, fending away the village boyz’ blows and taking their legs out from under them. Once they were on the ground they quickly fell victim to the new-spawns’ kicks.

Choppa knocked the last one down himself as it threw off the wounded meat-beast that had made a bloody ruin of its chest. Once the ork was on the ground, Choppa grabbed it round the throat and started once more demanding recognition as boss. This one, however, kept on fighting and would not relent, scrabbling for Choppa’s face, looking for purchase. Shocked at this, Choppa automatically dug in his nails, pulled and ripped the village boy’s throat clean out. These boyz would not acknowledge him; they would not make him stronger.

He took his club and smashed in the brains of fully half their number before the remainder hastened to make signs of subservience. Choppa was unconvinced, now deeply suspicious of these orks. They each bore a mark, a blue circle, around their chin. It made them different from his new-spawns, separate from them. They would never be his weapon and that made them his enemy. He raised his club and slew the rest as they squirmed on the ground, held down by the new-spawns.

Choppa slew them all bar the last, who Nabkeri made to protect as he had done when they had first encountered Badrukken. This last one was the smallest, but it did not wear the same mark as the rest. Perhaps, Choppa reasoned, it could be his weapon after all. Solemnly, he slapped the last one’s head up, gripped its throat and said the incantation. The last one, wide-eyed, agreed quickly, but Choppa held it firm until its babbling stopped and it started repeating the word as slowly and deliberately as he did. He told the new-spawns to equip themselves with the clubs, nets and sharpened poles that the village boyz had dropped and, as he did so, he gave his latest recruit a name: Mugkileen.

Choppa wasted no time. When he had killed his first enemy, no one had come looking for it, but these enemies were taking food. The other village boyz would be expecting them to return and would come looking for them soon. With these warriors dead, their numbers were fewer, they were weak, and they would not yet expect his attack.

He led his small warband with its latest recruit straight to the spot from where he watched the village. Choppa was right; a few of the village boyz were outside of their mounds, but they were lying idle, leaving their weapons scattered around. Choppa did not announce their attack, but rather ran straight in without speaking. The bizarre spectacle caught the village boyz off-guard and they leaned up and stared at the sight rather than instantly reaching for their weapons. Choppa managed to knock one of them aside before they saw the rest of his new-spawns charging silently after him and realised they were under attack. Badrukken had chosen himself a spear and ran one of the village boyz through while it struggled to its feet. Badrukken held it in place while Noshgobber caved its head in with a rock. Gruffdreggen threw a net over a fumbling village boy just as the hunters had thrown them over the meat-beasts. With his enemy entangled, he gave it a crack on the knee to knock it to the ground and then set about hammering it with his club.

Those village boyz outside were nearly overwhelmed, but a couple of them were faster and managed to lay a hand on their weapons before they were assailed. The noise of the combat attracted more of the village boyz from inside the mounds and Choppa quickly ordered his new-spawns to the entrances so as to block others emerging from behind. A scream of agony to one side told him that they had not all been successful.

Choppa looked up from the village boy he was bludgeoning to see Krumpkopperd fall away, his shoulder sliced from the rest of his torso. The severed limb, still holding its spear, lay on the ground as the new-spawn looked down at the gaping hole in his body and then slowly collapsed.

Behind him stood the largest ork that Choppa had ever seen. It stood more upright, nearly a half a metre taller than Choppa. It had not only a blue circle on its chin, but also a far larger one emblazoned across its chest and its belly. It wore necklaces and bracelets made of greenskin teeth. It was the boss of the village boyz and it held in its hands a weapon that Choppa had coveted from the moment he had first laid eyes upon it. It was over a metre long, its shaft was not made from some tough fungus crop but from stout wood, and it had a blade of metal. The only weapon of such kind to exist in all of Choppa’s world. Choppa had seen him many times as he watched the village, each time anticipating the time when it would come to fight him.

The village boss hefted his weapon and caught Choppa’s eye. Choppa returned the challenge and turned to face him. The other combats around them fizzled out and fell quiet as all of the orks focused on the fight between the two champions. Choppa raised his club and, for the first time, hollered a battle-cry as he flung it straight at the boss. Surprised, the boss swung his weapon and batted the missile to the side with a hefty, satisfied swipe. His opponent’s desperate strike had failed and he had disarmed himself in the process. The fight, he believed, was practically over, but Choppa had not finished.

Even as the club was leaving his hand, Choppa was leaning forwards. As the boss shifted his focus to the club, Choppa started to run. He sprang and barrelled into the boss as he circled the weapon back and smashed them both to the ground. Choppa scrabbled at the boss’s face as he tried to defend himself and hang onto the weapon caught between them. He tried to lever it free, but Choppa held his weight down upon it. The boss howled in agony as Choppa plunged his jagged fingernails in and released his grip to press his hands into his face. Choppa jumped to his feet, gathering the blade and then buried it in the boss’s chest and cut off his screams. Then the screams began again as the victorious new-spawns set about their opponents and the massacre began.

Choppa’s warband killed those who were marked, sparing those few who were not on condition of their fealty to their new boss. The new-spawns ransacked the mounds for items, taking more weapons, food, necklaces of teeth, and anything else that caught their eye. The village and the fungus fields around it were the entire world to Choppa and now he had proved that he was the strongest of them all.

Once they had finished with their looting, Choppa gathered them up and led them back to where they had come from. Nabkeri appeared before him again, incensed with anger. He tried to drag Choppa back to the village, but Choppa was not interested in returning. He had defeated the enemies who were there and brought back more warriors for his warband. There was nothing in the village for him; he had taken all he desired: the metal weapon that was now his. Nabkeri threw up his hands and left him. He gathered together the gretchin who had been left masterless and, with them, he himself occupied the mounds.

Despite his earlier inclination, Choppa found himself returning to the village often. He felt a sense of ownership there, it was a prize for which he had fought and won. Those of his warriors who had come from the village, Mugkileen and the few others, had also returned to the village and had begun to order the gretchin about, much to Nabkeri’s annoyance. Watching Mugkileen, Choppa began to understand the purpose of the mounds. They were warmer at night and when the weather turned cold, and when it rained they were better cover than a mushroom cap. The carcasses of the meat-beasts his warband killed could be better protected there against the predations of the carnivore squigs than out in the open or buried in the ground, too. He also discovered more new-spawns emerging, many of them appearing first around the fringes of the village.

Bit by bit, Choppa and his warband centred their world around the mounds, wordlessly reasserting his authority over Mugkileen and ensuring that all the new-spawns swore fealty to him. Choppa did not forget how Badrukken and many of his first new-spawns had appeared where he had killed his first enemy and so led regular hunting patrols searching not only for meat-beasts but also for more new-spawns to bring back.

Even with the names, Choppa found himself beginning to get confused between those new-spawns who had sworn themselves to him. He recalled the blue mark used by the old boss and decided he could do something similar. He discovered within one of the mounds a squig creature which excreted the blue colouring, but he did not wish to use the same mark, the mark of a loser. Instead, Nabkeri showed him one that excreted red. Choppa used that to devise his own symbol, a single straight line, a ‘blood stripe’ as it came to be called, down his warriors’ foreheads and one of their cheeks. The only orks that did not wear it after a few days were those few new-spawns who Choppa had yet to get round to making declare him boss, and Choppa himself. He needed no mark to tell him who he was.

Nineteen

Impact Crater, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 18

Two hours after the Battle of Highpoint concluded deep night had descended. In the air Colonel Arbulaster was aboard his Valkyrie with the lights of Dova in sight. In the crater Major Brooce was showing the frustrated Navy pilots to a fire where they would have to wait until morning. And out in the dark, an entirely more determined searcher caught his first glimpse of the site where Zdzisław went down.

The low-hanging clouds blocked almost all the light from the moons, but they reflected a little from the pyres back in the crater. No one else would have dared venture out in such darkness, but it was enough for Mouse.

The colonel wasn’t the only one looking towards his future. Mouse was the same. He had slipped away from the regiment as soon as he could, while the men were still dispersed dragging the ork bodies to the pyres. There was always the same confusion after a battle as the dead were counted, the injured tended to, equipment salvaged, and each man gave thanks to have survived the day. For Mouse, however, the battle was merely the preamble; his true work began now. For where others looked upon a battlefield with pride, sadness or disgust, he saw each battlefield as a field of harvested crops, ready to be gathered in.

This one, though, had not been promising. Not a great number of men had died, and they’d had their friends standing by them to recover their valuables. The Brimlock casualties had been concentrated within the crater, which was now under a watchful guard. The ork dead, well, they carried only their weapons and a few bone trinkets good only as novelties. Their bodies were already burning. The victory had been too easy. When the victory was too easy the regiment stayed in good order, casualties were accounted for quickly and Mouse went hungry. The hard-fought battles, where the foe had retreated but the regiments were too exhausted to take control of the field, the fast-moving fights where companies were redeployed as soon as the last enemy fell and small knots of soldiers were caught out of position and overwhelmed, those were the battlefields where Mouse ate.

He was not a thief. He was very clear about that. There had been thieves, to be sure, in the 11th. The ones who were brazen, or stupid, were quickly shot or hanged. Even the ones who were smarter, more careful, still fell foul of their comrades’ unofficial retribution. Some of them survived it, some of them didn’t. Because it didn’t matter how sly you were about it, soldiers always knew. And none of them, even if they were doing it themselves, wanted a thief about.

So Mouse was most definitely not a thief. He knew where the line was and he knew not to cross it. He would endure being called many things, but never thief. He was a scavenger, a reclaimer, a recycler. He took only from the dead, and kept their items amongst the living. He was a vital part of the regimental ecology.

He had learned other rules as well. Never take anything you do not know how to sell. Never try to take anything you can’t carry yourself. And, if it’s an officer who left a wife, you make sure she gets her fair share. He had learnt that last one in a particularly painful manner at the hands of the widow Murdoc and the sharp end of a scalpel blade that she had used to threaten his sensitive area.

That incident had turned out to have its compensations, however. After the next battle, when he returned certain items back to the new widows, whilst some of them ignored him and some of them spat at him, others were painfully grateful to have anything of their husbands back. They came to accept his little service, expect it even. The wives of the living officers protected him, knowing they might have to rely on it themselves one dark day, and with them came the tacit protection of their officer husbands. He realised he had security in his other endeavours and so his business thrived.

These orks had been very poor. Other orks they had fought during the crusade had been more rewarding. Nothing they made themselves, of course, but things they had looted. Eldar were the best. Everything they carried was a thing of beauty. Even a pistol carried by one of their lowliest troopers was gilded and patterned to be a work of art. Their armour was encrusted with jewels of the richest colours and deepest purity.

That had been a glorious campaign, for Mouse at least. The Brimlock casualties had been horrendous; none of the sandy towns of Azzabar were safe. The eldar attacked with the desert wind, haughty, elemental, but as Mouse discovered, mortal. He remembered his excitement when he first got his hands on one of their bodies. A large jewel on the centre of its breastplate would have made Mouse enough on its own to bribe his way out of the Guard for good. But then they were besieged, and the eldar suddenly quit their hit-and-run tactics and cut them off from any support.

It was a stand-off, which the company would ultimately lose. Red, when he discovered Mouse’s jewel stash, had tried to break it by tossing the lot of them out into the desert. Of even greater annoyance to Mouse was that it appeared to have worked. The next morning the jewels were gone and so were the eldar. Red had tried to have him put up against a wall for that one, only Carson had been able to calm him down.

Mouse brought his attention back to the moment and started stalking through the crash-site. He saw Zdzisław’s body, looking as inhuman as ever, and crept over to it. Personal effects, cash, sentimental jewellery, they were all worth something, either to Mouse or Zdzisław’s next of kin.

Mouse leaned over the body, deftly removing a neck-cord, a ring and some kind of spare part, either for the Valkyrie or for Zdzisław himself. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

‘Got you, you little rat.’

Mouse nearly jumped out of his skin.

‘Red! Sarge! Colour!’ he gasped. ‘Don’t do that to me.’

‘I’m going to do a lot worse to you, private. This time you’re going to be shot.’

‘What? Why? I just went to have a crap. I must have got lost on me way back. You can’t shoot a man for that?’

‘I can shoot him for desertion, for dereliction and for attempted theft, I can.’

‘Theft? Theft? I was only reaching to check to see if he was still breathing.’

‘Wiggle all you like, Chaffey. You won’t get out this time. The campaign is done. The lieutenant’s got no more use for you any more.’

Mouse switched to a different tack. ‘Then maybe other people might have a use for me about the lieutenant.’

That proved to be a mistake, Mouse realised, as Red smacked him hard on the Valkyrie’s fuselage. ‘I was hoping you were going to say that, you piece of filth. The lieutenant won’t shirk from having to deal with rats like you.’

Then Red stopped talking and released his grip on the front of Mouse’s uniform. Mouse looked up, half-expecting to be kicked down again and, when it didn’t happen, he wondered what had inspired the sudden change of heart.

What had inspired it was the ork warband standing all around them.

‘I understand you’re looking for me, lieutenant,’ Van Am said, meeting him in the darkness.

Carson paused a moment as he saw the coolness in her eyes. ‘Holder,’ he replied.

There was silence between them, until Carson finally ventured: ‘There are rumours going around the regiment regarding the injury to Commissar Reeve.’

‘We’ve heard them. A Voorjer bullet from a Voorjer gun. It is natural to assume a Voorjer would be shooting.’

‘I know it’s not true.’

‘I think, lieutenant, you can trust us to know the truth of which Imperial officers we have shot and when. We have reason, in short, to make a habit of it.’

‘Don’t be such a fool, girl,’ Carson chided her.

‘And yet the next time we meet you will be trying to kill me and I will be trying to kill you.’ Carson began to reply, but Van Am cut him off. ‘Don’t deny it, don’t even try.’

‘You don’t have to fight us.’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘The garrison is–’

‘The garrison doesn’t concern me any more. It’s the ones who’ll come now you’re here: the missionaries and the witch-finders, then the administrators and the quotas, then the arbitrators and the laws. Your laws. Your society. Not ours.’

‘That doesn’t have to be, but if you resist, we won’t have a choice.’

‘You’ll never have the choice. You’re an owned man, lieutenant. You all are. The Guard purchased you with food and protection and a uniform and a gun. You don’t have any choices.’

‘Then that is just the price you pay.’

‘For you to defend us?’

‘No, for living. On this world, in this system, in this galaxy, in this time. The Imperium is the price you pay to live as a human.’

‘No one lives in the Imperium, lieutenant. They only exist.’

There was silence between them. She knew that whatever might have been would never come to pass, but she was willing to tease out these last few moments of his company.

‘You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you?’ Carson guessed.

‘I’ll do you a favour, lieutenant,’ Van Am replied. ‘I won’t tell you. Then all you have to do is walk away, and you won’t have to choose whether to betray me to your superiors, or betray them for me.’

By the next morning it was noted that Van Am and her Voorjers had disappeared from camp. The pickets had been lax, distracted by the celebrations behind them, and the Voorjers had slipped away into the night. They could not be spotted on the trail back to Dova and so it was assumed that they had headed through the jungle towards the coast. Carson understood why they had gone, but it wouldn’t matter. It would take them a week at least to get to the sea. By then, Voorheid would be in the Guard’s hands. She was going to fight, Carson knew, but she wasn’t going to win.

What regret he felt, however, was instantly forgotten when Forjaz brought him the news that two of his men were missing.

It did not take Carson long to guess where Mouse and Red had gone. Whilst it was not unknown for two soldiers to disappear on some joint enterprise, he could imagine no unlikelier bedfellows than the two of them. Red must have gone after Mouse, and there was only one place in the area that would have appealed to the light-fingered scavenger. Carson applied instantly to Major Brooce for permission to lead a search party out to the Valkyrie’s crash-site, but when he arrived he found he was already half an hour too late.

‘I’m sorry, lieutenant,’ Brooce told him, ‘but I need your men here to scour whatever taint of the orks remain down in that pit. The Navymen left at first light to go and recover their dead, though; we will inform them of the circumstances and ask them to keep their eyes peeled.’

‘Major,’ Carson exclaimed, ‘Those bluebells couldn’t spot a trail any more than you or I could navigate a battleship. Roussell can burn out the orks, let my men and I–’

‘Major Roussell,’ Brooce interrupted, ‘already volunteered to provide the escort for the expedition. Personally.’

The realisation seized Carson instantly. ‘So Roussell and his lap-dogs,’ Carson’s voice rose in frustration, ‘baby-sit the bluebells while my company has to risk their skins again!’

Carson’s anger was attracting the attention of Brooce’s own troopers standing nearby. He gave them a quick glance to show them that he was still in control of the situation and, as he did so, caught sight of another officer striding up towards him.

‘Major,’ Stanhope launched in at once, ‘I’m afraid I have to report that two of my men are missing.’

Before Brooce even had a chance to open his mouth, Carson turned upon the newcomer with fury.

‘They’re not your men, Stanhope, they’re mine! My company! My men! So do me a good service and butt out!’

‘Lieutenant!’ Brooce warned sharply. Stanhope, surprised by the outburst, had retreated a step in the face of Carson’s glare. ‘Lieutenant Carson!’ Brooce said again and Carson turned back to him. ‘Yours is not the only other company risking its skin today, we will all be going down there to clear the place out. Major Roussell–’

‘Is a damned coward,’ Carson said, but Brooce maintained his tone.

‘–has the rank and the seniority. And his own expedition is by no means without peril. We will communicate the circumstances to him and he will investigate as far as he is able.’

Carson drew breath to reply, but now it was his turn to be cut off.

‘Stand down, lieutenant,’ Stanhope ordered and before Carson could object continued on to Brooce. ‘Major, I agree with you completely. With your permission, I will take responsibility to communicate the circumstances to Major Roussell and the naval expedition.’

Brooce raised his eyebrow at the request. ‘That’s hardly necessary, major, we have vox-officers here.’

‘Major, these are my men, I must insist.’

Brooce shook his head, but he replied. ‘Very well, you have my permission.’

‘Thank you, major.’ Stanhope then turned to Carson, and Brooce himself felt a chill from the cold look in the lieutenant’s eyes. ‘Lieutenant Carson, I hereby order you to proceed to the naval expedition headed for the Valkyrie’s crash-site and communicate our circumstances to Major Roussell in person, and then assist in searching for the missing men as appropriate. Do you understand?’

Carson did, but he did not believe it. He could only stare at Stanhope.

‘Major Stanhope,’ Brooce spoke up, ‘simply arrange for the message to be transmitted to Major Roussell. It is entirely unnecessary to send the lieutenant out in person.’

‘However, major,’ Stanhope countered, ‘such a communication might be intercepted by the enemy. If Mouse and Red are still alive and undetected, informing the enemy of their existence and their approximate location might put them at far greater risk.’

‘Intercepted by the enemy?’ Brooce said, incredulous. ‘The only communication devices these savages use are the two rocks they bang together!’

‘Nevertheless, I think you will find that it is a generally acceptable concern and, given that this is now my responsibility, I am justified in my orders.’

Brooce exhaled sharply in irritation but complied. ‘Very well, major. It is your responsibility.’

Brooce, having exhausted his patience and the time he could spare concerning a mere two men that morning, said nothing more and moved off to deal with one of the other dozen urgent issues requiring his attention. As he went, Carson stepped over to Stanhope and eyed him up and down. The major appeared quite different this morning. He still wore the same unexceptional uniform of an ordinary trooper and, like all the rest of them, had two days’ stubble on his face, but he appeared sharper, he stood straight, he was in focus.

‘I’m obliged to you,’ Carson told him simply.

Stanhope nodded a fraction. ‘Go and find your men.’

Carson gathered up Forjaz, who had remained standing beside his tent. He needed someone to watch his back out there and Forjaz was probably the closest to Red in the company, besides Carson himself. Five minutes after that, he’d requisitioned a Chimera transport and a driver from one of Captain Deverril’s armoured fist squads. Neither Stanhope nor Brooce had authorised it, but Deverril had given him what he wanted almost before he could tell him why.

The driver began his prayer to the Chimera’s machine-spirit, but then caught the look on Carson’s face and condensed the remaining twenty benedictory verses into a single command, slammed the ignition control and brought the engine roaring to life.

They quickly found the tracks of the naval expedition, heading straight in the direction of the crash-site. Roussell had a half-hour head start, yet Carson directed the driver onto a different route. Carson knew he could not afford to catch up with the expedition directly. Roussell could, and most likely would, just accept the message and order him straight back again. He had to get around them, and ahead. Until Roussell saw him, he was free.

Carson, looking out the Chimera’s open hatch, peered intently past the strange, bulbous landscape of lichen, thorny toadstools and less recognisable types of fungi. At this hour just the day before he had been confronted with this weird xenos world for the first time; now he was already used to it and ignored the vivid colours and strange shapes, searching only for the dull grey of Brimlock uniforms.

Interlude

Cawnpore, 1201st Auxilia – 656.M41 – Year 17 of the Ellinor Crusade

Stanhope sat in the darkness and waited for his men to come and kill him. He sat on his bed and cradled the distress ticker in his arms as he watched the messages appear, one by one, which told him his fellows were dead.

The orders had come through the day before. There was a black-out on all but the most critical communications. All commanding officers were to take personal charge of the signals room in each barrack. The doors were to be barred and no men were to be allowed in there under any circumstances. Command was desperate to contain the unrest, reasoning that news of one regiment’s turn would spur the others to action.

Command was correct, but their orders were far too late. Hacher’s network was perfectly able to transmit their messages wherever they wished. All it did was allow them free rein and seal the officers off away from their men.

The orders were pointless, but Stanhope had to follow them anyway. He had moved his bunk into the signals room so he could spend the night there. He did not bother to bar the door. He was the one Brimlock officer in the regiment; if his men wanted him dead then a single door would not stop them.

He had lain down, but could not sleep. He had kept his uniform on; if they came for him he refused to die in a night-shirt. He had paced back and forth across the small chamber. He tried standing still, but he found himself stamping his foot in agitation. All across the barracks his margoes were talking, arguing, making the decision that would either condemn him or condemn themselves.

He was desperate to go to them. Six times throughout the night, he took a hold of the door to leave and go to his men and hash it out with them. Emperor damn him, he agreed with them! He did not want to move against his own, but those were the orders and orders had to be obeyed!

There could be no latitude, no room for discretion in this matter. If there was then this entire campaign, the entire crusade would fall apart under self-questioning and hesitation. He had his orders and he had given them to his men. He could not go to them now and negotiate them. He had been their commanding officer for seven years; they either trusted him as he trusted his superiors, or his rank was trash. He had to wait.

He had tried to activate the vox, but all the lines were dead. All the other equipment had been deactivated as well. His only companion was the distress ticker.

The ticker served a single function. If a particular code was not entered at certain times each day, it sent a powerful signal to every other ticker and then melted itself down. It was the last resort if every other means of communication had failed. He had never even seen a message appear on it before. Each signal was short, carrying as little information as possible to avoid aiding the enemy. Its only use was if you knew the context.

There was no doubt in Stanhope’s mind as to the context at present. Every message was a regiment that had mutinied. Every message was a signal that the men had killed their commander. The check-time had come and he had entered his code, then he had lifted the ticker from the desk and gone to sit on the bed and wait for the numbers to appear.

Minutes went past and then the ticker started to hammer and the first digits appeared:

203076

That was the 452nd under Colonel Exton. Stanhope didn’t know him. The ticker hammered again:

583139

That was the 731st under Colonel Edmunds. Stanhope had met him once at a formal. Stanhope had met him, his woman and his young children. He prayed silently for them.

557096

That was the 1109th. Another auxilia regiment, but not from Marguerite, from Icena. He swore, he and Major King had taken their commands at the same time. He had known the man for years.

100120

Stanhope could not believe his eyes. That was the 47th under the fearsome Colonel Terrace. Every officer knew him, he had commanded the 47th ever since Brimlock. His men could not have turned against him. It must be a mistake. If his regiment could turn then any of them could.

The numbers kept appearing, but Stanhope could not keep looking. He put the ticker down on the bed and wrapped his blanket around it to try to silence it. He could not pull it off the wall, as it would send its own signal. He put his head in his hands and waited for the hammering of the ticker to be replaced by a hammering at his door.

The alarm on his chronometer sounded. It was reveille. In a few minutes his men were supposed to be lined up outside in the courtyard where he was supposed to read them the orders of the day. The men wouldn’t have to burst in. He had to go to them.

Stanhope clambered to his feet. Aside from his bed, he had brought nothing else from his quarters. He had no toiletries and no new uniform to replace the one he had spent the night in. He rubbed his face to hide the moisture that had appeared on his cheeks and straightened himself as best he could.

The only weapon he had with him was his regular sidearm, a standard issue laspistol. He left it off. It wouldn’t make any difference anyhow. He caught his breath and exhaled and inhaled. Then he opened the door and stepped out.

The light of the dawn hid the courtyard from him. He blinked and shaded his eyes with his hand. His men were already there. They stood in silence, not in their ranks but in a loose arc around his door. They stared at him.

Stanhope fought down the urge to fight for breath. He did not dare say a word. Instead, he stepped forwards and looked for his second-in-command, Sub Pagedar.

A couple of the margoes stood to one side and there he was. He had fought by Stanhope’s side for seven years. They had not been commander and second, Stanhope had never treated their relationship as such. They had been partners and together they had led the regiment to greatness. But now, Stanhope had led them here.

Pagedar stepped forwards. He carried no weapon but the heavy blade by his side. Stanhope kept his head high and forced his eyes to stay open. Even now, Stanhope did not blame him. He was doing what his men willed. They had made their decision, but Stanhope could not stand aside.

Pagedar took a grip on the hilt of his fell-cutter and, with practised ease, drew it smoothly, high into the air.

Twenty

Impact Crater, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 19

With Roussell and Carson away on their errands, Brooce commenced with the main objective of the day: the destruction of the rok and the burial of this last remnant of the Waaagh that had interrupted the Ellinor Crusade. Mulberry and his sappers took charge once more, just as they had done so many times before in this expedition. Their squads descended into the vertical pit the orks had dug, in order to ascertain the best detonation locations, both at the bottom of the pit and within the warrens drilled through the rok at the bottom. Mulberry knew that Brooce did not care for economy or style, he just wanted it done in a day. He split his sappers into as many teams as possible and sent them in, while Brooce provided a platoon of Guardsmen for each for protection.

Brooce kept Carson’s company out of the expedition, and so they were given the duty of burning the many ork bodies left in the crater. While his men felt slighted, the other companies looked at them with envy. They dropped down into the earth with flamers, grenades and explosive charges, expecting one final harrowing close-quarter battle.

Their expectations turned out to be incorrect. The orks, when they had retreated, had gone away from the crater and into the fungus. None of them had decided to make a fruitless last stand at the bottom of a hole. When the men of these companies emerged, and while their sappers gathered furiously comparing notes, they shared stories of what they had seen: the entire rok had become one great mausoleum, dead orks, real orks, none of these new-spawn whelps, lay in every chamber. Their exploration of the rok revealed nothing more than what the first Voorjer expedition had seen. Endless caverns of desiccated bodies, fully grown orks carrying guns and grenades, equipped with crude bionics and with hangars full of war machines that had been reduced to scrap in the impact. The original reports to Crusade Command had been wrong. No one had survived the crash. Every single ork that the 11th had faced and killed had grown here in the soil of Voor.

When the sappers were ready again, the platoons followed them back in, making half-hearted complaints about the chill and gloom down there, but in truth relieved not to have to endure the heavy, noxious task. It was after they had descended again that Stanhope approached Blanks.

‘Private Stones?’

‘Yes, major?’

‘Walk with me a while,’ Stanhope offered. Blanks dumped the corpse he had been dragging and went with him.

‘You did well yesterday,’ Stanhope began. ‘Quick, decisive, perfect instincts. It reminded me of how an officer should be.’

‘I’m just newly assigned,’ Blanks replied guardedly, not knowing where Stanhope was heading with this line of conversation.

‘Not just newly assigned. New to everything, isn’t that right? Clean slate. Mind a blank. And yet you fight as though you were born to it. You give orders as though you’re used to having them obeyed. You can size up a tactical situation in an instant. And you haven’t called me or any other officer ‘sir’. You’re a man with a mystery about him.’

Blanks considered it.

‘Then I suppose that makes us even then,’ he replied.

Stanhope looked at him, puzzled.

‘Your private soldier’s uniform?’ Blanks explained. ‘That sword you wear? You like people to know there’s a mystery about you as well.’

Stanhope looked out across the crater. ‘There’s no mystery about me, Blanks. Everybody knows my story. You just have to ask them.’

‘Well, I never did.’

Stanhope paused for a few moments. ‘Were you at Cawnpore, Blanks?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you don’t. Well, I was. I was there for the fighting. I was there for the mutinies. I was there for what came afterwards. This sword,’ Stanhope reached down to the fell-cutter on his hip, ‘I was given this sword there. I was given it by the most honourable man I’ve ever known. He was a margo. You know what a margo is?’

‘The Brimlock auxiliaries from Marguerite.’

‘Hah,’ Stanhope gave a hollow laugh. ‘I believe if I asked every trooper in the regiment, I would receive no politer description than that.’

Blanks shrugged as if to say that others’ opinions were no reflection on his.

‘We “discovered” them on their world,’ Stanhope described. ‘Emperor knows how long ago, perhaps before the Imperium found us even. Once we’d taken it we renamed it after our saint, then we took their men to fight in our wars. And you know the strangest thing? If there was one here, and you asked him how he felt about that, you know what he would say? He would say he was grateful for all we men of Brimlock had done for him. It’s so strange. We hold the fell-cutters in this mixture of fear, awe and contempt as well. And yet all they feel towards us is gratitude.’

Blanks stayed quiet. Stanhope had decided to take him into his confidence and did not need prompting.

‘That was my regiment,’ Stanhope continued. ‘The 1201st. I was a captain in the 33rd when they offered it to me. Not only my majority, but the command of a regiment of my own to boot. My fellows in the 33rd said I was mad. They told me that no one comes back from the auxilia; I’d be stuck there, branded a “margo officer”, I’d never make it back to the line. I didn’t care. I just wanted to command. They’d be my regiment, the 1201st, Stanhope’s Own…’

Again he paused as the memories came back to him. ‘They were mine for seven years and they were the greatest, the most glorious, of my life. We blazed a trail across half a dozen planets. The fell-cutters were known before us, they were legend, but we were the ones that made the legend live again. For the troopers who fought beside us, a fell-cutter was no longer a story, a fable; they were flesh and blood creatures to fear when they opposed you and be thankful for when they were your allies.

‘I wonder if that was the reason why we were sent to Cawnpore. As if one legend might defeat another,’ he continued, his tone darkening. ‘Cawnpore was a mess. It was a fortress world, a whole planet of dug-outs, traps and ambushes. A whole planet designed to bleed an army of men. But Crusade Command, Ellinor himself, decided he wanted it. He wanted it because it was so infamous. If he could take that planet from the Karthadasim, he thought, then a half-dozen of their allied worlds would surrender. They’d see how much punishment his armies could take and yet still emerge victorious. The assault force certainly demonstrated the punishment. They fell short at the victory.

‘A dozen Brimlock regiments went in to reinforce them. Two dozen went in after that to reinforce the first batch of reinforcements. The Brimlock general wanted the prize, wanted so badly to please Ellinor, that he threw every single regiment he could pressure, bargain or bribe from the others into that poisonous place.

‘Eventually, he got his victory, but when we dragged the Kartha defenders into the light we were appalled at how few of them there were. And when the number of casualties it had taken to win was counted, even Ellinor baulked at the cost. Needless to say the Karthadasim’s allies were not overawed. Ellinor cancelled his inspection of the troops there, aborted the campaign decoration that was being designed, sent orders to switch us all to different warzones as quickly as we could be ferried away.

‘The transport shuttles came to evacuate the first regiment due to leave. It was the 67th under Colonel Carmichael. But before Carmichael left, he had one last piece of business. On the final day of the pacification, one of his majors had refused to order his men to charge over a minefield. The pacification was almost over. Everyone knew it. The whole attack would have been irrelevant.

‘Carmichael, though, would not listen. Right or wrong, his orders were to be obeyed. He lined up a firing squad, three men drawn by lot from each of that major’s platoons, the very men he’d saved, and Carmichael gave them the order to fire.

‘The men did nothing. Carmichael told them then that he would have them all shot if they refused to fire and ordered them again. They still refused. And then the major, standing there against the wall, shouted the order himself. And that order, the men obeyed and the major died.

‘Carmichael would not let it rest, however. He had been defied. He ordered a platoon to round up the firing squad and put them under arrest, ready for execution. The first platoon he ordered refused to do it, and so did the next. Every platoon in his regiment refused to arrest the men of the firing squad.

Carmichael found he had run out of men and so he fled to the Brimlock general. He labelled it a mutiny and called in the storm troopers. The storm troopers went in to destroy the 67th, but found their barracks deserted. They’d fled. Some had gone out into Cawnpore, into the defence-systems and tunnels they had learned so well; the rest went to ground in other units, finding sympathetic Guardsmen and even officers. So many regiments were there, so many men had been lost, they found it easy to switch identities and conceal their past.

‘The storm troopers went hunting for those of the 67th who had stayed together, but there weren’t enough of them to cover the ground. The Brimlock general ordered the rest of us to be brought in, our redeployments delayed to squash this hint of rebellion. None of us wanted to find them, though, and so we obediently stumbled around the planet, to all intents deaf, dumb and blind.

‘But then the rumour went around that the 67th had established some kind of free-port where the Imperium had no authority and any Guardsman who came to them would be free of his duty to the Emperor. Men started disappearing from the regiments. More rumours went around that the 67th had discovered a Karthadasim treasure trove, the wealth of an empire that all the defences of Cawnpore had been designed to protect. It was a lie, but it was what so many Guardsmen wanted to hear. We heard the name of the ringleader. Hacher, his name was, though that itself was another fake. There was no Hacher in the 67th or any other any regiment on Cawnpore.’

‘It’s a verb,’ Blanks suddenly spoke up. ‘It’s from a Karthadasim word.’

‘What does it mean?’ Stanhope asked.

‘To chop, to cut to pieces.’

Stanhope nodded and then continued. ‘He was the coordinator of the 67th, obviously, a pseudonym to protect whomever was leading them. But the name became more than just a cover. Hacher became a ghost. A spectre. Whenever men went missing, Hacher had taken them. Whenever Chimeras broke down, Hacher had sabotaged them. He was a spirit, a joke, a traitor, a hero all at once.

‘The inevitable happened. One of the 67th turned and exposed much of their network, including the location of their free-port. We were finally going to turn our guns on our own. We were marched to our preparation positions and then readied ourselves for the worst. Hacher knew we were there. Whatever he could do to stop us, he’d do it that night, everything he could destroy, every man he could take, every regiment he could turn.

‘The next morning I came out for inspection. That was when you found out how badly you were hit, how many men had slipped away during the night. Some of the other regiments hadn’t reported in at all. The men had mutinied, killed their officers and gone to join Hacher and his cause.

‘My men didn’t even waver. They came out. All of them. Every man. Even the injured, even the bed-ridden came out, leaning on their comrades, some of them were even carried. But they wanted to be there. They wanted to be counted. They wanted me to know they were loyal. I was so proud of them that day. The most senior margo amongst them, Sub Pagedar, he had known I had stayed awake that night and told me that he was full of shame that I ever doubted them. He stood at their head and he drew his sword and he handed it to me. He took an oath then that the sword would be mine until he and his men had proved that they would never side against me as long as the Emperor and Saint Marguerite gave them breath.

‘We went out to battle. I had just received our orders. Because of Hacher’s infiltrators, every piece of information regarding the battle-plan was kept separate. None of us had any idea what the regiments around us were doing, where they would be. We only had to pray that the general in command knew what he was doing.

‘I sent my regiment in at the preordained time. The orders specified that I myself should hold back and keep passing reports to the general’s staff. My men were to attack without relenting. I knew we would be one of the first in; it was so early in the day. I thought they needed me to stay back so I could spot weaknesses in the enemy positions, that they needed my men to make the crack for other regiments to move up and exploit. It turned out that all the general needed from my men was for them to die.

‘Every defender knew we were the fell-cutters, every defender knew to fear us. Every gun they had was turned on us. My fell-cutters surged into the killing-ground because I told them that the other regiments would be advancing after. But there were no regiments behind us. It was when I saw the storm troopers burn in from high altitude that I realised what our role was. We were the diversion. I tried to order my men back, tried to get them away, but they kept on advancing. They were fell-cutters, no hesitation, no retreat. That was what had made them such a good decoy.

‘I was still stood there, rooted to the spot, when the extraction team came and got me.’

Stanhope went quiet and Blanks ventured a question.

‘And why had the general kept you back?’

Stanhope looked up into the clouds. ‘I asked him that, when he voxed around all the regimental officers to give his congratulations. He told me he hadn’t thought about it much, that maybe it was because he didn’t think that a Brimlock officer should die amongst a pack of margoes.’

‘And Hacher?’

‘The storm troopers got him. That’s what the general said. The whole place was kept closed off after the fight, so who knows? A person named Hacher had made himself the figurehead of the mutiny, and therefore he had to be killed. But who knows if he ever really existed? Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe there was a dozen of them all using a single name to try and create a new legend. Perhaps that was why the general and Ellinor tried so hard to scratch every last memory of Cawnpore from the crusade.

‘After that, I thought I had been through it all. It had been the worst for me, but for everyone else the real horror came after. Hacher was gone, the free-port was buried, but what about all those other regiments who had refused to attack? Who had been driven to capture or kill their leaders? How many more were guilty and how many more were there to be punished?’

The engine was drowning. The same detritus and spores churned up by the tanks in their charge to the crater, that had choked the infantrymen struggling behind, were now congesting those same engines. Forjaz had tired of swearing at it and was now working alongside the driver, who was up to his armpits clearing out the fungus while Carson kept watch.

There was nothing he could do. Short of abandoning the Chimera entirely and ordering them to proceed on foot, which would slow them even further and rob them of the transport’s defences, there was nothing he could do. Nothing but stand there and watch and listen as the others worked around him.

Was this what it was going to be like, he wondered, when the myecyclone finally took hold and didn’t let go? Just to watch? Just to listen? Just to receive and never to act? If it was, then it was no life for him. He would end it himself if no enemy could. If Reeve still lived then he could take him along with him. Just reach out to him, hold him close and pull the pin from a grenade in his pocket. If only he could be sure that, being denied their culprit, his avengers wouldn’t extract their due from his men.

They were all that was left to him. Red had said it right, the night before. Twenty years of fighting, but how many more had passed for those back home. The dating of events in a galaxy where every inhabited world was a tiny speck in an ocean of darkness would always be susceptible to local practicalities. What do the workers on one world care that another world has twenty-four hours in a day if they have twenty-six? To them, a day will be when their morning begins and their night ends. Their years turn upon their seasons and their crops, not upon the rotation of a far-distant planet around a far-distant star. The communiqués from Crusade Command were of no benefit as they referenced everything from the year the Ellinor Crusade began. They said twenty years had passed, but what was that back on Brimlock? Was it the same? Five more? Ten more? Fifty? A hundred?

Crusade Command would never tell you, it wasn’t in their interests. They wanted their common men to feel connected, wanted them to feel as though the world they fought for was still the one they had left. Crusade Command would not want them to know how isolated they were, and Carson wagered that the men did not wish to know either. They knew they would never go home, but that did not mean they did not draw strength from knowing that their home and those they left behind were still out there.

They’re all dead, aren’t they. Those were Red’s words. And that meant that his men, indeed this whole regiment, were more than the survivors of an army; they were the survivors of an entire generation. He would not give up a single one of them, and he would damn any who thought to leave them.

The engine spluttered back to life with an oath from Forjaz and an alleluia from the driver. It didn’t matter, though, Carson knew. They were going to be too late.

Stanhope finally concluded his tale and he and Blanks returned to the rest of the men.

‘Why did you tell me that?’ Blanks asked as they walked.

‘Because I wanted you to know. I wanted you to understand why I am the way I am. Yesterday, you followed me up Acorn. You were watching out for me. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Stanhope stopped and regarded him carefully, the hard features, the heavy brow, coupled with the incongruous innocent stare he had.

‘Yes, I was. And I am.’

‘I want to be able to trust you. And the first step in that is you being able to trust me.’

‘Thank you,’ Blanks replied; he did not know what else to say.

‘Good,’ Stanhope said and started walking again, but Blanks stopped him.

‘In that spirit, major, perhaps there is something I should tell you.’

Stanhope turned back to him. The innocence in his gaze was gone.

‘I took them.’

‘What?’

‘That stuff you use. Those leaves. I took them and destroyed them.’

Stanhope gaped slightly. ‘When?’

Blanks shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Then why?’ Stanhope demanded.

Blanks contemplated it for a second. ‘Because I would never allow a soldier under my command to go into battle whilst intoxicated.’

‘I’m not under your command!’ Stanhope declared.

‘You’re certainly not under your own,’ Blanks countered and continued before Stanhope could protest further. ‘I’m watching out for you, major, in every way. You want to trust me, then this is part of it. The rest of them, Carson, the colonel, they want you out of your head so you’ll cause them no trouble. They want you passive. I do not.’

Carson’s Chimera had finally made it to Zdzisław’s crash-site and, Marguerite be praised, Roussell and the naval party were nowhere to be seen. He could only assume that they had been struck by even worse mechanical breakdowns than he had.

Even though Zdzisław had crashed more than a week previously, the crash-site still had an air of immediacy about it. His and his co-pilot’s bodies were still bound within their harnesses. The ground was still stained where the vehicle’s fluids had poured out. It was only if you looked closely that you could see the rugged algae trying to forge new life on the detritus closest to the ground.

Carson did examine it carefully and he found what he was looking for. The impression of a ring that had been removed, and pockets opened that would normally be closed. The body had been looted by an expert and, as Carson believed that an ork after the ring would have more likely yanked off the entire finger or even arm, the looter had been a human.

Now he knew Mouse had been here, he could guess that Red had been there as well. He looked through the ground. There were ork footprints everywhere. The tracks crossed and criss-crossed and were blurred and smudged where a struggle had taken place. Then they had headed off. Carson looked in that direction and was ready to return to his Chimera when finally Roussell and the naval party hove into view.

A half-hour later the news flashed back to the Brimlock camp on Bitterleaf. Second Lieutenant Carson had been placed under arrest. The charge: the assault and attempted murder of Major Roussell.

Twenty-One

Impact Crater, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 19

‘This is an outrage,’ Carson stated again as he sat in the sealed-off rear compartment of a Chimera.

‘I have made a note of your feelings on the subject already, lieutenant,’ Brooce said a trifle wearily.

‘Then let me out of here so that I may return to my men,’ Carson said in a stern tone that attracted a look of pique from Brooce.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Yes, you can,’ Carson shot back with even greater irritation. ‘You have the authority.’

‘Yes, you’re right’ Brooce agreed, testily. ‘I could release you; however, I choose not to do so. And do you know why I’m choosing not to do so?’

Carson knew exactly why. ‘It’s because, even though you know he’s a coward and a liar, you won’t tell Roussell that you think his charges are a pile of stinking–’

‘You’re wrong, lieutenant,’ Brooce cut him off. ‘It’s because of your reputation.’

‘My reputation? As what? A damn good officer? One of the best in this whole regiment?’

‘It is your reputation as a killer.’ Brooce snapped. ‘A killer of your fellow officers. How many has it been?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All your duelling “partners”?’

‘They were private matters of honour, and how are you, Roussell or the colonel in any position to judge me on those?’

‘Captain Blundell?’

‘He was killed by the enemy,’ Carson asserted.

‘An alarming majority of the commanders you dislike succumb to uncommonly accurate enemy fire. Much as Reeve did yesterday.’

‘How is the poor commissar?’ Carson asked with mock concern.

‘If I were you, lieutenant, I would not show too much interest in Commissar Reeve’s well-being. It may be misconstrued. Sometimes I wonder if that was why the colonel gave you Stanhope in the first place. What spared him?’

Carson did not reply.

‘Let me lay it out for you, Carson. Tell me what you think. This man, this officer of such reputation, who is also known to own a fierce loyalty to his men, is hot on the pursuit of two he has lost. He’s then told by a senior officer he despises that he may not continue because there is need of his vehicle. Roussell is adamant that, when he gave you that order, you started to pull one of your pistols on him.’

‘I think that if I’d wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have even seen me pull my weapon,’ Carson snarled. ‘He’d be laid out in the fungus with a smoking hole in his chest.’

Brooce shook his head sadly. ‘You don’t understand, Carson. It’s sentiments such as those that has every other officer in this regiment running scared. You know it. You enjoy it. Lording it over them, while you’re still only a second lieutenant. I’ve already hauled Deverril over the coals this morning for letting you go with the Chimera in the first place. They all think you’re out to kill them. Because it’s only if they’re all dead that you’ll ever command more than a paltry company.

‘I can’t release you, Carson,’ Brooce continued, ‘because every officer in this regiment who dislikes you thinks you did it. And even the ones you count as your friends think you could have done it.’

Carson couldn’t bear to look at Brooce any more. ‘So, I’m to be sacrificed on the altar of general suspicion.’

‘Not at all,’ Brooce replied. ‘As soon as we get back to Dova, the colonel will perform his investigation, have a word with Roussell and the charges will be dropped. A misunderstanding. After all, he has need of good officers for the next phase. Especially officers who perhaps have the attention of Voorjers close to their governor. Don’t treat it as an arrest, Carson, rather a comfortable taxi ride home.’

Brooce was not going to budge. Carson could see him making plans for the future, and part of those plans would be to demonstrate that he could control ‘wild’ officers like him. ‘Very well, but I have a price.’

‘This is not a negotiation, lieutenant, but go ahead anyway.’

‘At least send another party out. My men, if you can’t spare any others. Give them the rest of the day to find out what happened.’

Brooce considered his response carefully. ‘Colour-Sergeant Towser is a sad loss, and my wife has spoken very highly of Private Chaffey, but it is out of the question. Every single vehicle is being overhauled to cope with these damn spores so it will be ready to function tomorrow. I’m afraid, lieutenant, there it is. Do you really expect you’d find them alive in any case?’

Mouse looked down out of his cage as the latest ork warband arrived at the encampment. It was the third one to appear that morning alone, and this one was a big one, several hundred strong. Their chieftain, his skin daubed blue with paint, a bone stuck through his nose and his hair tied in a topknot, marched at their head. He was a full head taller than his bodyguards either side, who shoved aside any lesser ork foolish enough to be standing in their chieftain’s path. His warriors further behind him betrayed their discomfort, however, and they kept clustered together, eyeing the other warbands with great distrust.

Mouse had realised that, just a few days before, these warbands would have been at each other’s throats on the battlefield. Today, though, Mouse had counted orks from at least four major tribes: the blue faces, the ones with black war-paint around their eyes, those who draped themselves only in bones and had brought a giant squig-beast with them and, the most numerous, those with a red stripe down across one eye.

Even within these main divisions there were dozens of different warband variations, markings in yellow, black, white, red, blue, green and any other colour they could extract from the strange squig creatures and the fungus that grew wherever they travelled. Like the blue-faces, they did not mix or mingle, but sat in their groups, ready at a moment’s notice to hurl themselves at one of the other warbands. The orkish lust for battle was a powerful drive indeed.

Whatever was holding them back, Mouse concluded, must be even greater.

Nothing was going to restrain the blue-face chieftain, however. He headed straight for the entrenched den at the centre of the encampment. Bodyguards from all the other tribes already stood clustered around it, but they stepped aside as he passed and disappeared inside.

Capture was not a facet of war given much attention in Guard induction. Command knew that the vast majority of opponents viewed captives as good only for enslavement or consumption. The captured Guardsman, if not killed out of hand, most probably faced either torture and sacrifice in the name of dark gods, or being shackled to some xenos engine to endure the most bone-crushing conditions until the last ounce of life was wrung from him.

Guard doctrine, therefore, had only one straightforward instruction in case of capture by the enemy: die quickly. Mouse considered, not for the first time, that a slavish adherence to Guard doctrine was not the right course for him. They had kept him alive for some reason. That must mean they wanted something from him. That meant that he must have something they wanted, and having something they wanted meant that he could bargain. If he could bargain then he could stay alive. It was as simple as that.

Things were not so simple for the fellow occupant of his cage. Mouse at first thought that Red would not survive. He was bleeding a lot, but then head wounds always did. The thought struck Mouse then, that it might be better if he did die. If the orks had just wanted them for food they would have killed them back at the Valkyrie. They obviously wanted them for a purpose. Whatever it was, Mouse knew that Red would resist; it was just the type of man he was, and he would expect Mouse to do the same. He wouldn’t understand that it was their chance to survive. Mouse could do it. Mouse could make it. He could provide whatever they wanted from him yet hold back enough to ensure they kept him alive. He could do it, but only on his own, and so he willed the blood to pour quicker from the colour-sergeant’s head.

‘Just get on and die, old man,’ Mouse whispered.

There was a commotion around the den. One of the red stripes had come out and fixed its gaze on Mouse. It started over towards him and a half-dozen more red stripes fell in behind it.

Mouse felt himself freeze. He could only think of fleeing, but there was nowhere to go. He looked down at Red slumped on the cage floor. He grabbed his arm and started shouting in his ear.

‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!’

Red began to stir as the red-stripe warriors lifted open the cage door and then yanked on the leashes tied around the Guardsmen’s necks. They pulled Mouse out and then slammed the cage door shut behind him. Making no attempt to lead him, one of the red stripes simply picked him up in the air and started back to the den. He was carried into the dark inside and dropped onto the dirt like a sack. He coughed and spluttered at such treatment, then curled up tight into a ball, protecting himself, fearing an attack at any moment.

When twenty seconds passed and none came, he carefully stole a glance around him. In the murky light, he saw that he was surrounded by orks. They were watching him silently, a few with a trace of xenos interest, the rest with a bland expression of disinterest. The ork in the centre was the largest. It wore no war-paint whatsoever and carried only an almighty metal cleaver. It prodded Mouse with a heavy jab from the handle of the cleaver and Mouse scrabbled to his feet, yelping in protest.

A low grumble rose from the circle. Mouse retreated a couple of steps, then sprung around as he sensed the orks behind him. He spun a few more times, trying to keep them all in his line of sight. He felt a solid, slightly spongy, hand carefully take his. He turned and saw that one of the orks was holding his left hand, appearing fascinated by it. Mouse backed away a step, but the ork followed, its step betraying a slight limp. Mouse let it explore his hand and it turned it round and peered at it all the closer. Then it took a grip with its second hand on Mouse’s pinkie finger and, with a swift thrust, yanked it back.

Mouse screamed in pain and dragged his hand away from the ork’s clutches, cradling it in his arms. Another low grumble reverberated around the circle.

‘Listen! Listen!’ Mouse blathered. ‘You don’t have to hurt me. Just tell me what you want! Maybe, maybe, we can work something out?’

The orks watched him as he spoke, but as soon as he finished they all turned back to the largest of their number. The red stripe who had carried him in there stepped into the circle. It held Mouse’s lasgun above its head. It looked to the big ork and the big ork nodded. The red stripe held out the lasgun and gave it to Mouse, and the other orks started watching him again.

Mouse was confused. This was not how he expected it would go. He held the lasgun limply in his hand. The big ork, who must be the warboss, Mouse realised, said something to him and pointed at the red stripe. Mouse didn’t understand. The warboss repeated itself, stomping its cleaver for emphasis, and pointing at the red stripe even more emphatically. A third grumble started around the circle, but the red stripe suddenly launched itself at Mouse, bawling at him. Mouse instinctively fired and the beam of red light exploded in the small space. The red stripe fell growling to the floor. The other orks in the circle were interested now and all went to reach for the lasgun. Mouse whirled it at them, this way and that. He had a gun, he could get out of there. All he needed was to…

A thorny hand from behind him wrenched it from his grasp and then started passing it around the others.

‘Smak!’ the warboss declared, and the others paused and slowly passed the gun over to him. The red stripe picked itself up off the floor, hand clasped over the las-burn on its side. It dragged itself across to the warboss and then presented its injury. The warboss stared at it, and then stared at the gun. It hooked a finger around the trigger and pulled in careful imitation of Mouse. The red beam flashed and a part of the roof of the den began to smoulder. Again there was a chorus of interest from the others.

The warboss turned around. Behind him, Mouse saw a banner pole shoved into the ground. On its head was a totem, another sculpted orkish glyph. The warboss raised the lasgun up towards the totem, almost as though it was an offering to the gods. The totem glowed a dull red and Mouse sniffed the distinctive acrid smell of burning tech-equipment. The warboss turned back to the circle, pulled the trigger again and this time nothing happened. It tried it a second, then a third time. Still nothing. It looked around the circle, and this time the orks all made a sound of near agreement. The warboss held up the lasgun and then crumpled it in its single massive hand.

‘Waa-Choppa,’ it said. ‘Na Choppa!’ And it let the pieces fall to the ground.

A Valkyrie flew in Mulberry’s munitions. They were loaded into Chimeras and ferried to the pit. Brooce left the troopers long enough for the sappers to lay their charges and then, after a very careful count to ensure all men were present and correct, Mulberry pushed the detonator. In an instant, the efforts of the Stone Smashas to unearth the falling star that had brought their kind to this place were annulled. Likewise, the interference that had protected that filthy cradle of xenos life was finally silenced.

It was not over. It could never be over with the orks. The whole continent was infected. It would have to be watched. The Voorjers would not be enough; it would require the veterans of the Brimlock 11th and then, in a few years, it would be the turn of their children, then their grandchildren, and then their great-grandchildren after that. And, eventually, perhaps there would be sufficient manpower to raise a whole new regiment: a regiment of scouts and ork-hunters that could proudly add their strength to the Brimlock auxilia. Whether the Voorjers appreciated it or not, the Imperial Guard was here to stay.

Should the Voorjers not appreciate it, not welcome the imposition of a permanent armed force on their world that would inevitably evolve into the planet’s new dominant faction, then the Brimlock 11th would have to assert their rightful position over these separatists at the point of the sword.

That was the next phase. Arbulaster knew it. Brooce knew it. Carson had guessed it, and so had Van Am. The generous Imperium had finally granted their loyal Brimlock soldiers their prize; they just had to take it first.

The Brimlock column broke camp an hour after dawn the next day. The most seriously wounded, aside from Commissar Reeve who had remained the guest of the betrayed Captain Ledbetter, had been airlifted by Valkyrie back to Dova. The stable wounded were given berths in Chimeras co-opted from their regular duty to act as ambulances. They headed out first, along with the pitiful remnants of the armoured company, while Mulberry and his sappers strode ahead of them in their construction Sentinels to ensure the trail was clear.

One Chimera that did not find itself transporting the wounded contained only a single passenger, with three guards. Major Roussell was rigid in his implementation of Guard doctrine regarding the captivity of Second Lieutenant Carson. Roussell did not want him marching with his former company, he did not want his men to even see him, and so he locked him away in a Chimera which drove alongside Roussell’s own company in the centre of the column. Carson’s company were banished to the far rearguard where, Roussell considered, with some luck they might never even make it back.

Most of the Brimlock 11th, however, cared nothing for the enmity between Roussell and Carson. They were finally at liberty to think of the future. They had survived where so many million men had not. They had paid their service to the Emperor and now they could live for all those they had lost. The jungle, which had first appeared to them as a nightmare of gloom and danger, would now be remembered as the setting for a great victory, and when Private Heal began to hum, he found he could do so uninterrupted, for there was no colour-sergeant there to quiet him. For almost all of them, Voor would become a home for them and the families they would raise, and they would have years of comfort and plenty to offset the two decades of hardship and horror that they had endured.

If there was any justice in the galaxy.

Lance-Corporal Bowler sat in the turret gunner’s position inside his Chimera and watched the jungle go past. He did not think much about the future. He knew it would contain pretty much the same as the past. He was a Brimlock Dragoon through and through; he didn’t want out, he wanted to stay in. He was in a lot better position than some of the poor souls they were carrying. Two arms, two legs and one protruding organ was what Bowler had managed to keep hold of all these years. It didn’t matter how old or decrepit he got, he figured, so long as he could still sit in this chair, point the multi-laser and pull the trigger.

The Guard had given him a lot. ‘Starve, steal or soldier’ the poster outside the rookeries had said. Well, he had tried the first two and found that the last option had let him live far better and far longer than running with the rook-gangs.

He knew the driver, Baker, sitting beside him, felt the same way. They’d done well by each other, and planned to stick to it even after this. Bowler and Baker, there had been a few jokes about that when they were first assigned together back in the 371st. It didn’t help, either, that their commanding officer was Brooce. A few fists had to be thrown before the other crews realised that there really was no humour to be made from the coincidence.

The 371st, now there had been a proper Brimlock regiment, before they were consolidated at least. Every company had its Chimeras, the whole regiment was an armoured fist, fast, hard-hitting, none of these pathetic foot-sloggers slowing everyone down. They were called the Brimlock Dragoons after all, not the Brimlock Draggers–

‘Fire!’ Baker shouted suddenly. Acting on instinct, Bowler’s trigger finger twitched, before he held it back.

‘What?’ he wanted to know, but Baker was busy grabbing the vox.

‘Chimera one-zero to Chimera zero-five. Tabor, you’re on fire!’

Bowler twisted to see. It was true, there was the unmistakeable red glow of flames coming from the underside of the Chimera ahead. The driver tried to swerve off the trail, but ran out of room before he could fully make it off. Baker swerved the other way, voxing the rest of the transports to hold position and calling Mulberry’s Sentinels back.

Bowler pulled out the extinguisher, cracked the hatch and shimmied out onto the dirt. He ran over to blast the flames before they could reach the fuel tanks while Baker went to open the back hatch and evacuate the wounded. Bowler gave the fire a full burst; it dimmed for a few moments and then grew wilder. He hammered on the side of the driver’s cabin.

‘Tabor, get your arse out here!’

Tabor appeared, eyes wide, at the window.

‘Fire,’ he said.

‘I know that,’ Bowler ranted. ‘Get out and help!’

‘You’re on fire,’ he said.

‘No, you’re on fire,’ Bowler replied.

‘No…’ Tabor repeated. ‘You’re… on fire!’

Bowler felt the heat on his forehead, went to touch his helmet and burned his hand on his targeter. He dropped the extinguisher, yanked off his smouldering helmet, turned around, and threw it to the ground. He swore violently, looked up, and saw a burst of flame coming from under his Chimera.

‘God-Emperor,’ he whispered. Tabor was trying to fight his fire, but it was useless.

‘The wounded!’ Bowler shouted at him as he grabbed the extinguisher he’d discarded. ‘Get the wounded out!’

Bowler ran back to the rear hatch of his own Chimera. He pulled it open and got a face-full of smoke. The wounded pushed past him, dragging each other out of the burning vehicle. He looked back down the column for help, but the first half-dozen Chimeras were in the same way, their crews desperately trying to battle the flames.

He looked ahead and saw something that would haunt him for the remaining few moments of his life: a Sentinel, still tottering back to respond to the distress call, burning in a column of fire with Mulberry’s blackened corpse still stock upright at the controls.

In the jungle, Choppa lowered his totem and the red light that glowed from it faded. Its job done, Choppa raised his cleaver and roared the charge.

Twenty-Two

Ambush site, Jungle Trail, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 20

The news came through garbled over the vox-receiver. Major Roussell’s comms officer tried to make sense of it, but Roussell grabbed the receiver off him and listened himself. The column was under attack. The Chimeras at the head had been halted and immobilised in some manner; the jerry-rigged tanks were being attacked by blue-faced orks shoving explosive spores and nests of hornet-like creatures into hatches and through vision slits. A substantial number of orks with black war-paint around their eyes had appeared and were attacking Brooce’s company. Orders were for all companies to advance and engage as fast as they could.

Roussell passed the orders on to his men and saw them all grip their weapons a little tighter. It had been too early to think of the future after all. The orks of Tswaing had one last trick up their sleeves, it seemed. Ahead of them, Roussell saw Ingoldsby’s company advance to the quick. Then it was Colquhoun’s turn, but before any of his men took another step Colquhoun ordered his company to halt. No sooner had he done so, than Fergus, behind him, did likewise.

Unwilling to push his troops past, Roussell went ahead himself. He strode quickly along the length of Fergus’s company and discovered the two captains there.

‘What, in Marguerite’s name, is the hold-up?’ Roussell demanded. ‘The column’s under attack!’

‘Quiet!’ Fergus shot back. Neither of them looked round at him; they both had their heads lowered as though listening to the earth. They were a mismatched pair: the black giant and his scarlet dwarf was how their men referred to them as they were often seen together. Only ever out of earshot, though; Colquhoun habitually carried an antiquated heavy halberd with which he ostentatiously cut his enemies into pieces, while the diminutive, red-haired Fergus became a raving berserker in battle, capable of any act of savagery. The terror they inspired, in their own men as much as the enemy, was a secret delight to them both, and each one constantly sought to outperform the other.

It was perhaps this that influenced Roussell not to continue to rant at the two captains from a distance, but to cross over to discover what had caught their attention.

‘Yer think so?’ Fergus asked his fellow captain quietly.

‘For certain,’ Colquhoun replied.

‘What?’ Roussell demanded.

The two captains broke their quiet conversation. Both rose and started shouting orders to their men.

‘Sergeants! Get the men in line!’

‘Weapons ready!’

‘Bayonets! Bayonets! Fix bayonets!’

The sergeants picked up the call and the two companies, driven by the urgency in their captains’ voices, snapped to obey. Roussell felt a moment of panic.

‘Firm up yer men, major,’ Fergus told him. ‘They’re coming from the south.’

For a split-second Roussell wanted to demand the proper respect from this captain who thought to give him orders, but then he heard the noise, the rumbling from the depths of the jungle, which turned his blood cold.

He hastened back to his men. The urgency of the preparations being taken by the men ahead had unnerved them, but Roussell had previously impressed upon them his disfavour for anticipation of his orders and so they stayed motionless. Roussell cursed them for the caution that he had formerly required from them.

‘Get in line!’ he bawled at them. ‘Ready weapons! Fix bayonets!’ His men scrambled gratefully to obey.

Behind his company, he saw Gomery’s men quickly follow suit and, behind them, Rosa’s Griffons halt in confusion. The chain reaction flowed down the length of the Brimlock column as each man swiftly took the lasgun from his shoulder, slammed his bayonet into its socket and turned to his right to put himself in line. There was no fumbling for magazines as no veteran carried his gun unloaded, but a score of men cursed dumping their heavier weapons on transports so as to save themselves the labour of man-handling them back to Dova.

It would be a matter of just a few minutes for every man to be ready and in position to create a wall of fire and steel facing towards the jungle to the south. It was a few minutes that the Brimlocks did not have.

The distant rumble had grown louder, closer. It grew into a continuous rolling thunder that shook the vines and the leaves. The sergeants were already cautioning men to hold. Whatever its cause, it sounded to each as though it might be their doom. It wasn’t fair, they thought, it wasn’t just. They had survived their final battle; that was it, they were done. They couldn’t die here, on the way home. The Emperor surely wouldn’t allow it.

Animals burst from the jungle, wailing creatures disturbed from their homes and fleeing what was coming after. Lasguns flashed down the column as edgy troopers fired, incinerating the refugees even as they scuttled.

The thunder grew deafening and Roussell glanced behind him, to the jungle on the north side of the track, which appeared identical to the jungle to the south. Not a single gun was pointing in that direction and with the echo from the trees, the sound of the thunder bounced at him from every side.

‘God-Emperor,’ he muttered to himself, ‘let Colquhoun be right.’

Colquhoun was.

‘Blessed Marguerite, what are those?’ Roussell gasped as the jungle on the south side exploded with creatures. His sergeants did not concern themselves with such questions, only the response.

‘FIRE!’

Readied or not, every man brought his weapon up and pulled the trigger. Hundreds of las-shots burned into their raging, wild-eyed attackers, burning the foremost. Those behind stumbled over the blackened corpses, but continued rolling towards the firing Guardsmen; living, angry balls of teeth and claws.

They were not orks. This was not a charge. It was a stampede.

A thousand, two thousand, squig-beasts were being driven into the column, bursting from the shadow of the jungle only a few dozen metres away. Some racing, some bounding, all maddened, tearing into anything that stood in their way. The Brimlock firing discipline collapsed at once, the shouts of sergeants lost beneath the bellowing of the squig-beasts.

Ingoldsby’s company, ahead of Colquhoun and Fergus, was caught mid-step, hastening to reach the fighting at the head of the column. The men were taken completely by surprise. The closest whirled to face the new threat too late and the squig-beasts leapt upon them, biting through limbs and tearing through the flesh of those that fell with the wicked claws upon their feet. Those men on the far side of the column could only hear guttural snorts, rips and the screams of their fellows. Their sergeants instinctively shouted to hold, but there were no mere words that could make them stand. They stumbled back and then broke and ran into the cover of the jungle to the north, the squig-beasts trumpeting with relief as the human barrier before them disintegrated.

Fergus and Colquhoun’s men fared better, firing a blinding rain of light. Every man fired as quickly as he could, but in their desperation the rigorous routines that had been drilled into them began to fade, and shots began to be snatched too early, before guns had fully recycled. Inhibitors installed years before by Brimlock gunsmiths prevented early discharges and frustrated troopers had to grab at their triggers a second time to fire. Those who had stripped their inhibitors out could fire as fast as their finger could grip, but their rapid shots singed the squig-beasts’ flesh instead of bringing them down.

Troopers tried throwing grenades: some short-timed them and so they detonated as they landed, blowing chunks from the squig-beasts; others, in their hurry, did not bother and a few grenades struck the raging squigs and bounced back, cutting down creature and Guardsman alike. The luckless Private Schafe tossed his grenade at the squig leaping high over the bayonet wall to devour him. The grenade flew into the squig’s gaping mouth which then closed over his head, teeth chomping down on his torso, before detonating, killing the unfortunate trooper and covering his comrades nearby in a shower of their mixed internals.

Everywhere Roussell looked, the line was starting to buckle. The squig-beasts were dying in their hundreds, but those behind were hemmed in by others either side and so could only continue to throw themselves forwards. Even as they were struck, their bodies smashed into the Guardsmen, crushing some, distracting others, causing gaps in the fields of fire that the next wave could then pour through. Ingoldsby’s company had disappeared entirely from view. Fergus and Colquhoun’s men were scrabbling, keeping the squigs away at the points of their bayonets. Colquhoun was trying to clear his flank on his own with great sweeps of his halberd knocking the squig-beasts off to the side.

The vox in Roussell’s ear was a cacophony of unintelligible orders, oaths and screams. He tried to contact Brooce for instruction, but it was useless. His company faced collapse; the sheer pressure of the stampede smashing against it would break it. He would lose his company and he had no orders to protect him. One way or another it was the end of him. But then somewhere inside, the young officer who, ten years before, had dragged his isolated company for months through the horrors of the mud-valleys of Mespots to earn his place in the colour-guard emerged.

‘Company! Form on your section!’ He threw the order into the maelstrom. Nothing happened. He stomped down his line, hauling the men of the back row into tighter groups, who in turn hauled in close the men in the rows in front of them. A straight line was not strong enough to withstand the force of the enemy’s blow. Instead, he pulled them into deeper pockets until finally the last remaining men of the front rank dived into them.

His line was gone. In its place were a half-dozen spurs with clear channels running between them. The company’s firing weakened with their frontage so diminished, but their shots pushed the rampaging squig-beasts away to the side. The squig-beasts in turn confronted by these clusters of steel or the dark jungle beyond, shoved mercilessly on by their fellows behind, chose to make for the jungle, and crushed into the channels.

The men in each cluster pushed away from the beasts charging through on either side, pressing a dozen men into the space previously occupied by four, kneeling, crouching, packed tight together, contorting themselves to have every blade pointed out. A stumbling squig-beast ran itself into the bayonets on the side of one cluster. The force of the blow transferred through to the other side of the cluster where Private Geoffries popped out of the cluster like a cork from a wine bottle and was trampled underfoot, still grasping onto his comrades trying to haul him back in. One cluster dissolved entirely when an unlucky shot caused a squig-beast to cannonball into the front of it, knocking the defending Guardsmen to one side, whilst the Guardsmen behind were too closely packed together to shift their weapons round to defend themselves in time.

Roussell hauled his slack frame on top of his Chimera; from there he had a chance to see and be seen by his men. The guards he had posted inside the vehicle to watch Carson had had the presence of mind to man the turret multi-laser and some of the embedded lasguns that bulged from the hull, and had turned the dozen metres between the vehicle and the jungle into a charnel house.

The noxious smell of incinerated squig-flesh struck him as he clambered forwards. The men in the clusters saw it too. The closest ones tried to edge their groups closer to get behind the protection of the tank’s hull; those further away stood no chance of running across as a single body and so lone troopers looked for gaps in the stampede and dived from cluster to cluster, ever closer to the Chimera, like children leaping across stepping stones.

Behind him, Roussell saw that Gomery’s men were in a desperate plight. As for Gomery himself, it appeared his mind had finally snapped. He had not even drawn his gun. Instead he was shrilling away, blowing his officer’s whistle as though calling foul on the whole attack.

It was nearly done, however. Roussell looked out to the south and saw that the shadows of the squig-beasts coming through the trees were thinning. He might live, he realised, and he grasped at the hope. He fired his pistol somewhere into the mass, the sound of the discharge lost beneath the hiss of burning air from the Chimera’s las-fire beneath him.

In the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow amongst the squig-beasts, a dark green shape running on all fours in their midst. He blinked and the shadow uncoiled into an ork warrior, which impaled its arm on the bayonets to sweep them aside and leapt into a cluster, punching, kicking and biting the trapped men.

They were everywhere, Roussell realised. The gaps amongst the squig-beasts were not empty spaces, they were filled by the ork savages who had started the stampede and driven the beasts straight at the Brimlock column. The squig-beasts were just to soften them up; now the true attack was beginning.

The orks were knuckling along at speed, keeping low on all fours. The men in their clusters had a mere split-second to fire before they were set upon. It wasn’t enough. The orks shrugged off the snatched shots, grappled with the Guardsmen for their lasguns and brought bone-breaking blows down upon them with clubs, cudgels and rocks.

Well, damn them all, Roussell decided. An ork leapt onto the Chimera’s roof. It turned and grimaced at him and he shot it through the head. Another with a stone hammer smacked the Chimera’s lasguns from their sockets. A third mounted the front of the tank and tried to shove a rock into the barrel of the multi-laser only to lose its hand to the scorching red beam.

Roussell brought his pistol up to shoot it, but was punched from his feet by a blow beneath his abdomen. He tried to step back and regain his balance, but his legs refused to obey him. He fell onto his back, his pistol gone, and looked down his body to where a javelin had buried itself. Blessed Mother Marguerite, he thought, that’s agony. He tried to say the same, but the words wouldn’t form. He tried to reach out with his hands and pull the javelin free but his arms felt as though they were imprisoned in ice.

The grey sky was blotted out as the ork missing a hand leaned over him, peering into his face. Then it stood, gripping the javelin to hold him steady, and his last sight was a heavy green foot slamming down upon him.

‘Hold! Hold, you milk-sops!’ Forjaz berated his men as another band of ork warriors with the distinctive red vertical strip down across one eye threw themselves at the company. Carson’s men, consigned to the rear, had escaped the brunt of the stampede. The orks coming after had not been so obliging.

‘Hold formation! Hold formation!’ They were huddled together, as were many of those still fighting up and down the trail, in three sides of a rough square. They had originally formed a line like the rest, but the orks had tried the end flank and so the men there had folded back. Then Rosa had been overwhelmed ahead of them and the warriors there attacked down the column, forcing the other side to fold in. Only Frn’k’s wild intervention had prevented the formation being shattered.

Stanhope was crouched in the front rank, gripping his lasgun as though it were his very existence. There was sweat pouring from every patch of his skin. His chest felt as though it was being squeezed in a vice. He had already retched up everything his stomach had held, so at least there was nothing more to come from there. His aim, at least, was still steady. He focused on the simple things; he saw an ork, he shot it, he saw another, he shot that. He just profusely hoped that the orks he was shooting were actually there.

Blanks, the bastard who had put him in this state, was crouched in the second rank right behind him. Stanhope got a knee in the back every time the barrel of his lasgun wavered off-target.

‘Hold! Hold!’ Forjaz called again.

‘How bloody long for?’ Blanks muttered too loudly.

Forjaz heard it and turned on the insubordination.

‘What did you say, private?’ he demanded. He only realised as the words were coming out of his mouth, that he had chosen exactly the wrong person.

‘I said, how bloody long for, sergeant!’ Blanks shouted and fired his lasgun again.

All conversation was then rendered impossible as Gardner, at the square’s corner, opened up with the autocannon again. He kept the burst short.

‘Running low! Only one can after this one’s finished!’ he reported.

Forjaz didn’t deserve this. Booth dead, Red gone, probably dead as well, Carson arrested. Why did fate decree that he had to be the one to preside over the company’s last stand? A half-dozen men were dead, the same number wounded but fighting on. The unfortunate Zezé had been hit by a javelin and was shaking, laid out at Forjaz’s feet. And Blanks wasn’t even finished yet.

‘We’ve got to move!’ he said.

Forjaz couldn’t ignore him. ‘We hold!’

The orks made another rush, hooting and waving their clubs above their heads. The troopers grouped their fire by priority targets, hitting each ork not with a single shot that they could shrug off, but with three or four at once. One of the orks endured the pain and reached Stanhope. The major jabbed forwards with his bayonet, sticking it hard into the ork’s torso, but the ork kept reaching forwards to smash Stanhope’s head in. From behind Stanhope, Blanks struck, his bayonet punching through the ork’s throat. Then he pulled back and fired a shot into its face that sent it reeling away.

Forjaz had hoped to get orders, but there was no vox chatter any more. There were no orders any more. It was every company for itself, but surely, if they could just hold out long enough, someone would come for them.

‘We’ve got to move!’ Blanks shouted again.

We’re not going anywhere; that’s what Forjaz meant to say. Instead, it came out as, ‘There’s nowhere to go!’

‘The fort!’ Blanks responded. ‘Fort Eliza! We can reach it!’

‘No, wait!’ Gardner interrupted. ‘Let’s get back. Get out of the jungle into the fungus. A Valkyrie can come in there.’

This was bad, Forjaz knew, he was losing his grip. Troopers were not supposed to discuss, they were supposed to obey.

‘Shut your traps!’ he bellowed, but Blanks ignored him.

‘A Valkyrie can drop into the fort as well,’ Blanks countered. ‘And it’s where everyone else will fall back to!’

‘Everyone else who thinks of it!’ Gardner shot back.

Forjaz felt his authority slip away. ‘No one’s going anywhere!’ He tried to reassert himself, but the men knew that no one was coming to rescue them, and Blanks had a plan.

Blanks stood up all the way and faced Forjaz. Forjaz had a sudden flashback to the orks Blanks had so easily killed the night of the ork raid. ‘I don’t want to fight you, Forjaz,’ he said. ‘And you don’t want to fight with me.’

‘So what?’

‘So, we have an officer,’ he said, and he reached down and hauled Stanhope to his feet.

Now it all fit into place in Forjaz’s head, how close Blanks had made himself to Stanhope, how he’d looked out for him, got him eating out of the palm of his hand. He could never have done that with Carson, but as soon as Carson was out of the way…

Blanks smacked Stanhope around the head to try and shake him from his torpor. ‘What do we do, major? What are your orders? Stay or go?

‘What’s it to be?’ He went to smack him again, but as the lazy blow swept round, Stanhope’s hand came up and blocked it. He grabbed the hilt of his fell-cutter in his other hand and jabbed it in Blanks’s stomach. Blanks, for once off-guard, flailed for a moment to catch it.

‘Don’t ever strike me again,’ Stanhope told Blanks, and let the sword slide back into its sheath. Blanks nodded and Stanhope continued. ‘We go.’

Blanks nodded again, satisfied this time. ‘Right, to Eliza.’

‘Yes, to the fort,’ Stanhope agreed, ‘but first, up there,’ and he pointed up the trail to where the rest of the column was being massacred.

‘You’re mad,’ Blanks said, and finally he and Forjaz were in agreement. ‘You can’t save the whole regiment, major! You’ve got to save your men!’

‘Yes,’ Stanhope replied. ‘All of my men.’

Lieutenant Carson sat in the dark waiting for the end. His three guards had been firing the hull lasguns, but after they’d been smashed in, and the driver and turret-gunner bailed out into the carnage outside, his guards appeared disinclined to open the rear hatch and fight on. None of the orks had tried to open the rear hatch. It was perhaps because they couldn’t see anyone inside. Perhaps they didn’t even understand that people could be inside. Perhaps they thought a Chimera was just as much a single living being as they were. It didn’t really matter. They would figure it out soon enough.

That time appeared to be at hand. There was a groan of metal as something monstrous tried to rip its way through the rear hatch. The guards scrambled for their weapons and held them ready. A peak of light appeared, a silhouette beyond, and one of them fired. There was a deep, inhuman shout of alarm and the silhouette jerked back.

‘Brimlock Eleventh, you idiots! Open up!’

One of the guards peered out of the hole and then quickly obeyed. Suddenly a half-dozen men poured into the back of the transport, grabbed the guards, took their weapons and threw them out onto the ground. They looked up to see the path to their Chimera lined with five Griffons, each one crammed to the brim with troopers.

One of the troopers grabbed the guard who had fired and lifted him up to his feet.

‘You’re damn lucky you missed!’ Gardner spat at him and then showed him Frn’k looming over them both. The guard quickly agreed.

Major Stanhope stepped into the rear compartment of the transport.

‘Lieutenant Carson,’ he said over the sound the las-fire from the troopers holding the orks at bay.

‘Under arrest,’ Carson said back.

‘From what I’ve seen, lieutenant, I believe that no longer applies. Now get up and jump on a Griffon, that’s an order.’

‘An order? From you?’ Carson replied. ‘How unusual. Such a shame I have to disobey it.’

Stanhope looked down at Carson in the gloom. He noted the uncomfortable pose, the odd positioning of his legs, the arms that hung like a dead weight.

‘It happened again?’ he asked

‘They didn’t need to restrain me to stop me escaping. My body took care of that all by itself.’

‘Very well,’ Stanhope said and turned away. He then handed his jacket to Blanks, returned, took a hold on the protesting Carson, heaved him up over his shoulders and carried him out into the light.

The small convoy rolled out back down the trail, the troopers on board shooting any ork that tried to pursue them. The Griffons were designed to carry a small mortar crew and so Stanhope had ordered everything inessential to be thrown off so as to cram all his men on board. Even so troopers had to cling on to the sides. Even the wounded, even the dying Zezé. Stanhope would leave none of them behind, not even Carson’s three guards. As soon as Stanhope saw them, they became his responsibility as well and so somehow space was found to carry them too.

They turned off the main trail, heading towards Fort Eliza. The cohesion of the ork forces had crumbled. The warriors who had been fighting found themselves fixated by the weak creatures they had defeated and the strange items they wore and carried. The primitive tribes had earned a crushing victory over those aliens who had defeated the almighty Stone Smashas and their only thought was to get the choicest loot and to celebrate. Up and down the trail, the victorious orks had only a single chant:

‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’

Twenty-Three

Blood Stripe camp, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 20

‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’ Mouse’s ears were filled with the chant. His eyes were filled with death. He walked over yard after yard of bodies: orks, squig-beasts, Guardsmen, all laid out together. The scavengers were hard at work; the ork warriors had already taken their trophies and now it was the gretchins’ turn. Every pile of dead, every platoon’s last stand, was alive with them. They snatched at everything they thought of worth, digging their chipped fingernails into fabric to tear free buttons, medals, crystals, anything that shone, to satisfy their greed. Once done with that on a body they then dug into its flesh to satisfy their hunger. Mouse could only be grateful that the lengthening shadows hid the results of their feasting.

The orks had tied his hands and put him on a leash to drag him along like a pet. It was humiliating, but better that than what had happened to his comrades. Red was still in the cage. He was awake now. He held the torn cloth to the wound upon his head as a makeshift bandage. The cloth was crusty and the side of his face was streaked in dried blood, but still he pressed it down. He wasn’t moving.

During the battle he had gone mad. As he and Mouse had heard the sounds of carnage, Red had started shouting to try and warn the regiment. He had slammed himself into the cage to try to break free, the colour of his face going from flesh, to its customary scarlet, to a deep purple that Mouse had never seen before. He only stopped after the sounds of las-fire had ceased and were replaced by the orks’ bellows of victory. It had been for nothing. It had all been for nothing.

‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’

Mouse had tried to talk to him, had tried to explain, but Red had refused to listen. He had seen the comparative liberty that Choppa had granted Mouse and had fixed him with such a look of betrayal that it was as though Mouse were Horus reincarnated. Nothing Mouse had said made any difference.

Choppa called the procession to a halt. They had reached the remains of the armoured company. The grey hulls of the tanks were mottled black and ash-white from the fires that had burst from their engines. Their doors and hatches hung open; their shadowy interiors were gutted, plastic melted, metal scorched, steering columns and controls blackened skeletons.

Not every skeleton was merely mechanical, though. While the wounded had scrabbled to get out before they were cooked inside, the smell of charred flesh in the air was testament to those who had not made it. These were not tanks or transports any longer; they were carcasses.

Mouse did not know how the armour had been overcome so quickly, but that in itself did not surprise him. Guard doctrine taught the Imperium’s soldiers ignorance and contempt for their enemies, not understanding and respect. True knowledge of the foe came only through battle, and there every lesson learned came at the cost of the lives of one’s comrades.

Mouse remembered Azzabar. Back when they thought the fight was almost done, before the company even knew they were under attack, they had lost their commander. It had been Captain Sandys back then. He had been well under Carson’s thumb and the company was getting on well. Then one night Mouse had seen him touring the defences when he had suddenly sat down. They had gone to his aid only to find blood bursting from his nose and eyes. He was dead in an instant and, moments later, the eldar, who were not even supposed to be on Azzabar, attacked.

Mouse did not have knowledge, but he had kept himself alive all these years by making very accurate guesses. Choppa’s personal glyph totem was the key to it. It might be a weapon itself, or perhaps it was merely an object of focus for some psychic power, those same type of psychic powers that had reduced the brain of Captain Sandys to pudding without leaving a mark on him.

There was a commotion up ahead; the gretchin were squabbling over a body. The nearest ork waded in amongst them. It grabbed at their prize and held it up. The face was beyond identification, but Mouse recognised the insignia of a major. It had been Brooce. It was not the body that had caused the fracas. Brooce’s uniform had been ripped open and beneath it were the regimental colours. He had tied them around his body to ensure they could not be captured while he still lived. And they had not. The gretchin had already bitten through the knot and so when the ork tugged at them they came away in its hand. It looked at the brightly coloured fabric for a few moments, not understanding what the banner represented, and then draped it around its shoulders like a cape.

‘Chaffey,’ a hoarse voice whispered his name. It was Red; he was standing up, looking at Mouse. His eyes were the same steely blue, but for the first time in all the years Mouse had known him, there was a frailty behind them. He was wounded, his face was pale. He was an old man and he knew his time was coming soon. Mouse drew up some of the slack on his leash and then crept over towards the cage, stopping a metre from the bars.

‘Colour?’ Mouse asked quietly. Red looked woozy, the blow he’d taken to his head was taking its toll. Red’s lips were moving, but Mouse couldn’t hear any words over the hooting and hollering of the rowdy orks. Red’s body wavered and he started to slump against the cage. Mouse instinctively stepped forwards to try and keep Red upright. It proved to be a mistake. As soon as he reached the bars, Red’s body snapped up and Mouse felt a hand close around his throat. Before he could react he found himself trapped in the iron grip of a very clear, very conscious and very angry regimental colour-sergeant.

‘You rat-blasted,’ Red raged at him beneath his breath. ‘You dreg. You gopper. You don’t say a word, you hear me? Don’t you doubt for a single moment that even in here I can’t pull out your throat. I can and I will unless you give me what I want. You hear that? What have you got?’

Mouse’s eyes bulged as he struggled to respond. Red did not stop, however. ‘You’re a sneak and a thief and a coward, and the lieutenant only stopped me skinning you alive because you always had a trump up your sleeve. I need out of this cage, so whatever you have you give it to me.’

The grip tightened and the blood pounded in Mouse’s head. He started to raise his tied hands. ‘Slowly,’ Red warned, and Mouse showed him the small blade he had tucked inside the cuff. Red took it and relaxed his hold. Mouse scuttled as far away as he could. He didn’t want to be anywhere near whatever the colour-sergeant was about to do.

It took Red less than a minute to slice through one of the cage’s ropes and escape. The orks were distracted by their celebrating. One of the gretchin did see and screeched, but the weak noise was lost amongst the general commotion. Red had his chance to run, to escape the orks, but he didn’t. He ran right into the midst of them.

The orks noticed him then, but Red had a moment’s grace before they could stop him. In that moment Red shoved his way through, booting the scurrying gretchin aside. Mouse gaped at his idiocy, Red had gone mad. He was trying to defeat the whole horde single-handed!

But Red’s target was quite specific. The mob rounded on him, but he had reached it. The ork wearing the colours turned around and Red managed a single swipe, catching it across the face, before he himself was struck down from behind. Red stumbled, but as he fell he dragged the colours from the ork’s shoulders. He clutched the precious cloth tight to him as he disappeared under the blows of the mob.

Twenty-Four

Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 20

The evening had fallen quickly over the deserted Fort Eliza. The clouds turned black and bulged with rain. Stanhope welcomed it. He welcomed anything that would hide them still further from any errant ork that happened to wander past. He kept his men away from the breach caused in the raid, kept them away from the bodies. The orks had been burned, whilst the men were quickly buried, but there was nothing to be gained by dwelling there. Instead he had occupied one of the towers, and used tarps attached between the Griffons and the tower to create a larger, communal tent.

The men had survived many rainy nights without cover before, but tonight he wanted everyone in the same place. Aside from Zezé, who passed into the light shortly after they arrived. Stanhope left Heal and a few of the other men to arrange for the body to be buried. Not many, for the company could not be allowed to forget that they were still in the midst of battle. Fighting and his orders came first; grief, mourning and loss all had to wait.

He was giving orders easily now. His self-imposed taboo had been broken and they were coming to him naturally again. One just needed to have the vision of how things should be and then impart it to the rest. But his orders carried the weight of borrowed authority, as Carson had said to him as soon as the opportunity to speak privately arose.

‘I’ve been asking myself,’ he had said, ‘why was it that you came after me. I realised, you didn’t come after me. You came after my authority.’

‘I’m a major, lieutenant,’ Stanhope had replied. ‘I’ve commanded platoons, companies and regiments. I don’t need your authority.’

‘Yes, you do. Here, you do. With my men, you do.’ Carson almost left it at that, but then he felt his body’s weakness, the embarrassment of not being in control of basic functions. He knew that, right then, he could not lead.

‘You can have it,’ he added. ‘Just take care of them. You damn well keep them safe.’

Stanhope agreed. He had taken weeks to accept the responsibility of these men’s lives, and now he had, he was going to pull them through, no matter what it took.

One immediate disappointment, though, was that they were alone. When they arrived, it became clear that no other survivors had made for the fort. For a long while, Stanhope had to consider that his men might be all that was left of the column from that morning. Until finally, just before dusk, another unit had appeared.

‘It’s the cavalry,’ Blanks had reported, coming down from the tower.

‘The cavalry?’ Stanhope had said. ‘Blessed Marguerite, that’s the last goddamn thing we need.’

Stanhope was not the only man of the company to think so either.

Gardner sat hunched in the corner beside his autocannon and his ogryn. Trouble was dozing, the panic of the evening and the hardship of the night having had no effect on him. He had looked mournful only when Gardner had told him what little there was to eat. Such a straightforward life, so full of content and bliss at trivial matters such as food and companionship. What a fool, Gardner thought savagely and then instantly felt guilty about it. He could not help it.

The waiting was driving Gardner mad. He had stayed awake, pistol, knife and grenade ready, waiting for Reeve to send men for him. He must have already told that tin belly captain who had shot him. He had probably told him the day before, as soon as they had ridden him to safety. Damn cavalry. Damn Carson who had stopped him when they had been here last, when he had been ready, and when he’d had surprise on his side.

Now that was gone, now Reeve knew he was out to kill him. He knew it, and he would know he was here as well. The commissar was just toying with him, toying with him as he’d done on the Execution Boards with his brother. He was putting him through one last night of torment and then he’d have him seized before dawn, when all the rest of the company were asleep. He’d be put up against a wall and that would be it. The other brother dead. Another skull for his coat.

Damn him, Gardner decided. Hope: that was what they got you with. They let you think you had hope. Made it all the sweeter for them when they snatched it away. Well, this Gardner would not give him the satisfaction. He cast his hope aside. He knew he was a dead man in a few hours anyway. He would not be led like a lamb into the Emperor’s light. He rose to his feet, a few joints cracking as he did so. He felt for the grenade in his pocket; that would do for Reeve. He felt the knife hidden at his back; that would do for any tin belly that got in his way. He looked down at his gun, too cumbersome. He looked down at Trouble, much the same.

Trouble would be okay, Gardner told himself. Blast it, give him a few extra portions at his next meal and he’d probably forget all about him. And if they came for him first, the ogryn’d probably get caught up and they’d take him down too. Best this way. Best this way for both of them.

He walked out and excused himself to Private Heal who was on sentry duty. Said it was a call of nature. Benefit of being a corporal, privates didn’t question him too much. It was raining. Perfect. It would cover his footsteps and keep anyone else from wandering around. He walked blithely off until he was out of sight and then doubled back towards where Ledbetter had sited his men. Most of them would be in the main tent, little more than an awning really, set up against the remains of the fort’s wall. Gardner bet Reeve would be there, briefing the men on the raid he wanted.

Gardner headed towards it, but skirted around where they had tied up the horses. He didn’t want some panicky beast giving him away. He hunkered down against the sodden earth further along the wall and peered into the barracks. There were a few lights on, kept pointed down at the ground. Most of the tin bellies were lying down. A few were up, but Gardner could tell that none of them was Reeve, and he doubted that Reeve would be bedding down with them. He obviously wasn’t there.

That made sense, Gardner realised. Reeve wouldn’t call everyone together until the last moment. He’d be in one of the tents, telling Ledbetter his orders. He circled around, keeping out of sight of those locations where Private Heal and the other sentries were standing. Their attention should be focused out into the jungle, but with Emperor-only-knew how many orks prowling around, they’d shoot at anything they didn’t recognise.

He closed on the tents. There was a light on in one. Dampened, but noticeable up close. That was it. He checked on his grenade. He could just toss it in from outside, but they’d still catch him anyway and he wouldn’t see the look on Reeve’s face when he saw his end. Better to make it quick. He’d just walk in there and–

‘Bruvva?’

Gardner whirled around, then gasped and swore when he saw Frn’k standing a way off, dripping wet.

‘You lefda gun? Isda danger? You needa gun?’

In the gloom, Gardner could see that Frn’k held the autocannon in his hands.

‘Blessed Marguerite, Trouble,’ Gardner hissed. ‘Get back to the barracks!’

Frn’k could hear the panic in his friend’s voice. Something must be wrong!

‘Danger?’

‘Be quiet!’ Gardner rasped.

‘Danger!’ Frn’k decided and shambled over, looking all about for whatever was threatening his friend. ‘Tell Trouble whereda danger!’

‘You idiot! Get back! They’re going to hear you! You’re going to ruin it!’ Gardner flew at the ogryn in fury, smacking him with the hilt of his knife, anything to try to get him away. Frn’k backed off, dropping the cannon, confused and stricken at his friend’s assault. Why was his friend doing this? If there was danger then Trouble should be with him. They were always together. They were brothers, that’s what he’d said!

Frn’k hid his face between his thick arms. ‘Don’t hurt Trouble! Trouble sorry!’ he whined.

‘Get back!’ Gardner ordered. ‘Go back to the barracks! Leave me alone!’ But it was too late; the men in the tent had heard the noise. Gardner saw the shadows shift and one of them emerge. It was Ledbetter.

Gardner swore again. They would have him for sure now. Just knowing he was there would force them to take him. This was his only chance. He sheathed his knife and pulled his pistol. He’d have to take that man out now, his bad luck, but he was only a tin belly after all.

A hand the size of an artillery shell gripped his pistol arm.

‘What Bruvva doin’?’ Frn’k demanded. ‘Thatsa friend. You don’t shoot friends. Bruvva told me thatsa bad thing!’

‘Get off me, you stupid oaf!’ Gardner stopped whispering as he erupted. He pulled to free his arm, but Frn’k held it with ease. If he’d had time he could have reasoned with him, but the tin belly had seen him and was about to raise the alarm. He reached up his left hand, tossing the unprimed grenade it held to the side, and grabbed the pistol from his right. Frn’k saw the grenade fall.

‘Krumper!’ he bellowed. He pulled Gardner in tight and turned away, interposing his own body to protect his friend from the explosion Frn’k thought was coming.

There was a roar, but not of an explosion. It was the roar of a human as Ledbetter charged in, chainsword whirling.

‘Get your hands off that man!’ he cried and brought the chainsword down on Frn’k’s shoulder. The chainsword’s high-pitched whine became a throaty drone as it chewed into the ogryn’s flesh. Frn’k spasmed in agony, instinctively clenching tight. Too tight for Gardner in his grip; beneath the bloody chewing of the chainsword could be heard the sickening sound of bones breaking. The ogryn rolled away from the pain, his rain-slickened friend slipping from his grasp. He did not know why the grenade had not exploded, but someone was hurting him and he needed to get them to stop. He grabbed at the nearest weapon he could find.

‘God-Emperor,’ Ledbetter breathed as the monstrous ogryn raised the hefty autocannon in his hands. It wasn’t loaded, but Frn’k didn’t need it to be. He swung it like a bat, gripping it on the barrel, striking the cavalry captain with the heavy feeder system. The impact physically lifted Ledbetter a full metre clear of the ground and sent him sprawling back, unconscious, his chainsword automatically cutting out as it left his grip.

‘Look out, he’s gone berserk!’ Frn’k heard someone shout, and then he heard the first shot being fired. It was being fired at him! He turned to face whoever had done it, but then another shot struck him in the back, struck him where Ledbetter’s sword had struck. He bellowed in pain again. Many men were running at him now. They saw Ledbetter and Gardner lying prone at his feet. They shouted things at him. Blamed him for it. Called him things. He tried to find his words, but all he could think of was that he’d hurt his friend. He’d wanted to save him, but now he was hurt. He had hurt him. And the men all around him were blaming him for it, and shooting at him. He couldn’t find his words. He couldn’t explain. He had hurt his friend. He had been bad.

Frn’k opened his mouth and wailed out his broken heart. And then he ran into the darkness, while the stinging lines of light cut around him.

‘Stop firing! For Marguerite’s sake, stop firing!’ Stanhope shouted as he came out onto the scene. He ran over to where Gardner and Ledbetter lay. Ledbetter was already stirring slightly, but Gardner was dead still.

‘Medicae!’ he called, and then cursed because they had no medicae left. ‘Anyone!’

‘Who’s seeing to him?’ Carson demanded, as Stanhope and Forjaz carried him out of the barracks.

‘One of Ledbetter’s men has some medicae training,’ Stanhope replied.

‘One of the tin bellies?’ Carson said. ‘Don’t you realise that Gardner was probably out to–’

‘I realise that. He, thankfully, did not.’

Gardner was alive and awake, but he would not remain either for long. The resigned look on the face of the cavalryman tending him told Stanhope that much.

‘A lot of his ribs are broken, and I think he’s bleeding inside as well.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Carson asked.

The cavalryman considered the question. ‘I’m going to make him as comfortable as possible.’

‘That’s it?’ Carson exclaimed. ‘If that’s what it is then get inside him and stitch him up. You’re not just going to leave him. What kind of a medicae do you call yourself?’

Carson was an imposing man, and the force of his character was in no way diminished by the fact that he’d had to be carried in and sat down on the floor. But while many men within the regiment would have been cowed before him, this cavalry trooper was not one of them.

‘If I was back in Dova, if I had the proper equipment and staff, and the proper supplies on hand… I still wouldn’t know what I was doing! Sir. I know about your reputation, lieutenant, but there’s nothing more that I can do. And I don’t call myself any kind of medicae. I used to help them look after the horses. That’s all. I don’t know how to save him!’

The cavalryman’s voice was tight with emotion. Stanhope looked at him again and realised how young he was. He wasn’t one of the veterans who had started from Brimlock, he was just old enough to be a man. He’d obviously been born on the crusade as part of one of the regimental families.

Carson was lost for words for a moment and so Stanhope took the chance to interject. ‘Thank you for your efforts, lance-corporal,’ Stanhope interjected. ‘How is Captain Ledbetter?’

The cavalryman wiped the sweat from his face. His eyes were red. ‘He’s fine, sir. He’s taken worse. There’s really nothing more I can do. I have to get back to the commissar.’

Stanhope saw Carson’s flicker of reaction at that.

‘How does he fare?’ Stanhope inquired politely.

‘The conditions… they’ve aggravated his wound… I don’t know that either.’ The crumpled look on the young man’s face spoke volumes about the weight of the responsibility that had been placed upon him. Stanhope dismissed him and he left.

Carson was talking to Gardner and Stanhope took his leave to allow them the moment. After ten minutes or so, Forjaz came out holding up Carson.

‘He was trying to kill Reeve,’ Carson said in a measured tone. ‘When they find that out, whether he’s dying or not, Ledbetter’s men are going to come for him. I am not going to allow them to take him. I’m going to get my men ready.’

‘We can’t let this happen,’ Stanhope said. ‘This is my command and I will not let us end it all fighting each other!’

‘Command then, major,’ Carson replied. ‘I suspect that Ledbetter’s men will have the same preference for your authority as mine do.’

Whether Carson was spurring him on or merely mocking him, Stanhope could not discern.

‘Is Gardner still awake? I’d like to talk to him first.’

‘Talk to him if you will. But I don’t think he’ll be inclined to reply,’ Carson finished, and Forjaz carried him away.

Stanhope returned inside and settled himself next to the dying man.

‘I know a little about what happened to your brother. Lieutenant Carson told me the night after we took the crater.’

Gardner didn’t reply.

‘He told me to talk to you if I needed to know any more,’ Stanhope continued. What Carson had actually said was that he’d had enough of Stanhope’s damn questions and that if he wanted to know any more he’d have to damn well talk to Gardner himself. ‘I need to know more now. I have to try and stop what we both think will happen.’

Gardner, though, was evidently not in the mood to talk. He sat there, sullenly, staring only at his feet.

‘I understand how it is,’ Stanhope offered.

‘Yes, sir,’ Gardner replied, his voice dripping with scorn. Stanhope felt his temper rise, but he controlled it.

‘I want you to think for a moment, corporal. Can you do that? I want you to think of everything you heard about me. Think of everything you know that I’ve done to myself, done to others, have had done to me. Think of it all, corporal, and then look me in the eye and tell me you think that I do not understand loss.’

Gardner thought, then blinked and looked away.

‘I was there. On Cawnpore. I saw what they put us through. I know why Hacher was born and why so many men listened to what he said. I know they weren’t traitors, they were just human. I saw what the Execution Boards did to people. I saw how they could lever a man open and what they could make him admit. Not for the sake of justice or truth, but simply to reinstate order and fear.’ Stanhope knelt down on one knee and moved closer to the man. ‘I know your brother wasn’t a traitor.’

Gardner nodded, tried to swallow, then took a deep breath and stared straight at Stanhope.

‘Then you know scrag all,’ he said. ‘Scrag all. That’s what you know, you bloody carcass, you bloody shell. Because he was a traitor! You hear that? Can you understand that, major?’

Stanhope, surprised, stood up to go, but Gardner’s anger pulled him up.

‘He was a traitor,’ Gardner ranted. ‘I knew it. He told me. He told me how he had heard of Hacher and what he was doing. He told me how he spread the word of what was happening in the Sixty-Seventh all through the regiment. He whispered it to me at night just to show me what he could do. He was always trouble. Always. I started calling him Trouble when we were kids. He loved it.’

Stanhope backed slowly away. He’d hit the nerve and now it was angry, raw and exposed. He didn’t need to push any more, Gardner would carry himself the rest of the way.

‘No names, though,’ Gardner carried on, ‘I drew the line at that. I didn’t want to know any names. I was too scared to know ’em. I thought if I didn’t know the names then they’d never get me. I wasn’t part of anything if I didn’t know the names.’

Gardner gestured wildly and then froze as his memories slid on.

‘But the black-coats didn’t see it that way. After it’d all happened, I got called up before the Boards. Up in front of that one, Reeve, before he started wearing those skull-trophies of his. Back when he was just another black-coat. There were five of them. I heard they were brought in specially by Ellinor, to cut out the rot, so they said. Most of the time you hear of a mutiny, the black-coats just shoot every man still standing at the end. Sets an example to the rest, they say. Ellinor, though, the glorious bastard, didn’t want to lose a dozen regiments just to send a message. He had plans for those regiments; he had a schedule of conquests to keep and not enough men for his liking. So these black-coats, they had a different method. They told me they believed me. They believed I wasn’t part of anything. But they wanted the names of the ones who were. They wanted the rot.

‘If I hadn’t been gagged and bolted down I’d have laughed then. Give them names? They took the gag out and I gave them the name of every man who’d crossed me, every sergeant who’d chewed me up and spat me out, every officer who’d looked down his nose at me. They might all have been as pure as priests, but I didn’t care. Let them defend themselves, it’d get me off.

‘Then Reeve thanked me for my helpfulness, and he told me that he was certain my allegations would all be corroborated by the others. Because if they weren’t, he said, they would have to conclude that I was naming innocent men because I was one of the mutineers. And if I was one of those, then it would be the cannon mouth for me… after they had finished a more detailed questioning.

‘That was how they worked it. That was how they rooted out the traitors. They didn’t accuse us, we accused ourselves. Everyone had to say a name, and if we refused then we were dead. If we said a name and others said the same, then we were safe. If we were the only one, we were dead again. Who was I supposed to choose? Who would everyone else pick? Who did I think someone else would accuse?

‘Reeve asked me if I wanted to reconsider the list I had given him. I nodded and he ripped it clean through the middle. Then he asked me for the name. I should never have let Trouble get into it on his own! If I’d have been with him, I’d know the others, I’d have been able to save him. I told Reeve nothing. I said I didn’t know anyone.

‘Reeve went quiet at that and then I was unstrapped and taken out of the room. They took me out into the courtyard and showed me the cannon. I didn’t say anything. They showed me the straps, showed me what was left of the one who’d come before me. I kept silent. They tied me over the mouth and lifted the barrel up. I pissed myself, but my mouth stayed shut. They called the order to fire and I waited, I waited the long seconds before I would feel the ball strike and tear me to pieces.

‘The moment came, the cannon roared. I opened my eyes and I was still looking at the sky. They lowered the barrel and let me hang there on the straps, my trousers soaked, my face wet. Now I knew how it would be, I knew I couldn’t go through it again. I said my brother’s name. I said it, then they made me repeat it. Then they cut me down and took me back in front of Reeve and they made me say it again. Then they cleaned me up and took me back to my cell. And that’s where I stayed until it was over. Fed, watered, and with nothing to do but listen to the cannon fire.’

Stanhope sat quietly while Gardner gasped and coughed at the exertion of telling his story. He knew there was nothing he could say. At Cawnpore, after he’d lost his regiment, there was nothing anyone could have said to him. They had trusted him; they had attacked that fortress because they had believed him when he had said the next wave was coming. He had betrayed them, just as Gardner had betrayed his brother.

But while Gardner had found a target for his guilt and turned it outwards, Stanhope had kept it in. The only vengeance he had sought was against himself. He had not had the courage to defy the order to attack, nor had he the courage to end himself afterwards. Instead, he stepped out. He stepped out of his rank, stepped out of the Guard, stepped out of his life as far he could and waited for anyone to notice. He had held the gun to his head and waited for someone else to pull the trigger, but no one ever had. In his lucid moments, he had realised that someone was protecting him. Protecting, or maybe punishing him, by refusing him what he thought he deserved. It had taken him a year or so to finally realise who it was.

Of all those regiments on Cawnpore, there were only two that weren’t brought up before the Execution Boards. The first were the storm troopers who had dropped into the citadel and caught the men who had called themselves Hacher. The second was the 1201st, or at least the only man who remained of it. The report of the display of loyalty by his men at that parade, their sacrifice on the slopes of the citadel, kept him safe, meant he was high above any suspicion. His men had protected him still, even after they were dead.

He had met Reeve then only in passing; he was one of the five that had questioned him, but that was all. The Board had told him that, because of the stigma that Cawnpore would forever hold, the 1201st would have it expunged from their record and instead it would show that they had given their lives fighting the xenos on Ghilzai. Stanhope, in his grief, could not have cared less.

Then, a few weeks later, he was transferred to the 99th and met Reeve again for he was the senior commissar for the regiment. Stanhope had thought nothing of it, and his slide began in earnest. Then he was transferred again, to the 263rd and there Reeve was again. Each time Stanhope was bumped from regiment to regiment, Reeve appeared as well. He thought that Reeve had him under watch in case the mutinous virus should suddenly spring from him to his new regiments, and that belief made him sink lower and lower. But now, he looked back at those same events with an unclouded mind. Was it perhaps that Reeve was not following him, rather that he was taking him? Was he was carrying him from regiment to regiment as he was reassigned, ensuring as only a commissar can that Stanhope was not persecuted?

It seemed ridiculous. Amongst all the death on Cawnpore, why would Reeve pluck him out to save? He did not know. The two of them had never even spoken in private. But now here they were close to the end. The commissar was only a few metres away, perhaps dying, perhaps already dead; any answers he had already gone. And Stanhope was sitting with the man who had thought to kill him.

‘How’s Reeve?’ Gardner asked, his voice weak.

‘I’ll have someone check,’ Stanhope said and stepped out and gave the order.

‘Wherever I’m going...’ Gardner said when he returned, ‘I better not see him there.’

Gardner was even paler than before, his lips going blue. Stanhope could see that he did not have long.

‘You won’t. Everyone knows that commissars don’t go into His light.’

‘Where...’ Gardner croaked, ‘...then?’

‘They stand in His shadow,’ Stanhope said gently. ‘So as to make sure of His loyalty.’

The corner of Gardner’s mouth turned up in amusement and the two of them waited in silence for what news would come.

‘Tell Trouble I’m sorry,’ Gardner said suddenly, and then was drowned out by the noise of the rain as the tent flap opened and Blanks stepped inside. Stanhope looked round at him.

‘Commissar Reeve is dead,’ he reported.

Stanhope turned back to Gardner, but Gardner’s eyes had unfocused and dimmed. They would not see anything again.

Stanhope released his breath and whispered a prayer. A prayer for them both. A prayer for them all. Emperor knew he had watched enough men die in the past, even die slowly before him. Here was the truth, the truth he would have told the next generation of officers had he ever been chosen to go home. The first is not the hardest. It’s the last.

But Gardner would not be the last if his men and Ledbetter’s now tore each other apart.

‘Tell Carson to keep the men alert,’ he told Blanks. ‘I’m going to talk to Captain Ledbetter, and I will pray that his feelings towards us are gentler than ours towards him.’

Twenty-Five

Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21

Ledbetter had already taken the initiative. One of his cavalrymen appeared in his path, saluted, and then politely requested that he follow. His guide led him to the far end of their makeshift barracks. Stanhope entered and saw the body of Commissar Reeve. They had lifted it on its stretcher and put supports underneath almost as though it were the body of an Imperial hero, lying in state. Which, Stanhope supposed, Reeve almost was to these men.

A squad of the cavalrymen stood around him, reading softly from their prayer-books. Ledbetter was amongst them. He saw Stanhope, closed the small volume in his hands, crossed over to him and slowly saluted.

‘Captain,’ Stanhope said as he returned the salute.

‘I wanted you to see him like this,’ Ledbetter began, gesturing behind him. ‘It is the best we can do, but a commissar of the Emperor deserves much more.’

Stanhope did not comment as he scanned the interior, trying to count the men, trying to discern the weapons they carried, trying to sense whether there were any in hiding waiting to cut him down at a given signal.

Ledbetter had paused, waiting for a response.

‘These are straitened times,’ Stanhope finally produced. ‘I am certain that he would understand that.’

Ledbetter stared coldly at him for a time, and then slowly nodded. ‘You are right, major. He would have approved. For all his unshakeable faith, he remained a practical man. But I, in my faith, cannot leave him like this.’

Forty-two of them, Stanhope concluded, at least of those he could see. With Gardner dead, Carson immobilised and Frn’k gone, it would be a nasty fight. He had no certainty that his men would win. Of course, the faithful needed no such certainty.

‘If you wish to transport him back to Dova, I am certain that we can make arrangements,’ Stanhope ventured, trying to steer the conversation away from the precipice.

‘His body is a shell, major,’ Ledbetter swept on. ‘It is his spirit that is my concern. And his spirit will remain restless until it receives its proper retribution.’

That was it then. An instinctive chill shivered up Stanhope’s spine, but he blazed it away. He was about to die, but he could still provide one last service and create such a commotion as to put his men on guard.

‘I do not think,’ he said, playing for time as he lowered his body a fraction, ‘that talk of retribution is particularly useful in the present circumstances.’

They would be watching his hands; he could not put them near his weapons. If he touched the hilt of his fell-cutter or his pistol, they would shoot him where he stood. If he charged their captain, however, they might hold off for a few precious seconds for fear of hitting him as well. There would be a signal; Ledbetter would want to ensure they struck only at his command. He had to anticipate it if he was to survive even a step.

‘I agree,’ Ledbetter said. ‘Further talk is useless at present.’ Then he took a step closer. ‘But I want you to know now that when we return to Voorheid I will drag that Voorjer whore into the street and give her that same “justice” she gave to our commissar.’

Stanhope froze. ‘Van Am.’

Ledbetter noted the slight tone of disbelief in Stanhope’s voice, and inferred from it what he had expected.

‘You cannot protect her, major,’ he asserted. ‘I know she is close to your company, close to your lieutenant. But she has forfeited the Emperor’s mercy.’

He held up the small, crumpled piece of metal, half the size of a little finger, that had taken his commissar’s life.

‘A Voorjer bullet,’ Ledbetter said. ‘We dug it from his body.’

Stanhope took it and held it up in what little light there was. ‘This was hers?’

‘Of course it was, major. She either took the shot herself or gave the order to one of her men. She probably thought she could blame the orks, claim one of them fired it from those hunting rifles that the Voorjers conveniently lost from their first expedition to the rok.’

But it wouldn’t have been one of the Voorjers, though, would it, Stanhope considered. They were outside of Reeve’s authority; they were the only ones in that battle who did not have to fear his discipline. There was one man in that battle who most definitely did have a reason and who he had seen with a Voorjer rifle. Stanhope felt his body clench again. He continued to stare at the dented bullet as though examining it whilst his thoughts whirled and caught up. ‘Could it not have been an ork?’

‘The wound was to his back, major,’ Ledbetter stated icily. ‘I saw the commissar when he fell. He was facing forwards. He only ever faced forwards.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do I have your word then?’

Stanhope looked at the man squarely. He was asking for his word as an officer. Stanhope wondered at him. How does a man survive twenty years of dirt and come out so clean? And why now did Stanhope feel soiled amongst these men of honour and long instead for the company of his rogues and killers?

‘I cannot give my word, captain, knowing I may be ordered to break it.’

‘Understandable, major. So, excepting if you are ordered, do I have your word?’

Just lie, Stanhope told himself. After what you’ve become, after the depths you’ve brought yourself down to, what is your word of honour worth?

Something, Stanhope decided. It’s worth something.

Then who are you protecting? Your men, or the Voorjer girl? Your old regiment is dead. The man who may have been protecting you is dead. He died waiting for you to step back up. Become an officer again. Make the choice an officer should make. Protect your men, do what you must to bring them home safe or cast their lives aside here in order to protect the guilty.

‘You do,’ Stanhope replied. ‘Once we reach Voorheid, I will not stand in the way of what you feel you must do.’

‘Thank you, major.’ Ledbetter shook his hand firmly. Stanhope responded without enthusiasm. It felt almost as an alien gesture to him now.

Stanhope took that as his opportunity to leave and stepped out into the darkness and the rain. Another cavalryman entered and passed a quiet message over to his captain.

‘Major!’ Ledbetter called. Stanhope stopped and turned but did not step back inside. ‘Your corporal, Gardener, was it?’

‘Gardner,’ Stanhope corrected.

‘Gardner,’ Ledbetter affirmed. ‘I am sorry to hear he passed. When I saw that beast attacking him I struck it as hard as I could. I regret it appears I was too late. Do pass on my condolences to the rest of your men.’

‘Thank you, captain. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.’

Forjaz saw Stanhope return from the tin bellies. He motioned to them that all was well and Forjaz breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his grip on his gun. Stanhope spoke briefly to Carson and left. Carson told them formally to stand down and the men around him, who had endured the devastation of their army during the day and were now rousted during the night to be ready for a savage close-quarter fight against their own, dealt with it all as only veterans could. They went back to sleep.

Carson called him over. Apparently Stanhope wanted a word in private. Forjaz helped him out and over to the tent where Gardner’s body now lay covered.

‘Sorry to put you to such trouble, lieutenant,’ Stanhope said as they entered.

‘It’s no trouble,’ Carson replied quickly as Forjaz sat him down. Forjaz knew the major had every excuse to keep Carson out of command, but Carson was determined to show no further weakness in front of the man.

Blanks was there as well, standing beside Stanhope almost as though he thought himself the equal of the rest of them. He had gambled on attaching himself to Stanhope when the major had been an outcast and that gamble was paying off. He and Stanhope sat on the ground as well, bringing them down to Carson’s level. Forjaz followed suit, while Stanhope relayed what had transpired.

‘So,’ Carson summarised, ‘you’ve sold her out.’

‘She sold herself out by shooting Reeve,’ Stanhope retorted, ‘Or are you going to claim that you fired a second, freakishly ricocheting bullet from that Voorjer rifle you borrowed.’

Carson shut up at that and Forjaz watched the two of them consider their positions in a long moment of silence. Eventually, Carson started again.

‘Did Ledbetter say why he thought she did it?’

‘No,’ Stanhope said. ‘He only said he knew how close she was to this company. To you.’

‘She didn’t do it for me!’ Carson protested. Stanhope arched his eyebrow.

‘If I might interrupt, major, lieutenant,’ Blanks began. ‘I only ever heard Van Am speak of one thing: to keep Voor free, from the orks and from the Imperium as well. And there’s no greater symbol of the Imperium than His commissars. If she knew we were staying, then she would have seen Reeve as the greatest threat. Without him, our garrison may have just served to protect them and nothing else.’

‘Certainly the colonel isn’t interested in spreading the Imperial word,’ Carson agreed.

Even the lieutenant was listening to Blanks, Forjaz noted. The Guard had a rigid hierarchy, but in such a crisis as this, officers looked to those who stepped forwards. He’d never done so. It was only natural when you were standing in the shadow of sergeants like Red and Booth. But they were gone, he was the only one left, and even now he was being outstripped by a transfer of all people! His wife would never let him hear the end of it if Blanks was promoted above him. He had to make his contribution.

‘More accurately,’ Carson continued. ‘Major Rosa wouldn’t have been interested. He would have been the garrison commander. The colonel and Major Brooce would have headed home with the colour-guard.’

‘A few slots open in that now,’ Forjaz remarked, and then realised the other three were staring at him. ‘But then again,’ he thought out loud. ‘No colours, no colour-guard, I suppose.’

Forjaz saw Stanhope look at Carson. Carson then looked at Forjaz.

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ Carson told him. ‘Help me up, I want to check on the men.’

Forjaz did not understand, but he obeyed. Stanhope and Blanks were left alone.

‘I should check on the men as well,’ Stanhope decided and got to his feet.

‘Carson is already doing that,’ Blanks told him.

‘I should do it as well. I need to know them and they need to know me.’

‘No, they don’t. They have their commander. You’re not going to change that.’

‘Then what should I do?’

‘Go to sleep, Stanhope.’

‘That sounded rather insubordinate, private,’ Stanhope replied.

‘It’s not my order, major. It’s your body’s. It’s been two days now since you last took the stuff. Two days for your system to realise you’re not giving it what it expects any more. It needs rest more than these men need another man to salute.’

‘I can’t… I can’t let these ones go, Blanks. I need to ensure they’re safe.’

‘Then sleep. I’ll wake you if the orks come, or worse, the lancers.’

Interlude

Execution Boards, Cawnpore – 656.M41 – Year 17 of the Ellinor Crusade

Senior Commissars Reeve and Toklis finished their lunch as they watched the remnants of the bodies being removed from the mouths of the cannons. The rate of fire had slowed in the last few days and the tech-priests were complaining about the use to which the weapons were being put. Not for the loss of life, but rather that such firing was increasing the wear and tear on the machines.

They were complaining, but, Reeve had noted, not too loudly. The sheer scale of the judicial executions had overawed even the dispassionate members of the Adeptus Mechanicus. No one wished to raise their head too far above the parapet at present for fear of the commissars of the Boards.

Reeve was bored with it now. There had been a certain intellectual challenge at the beginning in devising the process by which the men would implicate one another, but now that was in operation, the interrogations, the sentencing, the executions had all become routine. There were no surprises, no shock revelations, just the inescapable grind from which, Ellinor hoped, some useful men might be salvaged.

It was on the last point where Reeve had one last spark of interest; a major of an auxilia unit which had been destroyed during the attack on the mutineers. The Board had brought him in this morning, questioned him briefly, and were ready to release him. The only pending vote had been Reeve’s.

‘I don’t think there’s anything more to him,’ Toklis opined, popping the last morsel of food in his mouth.

‘He’s been sleeping a lot since we brought him here,’ Reeve said.

‘Goes to support his case, then. A guilty conscience would be keeping him awake. He’s sleeping the sleep of the just.’

‘The just?’ Reeve questioned. ‘He was ordered to stand and watch while his men, men he led for years, were gunned down in front of him. I do not believe he considers that there was anything just about it.’

‘Well, then perhaps he’s sleeping so much because he’s hoping never to wake up. Either way, it’s not our concern.’

‘That always was the difference between us,’ Reeve said to his colleague. ‘You can only ever spot those who are a danger now; you can’t see those who might be a danger in the future.’

Toklis adjusted the bionicle which covered his left eye. ‘I see perfectly well, thank you. I suppose if you had been on Cawnpore from the start the mutinies would never have happened.’

‘Of course they wouldn’t.’

‘And how would you have stopped them?’

Reeve did not need to consider it, he already knew. ‘I would have shot Carmichael.’

Toklis laughed in disbelief. ‘On what charge?’

‘The man could not even get his men to shoot a mutinous officer. What charge? Gross incompetence.’

The other commissar harrumphed. ‘Well, Carmichael is no longer our concern and, if I may remind you, neither is Major Stanhope. There are a few more thousand of these to do and Ellinor’s deadline is ticking down, so put Stanhope up against a wall if you feel you must, but get back to work.’

‘I will be there shortly,’ Reeve said, unwavering.

‘Good.’ Toklis left. Reeve did not head directly back, but instead took a diversion through the medicae ward. He went up onto the gallery and looked down at Stanhope’s bed. The major had been woken, questioned and released less than half an hour earlier, and yet here he was asleep again.

Reeve waited, deep in judgement. He noticed someone approaching him. Reeve would have normally withered anyone who dared interrupt him. However, this one he was more charitably inclined towards: it was the colonel of the storm trooper regiment who had finally crushed the mutineers.

‘Commissar?’ the colonel asked. ‘May I ask you a question?’

Reeve turned to him. Here was a true soldier of the Emperor, intelligent, effortlessly capable, his fealty and faith unshakeable and unquestionable. The kind of fighting man that Reeve himself had not been for many years.

The colonel stood calmly at attention, even though his torso was heavily bandaged from the wounds he had received. He had been respectful in his request, but Reeve made it a point of principle never to accede to another straight away. He found it encouraged undue familiarity. Reeve held the Emperor’s authority and he would discuss what he wished before any topic of theirs. This fighting man might just have the insight to help Reeve make his decision.

‘Do you know Major Stanhope down there at all?’ Reeve inclined his head towards the bed beneath their feet.

The colonel looked. ‘I’m aware of his situation. We don’t typically fraternise with the regular regiments, though.’

A sensible precaution, Reeve knew, as it was the storm troopers who were deployed to bring those very regiments back into line, typically with overwhelming force.

‘He, just as you, has performed a great service for the Emperor, but he has suffered a great loss as a consequence. I fear that his grief over that loss may lead him down a path of resentment and ultimately treachery. I would be interested in your thoughts on the matter.’

The colonel did not reply at once. He was not often asked his opinion on any matters outside of tactical deployment.

‘It would depend on the man, commissar,’ he replied guardedly.

‘You should speak freely with me, colonel,’ Reeve assured him. ‘I have no doubts as to your loyalty.’

They were interrupted by the roar of the cannons firing again. The colonel took the moment to consider the matter further.

‘I doubt,’ he began, ‘that any man who has been in this place and seen the consequences of mutiny could ever fall to that crime again.’

The colonel stepped beside Reeve and looked down at Stanhope. ‘His men gave their lives to bring such abomination to an end. If he held them in any regard, he would never desecrate their memory. And if he truly loved them, then he would not blame his orders; he would only ever blame himself.’

Reeve thought on it. ‘Perhaps, then, a bullet would be a mercy, if he is to carry such guilt.’

Reeve saw the colonel frown, but stay silent.

‘I said you should speak freely,’ he reminded him. ‘What do you think of that?’

The colonel nodded slowly. ‘It is possible. Yet… I believe, that is, I hope that the Emperor in all his Imperial Glory might sometimes deliver His mercy by other means than down the barrel of a gun.

‘Not for traitors,’ the colonel quickly added, ‘not for blasphemers, not for those who refuse His duty–’

‘But perhaps for the faithful?’ Reeve interrupted briskly. ‘Perhaps for good soldiers such as Major Stanhope? Perhaps for you?’

The colonel felt as though he had overstepped his bounds and snapped back to attention, eyes fixed blankly over Reeve’s shoulder.

‘No, no, colonel,’ Reeve reassured him. ‘Do not fear. You have given me something to consider. Now, what did you wish to ask me?’

‘I merely wished to ask, commissar. I haven’t heard from anyone else and I know you reviewed the battle-site. Did we at least get him? Did we get Hacher?’

‘Colonel,’ Reeve told him, ‘there is no Hacher. There never was. He was a fiction. A construct for the mutineers to hide behind. Even the name itself, it’s the Kartha word for chopping up, cutting up into pieces. Pieces. That’s all Hacher was. Made up from bits and pieces from each one of them.’

‘Yes, commissar,’ the colonel said. Reeve could tell he was unconvinced.

‘Colonel, did you kill all the mutineers there? Did you kill every traitor? Every last man and woman?’

‘Yes, commissar. Those were our orders.’

‘Then I assure you that Hacher is dead, and he will not rise again.’

Twenty-Six

Ambush Site, Jungle Trail, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21

The unexpected peace along the trail did nothing to lessen its horror to those who were travelling it. The only noise Carson could hear was the Griffons’ engines, and all he could see was the dead. Nearly seven hundred men had died on that trail in such a short time the day before, but it was not so much the number, it was the order.

So many of them had died where they stood that their formations still held. Men had fought so close together that as they died their comrades either side had held them up until they were struck in turn. Carson could tell at what stage of the battle each man had died based on how many of his comrades’ bodies lay upon him. Sections, platoons, whole companies had been wiped out along the length of a few dozen metres. And Carson could put a name to every single grimy, pallid face he saw.

Gomery was curled up with a deflated Mister Emmett under his head, almost as though it was a pillow. Colquhoun was half-in, half-out of a monstrous squig-beast the size of a tank which had fallen across his company. His halberd was still in his hands, jammed up through the roof of the squig-beast’s mouth. Ingoldsby was still upright, impaled through the chest on a spear with a broken shaft; beyond him, running into the jungle, was a trail of the bodies of his men whom he had tried to protect.

The orks had used rope to hang some of the bodies, squig-beast and Guardsman alike, from the tree branches, like carcasses in a meat locker. There was no time to stop and cut them down and so some of the men began to try and laser the ropes as they went past. The sickening thump the first one made as it fell into a lop-sided ball discouraged them from continuing, even before Carson could chide them for wasting ammunition. The worst moments came as the trail narrowed and there was simply not enough space to edge around. Carson shut his ears at the crunch and pops as his Griffon drove over Brimlock dead. He had had to witness many dreadful sights in his time, but even he spared himself from looking back at the trail of the track-crumpled bodies of his former comrades they left behind.

It was a nightmare. It was his nightmare, to lose one’s men and then to defile them in such a manner. He glanced over at Stanhope. The major did not even look, did not appear even the least bit concerned. Of course, Carson thought bitterly, he had seen it all before, hadn’t he? But then the rancour vanished and, for that short time, Carson forgave everything that Stanhope had done to himself.

They had been going for hours now and the mood amongst the survivors had lifted a fraction. They were long past the ambush-site, the orks had not attacked, and Dova, and safety, was close.

‘Where in the Emperor’s name have they gone, Blanks?’ Stanhope asked rhetorically. ‘They’ve just vanished.’

‘It was the same after the night attack on Fort Eliza,’ Blanks said. ‘That night there was an army of them. The next day, when we were going through the fungus, they were in pieces. They can’t hold it together for long.’

‘I wonder why that is,’ Stanhope said.

‘I put it down to the Emperor, personally.’

‘The Emperor?’ Stanhope was surprised.

‘He made it so that they might win battles, but that we would win the wars.’

They were both thrown forwards as the Griffon braked hard.

‘Dova ahead!’ the driver shouted back, excited. ‘Thank Go– Oh, God-Emperor…’

Ahead of them was Dova, the bastion rising majestically from the jungle, just as when they had left it. But now the gates gaped pathetically open, broken off their hinges, and the walls were adorned with hanging bodies.

DOVA, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21

Choppa was not happy. The fighting the night and day before had been tremendous. Ripping. They had hacked the aliens to pieces and knocked their metal monsters over. But here had been losses. Of those amongst the warriors, he cared for little; he understood that was how his kind prospered. The strong survived, the weak died and spread their spores to grow new warriors who might be better. It was the losses amongst the meat-beasts that made him think. Almost every single meat-beast the savage tribes had owned, plus all those they had captured from the Stone Smashas, was dead. His warriors’ stomachs were full now, but when that trail of meat-beast flesh was gone, taken or rotted, then they would become hungry and the tribes would turn on each other again.

Despite his victories, he felt his army crumbling around him. Nabkeri had woken him that morning with the news that more than half his warriors were missing. At first, Choppa believed it to be treachery, that they were planning a move against him, and he had stormed out with his weapon ready to cut the first challenger he saw in two. Nabkeri had calmed him down, though, and told him that most had just wandered away. Some had gone after the few meat-beasts remaining, the rest were simply sated with battle and food for a while and so had instinctively headed back into the jungle to the fungus fields that were their home.

Choppa did not want to return home, however; he wanted to go on. To have more boyz under his command, not fewer. He had not told them that, he realised. His boyz had gone home because they believed the war was over. Only he understood that the war was just beginning.

That was why Choppa had raised his standard here and called the tribes back to assemble. He wanted to show them what more this world had to offer.

Stanhope watched as another ork warband emerged from the jungle and made its way across the flattened plain towards the desecrated walls of Dova. This one was larger than the last, over a hundred strong at least, and they brought with them a gift for their warboss. It was Frn’k.

The ogryn trod carelessly, placidly, being led along on leashes of ropes held by the warriors. He was still gripping Gardner’s autocannon tightly in his arms. Stanhope noticed that, in all of their prodding and pushing, none of the orks came close to touching it.

It was time. Stanhope passed the monocular over to Heal to keep watching and walked back amongst his men, until he reached the tree which Carson was propped up against.

‘Is it Trouble?’ Carson asked as he approached.

‘Unmistakeably,’ he replied. ‘How’s Forjaz?’

‘He’s…’ Carson didn’t know how else to describe it. ‘He’s exactly as you’d expect him to be.’

Stanhope nodded and didn’t say anything more. Forjaz had seen his wife, his daughters, his son in his uniform, all hanging from the walls. He had plunged from the lead Griffon and charged down the path towards Dova, shouting oaths of vengeance. It had taken Stanhope, Blanks and nearly a section of men to subdue him and prevent him from alerting every ork inside.

The families, the young, the invalids, and all the rest of the regiment’s followers were not the only ones strung up. Stanhope turned away from Carson as he remembered Ducky, Marble and all the other injured that Carson had sent back to Dova for their safety. Stanhope could sympathise with them all, of course he could, but the shock had not stopped his mind working. When he saw the field of slaughter, the first thought to enter his head was how he would save his men now. Even as he held Forjaz to the ground, his mind was working as an officer’s should, planning out the next steps they would take. His men would feel their shock, anger and grief, that was to be expected, but he could not allow them to be paralysed by it.

Blanks appeared, leading Ledbetter towards them. Stanhope had given his officers six minutes to react, feel, and calm their men. That was all the time he would allow. After that, the course of their expedition had to change and that required a new plan.

‘I’ve asked Captain Ledbetter to join us. Discuss what’s next,’ Stanhope explained.

This time it was Carson’s turn to hold his tongue as Ledbetter joined them. Blanks stayed close as well. Before Stanhope had begun, Carson interjected.

‘Where’s the colonel?’ he asked. ‘Is he there as well?’

Stanhope shook his head. ‘He may still be alive, a captive,’ he ventured.

‘A Valkyrie is missing,’ Blanks added, which was true; only two Valkyries were lying, burnt-out, on the landing pad.

Carson encapsulated his opinion of Arbulaster abandoning Dova to the orks in a few, succinct, earthy phrases. When he had finished, Stanhope began.

‘We can wait here until the orks leave, but we have no way of knowing how long that will take. It may be days. It may be weeks. It may be never. So here’s what I propose. We spend the night here and if the orks aren’t making a move by tomorrow, we’ll march. We’ll affix a vox, set to transmit, to the top of one of the trees so that if the Valkyrie returns, they’ll detect it and know where we’ve gone,’ he said. He pushed the loose dirt between them aside and drew an outline of the continent in the soil.

‘The only other place on Tswaing which had comms powerful enough to reach to Voorheid is here.’ He pointed at a dot on the coast to the north. ‘The original Voorjer settlements. We believe that this is where Van Am is heading. It’s where she grew up so she knows the land. She must have some means of contacting Voorheid there. I doubt she’ll take the trouble to destroy it before she leaves. These savage orks couldn’t tell the difference between a vox-console and a tanna-brewer in any case.

‘If we’re truly lucky, we’ll find boats there as well that can take us safely off the shore while we wait; perhaps they’ll even be able to take us all the way back to Voorheid. Even if there are neither, it’s still a place that any rescue party will check, and where we are most likely to find supplies and a defensible position. It’s a week’s fast march, barring accidents and obstacles. We’ll have to abandon the Griffons, of course, but the cavalry will be able to keep their mounts. It will be hard, but I believe we can make it,’ Stanhope concluded. ‘Any questions?’

Stanhope looked at the other two officers. Ledbetter’s expression was unreadable; Carson was just staring at him.

‘Yes. I have a question,’ Carson said quietly.

‘Go on, lieutenant.’

Carson opened and then clenched his jaw. ‘Is this a joke?’

Stanhope looked at him hard. ‘If you can see a problem with this, then tell us and we’ll find a solution.’

‘My problem…’ Carson said and then set his jaw. He was furious, but Stanhope could not imagine why. ‘My problem is that nowhere in your proposal is the part where we burn these murdering filth from Dova and bury them beneath its walls!’

Stanhope was taken aback for a moment. ‘Lieutenant!’ he snapped. ‘We cannot contemplate an unsupported assault upon Dova.’

‘I’m contemplating it,’ Carson retorted. ‘In fact, I’m demanding it.’ He reached down and brushed aside Stanhope’s dirt outline.

Stanhope was unimpressed. ‘I’m trying to keep your precious men alive, lieutenant. That is what you wanted from me and what I have sworn to do. An all-out assault on a larger enemy force in a fortified position? They would be massacred.’ Carson was shaking his head, but Stanhope barrelled on. ‘Your first duty is to your orders. But now you have no orders, your next is to your men.’

‘And I am fulfilling that duty,’ Carson replied. Stanhope made to stand, resolute, but Carson leaned forwards and grabbed his arm. ‘No, listen to me, major. Truly listen for once. What have these men just seen? These men, my men, have seen the results of one massacre already. They have seen the bodies of the regiment’s women, and their children, and the crippled. They know the killers are sitting on the other side of those walls. Do you think any of them care about their own lives any more? Do you think any of them wouldn’t willingly sacrifice themselves to see justice done?’ Carson could see his words were striking home. ‘Do you think any of them could live with themselves tomorrow or any day after if they had seen such a crime and simply run away?’

Stanhope had no response to that. Instead, he merely turned to Ledbetter.

‘Captain?’ he asked. ‘Your thoughts?’

‘I completely agree with the lieutenant, major,’ Ledbetter replied without hesitation. ‘These xenos… abominations,’ he spat, ‘have committed an atrocity. None of my men will rest until it is revenged. As for–’

Ledbetter paused a moment, struggling briefly with the decision of whether to share himself with these others. ‘As for myself. My woman is in there. She is beautiful and kind, and she has been quite the greatest blessing He has ever given me. And now I am sure that she is as dead as the others, but I do not mourn for I know we will be reunited in His Light. So, as for myself, I have no desire to delay that reunion a moment longer than necessary.’

Stanhope stared at the cavalry captain, but Ledbetter showed no emotion as he said those words. That was what such faith did.

‘Very well,’ Stanhope began again, sketching a new outline on the ground. ‘This is Dova…’

They had a plan, Stanhope said to himself as he strode away. He walked quickly through the trees until he was out of sight of where the rest of his company was hidden. Then he could contain himself no longer, collapsed to his knees and doubled over. He retched a half-dozen times until finally he had anointed a tiny portion of Voor to be forever Brimlock. He shuffled away then shucked his uniform jacket off, took his knife and started to slice at it. He had the lining ripped, both cuffs opened, every pocket ripped by the time Blanks found him.

‘Major!’ Blanks said as he went to him. Stanhope whirled around wildly at the interruption, knife in hand. Blanks reacted without thinking, locking Stanhope’s hand, stripping the weapon, and Stanhope suddenly found the point of his own knife at his throat.

Blanks threw the knife to one side and released his hold. ‘Apologies, major,’ he said, but Stanhope had more pressing demands. He grabbed the front of the trooper’s uniform, both threat and plea at once.

‘Where are they?’ he asked. ‘You must have kept some! Where are they?’

‘Major?’ Blanks tried to get through to him, keeping his hands high and open so as not to aggravate him any further.

‘You cannot have got rid of them all. I’ve checked everywhere, but nothing.’ Blanks saw Stanhope’s hand go to his sword, but all he did was to wrench off the pommel and show the empty compartment inside. ‘You can’t have left me without any. You’ve got to have them.’

‘I don’t, major,’ Blanks said calmly.

‘I just want one, private. That is an order. I just need one,’ Stanhope released Blanks and returned to his savaged jacket. ‘It’s happening again. It’s happening again. I swore I’d never… but I have and now it’s happening again!’

‘Major!’ Blanks said abruptly to capture his attention. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘Of course it’s the same. They’ll all die. They’ll all die again.’

‘No, Stanhope,’ Blanks replied firmly. ‘It’s a good plan. We have every chance–’

‘We have no chance, Blanks. How many were there in that warband? A hundred or so? Almost as many as us? Emperor only knows how many more of them there are.’

‘That’s not significant.’

Stanhope stopped rummaging inside his jacket. He replied slowly, rolling each word around in his mouth. ‘The fact that we will be… horribly outnumbered… is not… significant?’

‘No,’ Blanks said. ‘A single bullet. That’s all it can take to stop an army.’

‘But not the orks, private. A single bullet isn’t even enough to stop one of them.’ Stanhope clasped something inside the lining. ‘And there won’t be merely one of them. There will be hundreds of them. And all our men, my men, will die.

‘I told myself,’ Stanhope continued. ‘I swore to myself after Cawnpore that I would never do it again. I would never utter the order that would lead good men to cast their lives away for nothing. And then Carson came along and he’s just as I was, just like that major of the 67th. Dedicated, determined, he died rather than murder his men, Carson is the same. I thought I was as well, but I wasn’t. I fooled myself. I wasn’t strong enough then, and I’m not strong enough now.’

Stanhope pulled his hand out from the lining; in between his fingers was a small, innocuous, dry leaf.

‘No,’ Blanks agreed. ‘You’re right. I can see that. You don’t have to utter the order. Carson and Ledbetter are telling their men. You don’t have to do anything any more.’

As Blanks reached in, Stanhope jerked the leaf away from him, but that was not his target. With a swift, smooth action, Blanks pulled the fell-cutter from its sheath and held it up in his hands. Stanhope reached after it.

‘Give that back.’

Blanks held it away, twisting it slowly in his hand, admiring its construction. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s mine.’

‘No it isn’t. It belongs to someone else. You told me that.’ Blanks looked at it again, catching the light with the blade. ‘It belongs to a man who gave it to you to assure you of his loyalty. To tell you of the faith he held in you unto death.’

Stanhope dropped his arm down and waited. ‘What’s your point?’

‘They knew, Stanhope. I can see it in you now and they could see it in you then. They knew what you were asking of them. The same as these men here. They know what their orders mean, but they’ll follow those orders because they trust the men who are giving them.’

Blanks reversed the sword and sank it, point first, into the dirt of Voor.

‘The only person you have left to decide for is yourself, major. When these men go into the fight, these men you say you’ve sworn to keep alive, who will be going in with them? The officer who earned that sword, or the trooper in hiding who’s already gone somewhere else?’

At that, Blanks walked away, leaving Stanhope with his decision. A few moments later, the fell-cutter was pulled from the ground and down in its place fluttered a small, innocuous, dry leaf.

Inside Dova, Choppa was fascinated by the gift that the war-party boss had brought him. It wore clothes coloured the same as the grey aliens, but it was far bigger than any of the rest of them. Just as size was of primary importance amongst the orks, perhaps it was the same amongst the aliens as well. Was this their warboss then? It did not act much like one. It was neither outraged, nor proudly defiant. There was nothing of command about it; it simply stood there dumbly, clutching that weapon.

Choppa told the war-party boss to bring him the weapon. It was much larger than the one his new alien boy and his grot had carried. Perhaps this one would be more robust than theirs. The boss baulked at the instruction. He told Choppa that the big alien had not allowed his boyz to take it away, and had killed one of them. Choppa was excited by that. He would see the big alien fight. He told the boss again to go and fetch the weapon and bared his teeth to underline the consequences of refusal.

The boss reluctantly obeyed and organised his boyz. At a signal from him, a dozen of them started pulling at the leashes to try and drag the big alien off balance. At the same moment, another dozen jumped at the autocannon to try to drag the weapon from its hands. It was dragged to its knees, but it held on tight. A few boyz grabbed for its arm, but it swatted them away, then took hold of one of the leashes and hauled. The boy on the other end was too stupid or too scared to let go and so was dragged from his feet. The others pulled all the harder and the big alien allowed them to pull him from the other boyz grabbing at the cannon. The boy who had been laid out scrabbled to his feet only to see the big alien running in his direction. It gave a little jump as it went and knee-dropped onto the boy’s chest. There was a sickening crunch as his bones broke as the alien’s full weight burst through his body.

Choppa called the boyz off and the big alien retreated cradling the autocannon to itself. Choppa was not only impressed by its strength but also its cunning. The fight had also told him what the creature was. It did not fight as a warboss, it fought as a pet. That was what it was. And if it had been the grey aliens’ pet, then it might be his as well.

It was exactly that possibility that Choppa was ruminating over when the first mortar shells fell onto Dova.

Twenty-Seven

The mortars were not intended to do much damage. Their proper operators lay dead far back along the trail along with most of their ammunition. Many of the remaining shells had been ditched to squash as many men on board as could be carried. The few shots that Carson’s men fired were only designed to get the orks’ attention.

In this they succeeded.

Orks poured out of the gates of Dova and onto the plain. There were indeed more than a hundred, in fact nearly five hundred emerged from Dova to do battle. But it was not the distant Griffons that drew their attention. From the jungle to the south emerged an ancient aspect of war that was nevertheless new to these savage tribes. It was cavalry.

Ledbetter formed the remains of his company up in a single line, helmets and breastplates shining, their weapons still holstered. The orks changed direction and headed towards them. Ledbetter responded and his men pushed their horses to the walk. They were in no hurry. The orks picked up their pace in excitement at the violence to come. None of them had killed foes like these before.

As soon as the bulk of the ork force was out onto the plain, piling towards the cavalry, the other attack swung into motion. The Griffons burst from their firing points and motored out onto the plain. Their target was the gates, and they were not stopping for anything.

Private Heal felt a sudden surge of excitement as he crouched on his Griffon’s weapon platform. He wanted to whoop with the thrill of the attack, but he suppressed the urge after seeing the serious faces jammed in around him. He could not help it, though. The horror was gone. The loss was gone. The uncertainty was gone. If these were to be his last few moments before being blown into His light and rejoining Zezé and Repton, then he wanted to live them out as he had wished to live every moment of his life. The joy he had never found in the squalor of his childhood or the back-breaking work resolving breakdowns on the Brimlock machine lines. Damn it, he said to himself, and he whooped. It was a whoop so quiet that no one heard it over the protesting engine, not even himself, but he knew it was there.

He held on tighter as the Griffons neared the gates. He felt the thumps as they smashed aside the orks who thought to try and stop them. Then he saw the broken gates of Dova flash past. They were inside; they were inside the walls! The Griffon slewed to a stop and someone was yelling at him to disembark. He placed his hands on the Griffon’s tracks, praying they would not suddenly churn again, and vaulted over onto the ground.

His comrades were jumping down all around him. The orks that had remained inside Dova had a moment’s confusion before following their natural instincts. Heal saw one, brought his lasgun to his shoulder and fired. The ork stumbled, but held itself up. Heal fired again with the same result. He ran a few steps, closed and fired again. He ran closer and closer, firing and firing until finally the ork collapsed, its body scored with las-burns. Heal was not done. He grabbed his gun by the barrel and swung it down like a mallet on the back of the ork’s head. It struck, but the skull still held.

Someone was shouting at him now to get back to the line. He would obey in a moment, as he had always done, but he gave the dead ork one last hammer blow and was rewarded with the definite crack of its skull.

That one was for Zezé, he said to himself as he spat on the body. Now for one more.

Out on the plain, Choppa realised he had been outflanked and turned back to the gates.

Carson’s men had driven the Griffons just through the gates of Dova before halting. Carson and half his men stayed with the vehicles to defend the gate, while Forjaz, Blanks, and the other half stormed forwards to annihilate any ork left inside. The longer they had before the main bulk of the ork force returned, the better. That was Ledbetter’s job.

As Choppa turned his orks away, Ledbetter sounded the charge.

‘For the Emperor!’ he called. ‘Our faith, our shield and spear!’

The line started to run, and some of the orks turned back again, anticipating the combat. The horses raced forwards and their riders drew their lances. The explosive tips of their weapons detonated as their charge hit home, blowing ork bodies to pieces. The horsemen then threw the wasted weapons aside, drew their pistols and tried to disengage. Ledbetter, his chainsword whirling, carved a path clear for his survivors, and led them round once again.

Stanhope, meanwhile, had his own objectives. Whilst Carson and Ledbetter’s only goal was to wipe these ork warbands from the planet, Stanhope had insisted that he be allowed to do everything he could so that some of them might still be saved. First he tried the gates, but the mechanism was fused and useless. The wall-defence guns were the same. How had the orks managed it? Stanhope wondered. To have taken Dova so quickly?

He then headed over to the Valkyries on the landing pad. The few orks, new-spawns who had been left behind by the warriors, were easily dealt with. As he had feared, though, when he first saw the Valkyries from a distance, their internals had been gutted. Neither was in any condition to fly.

From the landing pad, he could see out onto the plain, to where Ledbetter’s cavalry were fighting in the midst of the ork horde; their horses jumping and swerving, their breastplates shining with the reflected flashes of their laspistols. They could not win, but they fought on anyway. In that instant, Stanhope remembered his margoes, the fell-cutters of the 1201st attacking up that slope to take the rebels’ fortress. He remembered his second, Sub Pagedar, as he held out his precious sword at the height of the trouble on Cawnpore, as assurance that none of his men would desert to the mutineers. They were dead, just as proud Ledbetter and his cavalry would soon be. Was the Emperor even aware any more, Stanhope wondered, of the gross injustices that good soldiers suffered in His name?

The only excuse the Imperium had was that the alternative was far worse.

‘There’s nothing left for it,’ Stanhope returned to Carson, as his men fortified the defensive line they had formed with the Griffons. ‘We’ve got to take the vox tower.’

If they could take the vox tower then they would at least be able to send a message to Voorheid to warn of what had happened, and thereafter to Crusade Command notifying them of the failure of the Brimlock 11th. The difficulty was that the vox tower lay at the top of the central bastion.

‘Forjaz and his merry band are already in there. Your man as well,’ Carson replied, keeping his eye on the growing defences. He was slumped on the back of a Griffon’s firing platform and leaned against the side. He had his arms folded and his infamous duelling pistols still in their holsters. Had these been any other circumstances, he would have been a picture of nonchalance. ‘And look what they’ve already returned to me.’

Carson cupped his hand around his mouth and called out. Two familiar figures came over.

‘Blessed Marguerite,’ Stanhope said when he recognised Red and Mouse. ‘They’re alive?’

‘Trouble as well,’ Carson pointed to where the ogryn sat with the same glassy expression as before. ‘His body at least. I suspect I know where his mind has gone.’

Then, as Red and Mouse stepped before him, Stanhope noticed red stripes on them, running from hairline to chin and crossing one eye. ‘What’s happened to your faces?’

‘Heathen markings, sah. We’ll be removing them as soon as time permits, sah.’

‘So, it’s true what they say, colour. Nothing can kill you.’

‘Nothing has yet, sah. And nothing ever will.’

Mouse chipped in. ‘Nothing can stop a righteous man in the execution of his duty to the Emperor.’

‘And that was you, was it Mouse?’ Carson asked.

‘No, sir. But I had one looking out for me.’

Red cleared this throat pointedly and shouldered his gun. ‘On that note, Major Stanhope, as I understand that you’re now the most senior officer of this expedition, I hereby hand over to your custody Private Rit Chaffey, commonly referred to by the vulgar epithet of “Mouse”, and request he be charged with dereliction of duty, desertion in the face of the enemy and multiple counts of attempted theft and unauthorised salvaging. The penalty for each and every individual offence being immediate execution by firing squad. The men are a little busy at present, but I am happy to perform the sentence myself.’

Mouse started to protest and Red gave him a pointed punch in the kidneys.

Stanhope paused for a moment, taken aback. ‘Thank you, colour- sergeant. I hereby order that all charges be dropped. You’re a free man, Private Chaffey.’

‘I thought I was a Guardsman, sir,’ Mouse scowled, unamused, knowing that Red had been fully prepared to pull the trigger.

Stanhope turned to Carson. ‘How long can you hold the line?’

It was a damned silly question; Stanhope knew as soon as he said it that Carson would hold it as long as he could. ‘As long as it takes.’

‘Thirty minutes, you think?’ Stanhope asked.

‘Oh, I don’t believe you’ll take that long, major.’

‘Understood,’ Stanhope said and very nearly left it at that, but Red spoke up.

‘You’re taking the vox tower, sah?’

‘That’s right.’

Red removed the heavy sash from over his shoulder and handed it to Stanhope. Stanhope took it, confused.

‘The colours, sir,’ Red said. ‘Run ’em up the tower. Get ’em flying again.’

But Stanhope had a better idea. ‘You’re the colour-sergeant, Red. Come with us and raise them yourself.’

Red shook his head. ‘Begging your pardon, sah. ’Fraid not, sah.’

‘Red?’

The old warhorse looked over at Carson. ‘Another foxhole to keep my officer out of, sah.’

Red stepped away and headed back to the Griffon-line. The men gave a small cheer, half-ironic, half-heartfelt when he took his place amongst them and he bawled them out.

‘Chaffey?’ Stanhope asked Mouse. ‘What about you?’

Mouse watched Red, his persecutor and defender, trot smartly off to the Griffon-line to aid in the increasingly desperate defence. He thought of what they had been through together and found that his decision was far easier than he expected.

‘No troubles, major. I’m with you!’ Mouse said.

‘Good. Grab your pack, we might need your spares.’ Mouse scurried off and Stanhope turned back to Carson.

‘Anything more I can do for you, second lieutenant? Battlefield promotion?’

‘Not unless you can promote me to colonel. With all due respect, Stanhope, I’ve had my fill of majors.’

Stanhope nodded. ‘Anything else?’

‘Just leave me with my men.’

The shout went up: the orks were heading back through. Whatever defences were in place had to be enough for these thirty men against five hundred.

‘Of course,’ he said and stepped down to the ground. ‘Good luck, lieutenant.’

‘Good luck, sir,’ Carson replied.

Stanhope and Mouse ran to the entrance of the bastion. The orks had broken it open in their attack and, like the gates, never thought to fix it. They headed into the gloom, making for the main stairwell. A chorus of echoing screams greeted them. A group of three of Forjaz’s men, bleeding and bruised, stumbled past; the two walking wounded carrying the third.

‘Watch out, major,’ one of them warned. ‘He’s an animal. He’s tearing the orks apart!’

The injured offered nothing more and stumbled outside. Stanhope and Mouse found themselves stepping over the dead and dying on both sides: orks charred and pierced by las-fire and bayonet, and the Brimlock troopers they had bludgeoned and battered with their crude weapons and heavy fists. Their blood pooled and mixed upon the floor. Some of the illumination still functioned, giving them hope that the vox tower might still have power as well.

The screams had stopped now, and in their place sounded inhuman bellows and grunts. They reached the bottom of the stairwell and there they found Forjaz’s body, black with blood, ork flesh beneath his fingers and between his teeth where he had torn and bitten at everything he could reach. The orks had won. Mouse readied his gun and Stanhope pulled out his fell-cutter, preparing for the worst. They crept up the first flight of stairs and then they sensed the blood-dripping figure above them.

Stanhope swung his weapon up.

‘The bastion is yours, major,’ Blanks said in reply.

Mouse gasped behind him. Blanks crouched at the top of the stairway, looking down upon them. His helmet was missing. His armour was ripped, torn away in some places. His face was scorched. He was not covered in blood, he was drenched in it. None of it was his own. He sat there on his haunches, the only weapon in his hands his silver bayonet. He smiled.

‘And, major, there’s something you have to see.’

Blanks led the way, dodging quickly, silently over the bodies of a dozen dead orks, blood draining from their throats, eyes and ears where the bayonet had struck.

‘I’m glad he’s on our side,’ Mouse whispered, and Stanhope could not have agreed more.

The something Blanks had alluded to was at the top of the bastion, up on the shooting deck. Stanhope halted them at the command section for the vox tower beside it. Fortunately, the orks had exhausted their destructive tendencies on the lower levels and so only a little damage had been caused. Stanhope set Mouse to get the vox working and followed Blanks up to the last level and onto the deck.

‘I’ll keep an eye on the defences,’ Blanks said. ‘Leave you two alone.’

‘What?’ Stanhope said, but Blanks vanished. He looked about the shooting deck in the dimming light. The canvas chairs were still there, some knocked aside by the orks. The giant map of Voor on the wall was untouched. The grand table in the middle of the room showed damage and was stained with blood at its four corners, but there was no one else there.

‘Who… is there?’ a weak, indistinct voice emerged from one of the chairs in a dark corner.

‘I am Major Stanhope. Who’s that?’

The voice groaned slightly. ‘Stanhope… why… of all my officers… did it have to be you…’

‘Colonel?’ Stanhope exclaimed and strode over. It was Colonel Arbulaster indeed. What was left of him. The orks had not been generous in this regard. His arms and legs hung limply from his torso. Stanhope realised that where once his limbs had been now there were merely bound stumps. The actual limbs were only attached by crude stitches which gaped horribly. His fingers, ears and toes had been separated and then resewn as well. They had blinded one eye and the other was nearly swollen shut with bruising.

‘It was the one with the bad leg…’ Arbulaster burbled in way of explanation, ‘I think… he was curious… why we don’t heal the way they do.’

Mouse shouted up, ‘It’s working, major. Transmitting now!’

‘The big one… all he did was stand in here… stare at the map…’ Arbulaster continued. ‘You’ll have to keep… an eye on him, Stanhope…’

Arbulaster’s face suddenly clenched hard and his throat let out a whimper.

‘What is it?’ Stanhope asked.

‘Lost… the regiment… lost… the colours.’

Stanhope took off the sash, unrolled it a way to show part of the image of Marguerite, and held it up to Arbulaster’s eye.

Arbulaster stared, then craned his neck forwards and buried his face in it like a child might with its blanket. His voice was muffled, but Stanhope could make out that he was repeating the same phrase again and again.

‘Praise Him… praise Him… praise Him…’

Arbulaster’s mutterings collapsed into a splutter and he pulled his face free.

‘One last thing… Stanhope.’

‘Yes?’

‘If we should meet each other… in His light… do something for me.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t stop... keep on walking.’

Stanhope heard Mouse shout again, even more urgent than the last time.

‘Major, sir! I’ve got a message coming back.’

‘From Voorheid?’

‘No, sir. It’s a Valkyrie, and it’s coming in!’

The missing Valkyrie, returning from a run to Voorheid, had accelerated as soon as it had received Mouse’s transmission. Now it was braking, banking, so as to stop and hover over Dova.

‘Mouse, connect it through up here,’ Stanhope ordered, and the rushing noise of a Valkyrie cockpit burst through the shooting deck.

‘This is Major Stanhope, acting commander of Dova. Who is that?’

The pilot’s voice came back over the sound of the wind.

‘This is Flight Lieutenant Plant, returning with the colonel’s cargo.’

‘What cargo is that?’

‘It’s… My orders were only to report to the colonel…’

‘Listen, man!’ Stanhope snapped. ‘Is it anything we can use to blow the orks we’ve got crawling all over us back into the jungle?’

‘God-Emperor…’ Stanhope heard the pilot gasp as the Valkyrie finally hove into view over Dova and he saw the battle raging on.

‘Answer me!’

‘No, major!’ the pilot reported quickly. ‘It’s… crates of liquor, sir. Boxes of food. Tins of candied fruit. It’s what the colonel ordered…’ He trailed off.

In the corner, Arbulaster gurgled.

‘…thought I should give the men a surprise…’

‘What are your orders, major?’

‘Dump it! Dump it all! Preferably on the heads of the orks! Then–

Mouse cut him off. ‘Come in close to the vox tower and pick us up!’

‘Ignore that, pilot. Mouse, shut up! Plant, drop inside the walls and extract every trooper you can find!’

‘Wait! Wait!’ Mouse started to shout.

‘Mouse, I said shut up!’

‘No! Serious! Serious! Don’t get too close or they’ll do it again!’

‘Do what again?’

‘What they did! How they took Dova!’

Twenty-Eight

DOVA, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 21

On the Griffon-line, Carson’s men produced a blizzard of las-fire to try to keep the ork horde back. They had pushed through the choke point at the gates and now were piling up to the sides of the Griffons themselves. Some troopers thought to stand so as to be able to fire down at the orks who had made it into the lee, and they in turn became targets for the ork hunting javelins. The end was close, but not close enough for Choppa as he stepped between the gate posts. He held his totem high once more and struck it with his cleaver.

Stanhope heard the warning alarms blare in the Valkyrie’s cockpit before the entire signal cut out. Mouse appeared up on the shooting deck.

‘What in damnation was that?’ Stanhope demanded.

‘Something their warboss has. It’s shorted the vox again!’

Damn the vox, Stanhope thought as he rushed across to the edge of the shooting deck, what about the men? He grabbed the side and pulled himself up to see the Griffon-line, or where once the Griffon-line had been. The troopers had had their lasguns short in their hands and the Griffons ignite beneath them. The orks had been all over them in seconds and were triumphantly tearing them apart and racing for the bastion.

‘Blanks! Blanks, get up here!’ Stanhope shouted behind them. Mouse was at the edge beside him.

‘Look, the Valkyrie!’

The Valkyrie had been hit, but not as badly. Plant was barely keeping her in the air. She was swaying from side to side as Plant fought with the controls. Mouse leapt up beside Stanhope and balanced on the window sill.

‘Major!’ he cried. ‘Come get on the roof. We can get him down here.’

Stanhope turned back to Arbulaster.

‘What about the colonel?’

Mouse’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Personally I’d use him as a doorstop, but he’s a bit bloody big. Let’s go!’ he shrieked, and scrambled onto the roof.

Stanhope heard Mouse’s shouts to the Valkyrie pilot and walked over to Arbulaster.

‘Colonel. Colonel!’ he said, attracting his attention. Arbulaster looked at him.

‘Would you like me to…’ Stanhope began and drew the fell-cutter.

Arbulaster looked at it, then slowly nodded.

‘So…’ he muttered quietly, ‘there it is…’

Stanhope swung.

‘A good cut, major,’ Blanks said behind him.

Stanhope lowered the bloodied weapon.

‘I’ve blockaded the doors as best as can be done,’ Blanks continued. ‘It should give you a few minutes at least.’

Stanhope wiped the blood from his sword and put it back in its sheath. ‘Have you ever considered that it may not be entirely beneficial to your health to be constantly surprising people, private?’

‘I find it’s certainly less beneficial for their health, major.’

Stanhope looked back to the window. ‘Mouse has the right idea. Let’s get up there.’ He tied the colours around himself again. ‘Plant might not risk it for us, but he’ll risk it for this.’

Stanhope went across and lifted himself up onto the window before he realised that Blanks hadn’t followed him.

‘Respectfully, no, major.’

‘What’s that?’ Stanhope said, exasperated.

‘You asked me who I thought I was.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I think what was done to me is only done to those who’ve committed some great sin. To give us the chance to atone for whatever it was. I’m not a person any more, Stanhope. I’m a weapon. And there’s a whole army out there that isn’t going stop here at Dova. It isn’t even going to stop on Voor. But I can stop it here.’

‘You can’t stop an army,’ Stanhope stated. ‘Not even you, Blanks.’

‘Remember what I said, it can just take a single bullet. If you put it in the right place.’

‘You don’t have a bullet,’ Stanhope reminded him.

‘I don’t need one.’

Stanhope watched him walk down the steps and out of sight. He closed his eyes and said a prayer and then hauled himself onto the roof.

‘He won’t come down!’ Mouse shouted. Stanhope looked up. Plant’s control was still shaky. He hadn’t moved off, but he wasn’t descending either.

‘Let’s show him what we can offer then,’ Stanhope said and untied the colours. He let the banner stream out in the Valkyrie’s downdraught. That got a reaction. The Valkyrie started to descend, but only as far as the top of the vox tower. The array of antennae from the tower blocked him coming down any further.

‘Looks like we’re going to have to–’ Stanhope began, but Mouse was already climbing the tower up to where the Valkyrie hovered. Its rear hatch opened, and there was a crewman inside, beckoning them up.

Stanhope fastened the colours and started to climb as well. As he climbed though, he felt his limbs start to weigh him down. First his legs, then his arms, then his head. He was tired. So very tired. He stopped for a few seconds to rest. He looked around at the stunning view all around him. The trail they had cut. The fort they had held. The crater they had taken. The ambush, the blood they had shed. He looked down at Dova and the faces slid before his eyes. Blanks. Booth. Ducky. Marble. Gardner. Forjaz. Red. Carson. The leaves. He saw a rain of them sheet past him. They would be there ready to catch him. They would have him again.

He pulled himself up another metre and looked up, at the Valkyrie above him. He saw on its underside those same markings as had been on Zdzisław’s. After his crash, his pilots had painted them on their birds’ bellies so that no commissar would see them, but they would know they were there.

He saw something drop beside him. They were giving him a lifeline. They were throwing him a rope. He took the colours from around him and tied them on. The Valkyrie lost height for a moment and jerked a fraction to one side. Stanhope felt the vox tower fly from his feet. He was in the air, his grip on the colours all that was holding him.

‘You’re going to have to hold on!’

Stanhope looked up, his vision swimming. In that moment, it was not the Valkyrie crewman reaching out to him, it was Blanks. Blanks would always pull him out.

…how…? he wondered.

‘You’re going to have to hold on, sir!’ Blanks the crewman shouted.

Never called me sir.

‘Hold on!’ he seemed to shout again.

Don’t have the strength.

‘Hold on!’

Not strong enough. Can’t survive again.

‘Hold on!’

Can’t do it all again.

‘Hold on!’

Can’t bear it.

‘Hold on!’

Not again.

‘Hold on!’

Stanhope relaxed and let the colours run through his fingers. He lay back into the air.

Twenty-Nine

‘Brimlock Eleventh!’ the regimental sergeant major bellowed. ‘Form companies!’

The troopers of the Brimlock 11th scrambled to obey, their own company sergeant majors worrying them into position as though they were dogs herding cattle.

Stanhope watched the carefully controlled chaos as, slowly, the individual companies started to emerge. He started walking down the front line, looking for his place.

He passed the cavalry and Ledbetter there dipped his lance in salute, then the artillery and Rosa gave him a wave, brandishing some kind of meat bone. Drum treated him to a blast of battle-hymns on his vox-amps and pranced a bizarre saluting dance on top of his tank. Stanhope acknowledged them all, but his place was not with them.

He passed Deverril, Wymondham, Ingoldsby, Fergus, Tyrwhitt, Gomery, Colquhoun, still no sign of his men. He saw Arbulaster, chest out, gut in, standing as proud as he’d ever seen him, Brooce by his side. Stanhope did not look his way, though, he just carried on walking. He passed Roussell, who did not seem able to stop adjusting himself. Stanhope saluted and Roussell scowled. There, finally, there he found his company. Zezé, Repton and Heal were deep in discussion. Marble was fiddling with his rifle. Forjaz was trying to fend off his doting wife and children, while Ducky took a few steps and hurled his lasgun away as he always did.

He gave a nod to Carson and took his place at their head. He shielded his eyes to see what their destination was, but could not make it out in the light.

‘Major Stanhope, sir! Step out of that position!’ Booth shouted at him. Stanhope turned, confused. This was where he belonged. Carson sauntered over to him.

‘That’s not your place, Stanhope,’ he said. ‘Someone’s already there.’

‘Who? I don’t see them?’ Stanhope queried.

‘Of course not.’

The orders came through to prepare to march and Stanhope found himself moving aside. ‘But I should be marching with you,’ he said. ‘You’re my men.’

‘No, major,’ Carson told him. ‘We only borrowed each other. Besides, there’s someone waiting for you.’

The order to march came and the Brimlock 11th started to move out and leave Stanhope behind. One of the troopers broke ranks, however, and came running over to him.

‘Major! Major!’ Gardner said. ‘I wanted you to meet my brother.’ Gardner held his arm out into space as though he was gripping someone around the shoulder.

‘There’s no one there,’ Stanhope told him.

‘Of course he’s there!’ Gardner laughed back. ‘He waited for me, didn’t you?’

Gardner wrestled playfully with the air for a moment and then turned away. ‘Got to be getting back, major. Come on, Trouble.’

Stanhope watched the trooper, chatting away to nothing, run back to the company.

‘Starting to figure it out, Stanhope?’ a voice said behind him.

Stanhope turned around. The man Stanhope had known as Blanks was standing there. His face was the same, less the wide-eyed look that Blanks had occasionally had. His uniform was not.

‘Major,’ Blanks said.

Stanhope caught sight of his insignia.

‘Colonel,’ Stanhope replied and saluted. Blanks saluted back.

‘Do you know why now? Do you remember?’ Stanhope asked.

Blanks nodded.

‘Was it a punishment?’

‘No. It was a mercy.’ Blanks looked behind him. ‘The things I’d seen… It was His blessing.’

Stanhope nodded. Blanks glanced behind him.

‘I have to get going. My men have been waiting for me.’

Stanhope looked. ‘I don’t see them.’

‘You won’t,’ Blanks replied. ‘You don’t know them, that’s why you can’t see them.’ Blanks saluted farewell and turned crisply on his heel.

‘Were you him?’ Stanhope called. ‘Were you the mutineer? Were you Hacher?’

Blanks turned back.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘We were the ones who killed him,’ and he disappeared.

Stanhope looked about him, aimlessly. He should go on, but surely not alone. Then one last figure approached him from the haze. Just one at first, but then Stanhope saw the dozens arrayed in precise ranks behind him.

‘We’ve been waiting for you, sir.’

‘You’ve been waiting? All this time?’

‘Of course, sir. We are your men.’

Stanhope nodded and, unseemly as it was, could not hold back the smile. He reached down to his belt and untied his sword and then presented it.

‘I believe your word has been kept. This should be yours again.’

Sub Pagedar took it in his graceful hands and returned his major’s smile.

‘At your command, sir,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Stanhope agreed. ‘At my command.’

And ahead of them in the distance, Stanhope heard Private Heal strike up the song from his homeland, and he sang without restraint for the company’s colour-sergeant was not there to quiet him. And the others raised their voices with him as the Brimlock 11th marched into the Emperor’s light.

Dedicated to the veterans of my own family; the ones who came home and the ones who serve still.

Colour-Sergeant Anthony Clarke Booth VC

1846–1899

80th Regiment of Foot (The South Staffordshire Regiment)

Private Ernest Breedon

1899–1961

The Durham Light Infantry

The Home Guard

Private Harry Breedon

1896–1916

The Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment (The Sherwood Foresters), 1st/7th Bn.

Private George Smith

1899–1988

The Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment (The Sherwood Foresters)

The Bedfordshire Regiment

Private John Alan Smith

1934–1997

The Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment (The Sherwood Foresters)

The Royal Warwickshire Regiment

Private Harry Stones

1899–1917

Army Cyclist Corps, 2nd Bn.

Commissar

Andy Hoare

‘The martyr never truly dies. Every blow he suffers is the touch of immortality, every prison he is incarcerated within is a heavenly mansion.’

– Chapter DCCCLXXIII, Verse XXIX, the Dictum Commissaria (underscored several times in Commissar Flint’s personal copy)

Commissar Flint,

You are hereby requested and required to proceed with all haste from your current post to that of regimental commissar of the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn Dragoons, currently en route to Munitorum penal facility at Furia Penitens [Astrocartographica ref. attached]. Find attached record of the 77th, a regiment with 9,000 years of glorious service to Him on Terra until its destruction at the Battle of Golan Hole 833926.M41. The 77th is now fully reconstituted, but its officer cadre is untested and rank has been apportioned according to the traditions of the ruling Techtriarch clans of Vostroya. Your task is to ensure the regiment maintains the traditions of its forebears, adheres to the Offering of the Firstborn, and the stain of the defeat is erased.

Additional. Sealed archive: +++BATTLE OF GOLAN HOLE SUPPRESSED AFTER ACTION DECLARATION+++ Attached for your eyes only.

One

The Drop

‘Group seven-nine!’ the naval loadmaster bellowed over the roar of cycling turbines. ‘Forward and embark!’

Commissar Flint’s newly appointed staff section dashed forward from the muster line, a dozen heavily laden men pounding up the drop-ship’s loading ramp. As they reached the top the crew took hold of their kit bags and unceremoniously flung them deeper into the vessel before waving the passengers to their positions. Only when the entire group was embarked did Flint start forward, waving Dragoon Kohlz, his hurriedly deputised aide, ahead of him. Kohlz was the only one whose name he had yet learned, the younger and distinctly less burly Vostroyan standing out amidst the older warriors with their drooping, waxed moustaches and gruff manners.

The flight deck was a riot of tightly coordinated activity. The space was enormous, the walls and ceiling constructed of the heaviest grade adamantium now pockmarked and oil-streaked by centuries of service in the Imperial Navy prosecuting the Emperor’s wars. The decking underfoot was gouged and scarred by the passage of countless boots, tracks, wheels and landing claws. Every inch of the vessel spoke volumes to Commissar Flint, stirring his heart with conflicting notions – he was at once essential to the carrier’s mission of bringing the Emperor’s judgement to the furthest star systems of the Imperium, and merely the latest in an impossibly long line of men to have done so.

Two-dozen drop-ships of various sizes squatted on the pitted hardpan, loading ramps swarming with troops. The vessels belonged to the Imperial Navy, but it was the personnel of the Imperial Guard they would be transporting to the world below. Those warriors belonged to a supposedly elite ‘Firstborn’ regiment, but in truth they were untested. In fact, these men, and the handful of women serving in the regiment, had yet to even breathe the air of a world other than Vostroya.

Though he’d been with them for but a few hours, Flint could already tell these troops were unprepared. As the warriors swarmed up the boarding ramps, Flint took a moment to cast an appraising eye over the scene. The Vostroyan Firstborn were almost exclusively male, and slightly shorter than average height. They were stocky and muscular, raised in the foundries and manufactoria of a world entirely given over to industry, in particular the production of arms and ordnance. Every one of them bore a weapon crafted to the very highest standards, forged as an act of penance on the part of the arms-smith for a sin his forebears had committed at some point in the Imperium’s earliest history. Though he was well prepared for his appointment, Commissar Flint had been unable to discover the exact nature of that wrongdoing, but it appeared the Vostroyans took it, or its legacy, very seriously. They appeared almost literally weighed down by something. They might be equipped with the finest gilded armour, fur-lined coats and master-crafted weapons, but many of the warriors Flint was looking at seemed somehow burdened, despite their outwardly grim-faced stoicism.

As Flint mounted the boarding ramp, the loadmaster waved him forward with brisk hand signals clearly understandable even with the ship’s engines at full power. From his vantage point, Flint was afforded a spectacular view of the five main drop-vessels, each large enough to ferry an entire line company including its transports and support vehicles. The remainder of the drop-ships were smaller, designed to transport around fifty men and their equipment. These would ferry the various elements of the regiment’s command staff so that no single incident or accident could take out the entire chain of command in one go. Flint was glad to be performing planetfall in the smaller vessel as dozens of combat drops in the larger ships had taught him how vulnerable they truly were. He was still haunted by his first campaign on Gethsemane. There, Flint had seen such a vessel struck by the insurgents’ hideous self-guided ordnance. Several hundred men had burned in a second and the stricken drop-ship had plummeted into the heart of the breakout zone, slaying uncounted more. At the loadmaster’s respectful, yet unmistakably impatient gesture, Flint ducked inside and located his position. Another crewman grabbed Flint’s kit bag from Dragoon Kohlz and slung it into a cargo cage, slamming the cover shut to secure the contents against the violence of the coming drop.

Flint’s drop-station was located near the fore of the vessel behind the enclosed passenger bay. A small, armoured porthole allowed a view of the scene outside – the boarding ramps of the heavier ships slowly rising and red warning lights flashing.

‘Strap yourselves in and get secure!’ the loadmaster ordered. ‘This is gonna be a rough one!’

Flint could hardly miss the relish in the Navy man’s voice, but he knew what to expect. As sirens howled from outside on the deck, the vessel’s boarding ramp rose on whining pneumatics and slammed shut, the engines cycling to full power. Flint’s ears popped as the air pressure equalised and he strapped himself into the grav-couch, glancing around to ensure that his section had done so too.

Kohlz was attaching the last of his restraints, his bulky vox-set stowed in a cargo bin behind him. Chief provost Bukin sat across from Flint, his grox-ugly face with its long, Vostroyan-style moustaches an unreadable mask as he awaited the drop. The remainder of Bukin’s provost section were just as silent as their leader and Flint could tell they were each trying to maintain an air of brusque confidence despite the dread that must be rising inside. None had undertaken a combat drop before, but they would soon learn.

Then came the long moment of tension and expectation as the flight crew completed their pre-drop ritual checks. Flint remained impassive and stony faced, but he caught the numerous furtive glances cast his way by his newly appointed staff. Each man was clad in the heavy, red and fur-trimmed uniform of the Vostroyan Firstborn. Each wore segments of armour handed down through the generations and no two sets were exactly the same. Many of the men wore the tall, shaggy headgear so distinctive of the Firstborn, despite the building heat inside the drop-bay. At least, it might have been the heat that made the provosts sweat; it might just as well have been their proximity to the first commissar their regiment had been assigned since it was reconstituted.

Commissar Flint kept his snort of amusement to himself as he prepared for the drop. Outwardly, Flint appeared to be in his early forties, though like most of his calling he had ten times the scar tissue anyone of his age had any right bearing. In truth, he felt ten times older, so much death and destruction had he witnessed in his service to the God-Emperor of Mankind. Quite apart from that, he’d undertaken numerous superluminary voyages throughout his career, travelling via the warp from one appointment to the next. As such, he’d technically been alive for many more years than he had actually experienced subjectively.

Finally, the lighting in the passenger bay changed to deep red and the loadmaster worked his way along the rows of grav-couches performing last minute checks. Satisfied that none of his charges would strangle themselves during the violence of the drop, the loadmaster found his own station on Flint’s left and strapped himself in. With an inaudible word of command spoken into his headset vox, the loadmaster informed the pilot that all was secure and the vessel drop-ready.

A subsonic rumble rattled through the drop-ship’s frame as the mighty hangar bay doors ground aside, the barren surface of the world of Furia Penitens filling the view beyond. With a metallic clang, the drop-ship’s grav generator kicked in, causing Flint to experience a brief moment of vertigo as the vessel’s field synced with that of the assault carrier, Toil of Kossia. Then the ship’s engines cycled to full power and its thrusters fired up, the view through the port lurching as the vessel lifted several metres into the air.

‘Looks like we’re in the first wave,’ said Kohlz from Flint’s right, addressing no one in particular.

Bukin threw a sullen glance across at Flint’s aide, but held his tongue. The man next to the corporal grinned cruelly and growled, ‘Yes, we are the flak magnets.’

Flint met Corporal Bukin’s eye and the provost got the message. ‘Shut the hell up,’ Bukin ordered belligerently. ‘Where the hell else do you think the commissar’s going to be?’

The man appeared ready to argue but any further discussion was stalled as the drop-ship lurched forward on its launch rail, the open hangar bay hatch looming in the viewport.

‘Everyone stand by,’ shouted Commissar Flint over the whine of the drop-ship’s engines. ‘This won’t take long and I need you operational dirtside. You all know your duty, so do it.’

As the drop-ship neared the launch, it lined up with several others of the same size and class. Some would be carrying members of the regiment’s command cadre, others units of its support echelons. One would be carrying the 77th’s scout platoon, which would move outwards from the landing zone and establish the tactical situation at the drop zone just outside of the target. As the last of the light drop-ships took its place in the line a dozen sets of engines screamed in unison and the launch cradles carried them through the hatch to suspend them in open space.

‘Any last words?’ drawled the man next to Corporal Bukin. Kohlz swallowed hard. Flint said a silent prayer to the God-Emperor of Mankind. Then, the bottom dropped out of the world.

For the first thirty seconds of the drop Flint felt like he was being spun in every direction at once in the heart of an industrial-grade centrifuge, the entire passenger bay shaking as the ship was subjected to stresses that would tear a lesser vessel apart in seconds. Flint continued his prayer, using it as a mantra to focus his thoughts inwards and distract them from the fury of the orbital insertion.

It was all Flint could do to force his eyes open, so great were the forces being exacted on his body. The drop-ship’s inertial fields were clearly struggling to counteract the effect of plummeting at supersonic speeds through the outer reaches of Furia Penitens’ orbital range, blackness encroaching the periphery of his vision. The superhuman Space Marines of the Adeptus Astartes might be able to withstand such punishment, but the drop-ship’s passengers were mortal men and even Flint, a veteran of dozens of combat drops, wouldn’t be able to take much more…

‘Interface!’ The loadmaster bellowed at Flint’s side, strain audible in his voice.

If the first phase had been rough, the next was hellish. As the drop-ship plummeted through the thermosphere its outer hull grew white-hot so that traces of flame whipped across the outer skin of the viewing port. As the ship crossed the Kármán line at one hundred and fifty kilometres above ground level the temperature soared further. Several times Flint blacked out, only to come to what must have been a few seconds later. Several of the provosts had passed out too, and a number had developed fearsome nosebleeds, red liquid splattering about the cabin as the force threatened to shake them all to atoms.

The vessel’s regulators cycled to full power in an effort to counter the heat but still the passenger bay felt as hot as a furnace. Flint longed to cast off his heavy leather storm coat but he knew the drop would be over in minutes. Then he saw that the loadmaster had his hand pressed firmly to his earpiece and was shouting loudly into his vox-pickup.

‘What?’ Flint bellowed at the loadmaster, unable to reach across – so powerful were the forces pressing him into his grav-couch. The officer tapped his earpiece and held up three fingers to indicate that Flint should set his vox-bead to channel three.

Clipped and fragmentary conversation burst from Flint’s earpiece. ‘…locked. Repeat, target lock confirmed, over.’

Damn, Flint cursed inwardly as the pitch of the drop-ship’s systems changed and he felt the vessel roll. ‘Ground defences?’ he yelled into the vox.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the loadmaster, his voice distorted over the link. ‘The rebels have control of one of the ground-to-orbit defence silos.’

Memories of Flint’s first drop, the disastrous Gethsemane Landings, came unbidden to his mind, but with an effort of will he quickly dispelled them. There was nothing he could do except trust to the skills of the flight crew, the inexperience of the rebels controlling the defences and, most importantly, the beneficence of the God-Emperor of Mankind.

The drop-ship bucked wildly and the passengers were jolted hard in their restraints. Flint quickly scanned the faces of his staff to gauge their reaction to the situation. They had no idea what was happening and there was no point in telling them. Bukin maintained his steely expression, which Flint knew he felt compelled to do to keep up his position as top dog even though the rank brassard he wore at his shoulder was sure sign of it. The other provosts had their eyes screwed tight shut and their jaws set in a rictus grimace. Flint glanced sideways at his aide and saw that Kohlz was mouthing a silent prayer. Smart lad, thought the commissar.

The drop-ship bucked a second time and Flint felt it slew violently as it plummeted. He cast a look out of the port and saw that the barren wastes of Furia Penitens now completely filled the view. Jagged mountain ranges were visible through churning swirls of dark clouds, illuminated from within by pulsating electrical storms. Millions of square kilometres of hard ground rushed upwards as if to swat the drop-ship from existence or smash it to oblivion in an instant.

‘Receiving confirmation from intelligence, sir,’ the loadmaster said through the vox-link. ‘The rebels have control of a single battery. It’s too late to abort; we’re going in as planned.’

‘There’s no other option,’ Flint agreed as the drop-ship’s descent speed increased still further. To divert the first wave because of a single threat would be unforgivable, even if he himself was in that wave and therefore at risk.

‘Incoming!’ the loadmaster called over the vox-link. Flint glanced outside, though he knew he had no chance of catching sight of a missile homing in on the drop-ship before it struck and killed them all. A bright explosion blossomed several kilometres fore of the ship. The rebels had fired a cluster warhead.

Lacking the ability to fire a missile with pinpoint accuracy, the rebels must have coerced one of the weapon’s crew into launching a weapon that would scatter a wide area with deadly munitions. As the explosion faded, dozens of smaller points arced away on thick, black contrails. The fire of the detonation faded to be replaced by a dirty smear of turbulent smoke, and the drop-ship was plummeting straight towards it. Flint fought against a sudden sense of overpowering vertigo as the entire vessel powered nose first into the debris cloud. One of the cluster munitions zipped past at hypervelocity and an instant later the drop-ship was out of the remnants of the explosion and the world below resolved once more, the mountains and valleys of the surface now visible in stunning detail.

‘What the hell was that?’ shouted the provost beside Corporal Bukin, his voice only barely audible over the roar of air against the drop-ship’s hull. ‘Some bastard shooting at us?’

‘Not us,’ shouted Corporal Bukin, ‘just you,’ before the entire drop-ship shuddered violently and the restraints tightened in response, pinning the passengers hard into their grav-couches. Flint knew instantly that one of the cluster munitions must have clipped the drop-ship.

The vessel’s engines screamed like a gargantuan beast in terrible pain and the air pressure in the passenger bay bled out rapidly. With a sudden rush, a blast of ice-cold air flooded the compartment and pressure masks dropped down from the bulkheads above each drop-station. The loadmaster reached up and pulled his mask over his face and in a moment Flint had his fitted too. He took a deep breath of the bottled oxygen then looked outside to judge the ship’s altitude. The vessel shook violently as the pilot fought to bring its nose up and level with the horizon, a jagged spire surrounded by a halo of chimneys rose in the distance silhouetted against the grey sky. Flint guessed the drop zone was less than a minute away, if only the ship could hold together that long.

Flint lifted his mask and yelled, ‘Everyone prepare for rapid disembarkation!’ He couldn’t tell if any of the passengers heard him over the roar of the wind both inside and outside of the drop-ship. The sound grew louder still as the ship levelled out. Flint took a ragged breath of the cold air and found that the pressure had equalised enough for him to breathe normally.

As the drop-ship plunged through a rearing cloudbank it shook violently and Flint’s ears were assaulted by the deafening sound of a section of the metal hull shearing away. The shaking increased to a continuous, bone-jarring tremor punctuated by subsonic growls and high-pitched, metallic wails.

‘Ten seconds!’ the loadmaster called out. ‘Brace for impact!’

Flint knew the drill. He folded his arms across his chest and set his head firmly against the padded headrest. The provosts’ training had kicked in too, regardless of their outward brusqueness. But Kohlz had loosened his seat restraint and was attempting to secure his vox-set, which was working its way loose of the cargo bin he had stowed it in.

‘Leave it!’ Flint ordered, grabbing Kohlz’s wrist hard. At that very moment the drop-ship struck a tall rock spire and the world turned upside down. The illumination inside the passenger bay cut out, a bright spear of sunlight arcing through the small viewport. The vessel dropped what must have been a thousand metres in a second and rolled onto its side. It held its course for several seconds more before the deafeningly loud roar of tearing metal made Flint look left. A massive wound had appeared in the side of the vessel and the thrashing bodies of several passengers had already been sucked through it. There was nothing anyone else could do, either to rescue them, or to avoid a similar fate. The only possible course of action was to pray to the God-Emperor of Mankind, and hold on for dear life.

Seconds later, the drop-ship slammed into the hard ground with bone-jarring force.

Blinding light and the deafening screech of rending metal was overwhelming. The bulkhead right beside Flint was torn away as the drop-ship disintegrated further, bouncing along the ground and showering the interior with gravel and metal shrapnel. Flint realised through the shock and violence of the crash landing that he was still holding on to Kohlz’s wrist and that his aide’s entire grav-couch had been torn free and sucked out of the huge wound in the drop-ship’s hull. It was only Flint’s holding on to Kohlz’s wrist that was saving the aide from tumbling out of the breach to certain death.

Flint hauled on Kohlz’s arm with all of his strength and pulled him back inside the passenger bay as the drop-ship continued its juddering progress along the surface. The screaming of metal reached a howling crescendo and the ship bounced one last time and slewed violently onto its side. Finally, the drop-ship came to a halt, the hull rocking back and forth a couple of times to the sound of creaking metal and scattering gravel. At the last, a shocking silence descended.

Flint let go of Kohlz’s arm and his aide dropped to the deck on all fours. His ears were still ringing from the violence of the crash and for long seconds everything sounded dull and distant. He slammed a fist into the emergency release clasp in the centre of his restraint harness and forced himself to stand on unsteady feet. The sound of coughing came from across the deck as the surviving provosts stirred themselves. Chief provost Bukin had lit a stubby Vostroyan cigar and placed it in his mouth even before freeing himself from his restraints.

‘Everybody out!’ Flint barked as he looked about for the best way to exit the wrecked vessel. He was acutely aware of the danger presented by spilled fuel catching alight, damaged munitions being disturbed or plasma cell containment failure incinerating the entire troop bay. He turned to the loadmaster and saw that the man was very obviously dead, a length of spar having impaled his chest at the moment of impact. The rear of the passenger bay was a mess and the hatch leading forward to the flight deck was so buckled it was obvious that way was out of the question too.

Hauling the shaken Kohlz to his feet, Flint made for the massive wound in the drop-ship’s flank. Shorn power conduits sparked and guttered at the wound’s jagged edge and the light pouring through it was blindingly bright compared to the dingy interior. Looking along the drop-ship’s outer hull he saw that the entire prow was staved in and there was no hope the flight crew might have survived. Bracing both arms against the ruined bulkhead, Flint pushed himself through the hole as his eyes adjusted to the glare.

The surface of Furia Penitens was a barren waste. The ground was rocky and pitted with ancient craters, all of a reddish-brown hue. Jagged mountains rose on the western horizon and guttering thunderheads reared in the grey sky high above. Flint’s gaze tracked across the land and he saw exactly why the Munitorum had chosen such a place to construct a penal facility. It was obvious that even if any convicts could affect an escape they would be dead within weeks if they couldn’t find a way of getting off-world. To the east he saw what he first took for a towering mountain, before realising it was in fact the rearing form of the Alpha Penitentia penal generatorium.

‘Gather up the gear,’ Flint told the nearest man, a provost who was doubled up as he vomited away the adrenaline shock the crash had inflicted on his body. ‘I want everyone ready to move out in five minutes.’

The provost finished his retching, then staggered back along the passenger bay, kicking one of his companions still struggling with his restraints. Flint jumped the two metres to the ground and took his first steps on the surface of Furia Penitens.

‘Kohlz,’ Flint called up towards the breach, his aide’s head appearing a moment later. ‘Pass down the vox-set.’

Kohlz ducked back into the passenger bay and re-emerged a moment later with the bulky communications set. ‘Don’t know if it still works, sir,’ he called down, his voice shaky from the shock of his near death.

‘If it doesn’t we’re walking,’ said Flint. In a moment Kohlz had handed the vox-set down to Flint, who placed it at his feet and turned to gaze out across the windswept wastes towards the distant spire and chimneys of Alpha Penitentia. The central tower was a flat-faced keep rising hundreds of metres, its slab-sided flanks grey and imposing. Squat blocks and fluted cooling towers were clustered all around its base, each several times the size of the largest of Ministorum cathedrals.

This place would be the making or the breaking of the newly reconstituted 77th. Its inmates had risen up against their wardens when the Munitorum had demanded a Penal Legion be raised from the population, to then be shipped out to some far-flung warzone in the Finial Sector. The 77th was the nearest available Imperial Guard regiment and Flint’s appointment as their regimental commissar had been expedited with almost unseemly haste so that he could be in attendance for their first mission. So much for the Munitorum’s plans, he thought, estimating the time it would take to walk to the drop zone if the vox-set proved inoperable.

As Flint squinted against the cold wind he saw faint columns of smoke rising from several of the blocks; evidence, he judged, of just how widespread and destructive the uprising within the complex actually was. How much of the facility was now under the rebels’ control was impossible to tell, but a question the 77th would need to have answered as soon as possible.

A crunching impact on the ground behind Flint signalled that Kohlz was down. In another minute or so the remainder of the section was out, Corporal Bukin’s provosts gazing slack-jawed at the distant installation.

‘Just like home,’ one of them said with the false bravado of one who has just narrowly escaped a gruesome death. Reaching into his fur-lined coat, the provost withdrew a small, copper flask and took a hearty swig of the contents, then stopped guiltily mid-glug as he realised Flint was watching.

‘Ahh…’ the provost started, before proffering the flask to Flint. ‘Rahzvod, sir?’

Not such a bad idea, thought Flint as he nodded his thanks and took the offered flask. He’d read something of the Vostroyans’ native brew: a clear, highly alcoholic beverage peculiar to their home world. Ordinarily he’d frown on such vices, but needs must, he thought as he upended the flask.

Emperor’s mercy! Flint fought with every ounce of his strength not to show any sign of the drink’s effect upon him. Why the hell would they drink this? The burning was like the after-effects of the inoculations the Officio Medicae administered before service on a death world. In fact, it was almost as bad as the infections those inoculations were supposed to counteract…

‘You like it, sir?’ the provost said, a look of genuine respect in his eyes. ‘You like more?

Flint shook his head and handed the flask back, forestalling any further conversation as he turned to Kohlz, who was working the controls on the vox-set. ‘Any luck?’

Kohlz’s face twisted in frustration as he held the horn to his ear then threw it down in disgust. ‘Nothing sir, its frag… It’s non-functional.’

‘No dust-off then,’ moaned another of Bukin’s men.

‘Get moving,’ Flint ordered, folding his storm coat back to reveal his holstered bolt pistol. ‘And Bukin? Keep your men in line, or else I will.’

Two

Absolutio

A piercing scream echoed the length of carceri chamber Absolutio, the vault resounding to the murder of another claviger-warden. The cry ended as suddenly as it started, a man’s death marked by a sudden tearing sound and a wet thud.

Argusti Vahn, a convict of Carceri Absolutio, waited as the echoes faded away. A wiry-framed man in his thirties, Vahn’s eyes had once been compared to those of a feral sump-rat. His features had always been lean and sharp and since being incarcerated in this hellish place had become even more so. His hair had become matted into long dreadlocks and his arms were decorated with tattoos. Some took the form of pious script and images of beatific saints; others far less wholesome phrases and images. One of the tattoos, applied to side of his throat, was still new. It was a twelve-digit convict identification number.

To Vahn, the claviger-warden’s unseen death was an opportunity. The scream covered his footsteps as he sprinted the length of the high, steel gantry. As the sound receded Vahn ducked back into the shadows, his breathing heavy and his eyes stinging with sweat.

Vahn’s breath sounded raucously loud in the sudden quiet. Pushing himself further into the shadows between rust-streaked conduits, he took a moment to steady himself and get his bearings. The carceri chamber was a vast space with cliff-like rockcrete walls stratified by gantries and countless cell portals. Heavy generatoria machinery reared from the cold ground like rusty stalagmites or clung from the barrel-vaulted ceiling like corroded stalactites. Another scream sounded, this one more distant. Vahn guessed that the rebel convicts had moved on to carceri chamber Benefacti. A bloodthirsty roar sounded as the scream faded away, confirming Vahn’s suspicion. The murderers were moving east through Vestibule 12, away from Absolutio.

Life in the vast geothermal penal generatorium complex of Alpha Penitentia was no easy prospect, even before the uprising that had erupted around a month ago. Now, it was a living hell. The entire complex had descended into anarchy and bloodshed and Vahn had been running ever since. That thought brought Vahn back to the present and he quickly scanned left and right to ensure no other convict-workers were nearby. The gantry was clear, for the moment at least, and the vast expanse of the carceri chamber below appeared not to harbour any immediate threats. The hunched forms of other refugees lurked in the shadows between the vast engines, ragged and desperate not to get caught up in the madness that had gripped the complex. Emerging from the shadows and passing quickly along the length of the gantry, Vahn purged the other refugees from his mind. They were weak and they would die. Vahn was getting out of this hellhole, whatever it took.

Movement up ahead, near the portal to Vestibule 18. Vahn slowed his pace and cursed himself for a fool. He’d been crossing the vast floor of northern Absolutio and allowed himself to take the quickest path at the expense of keeping a bolthole nearby. This time, there were no shadows to melt into as the rebels showed themselves.

‘Speak!’ the nearest rebel bawled, his slurred challenge echoing down the vestibule behind him. Vahn studied the shadows beneath the portal and saw there, forty metres ahead, a small group of men. They were obviously rebels, for no refugee would have challenged him so boldly.

Vahn stood his ground and held his tongue, his gaze fixed on the rebel group.

‘Speak!’ the rebel repeated. ‘Name your allegiance or go the way of the clavigers.’

Vahn had no intention of meeting any such fate but the vestibule the rebels were blocking led towards the central spire. He had no choice but to pass them. If he could gain entry to the spire he could make his way to the gate hall, and then freedom. There was only one thing for it.

‘Absolutio,’ Vahn answered. ‘Let me pass.’

A brief pause followed as the rebels conferred amongst themselves. Then the original speaker called out again, ‘If you’re Absolutio, what business have you in the spire?’

Maybe the rebel wasn’t as stupid as he sounded, Vahn thought. Guessing how things would play out he loosened his stance and shook out the tension in his neck as he prepared to draw the crudely sharpened iron bar secreted in his hip pocket. Knowing he’d need to get close to the vestibule portal before things got out of hand Vahn started walking, slowly but with confidence, towards the rebels.

‘Stop!’ the rebel slurred, stepping forward with his cronies at his side. ‘None are allowed this way except those Strannik gives licence.’

That made sense, Vahn thought. Strannik, a fallen noble and former Guard colonel, was the figurehead of the uprising. He’d already decorated kilometres of gantry with the corpses of the claviger-wardens and his many rivals. Any convict from Absolutio not serving in one of his gangs was automatically assumed to be an enemy and treated as such.

‘I wouldn’t know of that,’ said Vahn as he advanced on the group, stalling for time before the inevitable outbreak of violence. ‘Strannik said nothing of the sort to me.’

As the distance closed, Vahn got a clear look at the opposition. There were three of them front and centre and at least another three lurking in the shadows on either side of the portal. The speaker was a twisted and deformed individual with his scratch-inked tats declaring his unending loyalty to his home – the agri-world of Pan. The man’s limbs appeared grossly mismatched as if each had been grafted on, having been obtained from a different donor.

‘Strannik said nothing at all to you, stranger,’ the man said. As Vahn closed the other’s features were revealed. Though weasel-like in appearance, cold hard guile shone from his mismatched eyes. ‘You’ll halt right now.’

Vahn didn’t. He continued his advance. Another distant scream echoed through the cloying air, followed by the sharp clink of iron chains. The men on either side of the leader stepped out wide.

Vahn stopped ten metres from the other man. The rebel sneered, revealing a set of incongruously pristine white teeth that must have cost him a fortune in pen-scrip or other favours. He leaned his head back as if bored of Vahn’s behaviour but Vahn noted the glance the gesture was intended to mask. It was a signal to the others lurking in the shadows – be ready.

The man fixed Vahn with a dark glare. ‘The colonel wants the likes of you penned up,’ he leered. ‘He wants you for meat, for them down below.’

Vahn reached into his thigh pocket and withdrew the iron bar. ‘You can tell the colonel to find his meat someplace else.’

‘Bad choice,’ the leader sneered, then glanced towards the man at his left to issue an order.

Vahn had closed the distance in the time it took the leader to draw breath, the iron bar raised above his head. The other man saw his mistake a split second too late and could do nothing to avoid the blow that scattered his brains and his expensive teeth across the rockcrete floor.

Vahn barrelled onwards as the body crashed to the ground, using the momentum of his charge to full advantage. The two cronies bellowed their outrage at the death of their leader and powered after Vahn. More shouts from further behind told him the rebels who had previously held back were now joining the pursuit.

Vahn dared not spare even a second to glance behind him as he sprinted towards the yawning portal of Vestibule 18. The rockcrete ground, ordinarily kept clear by punishment details, was strewn with the detritus of the uprising and Vahn was forced to slow his progress or stumble and fall. Moments later he was through the twenty metre-high portal and plunging headlong into the shadows of the passageway beyond. Each of Alpha Penitentia’s vestibules was a corridor large enough to allow the passage of a thousand-strong labour shift or an entire squadron of the so-called ‘witches’ – armoured enforcement walkers. Most of the passageways joined the main carceri chambers, labour halls and other, secondary zones. Vestibule 18 however led to the complex’s central core, the forbidden spire only accessible to the claviger-wardens and their bonded menials. The tunnel was two kilometres in length and Vahn had been counting on being able to breach whatever barrier waited at the far end. If he couldn’t this would be the shortest and most abortive breakout attempt in the history of Carceri Absolutio and probably the whole of Alpha Penitentia.

More shouts sounded from behind as more of the colonel’s murderers picked up Vahn’s trail. Now he dared throw a brief glance over his shoulder only to see a mob of at least two-dozen pursuers silhouetted against the receding portal. Reinforcements were emerging from small service tunnels joining to the vestibule and each was baying for his blood. His heart pounding, Vahn spat a curse that would have earned him a stretch in the hard labour halls were any claviger-warden alive to hear it.

Then Vahn stumbled. His ankle turned as his shin struck something twisted, stiff and rotten sprawled across his path. The mob roared as it saw his plight but somehow Vahn kept his footing, pounding onwards through the gloom. As the portal receded the vestibule was plunged into ever-darker shadow. The majority of the lumen-strips that ordinarily illuminated the tunnel had been smashed, the remains of their glass casings crunching beneath Vahn’s boots as he ran. He saw more of the twisted forms ahead and as he passed the first he realised they were the butchered remains of the claviger-wardens who had attempted to hold the vestibule when the uprising first erupted. Even in the low, flickering light of the surviving lumen-strips, Vahn saw the walls of the vestibule were daubed with obscene blasphemies in the wardens’ blood. He had no doubt that he too would meet such a gruesome fate should the mob catch up with him.

Beneath the blood-daubed scrawls Vahn saw the remains of stencilled lettering. It told him he was approaching the halfway point in the tunnel. The mob had dropped back slightly, the undisciplined mass unable to match the speed of a single runner. Knowing that the remainder of his life would be measured in scant minutes if he couldn’t shake his pursuers Vahn studied the darkness up ahead as he ran. Would the gate into the central spire be open? He prayed it would, and he soon found out.

Vahn’s heart sank as he closed on the end of the vestibule. He skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up sharp grit. He shouted a single-syllable curse word that echoed back down the vestibule to mingle with the roar of the pursuing mob. The portal was blocked by an armoured shield dropped from above, a defensive measure intended to seal the central spire from the carceri chambers and lock the claviger-wardens in until outside help arrived.

Hoots and whistles filled the tunnel as the mob saw Vahn halt. Their blood was up and they knew they had their prey cornered. Vahn looked about for an alternative escape route and saw several service tunnel entrances nearby. He moved sideways towards the nearest as the mob slowed their advance but as soon as he neared the mouth he saw movement inside. More rebel convicts waited within the service tunnel, blocking his last possible escape route.

Vahn hefted the iron bar. He tossed it spinning into the air and caught it one-handed in nonchalant, bloody-minded defiance of the mob. The first rank of rebel convicts slowed to a halt and those further back lapped around the flanks forming an impenetrable semicircle around Vahn. He glanced at the service tunnel entrance again as he weighed up his chances.

Two men stepped forward from the crowd. Vahn recognised them as the companions of the leader he’d slain earlier. One was a brute, his head bald and his nose little more than a squashed mass of scar tissue. The other was lanky and alert with black hair tied back into a tail and his face striped with dark red war paint. The latter was the first to speak.

‘I reckon we’ll take you living,’ the man said. ‘The colonel likes making examples…’

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd as if its members felt relief in sharing a joke aimed at someone other than themselves. Vahn’s mind was made up. He tensed his muscles and prepared to rush the entrance to the narrow service tunnel.

The taller of the two rebel convicts facing Vahn anticipated his move and leaped forward to block him. Vahn sprang past his attacker and twisted as he hit the ground hard an instant before a wickedly serrated shiv cut the air a hand’s span from his face. The brute barrelled forward and shoved his mate out of the way in an attempt to stomp Vahn’s face into the ground beneath his hobnailed boots. Vahn snatched his head aside and rolled forward towards the tunnel entrance. Another rebel convict appeared from out of nowhere with a length of spar, tipped with a coil of barbed wire held two-handed across his torso. Vahn continued his roll and ducked under the man’s two-handed swing. He kicked upwards and crushed his adversary’s jewels with his heel. The convict bellowed as he toppled to the ground and the route to the tunnel entrance was clear.

Vahn was up in a second and it wasn’t a moment too soon. The mob was surging forward, an unruly mass of baying murderers intent on tearing him limb from limb despite its leaders’ intention to drag him before the uprising’s figurehead, Colonel Strannik. Vahn sprinted the last few metres to the tunnel entrance, readying himself to knock aside the figures he saw lurking there.

One of those figures stepped out from the entrance as he closed and levelled a crudely made firearm directly at his head. The weapon’s barrel loomed large but there was nothing Vahn could do to avoid the inevitable blast.

‘Get out of my way!’ the bearer of the weapon ordered.

Acting on instinct, Vahn dodged to one side and dove into the tunnel entrance. The cramped space erupted in noise and smoke as the firearm discharged right into the mob. A cone of improvised pellets spat outwards to lacerate the exposed flesh of a dozen rebel convicts. While not powerful enough to kill outright, the weapon caused its victims to tumble screaming to the ground and those behind them to trip over the writhing bodies.

‘Time to get moving!’ Vahn’s deliverer shouted. The small tunnel was dark and still filled with the acrid smog of the weapon’s discharge. All he could see of the firer was a hulking shadow but Vahn sensed there were at least another three people in the tunnel with him.

Before he could respond the firer shoved him hard in the back and propelled him into the tunnel’s depths. ‘I don’t have time to reload this junker,’ the man shouted. ‘Move now or stick around, your choice!’

Vahn wasn’t used to being ordered around, not by other convicts at least, but the man was right. As he pressed on, three convicts ahead and one behind, Vahn called out to no one in particular, ‘Anyone know where you’re going?’

The convict in front answered, her voice strangely accented. ‘Same way you were I reckon, but the clavies locked us out.’

‘You got any sort of plan?’ Vahn called as he ran.

It was the convict behind who answered. ‘Didn’t get that far. You coming along sort of interrupted us.’

Vahn would be having words with the man once they were clear of immediate danger. Angry shouts came from the tunnel entrance but Vahn guessed the pursuers had realised they had little chance of catching up with the fleeing convicts in the confines of the tunnel. As the group ran on, the sounds of pursuit faded away until Vahn was reasonably sure they were safe.

‘Wait,’ Vahn shouted as he slowed to a halt. ‘We need to get our bearings.’

The tunnel bored onwards in a straight line, its walls lined with ancient pipe work and long-decayed cabling. The floor was under an inch of chemical spill and what little illumination lit the convicts’ path was afforded by a combination of barely working lumen bulbs, as old as the complex, and the faint luminescence of the polluted liquid.

‘Where are we?’ said Vahn. ‘Somewhere north of Honourius?’

The female convict he had spoken to earlier appeared from the shadows. She sported a mohican dyed acid green and her mouth and nose was covered with a matt black rebreather. The mask and general demeanour marked her out as one of the so-called chem-dogs, an anarchic bunch Vahn had encountered long ago in what seemed like a previous life. How she had ended up on Furia Penitens he had no idea, given that her home world of Savlar was itself one huge penal facility. ‘Must be,’ she said, her voice sounding through the grilles on her mask. ‘But we don’t know where this tunnel leads.’

Another convict stepped forward into the light. The man had the martial bearing of a former Guardsman, as did many of the convicts from carceri chamber Absolutio. ‘It leads either to the spire or to Carceri Honourius,’ he said. ‘Either way, we need to keep moving.’

‘Wait up,’ said Vahn as he read the tensions in the group. Whoever these convicts were they hadn’t been together long and they didn’t have much of a plan. ‘Have you heard anything from Honourius? Has it fallen too?’

The two convicts glanced uncertainly at one another and a third stepped forward. The man was short and wiry, his hair close-cropped and by the scab on the side of his head he’d recently lost an ear. ‘All we’ve heard is the proclamations from the colonel,’ he said. ‘He’s demanding the entire complex follows his orders, else we all get fed to the sump.’

‘Then we have to get out,’ said Vahn. ‘I’m not following that bastard and his murderous goons.’

‘Then it’s the spire,’ the woman said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Vestibule 16,’ said Vahn.

‘And if that’s barred too?’ said the big man behind Vahn.

‘Then we find another way in.’

And with that, Argusti Vahn assumed command of a handful of convicts desperate to escape the madness of an entire penitentiary installation consumed by the bloodiest uprising in its history.

Three

Bridgehead

The trek from the site of the wrecked drop-ship to the regimental deployment area was a hard one, and it took Commissar Flint and the survivors of his staff section all night to complete. The men had remained sullenly quiet throughout most of the journey, and when they had spoken it had generally been to grumble incoherently in the Vostroyan dialect. Flint was well used to serving alongside Imperial Guardsmen drawn from different planets with different cultures, and he was well capable of unpicking the meaning of unfamiliar terms, most of them stemming from a common tongue. The word khekk was uttered frequently, an obvious Vostroyan curse, as was chevek, a term Flint suspected was being used to refer to him and meant something like ‘stranger’ or ‘unwelcome’. A dark glance at the last man to have spoken it had forestalled any further use of the term, earning a resentful silence from the provosts that lasted several hours.

Night time on Furia Penitens was, they soon discovered, cold and windswept, the stiff breeze carrying a sharp, chemical taint the like of which Flint had only ever encountered on far more developed planets. He knew it to be the result of the power generation processes utilised in the massive penal generatorium of Alpha Penitentia, whereby a cocktail of liquids were pumped down into the bedrock at high pressure, where they were heated by the highly irradiated minerals far below. When those liquids were returned to the surface they were equally radioactive and the arcane systems of the generatoria utilised them as a relatively stable form of fuel. The one thing Flint had been unable to fathom was the purpose of the entire enterprise. There was nothing that needed the power Alpha Penitentia produced – the prisoners might as well be breaking rocks.

Around midnight, Flint had been gripped by an unsettling sensation, one he hadn’t felt since his storm trooper detachment had been ambushed by dominators in the rad-zones of Obediah Nine. Within ten minutes he was certain of it – they were being observed. Whoever it was, they were keeping their distance, but certainly, someone or something was out there in the barren wastes, tracking the small group’s progress through the night.

‘Mutants, sir,’ Corporal Bukin stated coldly, his gruff voice low and conspiratorial.

‘What?’ said Flint, his eyes fixed on the shadowy rocks and craters that dotted the land. Any one of them could be hiding an ambusher.

‘Can’t you smell them, sir?’ Bukin growled. ‘Mutants, I know it.’

‘How do you know it?’ Flint replied.

It was a few more steps before Bukin replied, his grizzled face scanning the wastes as he appeared to choose his words carefully. ‘This regiment might be new to war, commissar. But I am not.’

‘So you served in the Vostroyan defence forces,’ Flint replied. ‘So did every other trooper. You have particular experience?’

‘I do,’ Bukin cast a dark glance towards the commissar as he spoke. His scarred face appeared even more lined in that moment, though it may have been a trick of the gloomy ambient light. ‘I was not always in the militias, sir. I served the Techtriarchs in… other ways before I was indentured.’

Something in the chief provost’s tone made Flint slow to a stop and round on the other man. ‘If there’s something I need to know about your past, Corporal Bukin, you had better tell me now, before things get unpleasant. Out with it.’

The other provosts halted behind Bukin, while Kohlz stopped behind Flint. This was no place to be having a confrontation, not if they were being shadowed, but Flint was well aware he had to stamp his authority on these men, right now, or the balance of power would be perilously skewed.

The cold wind whipped Bukin’s long moustaches across his grox-ugly face as the man glowered back at Flint, clearly weighing up how, or even if, to respond. A number of his fellows shifted uncomfortably, and Flint knew exactly what they were thinking. Who would doubt them if they claimed the regiment’s newly appointed commissar had perished in the crash, sucked through the wound in its side that had claimed several of their own number. Evidently, Kohlz saw it too, the aide’s stance suddenly tense.

‘I was known for a hunter, for a killer, of men and of mutants in the ruined factoriums of Vostroya.’

That made sense. With much of Vostroya’s surface turned over to the sprawling manufactory complexes of its armaments industry, entire regions must fall from use and come to be infested with outcasts of all types. Men such as Bukin were needed, and they were paid handsomely for every mutant or recidivist hide they brought back from the ruins.

‘I’ve killed too,’ said Flint, his steely gaze fixed on Bukin’s. ‘Men, mutants and other things you should pray you never have to see. I’ve faced orks, tellarians and dominators and I’m still here to talk about it. Plenty of things have tried to kill me, Corporal Bukin, but none have managed it yet. Understood?’

Bukin glanced sullenly off into the wastes, then back at Flint. ‘It’s gone now,’ he said flatly.

‘I said,’ Flint snarled, ‘“Understood?”’

‘I understand, Commissar Flint,’ Bukin replied as the wind stirred once more.

‘Good,’ said Flint. ‘Now, what’s gone?’

‘The stinking things that were tracking us, commissar. You scared them off, I think…’

‘Good,’ said Flint. ‘Let’s get moving before they change their minds.’

It was sunrise the next morning before Flint and his section arrived at the drop zone. The regiment’s vehicles were mustered in a huge, chaotic laager out on the flats in front of the prison complex, and the weary group had seen the landing ships departing around midnight. The sound of more than a hundred armoured transports jostling into position had rolled across the wastes and the stink of their exhaust hung heavy in the air. When he saw automated perimeter defences in the form of Tarantula sentry guns tracking back and forth for a target, Flint called for a halt. Soon, a Sentinel walker clanked over the rim of a wide, shallow crater, the heavy bolter mounted on the side of its enclosed cockpit locked menacingly on them. After a moment, a side hatch popped and swung outwards, the pilot leaning out to look down at Flint.

‘Commissar?’ he said, looking over the ragged group.

‘Genius,’ growled Katko, one of Bukin’s provosts who had remained sullenly quiet for the entire trek.

Flint felt no need to confirm the pilot’s insightful observation. ‘Point us towards regimental command and carry on, dragoon.’

‘Straight ahead, sir,’ the pilot responded, emphasising the direction with a wave. Flint dismissed the sentry and led the group off in the direction of the command post. As he walked, he observed the various units that made up the 77th Firstborn, Chimera armoured transports grinding forward into something only vaguely resembling a regimental deployment.

‘Corporal Bukin,’ he said, the man increasing his pace to catch up. He nodded towards the scene of two Chimeras faced off bow to bow against one another, the commanders standing in the hatches and each yelling at the other to give way. ‘This deployment is distinctly sub optimal. Get it in order, now.’

Corporal Bukin grinned nastily and offered his version of a salute before striding off in the direction of the confrontation with his provosts in tow. Flint had no idea whether or not Bukin or any of his crew were rated as marshals or banksmen. Frankly, it was more about authority and the ability to bang heads together than organisational skill.

‘Kohlz?’ said Flint. ‘You can stay, if you can find another vox.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kohlz, grinning. ‘I’ll catch up with you at the command post’

In a moment Kohlz was dashing off to find the regimental quartermaster’s post and Flint was alone. Resuming his walk towards the command post Flint studied the activity all around. With Bukin and his cronies now marshalling the Chimeras something resembling order was slowly imposing itself on the formerly chaotic activity. The provosts appeared amongst the worst disciplined of the regiment but they knew how to impose their will on others, making them ideal staffers for a commissar. The roar of engines filled the air as armoured transports were marshalled into company columns, which in turn were divided into platoon groups. The regiment consisted of five Chimera-borne armoured infantry companies, each made up of four or five platoons, in addition to the headquarters and the support companies. It was an impressive sight, though Flint had witnessed entire army groups deployed for battle at the outset of the Gethsemane campaign.

An open-topped Salamander scout transport rumbled along the line and Flint stepped aside to allow it past. The vehicle was headed for the command post, which Flint could now see up ahead. The regimental commander and his headquarters group had established themselves in a hard-shell prefab shelter at the centre of the laager with five Hydra air defence tanks forming a ring all about. Flint doubted there was any threat from the air, but then again, no one had expected the rebels to be able to launch a ground-to-orbit defence barrage either. He could hardly blame the man for taking precautions.

‘Commissar Flint?’ a voice called out as he strode into the command post. ‘Over here, sir.’

The man’s uniform insignia identified him as the regiment’s chief intelligence officer. His face was underlit green by the multiple pict-slates of the tactical cogitation array he was consulting, a three-dimensional plan of the complex’s main structures slowly revolving on the central screen.

‘Major Herrmahn,’ the officer said, proffering a hand. After a moment, the commissar shook it, weighing the officer’s character as he did so.

‘Commissar Flint, reporting for duty.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the major grinned. ‘I heard you took the scenic route down.’

‘You could say that,’ Flint replied, deciding he liked the intelligence officer but not wanting to waste any time on pleasantries. ‘What’s the situation?’ said Flint, removing his peaked cap and running a hand through his dishevelled, jet-black hair in a vain attempt to maintain standards.

‘Graf Aleksis means to get the regiment moving once he’s finished talking with the installation’s governor,’ said Herrmahn, nodding towards the centre of the command post. Flint followed the gesture and saw the graf, a Vostroyan noble holding the concurrent rank of colonel, engaged in what looked like a faltering conversation over an intermittent two-way vox-link. The graf was familiar only by the files Flint had read during the long voyage to this new appointment, the two men yet to meet.

‘So the governor’s still alive? He’s still in power?’ Flint asked, wondering how the convicts had control of an orbital defence battery if that were the case.

‘The situation is still unclear,’ Herrmahn replied. ‘As best we can ascertain the governor and his wardens are holed up in the gate hall,’ he pointed to the pict-slate and a structure on the outer limits connected to the central spire by a kilometre long tunnel. ‘Here.’

‘And the rebels?’ asked Flint.

‘Unconfirmed,’ said Herrmahn. ‘As far as we know they might have the run of the entire complex.’

Even with just a cursory scan of Alpha Penitentia’s schematics, Flint knew that if the rebels had control of the whole facility the force required to oust them might be far greater than a single regiment could bring to bear. The combined power plant and prison was as large as a city and as such represented one of the most arduous and costly types of battlefield to fight across. Vostroyan regiments were considered highly capable city-fighters, but the 77th was newly reconstituted and rated suboptimal, hence Flint’s appointment to knock them into shape. Having recently been rebuilt from the ground up, the regiment was hardly more experienced than one newly elevated from a planetary defence force. Given the 77th’s current status, the regiment’s line companies would be reduced to ragged street gangs within days. Alpha Penitentia would swallow the regiment whole if the 77th was forced to fight on the rebels’ terms. Even a veteran regiment such as those Flint had served alongside at Gethsemane would be hard-pressed and the 77th was anything but veteran.

With a gnawing sense of foreboding, Flint asked, ‘So what’s the graf’s plan, major?’

The intelligence chief didn’t have the chance to answer Flint’s question, as the second-in-command, Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam, called the command post to order. Two dozen officers and their aides stopped what they were doing and turned towards the centre of the post, the only sound that of the cogitation banks churning away in the background. Graf Aleksis had terminated his vox conversation with the governor of Alpha Penitentia and stepped up onto an ammunition crate.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Aleksis, scanning the faces of the gathered officers. If he noted Flint’s arrival he gave no sign. ‘As you have no doubt gathered, I have spoken with Governor Kherhart and now have sufficient information to proceed. The governor assures me he has control over the installation and is mustering his wardens to mount a full incursion. I have offered whatever aid he may require, and although he has no need of a full regimental deployment at this time he has agreed to meet to discuss the matter in greater depth.’

Aleksis nodded to a number of nearby officers, including Major Herrmahn. It was then that he acknowledged Flint’s presence. ‘Ah, commissar,’ said the graf. ‘Good to meet you. Finally. Are you able to join us?’

Flint’s eyes narrowed but he decided not to show any reaction to the commanding officer’s tone and the slight it implied. He slipped his peaked cap back onto his head and straightened out his black storm coat, still scuffed and dusty from the crash and subsequent trek, before replying.

‘Of course, graf,’ Flint replied through gritted teeth. ‘I would be delighted.’

Dragoon Kohlz’s shoulder was killing him, his arm nearly having been ripped from its socket by the commissar during the crash. He was alive and had survived his first planetfall operation, though only because of the intervention of an outsider, and a commissar at that. Kohlz had only been told he’d be Flint’s aide-de-camp a few hours before the new commissar’s arrival on the Toil of Kossia in orbit over Furia Penitens, and the two had barely had time to exchange a word before the drop. Kholz’s first impressions were reasonably good – after all, Flint hadn’t yet put a bolt-round through anyone’s head for looking at him funny, which was pretty much all the rank and file expected of the Munitorum’s morale officers.

Rotating the painful joint to work some life back into it Kohlz pressed on along a line of idling Chimeras, the crews and passengers busy loading supplies, securing stowage and camo nets or completing last minute checks. The morning air was filled with the growling of engines and the clanking of tracks. The only sound audible over the armoured vehicles was that of Corporal Bukin’s provosts barking orders as they marshalled more carriers into line.

A Trojan support vehicle trundled along the column towing a heavily laden tracked trailer. Quickly scanning the markings stencilled on the side of the trailer Kohlz saw that it belonged to the regimental quartermaster’s section and was conveying supplies from the drop zone established the day before to a holding area at the regiment’s rear. Kohlz jumped up onto the trailer’s tailgate as it overtook him, wincing as his wounded shoulder made its displeasure known once more. Five minutes later he was at the quartermaster post and looking for the officer in charge.

The supply post was a large plot surrounded by hastily erected blast shields and crowded with row upon row of ammunition and cargo crates. Kohlz located a prefab shelter but his path was blocked as a group of soldiers ambled towards him. Their intent was all too obvious.

‘Where you going?’ growled their leader. It was ‘Slug’ Slavast, the hated regimental bully.

Glancing around the post, Kohlz saw several more men closing in on him, each having stopped what they were doing amongst the stores as Slug confronted him. This was going to hurt.

‘Drawing a new Number Four for the new commissar, Slu… Slavast,’ said Kohlz, emphasising the fact that he was on official business.

‘You provost now?’ Slug crowed as he came to a halt uncomfortably close.

‘We all have our orders, Slavast,’ said Kohlz. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’

Slug’s face twisted into a cruel leer and he cocked his head at an angle as he replied, ‘Something that I can do about it, boy.’

Slug withdrew an iron crowbar from his belt. ‘Got a little message for Bukin and your provost friends…’ he growled, pressing forwards and driving Kohlz back towards his cronies.

Flint stepped out of the regimental command post and took a deep breath of the exhaust-tainted air. His first impression of the 77th’s officer cadre wasn’t an especially positive one, though it confirmed the briefings he’d read in transit to Furia Penitens. With the exception of the intelligence chief Major Herrmahn, the officers were conforming to type. They were bound by common ties of blood and lineage so tight they excluded anyone from the outside. In particular, Graf Aleksis’s manner had been downright insulting, though from the officer’s file he was potentially an able commander. Flint was the outsider here – the chevek – and would have to gain the graf’s acceptance if he were to do his job as regimental commissar. Failing that, should the issues degrade the regiment’s combat performance he would be forced to relieve Graf Aleksis of command, lethally if necessary.

But Flint had rarely had to execute a senior officer and more often than not it was to punish and contain overt cowardice or incompetence. As far as Flint could tell Aleksis was neither a coward nor incompetent, though he would only know that for sure once the regiment was engaged in combat.

Waiting for Dragoon Kohlz, Flint considered the issue of the distinct lack of discipline in the ranks. It seemed there was an odd disconnect between the officers and the troops as if the two were separated by impassable gulfs of class isolation. The rankers were drawn from the workers of Vostroya’s endlessly sprawling manufactoria and the officers from the ruling ‘Techtriarch’ clans and clearly the two were unused to working together. What the 77th was lacking, Flint could see, was an effective middle-tier of sergeants and other non-commissioned ranks that could bridge the gap. Flint made a mental note to address the matter once the issue of the penal uprising was concluded.

Checking his wrist chron Flint decided his aide was long overdue. Graf Aleksis would be setting off to meet the governor in less than thirty minutes and Flint was determined to be there with him. He could go without his aide but he valued the contact with the rankers and would sooner have Kohlz at his side. Deciding he had sufficient time, Flint set off in the direction of the quartermaster’s post, expecting to encounter Kohlz at some point along the line of armoured vehicles.

Kohlz leaped sideways as Slug came at him, the crowbar passing centimetres from his head. Slug’s accomplices, each one of them a brute from the logistics platoon, well-muscled from lugging ammo crates around, came after him. Thankfully he was faster and he got clear of his attackers to win himself a few brief seconds of breathing space.

Unfortunately, Kohlz now found his back to a sandbagged revetment and Slug was advancing on him once more. ‘You taking your beating like a man?’

‘Had I asked for it, yes,’ Kohlz stalled, looking about for an escape route. ‘But not from you.’

Slug grinned cruelly and his cronies laughed out loud. Getting a beating was hardly unusual amongst the lower ranks but it was normally administered by the junior non-coms as a means of punishing minor slip-ups without involving the chain of command. Had Kohlz invoked the wrath of a sergeant he wouldn’t mind but he saw no reason to accept a beating from Slug just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Slug’s eyes narrowed. ‘Too good for us now, eh?’ The cronies chuckled mirthlessly at their leader’s jibe.

Kohlz didn’t bother answering. Instead, he started working his way along the revetment, hoping to keep his enemies occupied until he was close enough to the gate to make a dash for freedom.

‘No you don’t,’ said Slug. ‘Grab him!’

Four of Slug’s accomplices started forward with a speed that belied their size. The closest jabbed an elbow down hard towards Kohlz’s head but he ducked and dove clear. The next kicked out hard with an oversized ammo boot that caught Kohlz in the ribs and drove the air violently out of his lungs.

Winded, Kohlz fought for breath as he rolled clear of a second kick. A pair of meaty fists reached for his collar and pulled him upwards but he punched out, slamming his fist into a rock-hard abdomen. With panic rising within, Kohlz realised that his attacker hadn’t even noticed the blow.

‘Now that is not nice,’ drawled Slug as he dragged Kohlz up by the shoulders, his wound flaring in pain at the rough handling. ‘Will all be over soon…’

Kohlz sighed and screwed his eyes tight shut, resigning himself to the beating. He just prayed it would be over quickly and not rob him of too many teeth.

Seconds passed and nothing happened. Kohlz dared open an eye. Slug and his cronies had turned their backs on him and raised their arms. Beyond them, Kohlz saw Commissar Flint standing in the gate with his storm coat thrown back to focus attention on his holstered bolt pistol.

Great, thought Kohlz. Saved by a chevek twice in one day. He’d be better off just letting me take the first beating…

‘Is there a problem here, dragoons?’ said Flint, his voice low and dangerous.

‘No problem at all, commissar,’ said Slug, his words dripping sarcasm.

Flint’s eyes flicked back to his aide. ‘Kohlz, did you draw the vox-set?’ he said.

Realising he’d all but forgotten his reason for coming to the quartermaster post in the first place, Kohlz shook his head dumbly.

‘Then do so,’ said Flint. ‘And leave me with these gentlemen for a moment.’

Kohlz nodded before extricating himself from the scene as quickly as he could. A few minutes later he‘d drawn a new vox-set and hurried off through the gate. As he passed Flint the commissar was taking off his storm coat with deliberate slowness, placing it on a crate and dropping his peaked cap down on top. The last thing Kohlz saw was the commissar rolling up his sleeves as he advanced on Slug and his thugs.

Flint advanced at his own, slow and steady pace, his steely eyes fixed on Slug’s now colour-drained face. The man had made his choice, now he had to face the consequences. The busy logistics area turned suddenly quiet as the other troopers sensed imminent violence.

Slug’s eyes darted from Flint to his friends, then back again. ‘What’s your problem?’ Slug drawled. ‘I didn’t do anything you need to get involved in.’

Flint’s expression darkened still further, but he didn’t reply.

Now certain what was about to happen, Slug was faced with a stark choice. Face a beating like he had expected of Kohlz, or maintain his nigh suicidal defiance of the new commissar. Spitting at the ground in front of Flint, Slug made the wrong choice. Turning his back contemptuously, he made to walk away. He only got three steps.

In a single, fluid motion, Flint strode forward and grabbed Slug’s shoulder, spun him around and unleashed a pile-driver punch right into his face. The blow was delivered with such force that the other man’s features were split wide open in a shower of blood and teeth.

Slug hit the ground hard, the only sign of life the wet gargle of blood-flecked breathing.

Flint stood over the sprawled form of the defeated bully, daring Slug’s cronies to make a move. None did.

‘Understood?’ growled Flint, shaking out his fist as he looked around at the closest of Slug’s accomplices. Slug coughed and struggled to rise, one hand wiping the blood from his split lower lip.

Slug nodded dumbly, unwilling to meet Flint’s eye.

‘This is your first warning,’ Flint continued. ‘I’ve been unusually charitable, but let me make this absolutely clear for you. There won’t be a second chance.’

Flint turned his back on Slug before the other man could answer, and retrieved his cap and coat. As he walked away he heard the coughs and cursing of the wounded man as his lesson sunk in. Dragoon Slavast was poison. The sooner the regiment was engaged in combat operations the better. Slug and his circle could either prove themselves worthy of the uniform they wore or condemn themselves to the full sanctions of the Commissariat.

If it came to that, Flint would have no qualms about enacting a field execution on Slug and any of his gang that wanted to join in. A swift bolt-round to the head administered in front of the ringleader’s underlings was normally sufficient to impose order once and for all. It was a fine balance though, as his training and experience told him. Many commissars, especially newly appointed ones, overstepped the mark and made themselves so many enemies within a regiment that their actions actually made things worse. Straightening his cap, Flint glanced around at the passing Firstborn dragoons as he walked out of the gate. The regiment had a proud history indeed, but these men were no elite, not yet at least. Some would need discipline beaten into them while others would need an example to follow. As commissar, it was Flint’s duty to fulfil both needs.

Shrugging on his storm coat, Flint found Kohlz waiting up ahead, the new vox-set slung over his back. The aide looked distinctly uncomfortable and Flint knew why.

‘That was nothing to do with you, dragoon, understood?’

When Kohlz failed to answer, Flint halted and turned on his aide. ‘Speak freely, dragoon,’ he said. ‘You’re my aide-de-camp and I need you fully functional if I’m to do my job.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand, but Slug holds grudges and he has support.’

Flint considered Kohlz’s words for a moment, scanning the closest of the passing troops. ‘How many?’

‘Right now, sir?’ Kohlz answered. ‘Just a few meatheads in the supply platoon, maybe a couple more here and there.’

‘But?’ said Flint, knowing there would be one.

‘But they will be more,’ Kohlz continued. ‘And that lot have never accepted Bukin and the rest of the provosts. Now we’re here and people aren’t happy about the mission, sir. It’s not really what they imagined.’

Them too, thought Flint. As if the officers weren’t bad enough the ranks were in on it too. Well, maybe that would give them something to agree on. If the officers and the ranks both wanted the chance to get stuck in and prove themselves, Flint just had to find a way of getting both sides to play nicely together. Maybe then they’d gel and act like they deserved the regimental colours they were honoured to carry.

But to achieve it the regiment would need a common enemy. Flint looked towards the central spire of Alpha Penitentia with its ring of chimneys and cooling towers, its form dark and imposing against the morning sky. He could understand why the officers as well as the ranks were uneasy about the mission. For the officers there was little glory to be had in such a deployment, and for the ranks it simply offered a myriad of ways of getting crippled or killed. Either the penal generatorium would provide them the motivation or he would.

‘Sir?’ Kohlz interrupted Flint’s chain of thought. The vox-horn was at his ear, a message coming in from the regimental command post. ‘The graf is ready to depart for Alpha Penitentia, sir.’

‘Let’s go then, dragoon,’ said Flint. Let’s see what this place has in store for us.’

Three hundred metres up the rockcrete central spire of Alpha Penitentia, Argusti Vahn stood at the edge of a rail-less ledge, the wind stinging his eyes and whipping his dreadlocks into a medusa-like halo. Despite the discomfort and the danger of falling, Vahn leaned out still further as he gripped the embrasure’s frame, thrilling to the novel sensation of the fierce gust on his face.

But Vahn wasn’t standing there just for his health. The night before, a sentry manning the vantage point had heard the unmistakable sound of heavy transports landing on the plain outside. Vahn and his band now consisted of three-dozen or so convicts, all of whom had refused to join the anarchy that had embraced the complex. Of the first four convicts he had met as he fled Carceri Absolutio, one, whose name Vahn had never even learned, had died while more had since joined his band. Vahn, Vendell, Skane and Becka had become the core of the outcast group but Vahn had remained very much at its head.

So much dust had been thrown up in the initial landings that the convicts had been able to see very little of the landing operation. But they’d seen the lights of the transports as they departed around midnight, the flaring jet wash visible as the huge vessels laboured back towards orbit. When the sun had risen Vahn had assumed his watch and now that the dust of the landings had cleared he was able to make out something of what was going on down below.

‘Guard?’ asked Vendell from behind Vahn, obviously uncomfortable approaching the ledge.

Before Vahn could answer, Skane cut in from further back inside the chamber. ‘Who else you reckon it would be, Vendell?’ sneered the big convict. ‘Battle Sisters? Come to punish you for all those dirty thoughts?’

Skane pushed his way through and stood at Vahn’s side looking down at the activity far below. Skane was an Elysian, late of the famous drop-trooper regiments and as such had no problem with the height.

Shading his eyes with a raised hand, Skane said, ‘What regiment?’

‘Armoured infantry,’ said Vahn. ‘Mission like this, they can’t have come far.’

‘Vostroya?’ said Skane. ‘Firstborn?’

‘Most likely,’ said Vahn, the distance making it impossible for him to make out any unit insignia.

‘Unless they shipped a unit in from one of the sub-sectors north of Finial,’ said Skane, though his expression told Vahn the other man was clutching at straws.

‘No,’ said Vahn. ‘Firstborn, straight from Vostroya.’

Skane looked Vahn in the eye. ‘You served with them?’

Vahn looked away, resuming his study of the mass of armoured vehicles slowly mustering into company columns below. A pair of Chimeras, flanked by ungainly Sentinel walkers, were crawling forwards towards the installation’s gate hall. He had no desire to share the details of his military service, with Skane or with anyone else.

‘Not recently,’ said Vahn, ‘been a little… sidetracked.’

‘I hear that,’ Skane grinned, evidently taking the hint. Though the burly Elysian was prone to acting the hard man with the other convicts, he seemed to have accepted Vahn as the group’s unofficial leader, a fact for which Vahn himself was grateful. He would have taken Skane on had he needed to. ‘So what now?’

In Vahn’s opinion, the regiment deployed below was their only hope of survival but in what form he wasn’t so sure. The Firstborn might simply kill everyone in the complex, not caring who had and who hadn’t joined in the murder and chaos of the uprising. Alternately, Vahn’s group might be able to link up with the Guard, but then what? Return to incarceration? Be put on trial? The only other option Vahn could think of was to crawl into a deep, dark hole and wait the whole thing out. That option was out – Vahn had never run before, a fact that, ironically, was at least partially responsible for his incarceration in Alpha Penitentia.

‘Get the guys together,’ said Vahn, pushing himself back into the chamber. ‘We can get out of here, but the options might not look too attractive.’

The Chimera Flint was riding in ground to a halt with a rumbling of gears. Flint hauled on the rear hatch release and the back of the passenger compartment swung down to slam into the dusty red ground. The commissar was the first out, Kohlz and the line infantry squad assigned to headquarters security detail tramping out behind him.

Flint and his aide hadn’t been invited to ride along with Aleksis and the command group. Frankly, he was glad.

‘Spread out,’ Flint ordered the men of the security detail as the second Chimera pulled up beside the first. The escorting Sentinel walkers fanned out wide, their chin-mounted multi-lasers tracking back and forth protectively. As the troops dispersed in a wide semicircle around the two armoured vehicles, Flint looked up at the vast bulk of Alpha Penitentia.

The complex’s massive gate hall reared fifty metres high and more, its rockcrete bulk dominated by a mighty iron portal that seemed almost large enough for a Battle Titan to walk through. The gate was surrounded by clusters of wall-mounted spy-lenses and antennae trained on the ground in front. The corroded surface of the gates was embellished with reliefs depicting various scenes from the Imperial histories. Etched in letters three metres high was part of a legend, what was visible through the corrosion reading, …and those who dwell below take vengeance on him who shall swear false oath. Flint recognised the fragment as an allusion to a pre-Imperial text, all that remained of the writings of a scribe revered on old Terra. It was grimly apposite, given the setting.

‘The signal,’ Aleksis ordered his vox-officer.

The aide spoke into his vox-horn, a brief conversation passing all but unheard as the group waited. A cluster of spy-lenses mounted on the wall nearby whirred and clicked as some unseen operator zoomed in on the men waiting outside. Then the wailing of a distant klaxon started up, soon followed by a low grinding of ancient gears.

Flint felt the ground beneath his feet tremble before a dark split appeared in the vast portal. The rumbling of huge machine systems grew almost deafening as the split widened to reveal the shadowed interior of the gate hall. It struck Flint that these gates hadn’t been opened in many years, the join marred by corrosion which crumbled to the ground in powdery rivulets as the two halves separated.

The graf and his second-in-command waited patiently with heads raised as if the spectacle before them was nothing out of the ordinary. Though the gate hall must have had other, secondary portals, someone had decided that the delegation was of such status that the main gates should be opened like a triumphal arch awaiting the victory march of a returning army.

With a juddering motion, the opening of the gates halted with the gap between them only five metres wide. The screaming of tortured gears filled the air then disengaged just as suddenly before falling silent. Evidently, the gates hadn’t been maintained well and opening completely had become impossible.

‘Security detail forward,’ Flint ordered, regardless of proper procedure. ‘Secure the portal.’

‘Really, Flint,’ said Aleksis. ‘I’m sure that isn’t necessary.’

‘With respect,’ replied the commissar, drawing his bolt pistol and racking the slide for effect. ‘This installation is all but under the control of an army of mutinous killers.’

Aleksis looked to his second-in-command and Polzdam nodded his agreement. Feeling he’d won a small victory of sorts, Flint strode forward to join the security detail. Its members had taken position within the shadowed opening with lasguns aimed cautiously into the darkness.

The inner edges of the gates were embedded with piston-like bars, which when locked would bolt the gates against the strongest of attacks. As he passed, Flint noted that the locks were intended to protect against an impact from within as well as without. The masons had evidently planned for all eventualities, including the need to lock an uncontrolled population of convict-workers inside. The legend engraved upon the face of the iron gates came back to Flint’s mind. He’d seen the inside of some of the most secure penal facilities the Imperium maintained, including the gulags of the Lazuli Salient and the mass correction-plants of the Delphic Bastion Worlds. While all had been constructed to repel outside assault, none had been built to resist such a heavy attack from within. No convict should have been armed with any weapon weightier than an iron bar ripped from a cell window.

‘Portal clear, sir,’ reported the security detail’s squad leader over his shoulder as he tracked his lasgun left and right. ‘Proceed?’

Flint halted at the man’s side. The sergeant was wearing the Firstborn’s full battle dress – deep red, knee-length greatcoat with chainmail hauberk and gold-chased armour plating. He wore the distinctive shaggy fur headgear of the Firstborn and his face was obscured by a bulky rebreather. His goggles were raised and his eyes were all Flint could see of his face. ‘Wait,’ ordered Flint, acting on instinct.

A scuffing sound echoed out of the darkness beyond the portal, followed by the tread of heavy boots. The sound got louder and soon Flint realised what it was.

‘Stow weapons,’ Flint hissed to the warriors around him as he holstered his bolt pistol. ‘Now.’

‘Sir?’ said the sergeant, squinting into the darkness as his lasgun tracked the sound approaching.

‘Do it, man!’ Flint growled through clenched teeth. When the sergeant still failed to understand the gravity of the situation, Flint reached out and forced the lasgun down towards the ground. A moment later the man stowed it by slinging it over his shoulder.

‘Sir,’ the squad leader started. ‘What’s–’

‘Halt!’ ordered a deep, flat voice from the darkness. The sound of footsteps halted with a scrape of metal on stone and was replaced by the whine of whirring servos.

‘Stay perfectly still,’ Flint whispered.

A needle-thin beam of red light lanced out from the darkness and swept across Flint and the members of the security detail one by one.

‘Weapons detected,’ the voice intoned. ‘Threat index zero-zero-sigma. Proceed.’

‘Proceed where?’ the squad leader whispered.

‘Not us,’ Flint hissed back. ‘Just wait.’

The metallic clang of a large switch being thrown resounded through the portal and the darkness was dispelled in an instant as blinding arc lights were activated. For a moment, Flint could see nothing but blazing white light before his eyes began to adjust and take in the scene before him.

Flint and the security detail were standing in the entrance to the gate hall, a massive reception building rearing so high that even the powerful arc lights couldn’t illuminate the full extent of its interior. All Flint could make out of the hall’s construction was the marble flooring, which although wrought with outstanding artistry was so obscured by grit and detritus its wondrous patterns were all but unreadable.

The speaker, Flint saw as his eyes adjusted to the glare, was the largest ward-servitor he had ever faced. A hulking torso, so bulky it must have been that of an ogryn, was enhanced with all manner of pneumatic augmetics, and one arm had been surgically replaced with a vehicle-grade heavy bolter. The other arm terminated not in a meaty fist but a multi-lensed augur pod, the source of the red beam that had swept the men for weapons. The servitor’s half-metal face was expressionless, its surviving features slack-jawed and imbecilic as its single organic eye rolled back in its socket.

Despite the servitor’s lack of intelligence or will, Flint knew that to show any hint of aggression would trigger a hard-wired response and cause it to unleash a torrent of explosive shells that would wipe the security detail out in a second.

‘Stand down order,’ a new voice came from behind the ward-servitor and beyond the glare of the arc lights. ‘Protocol helix.’

The ward-servitor’s shoulders slumped forward with a hiss of pneumatics and its weapon turned barrel down towards the marble floor. The arm bearing the augur pod remained raised however and the single organic eye darted to and fro in its socket.

More footsteps sounded, but these were sharp and precise where the ward-servitor’s had been heavy and solid. A silhouette appeared against the arc-light glare and a figure stepped forward. The man was slightly shorter than Flint and clad in a form-fitting hardshell of glossy black. The figure’s face was obscured by a featureless black visor plate which scanned left and right as he came to a halt.

‘Commissar Flint,’ the commissar said, his cold eyes boring into the figure’s black visor face. All he saw was his own reflection. ‘77th Vostroyan Dragoons.’

The figure nodded sharply at Flint as the graf’s command group approached from behind.

‘I am Claviger-Primaris Averun Gruss,’ the black-clad figure stated, his deep voice resounding from phonocasters secreted in the plates of his armour. ‘Seneschal-Marshal to Lord Kherhart.’

Gruss bowed as Aleksis stepped forward next to Flint.

‘Welcome to Alpha Penitentia.’

‘Shut the hell up and settle down,’ Skane growled as Vahn stalked into the chamber the outcast convict-workers were using as a mess hall. Most obeyed the burly Elysian without question, knowing full well the nasty streak that ran right through him. Those who didn’t get the message straight away were soon hushed by neighbours who could see that something was up.

Vahn waited a moment as the last few stragglers sat down on the floor or one of the battered crates littering the chamber. The room had once been a medicae bay, the white tiles that had once clad its walls now cracked or shattered across the floor. Articulated gurneys were suspended from the ceiling, some bearing long-dead lumen bulbs, others the remnants of drill-head medical instruments of indeterminate purpose.

‘Listen up,’ said Vahn, his gaze sweeping the motley group. Every man and woman assembled before him was as scruffy as an underhive scum-blagger, their features drawn after weeks of hunger and tension. White eyes looked back at him from dirt-caked faces and each outcast wore a rough and ready assortment of ragged convict uniforms and salvaged workwear. Frankly, Vahn was grateful for the fresh breeze gusting through the open embrasure in the next chamber.

‘What’s happening?’ called out ‘Rotten’ Stank from the front row. ‘They coming for us again?’

‘Depends who “they” are, Rotten,’ Vahn replied, grinning as he answered. Despite the interruption, he liked Stank. It was hard not to like a man who had sniffed out three of Colonel Strannik’s infiltration gangs and saved the entire group each time. ‘Looks like we’ve got company out on the plains.’

‘Space Marines?’ said someone else and a round of nervous laughter rippled through the group. Vahn gave them a moment, despite Skane’s frown, but kept his own expression neutral.

‘This is serious,’ said Vahn. By the tone of his voice they could tell it was. ‘It’s the Imperial Guard.’

The laughter cut out at that, to be replaced with a hushed murmur. ‘We’re fragged then!’ someone shouted from the back rank, drawing a chorus of agreement. At times like this Vahn was hardly surprised this lot had been booted out of their regiments and washed up in a Munitorum forced labour penal facility. Vahn saw Skane’s expression darken and decided to get a grip before the big drop-trooper busted some heads.

‘It’s the Imperial Guard,’ Vahn repeated, this time injecting a note of cold authority into his voice. ‘And that raises questions.’

The crowd quietened down a bit and Vahn pressed on. ‘Way I see it, we got two choices.’

Now the crowd fell totally silent, three-dozen dirty faces trained on Vahn. ‘We hide from them, or we join them.’

By the darting glances that passed between many of the convicts Vahn could tell that neither option was especially attractive. There was no easy way to say it, so he pressed on. ‘If we hide, they’ll find us, or just burn the whole place down around us. If we join them, chances are we’ll end up somewhere just like this place.’

‘But we’ll be alive,’ Vendell spoke up.

‘Either way,’ said Vahn, ‘it’s a gamble.’

‘You’ve already decided,’ said Solomon, a gangly man from the world of Jopall. Clever guy, thought Vahn.

‘I know which I’d prefer,’ said Vahn. ‘But we’re all in this together and we need to agree before we do anything.’ Vahn left it unsaid that the whole thing might go completely to hell and he didn’t want to cop the blame if that happened.

‘If we join them,’ said Rotten, ‘we get a second chance. We could leg it later on.’

‘Possibly,’ said Vahn. ‘But getting to them without getting slotted is likely to be hard enough.’

‘And they’ll be going in hard on Strannik,’ added Becka, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned nonchalantly against the wall behind Vahn. ‘The crossfire’s gonna get messy.’

‘I say we risk it,’ said Stank. ‘Better that than wait here for them or Strannik to wheedle us out.’ Others nodded, the idea of for once taking control of their lives finding favour over the thought of hiding while it all went to hell.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ grinned Vahn, and Skane, Becka and Vendell nodded in agreement. In truth, the four of them had already agreed which option they preferred.

‘Which means we’ll need to fight our way out,’ he continued before he could be interrupted. ‘We hit the perimeter hard and we don’t stop moving. Even,’ he added gravely, ‘if not everyone makes it.’

‘So,’ said Solomon as the gravity of the situation sank in. ‘We voting?’

Looking around the faces of the convicts, Vahn said, ‘Looks like we’re agreed.’

‘Time to look lively then, people,’ growled Skane. ‘We got work to do.’

Four

Complication

Claviger-Primaris Gruss stepped aside as the regimental command group entered the audience chamber of Governor Kherhart, lord of Furia Penitens. Flint allowed the graf to enter first, having decided to hang back and observe for a while and only intervene should he deem it truly necessary. He had a feeling there was more at play here than the briefings had communicated and he wanted to gauge just what sort of an officer Graf Aleksis really was. Short of standing at his side in battle, that was a difficult judgement to make, even for a commissar as experienced as Flint.

The chamber appeared part office and part throne room. A stone plinth three metres high dominated the room. On it was set a huge bureau made of ancient wood. Behind the bureau was a high-backed seat padded with worn leather and on that seat sat the robed and periwigged Governor Kherhart, a parchment held up to his face obscuring his features. The chamber itself was lined in panels of the same wood used in the construction of the bureau and faded, gilt-framed paintings showing portraits of stern-faced past governors looked down at the visitors. Every flat surface in the chamber was strewn with scrolls, tomes and parchments and the scent of spilled ink hung heavy in the dusty air.

‘My lord,’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss, his armour’s phonocasters projecting his voice louder than before. ‘Our visitors.’

There was an awkward silence during which Flint and the officers of the 77th studied the back of the parchment obscuring the governor’s face. A moment later the parchment was discarded to a pile on the bureau and the governor’s face was looking down at his visitors, blinking in mild surprise.

‘What?’ Governor Kherhart barked, his voice almost as loud as Gruss’s.

‘Our visitors, my lord,’ said Gruss, his phono-casters turned up even louder.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the governor loudly before groping about the chaotic surface before him. At length he found a bulky, brass-rimmed optical lorgnette that he held up by its long handle before his eyes. Suddenly, Kherhart’s formerly myopic eyes appeared huge and threatening as he glowered down at the officers. Switching his gaze towards Gruss, the governor said, ‘Proceed, then.’

‘My lord Callistus Kherhart,’ Gruss announced formally, his machine- enhanced voice almost painfully loud. ‘Master of the Alpha Penitentia facility and Imperial Commander of the world of Furia Penitens and her associated system domains. Lord High Designate of the Departmento Munitorum,’ he continued, ‘Scion of Vostroya, third Heir-Presumptive to the seat of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan.’

Flint’s eyes snapped across to Aleksis, who he knew from his briefings to be a member of the same noble line. The graf stepped forward to the base of the plinth and bowed deeply to the governor, who glowered down at him, his eyes appearing huge and threatening through the lenses of the lorgnette. ‘Graf Klass Aleksis, also of the Anhalz, my lord.’

‘Ah!’ said Kherhart again, pulling a sheet of parchment from a pile before him and holding it at arm’s length as he scanned the lines of spidery text inscribed upon its surface. ‘Cousin?’

‘Third cousin, I believe, my lord,’ demurred Aleksis. ‘Once removed, at least.’

‘What?’ said Kherhart. ‘Speak up, man!’

‘Third cousin, sir!’ Aleksis repeated twice as loud.

‘Hmm,’ said Kherhart. ‘The Dzerzhinsky Anhalz, I take it?’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ shouted Aleksis, bowing slightly as he answered.

‘Good,’ said Kherhart, turning his gaze from the graf as if noticing the presence of the rest of the delegation for the first time. His grotesquely exaggerated eyes scanned the officers, settling on Flint with a scowl. ‘And you bring companions?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Aleksis as loud as he dared. ‘As you know, we must speak of reclaiming your generatorium.’

‘Ah,’ said Kherhart. ‘Yes, that.’

Flint’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘All under control now, thank you, cousin.’

Aleksis blinked rapidly but did a sterling job of masking his confusion. Meanwhile, the governor returned his attention to the parchments before him, lifting one at arm’s length as he started to read.

Aleksis coughed with obvious intent. ‘My lord?’

Governor Kherhart lowered the mechanical lorgnette and brought the parchment he was reading right up to his face as he squinted at the text.

‘My lord?’ Aleksis repeated.

‘What?’ Governor Kherhart exclaimed, raising the lorgnette to his eyes once more. ‘Ah, yes,’ he shouted.

‘Dismissed!’

The door to the governor’s audience chamber closed with a resounding boom and Flint turned on Aleksis. ‘What the hell just happened, colonel?’ he demanded.

‘Graf,’ interjected Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam. ‘You may not address–’

‘Yes, I may,’ said Flint through gritted teeth. ‘And I will. That’s why I’m here. Graf?’

Aleksis raised his chin to look down his nose at Flint before shaking his head in obvious frustration. ‘It’s fine,’ the graf said to his second-in-command. ‘The commissar has every right to know.’

‘Know what, graf?’ said Flint, softening his tone slightly.

Aleksis glanced around the panel-lined antechamber, his eyes lingering on a number of faded portraits hung in nooks along its walls. ‘Lord Kherhart outranks me,’ he said.

Flint blinked in confusion before realising that the graf wasn’t talking about the military chain of command. ‘Go on.’

‘He’s Techtriarch,’ said Aleksis. ‘Anhalz, like me.’

‘And?’ said Flint.

‘You have much to learn of this region of the Imperium, commissar,’ said Aleksis. ‘We’re of the same Techtriarch clan,’ he continued. ‘And, by the dictates of familial quartering, he is my senior and I am bound to obey him.’

‘I see,’ said Flint. ‘Even above the Munitorum chain of command?’

Aleksis smiled indulgently at the question, though the expression was devoid of malice. ‘The line of ascendancy and the chain of command in this region are one and the same, commissar.’

Military rank allotted according to aristocratic rank, just like the files had warned. There were feudal worlds across the Imperium that utilised such systems but it was generally limited to local forces. Some of the most ancient families of the Imperial Navy bought their commissions, and of course the rogue trader clans purchased status with the writ granted to them by the High Lords of Terra. But to see the system in place across the administration of an entire region consisting of scores of systems was unheard of in Flint’s experience. He sighed inwardly, knowing things had just got a lot more complicated. ‘So what now, graf?’

‘That remains to be determined,’ said Aleksis. Flint could see the man’s hands were tied by the very binds of nobility that had elevated him to his rank. ‘An appeal to a higher tier, perhaps.’

‘That’ll take time, graf,’ said Flint. ‘I need not remind you that we have a mission to complete. The longer we delay the pacification of the rebel population of this complex the harder it will become.’

Aleksis nodded as his expression darkened. The officer was confronted with a dilemma he hadn’t had to face before. His loyalties were split between his familial line and his duty as a senior commander of the Imperial Guard. As a commissar, one of Flint’s responsibilities was to ensure that such tensions didn’t interfere with the regiment’s ability to fulfil its task. Whatever obstacle he found, from brawling troops to incompetent commanding officers, Flint was sanctioned to enact whatever course of action he deemed necessary to maintain discipline, doctrinal purity, morale and combat effectiveness.

Flint turned at the approach of Claviger-Primaris Gruss as the chief warden caught up with the command group. ‘Might I suggest, graf,’ said Gruss, ‘a limited perimeter deployment, for now at least?’

Flint studied the man’s featureless black visor, unable to read anything of his intentions.

‘Perhaps,’ said Aleksis.

‘My men are capable of containing the uprising and retaking the complex,’ pressed Gruss. Flint had seen little evidence of that being the case but he saw a chance to move things forward.

‘I concur,’ said Flint. ‘For now at least.’

‘Agreed, then,’ said Aleksis. ‘Until further arrangements can be made.’

Flint lingered a moment to watch the officers as they strode away. He would allow Aleksis time to settle the matter according to the traditions of the Vostroyan nobility, but if that wasn’t possible he would have no choice but to intervene, however the regiment’s command cadre took it.

The perimeter of the convicts’ sanctuary was a maze of debris-strewn passageways that Vahn had ordered patrolled every minute of every day. Colonel Strannik had sent repeated infiltration gangs through the wall into the central spire in an effort to flush them out, but thanks to Trooper ‘Rotten’ Stank’s tracking skills not one had made it through the third barricade. The corpses of each enemy gang had been flung down the central cooling flue as a warning to others attempting the climb, not that it had deterred them. The rebel convicts were more afraid of their leader than they were of Vahn’s group and willing to risk even death over the colonel’s vengeance.

The battles had been vicious and brutal with very few on either side equipped with firearms. Those few who were had either scavenged them from the bodies of slain clavigers or, like Skane, fabricated crude weapons themselves. In both cases ammunition was scarce and husbanded against the need to make a last, desperate defence. The most bloody and bitter of the fights had been fought with the convicts’ bare hands, improvised clubs and shivs and, when necessary, teeth.

A no-man’s-land had come into being beyond the last barricade, consisting of a corpse-strewn void between the spire’s outer shell and the geotherm towers, vestibules and chambers. Vahn had to lead his convicts through that dead zone, penetrating as deep as possible before they were discovered. If he could, Vahn would lead his followers out without confrontation, but they all knew how unlikely that was. Vahn had split the three-dozen convicts into three groups in the hope of minimising the chances of contact and each was currently picking its way through the labyrinth of service conduits and pipes that ran through the spire and into the no-man’s-land beyond.

‘Down,’ hissed Vahn, shrinking into the shadows as he detected a faint shift in the flow of stale air passing along the conduit. The geotherm venting scrubbers had stopped functioning soon after the uprising and all the conduits were achieving was the circulation of the stink of rotting corpses drawn from the carceri-chambers below.

Becka melted out of sight an instant before Vahn hissed his warning. Being from the world of Savlar she was well accustomed to such dangerous places. The other ten convicts in Vahn’s group followed the example and quite suddenly the conduit appeared empty of all but debris and sump-rat crap. Vahn looked across the conduit to make eye contact with the chem-dog, who was kneeling pressed against the metal wall with her legs drawn up tight to minimise any silhouette she might present to an enemy. Her eyes, just visible above the mask of her rebreather were narrowed as she studied the darkness up ahead. Vahn followed her gaze and there in the shadows he saw another, deeper patch of darkness.

Becka looked across to Vahn and he subtly nodded, hefting his improvised metal club and moving forwards as quietly as he could.

The conduit was circular in cross section and lit only intermittently by the guttering lumen bulbs overhead. Every twenty metres or so a side passage led off towards another zone of the spire, while the main tunnel continued towards the outer shell. One of those side passages was only ten metres ahead and Vahn had little doubt that an enemy convict was lurking in its dark mouth. It was one of the forward sentinels the rebels had seeded throughout the network of conduits, lookouts set to guard against the very sort of intrusion Vahn was undertaking right now.

Nothing for it, Vahn thought to himself. Rising as swiftly and as stealthily as he could, Vahn dashed forward along the conduit wall. By keeping to the edge he avoided kicking up the debris that had collected along the centre of the pipe. His target had no idea he was even there until he was bearing right down on him.

The man’s eyes widened in horror as he realised he’d been looking the wrong way as death closed from behind. Vahn dove forwards as the enemy grabbed for a chunky stub gun tucked into his belt but his hands never reached its pistol grip. They both went down in a mass of sprawling limbs as Vahn’s hands closed around the other’s throat and he squeezed with all his strength.

The enemy convict tried to cry out but Vahn’s grip was so tight nothing more than a hoarse croak emerged. Then it struck Vahn that if his enemy were trying to shout a warning there must be someone else nearby to be warned.

Vahn’s only warning was a glint of light reflected from a soot-dulled blade, but it was enough to save his life. A cleaver as long as an arm scythed in from overhead and Vahn yanked the convict he was struggling with upwards in response. The cleaver missed Vahn’s head and came down with a meaty thunk, embedding itself in the head of his opponent. Vahn’s eyes were instantly filled with the convict’s blood and he flung himself backwards to avoid the next attack, which he knew he would never see.

As he rolled he heard a dull thud and a grunt, followed by a splash as something or someone toppled into the water pooled around the passageway mouth. Blinking the blood from his eyes he found himself looking right at a pair of thick-soled, iron-studded high boots.

‘You just gonna lie there?’ said Becka. The Savlar proffered a hand and in a moment Vahn was upright. Behind Becka sprawled the broken form of the second attacker, a stiletto blade Vahn hadn’t even known Becka owned lodged hilt-deep in one eye.

‘Get the others forward,’ Vahn ordered as Becka pulled the blade from the rebel’s eye socket with an audible slurp. Then she was gone.

Vahn studied the darkness in the passageway the lookout had been hiding in. He’d intended to take his group along the main conduit towards the breach in the spire’s outer skin but now he was reconsidering. Strannik’s men were well aware of the breach and it was likely that way was guarded. He knew he’d have to face the enemy in strength at some point but perhaps this side passage offered another route. He took a few steps along the passage, his eyes adjusting to the scant illumination provided by only a handful of overhead lumens.

‘Hey!’ Becka hissed from the mouth of the passage. ‘Where you headed, Argusti?’

‘Change of plan,’ Vahn whispered back. ‘We’re taking a detour.’

‘I don’t like detours,’ said Becka. ‘And neither will Skane or Vendell.’

Good point, Vahn conceded. The other two groups would have no way of knowing that Vahn had led his a different way and if either other group got into more trouble than it could handle there’d be nothing Vahn could do to intervene. Nevertheless, every one of Vahn’s combat instincts were telling him this was the way to go.

‘Neither do I,’ said Vahn. ‘But trust me. This is the way.’

Becka cocked her head for a moment as she gazed quizzically at Vahn. Then she nodded and said, ‘Fine. Have it your way, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘A moment please, graf,’ Flint said to Aleksis as the command group disembarked the Chimera at the regimental laager. Polzdam made to object but Aleksis indicated with a curt gesture that the lieutenant-colonel should leave him and the commissar alone for a moment.

‘Very well,’ said the graf, pneumatics hissing as he pulled the lever to close the hatch. ‘Speak, commissar.’

Flint folded his arms across his chest and said, ‘Governor Kherhart.’

‘What of him?’

‘Your cousin,’ said Flint.

‘What of him?’ Aleksis repeated.

‘If he won’t allow this regiment to complete its mission, he can be removed,’ said Flint, his voice low and threatening.

Anger flashed in the graf’s eyes but he held his tongue. ‘He cannot. He holds the rank of Imperial Commander. And besides…’

‘No,’ Flint interrupted, holding up a hand. ‘That rank is honorary and subject to the mandate of the Munitorum. This world is not a sovereign realm and neither is it his personal fiefdom. He can be removed or recalled to other duties. As a commissar, I can make this happen.’

‘That may be the case in other sectors, Flint, in other war zones. But in this region, the Techtriarch clans of Vostroya have a long reach. As I have said, things are handled differently here.’

Flint was getting sick of hearing that, but he gestured for the graf to continue.

‘Every commission in this region, from second lieutenant in a planetary militia to logister-general is made according to the rules of ascendancy of the Techtriarch clans, don’t you see? There is no authority you could appeal to that would approve your request, Flint. Not one, do you understand?’

Flint sighed. ‘I am a commissar, graf. A regimental commissar. It is my Emperor-given duty to ensure that missions such as this one are carried out according to orders and free of let or hindrance. If I have to, Aleksis, I’ll remove your third-cousin-once-removed from office myself. Do you understand?’

Flint left another threat – that he could very easily remove Aleksis from command too – hanging. It would in fact be easier to do so than to remove Governor Kherhart from his position, but ultimately less conducive to the mission. Doing so would just make Flint the enemy when really he needed Kherhart in that role. If the officers of the 77th could see that the governor was standing in the way of the glory Aleksis had promised them, the mission might have some chance of success and the morale and integrity of the regiment itself would benefit.

Not for nothing were commissars sometimes referred to as political officers.

‘Do what you must, Commissar Flint,’ Aleksis replied, a note of weary resignation in his voice. ‘Do what you believe is right to get this mission underway, but do not take the rules of ascendancy lightly. If you cross the Techtriarchs, I assure you, you’ll regret it. We all will.’

Vahn led his group of convicts through another three kilometres of labyrinthine passageways before passing under a wrecked scrubber valve and into the upper galleries of Carceri Didactio. The carceri was one of the largest of the dozen geotherm plant chambers radiating from the central spire and was large enough to house many thousands of inmates.

The interior of Carceri Didactio resembled a vast hybrid of monumental architecture and capital engineering. Vertical planes of rockcrete intersected with surfaces resembling the outer faces of engine casings, all rendered hugely out of scale. The chamber’s dimensions reduced the human form to utter insignificance: the empty, weightless voids of space pressing downwards on the inmates with unbearable, crushing pressure. Kilometres beneath the chamber, the geotherm sinks plunged deep into irradiated mineral deposits, the decay heat from which the generatorium used to produce power. It was an irony of tragically epic proportions that the vast reserves of power were put to no actual use – the toil was the punishment.

The vaulted ceiling was lost to smog and darkness high overhead, even though Vahn’s group had emerged into one of the highest galleries. Vast chains hung from rusted gurneys high in the vaults and narrow metal gantries cut across the void, intersecting seemingly at random. Each walkway was strung with further chains as well as lifeless sconces and cracked lumen bulbs.

‘Keep low,’ hissed Vahn as he moved out along the gallery, Becka and the other convicts following behind. The gallery was little more than a corroded iron scaffold, the levels beneath visible through the rusted mesh decking. Vahn drew his sharpened iron bar as he came to an opening in the rockcrete wall, the door to one of the hundreds of cells set into the rockcrete wall of the chamber.

Gesturing for silence, Vahn edged towards the cell door to peer around the doorjamb. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness inside and to discern its contents. When they had, Vahn wished they hadn’t.

Vahn snapped his head back from the doorway as he suppressed a wave of disgust and nausea. Memories of the first few hours of the rebel convicts’ uprising flashed to mind, staccato images of men and women tearing one another apart in an orgy of violence. The strong had dragged the weak off into the shadows to perform the most barbarous acts that years of incarceration and forced labour had bred within their souls. The cell was one such shadowy hole in which such barbarities had been enacted.

‘Pass it along,’ Vahn whispered to Becka as she sidled up. ‘Keep clear.’

Becka studied Vahn for a moment then nodded her understanding. As she passed the instruction back along the chain, Vahn crept silently to the edge of the scaffold and looked downwards towards the distant floor at least a hundred metres below.

The hard rockcrete ground was obscured by a miasma of foul air, no doubt the result of the fires unleashed during the uprising. With the disabling of the geotherm scrubbers the air was dank and still, the smog hugging the ground instead of being sucked away and cleaned. Through the greasy haze, Vahn could just make out a line of figures winding from a distant entrance towards a portal on the other side of the chamber, herded along by dozens of rebels. The clink of chains drifted upwards, underpinned with the low, mournful wailing of the rebels’ prisoners.

‘That portal,’ said Becka as she set herself down next to Vahn. ‘The one they’re coming from?’

‘Yup,’ said Vahn.

‘That’s where we’re going, right?’ she said.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Vahn. ‘It’s the only way through to the gate hall.’

‘Somehow I knew you’d say that,’ sighed Becka. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Wait ‘til the line passes through, then we go in,’ he said. ‘Any guards still down there, we take them out.’

‘What about the prisoners?’ said Becka, indicating the snaking line.

Vahn sighed, not wanting to play the callous bastard but knowing there was little choice. ‘Best we can do for them is get through to the Guard and get this done with. Either way, we can’t help them right now.’

‘Understood,’ said Becka. Reading her eyes Vahn saw that she meant it. Life was tragically harsh in Alpha Penitentia and it had got a thousand times harsher since the uprising. Despite himself, Vahn was glad she thought no less of him.

‘Best get moving then,’ Vahn said as the last prisoners in the line passed out of the chamber entrance. There were still dozens of guards left milling around the portal, but Vahn had known all along that his small force would have to fight its way through at some point. Estimating how much time had gone by since he’d led his force away from the agreed route through the conduits, Vahn guessed that Skane and Vendell’s groups should be nearing the gate soon. They, however, would be appearing on ground level within a few dozen metres of the portal. For the attack on the portal to be coordinated between all three groups, Vahn’s would have to be down there as soon as possible.

Vahn gestured to the other convicts to duck down into the shadows before setting foot on the debris-strewn ground of the chamber floor. The descent through the levels of the scaffold had taken longer than he had intended, the group slowed up by the need to tread carefully or have the creaking of rusted metal tread plates betray them to the rebels guarding the chamber entrance. By the time Vahn’s convicts had reached the lowest gallery the line of bound prisoners was all but gone having disappeared through the stinking smog that clung to the ground level. Though the prisoners had been led away across the chamber towards the next vestibule, several dozen guards had remained to watch over the portal.

Vahn had anticipated that this portal would be well guarded, for beyond it was the route towards the gate hall, the last vestige of the governor’s control over Alpha Penitentia. If the convicts who refused to join or surrender to Colonel Strannik managed to escape the entirety of the complex would be under Strannik’s control, only the gate hall and a few insignificant out structures remaining in the claviger-wardens’ hands. Vahn had no way of knowing what might lie beyond the portal but it must be better than waiting to be caught by Strannik’s murderers.

The guards milling around the portal looked like the worst sorts of scum Strannik had recruited. Only the brutes of his personal bodyguard were more muscular or cruel. The guards were all large men, for they’d spent the years of their incarceration coercing food rations from weaker prisoners. Every one of them had served in the Imperial Guard and been consigned to Alpha Penitentia for some transgression not quite bad enough to earn a death sentence but too serious to be dealt with by their regiments’ own commissars.

They carried an array of crude weaponry, mostly iron clubs and hatchets. But one of them, Vahn saw as he watched from the shadows, was carrying a combat shotgun, prized no doubt from the dead grip of a slain warden. The man carrying it must have been a Catachan or else born on some similar world. His frame was almost grotesquely over-muscled. The high gravity death world of his birth bred the very strongest of men and women and other Guardsmen serving alongside its famous jungle fighters sometimes referred to them as ‘baby ogryns’, though never to their faces. Just like the brutes the nickname referred to, the man was a mountain of iron-hard muscle, but unlike ogryns, Catachans were quick-witted and intelligent – they had to be just to survive more than an hour on their hellish birth world.

The Catachan was clearly the leader of the guard detail and the others were visibly cowed by his sheer physical presence. The slightest growl from his thuggish lips and the other guards obeyed without question. Barking an order to a group of around two-dozen rebels, the Catachan pointed towards a nook in the chamber wall and the men moved across to take up position inside it. Vahn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. The Catachan crossed to another nook and Vahn realised the two positions were on either side of the entrance to a small service tunnel leading into the chamber. The tunnel was the one his own group would have entered the chamber from had he not felt the need to take a detour. Worse still, Skane and Vendell’s groups would soon be emerging from the tunnel. They would be walking right into an ambush.

Five

Infiltration

The return journey from the gate hall to the regimental laager had passed in silence, Aleksis apparently brooding on what had passed between himself and his regiment’s new commissar. Upon reaching the laager, Flint followed the graf and his staff back into the command post and was greeted by the shouts of several junior officers. As Aleksis and Polzdam made for their tactical stations to ascertain what was happening, Flint headed for the intelligence chief, Herrmahn.

‘Just in time, commissar,’ the officer said, not taking his eyes from the flickering data-slate in front of him.

Flint removed his cap and passed it to his aide. The tri-D representation of the hybrid power and penal facility revolved on one of Herrmahn’s screens, but the main image was zoomed in on one particular generatoria zone, labelled Didactio.

‘You’ve achieved machine-communion with the installation’s systems?’ said Flint, surprised and mildly suspicious that the intelligence chief had access to the complex’s security grid.

‘Strictly speaking,’ said Herrmahn, casting a sideling glance at Flint, ‘no.’

Flint decided not to press the issue further, even if it was technically a crime Herrmahn could be consigned to the Penal Legions for. ‘So, what’s happening at Didactio?’

‘So far as I can tell, some localised disturbance,’ said Herrmahn. ‘Could be trouble between rival factions within the uprising, or it could be a sideshow to get us looking.’

‘A diversion?’ said Flint. ‘If that’s the case, what don’t they want us looking at?’ he mused.

‘Can’t tell,’ said Herrmahn. ‘This is the best resolution I can achieve. If you really want to find out what’s happening in there you’ll have to confirm it yourself. Terran-pattern, Mark I eyeball. It’s the only way to be sure.’

‘No, commissar!’ said Aleksis, looking up sharply from his command station. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Flint, fighting to keep his tone level despite his frustration, ‘my mandate grants me the command authority.’

Aleksis glanced at his second-in-command and Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam nodded subtly in reluctant confirmation of Flint’s assertion. Seeing his opportunity, Flint pressed on before Aleksis could object further.

‘If I lead a scouting party in and find out what’s really going on in there, we can get this mission on track. It’s on my authority as regimental commissar, so you don’t have to worry about ascendancy or upsetting the in-laws, Aleksis. It’s on my head, it’s my call, and I’m taking it.’

Aleksis sighed, the staff officers gathered about the command post not daring to meet his gaze. ‘You’ll not be able to take a line company,’ he said. ‘You know that, commissar?’

‘I know that, graf,’ said Flint, getting somewhere at last. ‘I’ll take my provost section. We’ll travel fast and light, find out what’s happening, then get out.’

‘Then do so, commissar,’ said Aleksis. ‘Needless to say, I cannot help you in this, you understand?’

Recalling the conversation earlier and the talk of lines of ascendancy and patronage of the Vostroyan Techtriarch clans, Flint nodded. ‘I understand. Thank you, graf.’

‘Good luck, Commissar Flint,’ said Aleksis. Flint threw him a salute and received one back in return.

Flint spent the next hour assembling an infiltration force from amongst the regiment’s flotsam and jetsam. Denied access to the line companies, he was forced to scour the various headquarters and support platoons for individuals skilled enough to undertake the reconnaissance mission he had planned. Fortunately, the Firstborn were the product of the cyclopean manufactoria of Vostroya and Alpha Penitentia wasn’t so alien an environment to them. After ex-loading Major Herrmahn’s tri-D plan of the complex to his personal data-slate Flint was able to plot a course towards carceri chamber Didactio easily enough, or so he thought until several of his newly recruited team corrected his planning and suggested a far quicker and more secure route.

The team he selected consisted of Dragoon Kohlz, who Flint was beginning to trust as a capable aide, Corporal Bukin and his goons, a combat medic named Karasinda, Dragoon Lhor and two other huge men from the logistics platoon. Flint had consulted with Kohlz on the selection to ensure that no fractious elements were allowed to slip through. The last thing he needed on the mission was a disagreement, fight or even a desertion attempt with the enemy so close at hand.

The medic Karasinda represented something of an exception in the ranks of the Firstborn. By ancient tradition the people of Vostroya rendered their firstborn sons to service in the Imperial Guard, but the daughters weren’t subject to that oath. The very few women serving in the Firstborn regiments were volunteers and they were regarded by their peers with a mixture of suspicion and respect.

Karasinda put herself forward for the mission as soon as word got out that Flint was looking for volunteers and he had been suspicious of that fact to begin with. Speaking to her however, Flint had found Karasinda to be a curiously intense woman and he was soon convinced that genuine duty compelled her to volunteer, not just for his mission but for service in the Imperial Guard itself. Such spirit was rare indeed amongst the rank and file of the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn and Flint was loath to discourage it. Besides the fact of her volunteering for the duty, Karasinda was by her own, modestly advanced account, a highly capable medic who, unlike many amongst her peers, had actually seen combat. Karasinda claimed to have served in an expedition into the ruins of the vast Derzhinsky tank manufactorium when she had been indentured to the Vostroyan planetary defence force, taking part in a three-month long campaign to rid its southern reaches of a population of mutant scavengers. Though not a first line combatant, Karasinda had earned a higher kill-rate than any other member of her company and received high commendation for her service.

Having selected his team, Flint ensured they were properly equipped for the mission. Dragoon Lhor had drawn a heavy flamer from the quartermaster’s post and the two fellow logistics platoon members were assigned as his assistant and his ammo-lugger. Flint sincerely hoped that he would have no need to order the huge weapon’s use, for to do so would be a sure sign that things had gone badly wrong. Nevertheless, it paid to be prepared. Raw muscle would be provided by Bukin’s provosts, and Flint hadn’t had to order them to arm up. They did so themselves, each man equipping himself with a heavy Vostroyan-pattern Mark III combat shotgun. The weapons were crude and as ugly as the provosts but supremely effective in the cramped environs the team would be moving through.

At the last, Flint dispatched Kohlz to requisition a set of night vision goggles for each warrior. The quartermaster staff had objected strongly to the request until Flint’s aide informed them on whose authority the requisition was being made. The storesman demanded the goggles be returned intact when the mission was over. Kohlz had considered reminding the man that a commissar hardly cared for such things but found it easier to lie through his teeth that they would be returned safely.

Three hours after the mission had been devised, Flint was leading his small team out from the laager. The sun was setting and the group was moving on foot and already the air was getting uncomfortably cold. Despite the discomfort Flint couldn’t afford to move the team in by armoured transport, there being a need to keep the mission secret from Governor Kherhart’s surviving forces. It was unlikely the rebels would detect the presence of a single Chimera rumbling across the wastes but Kherhart’s men most likely would and that would just complicate things. Once again, Flint cursed the fact that the regiment seemed more focused on politics than the mission.

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz, following close behind Flint with his heavy vox-set on his back.

Realising he must have muttered his curse out loud, Flint shook his head. ‘Nothing, dragoon,’ he said, looking up at the grim façade of the nearest of the complex’s subsidiary structures. Carceri Didactio was less than an hour’s march away and was one of the vast geotherm plant chambers arrayed about the central spire and joined to it by knots of huge pipes and armoured vestibule tunnels. The grey rockcrete caught the last light of the setting sun, the numerous small cracks and fissures etched on its surface giving it the appearance of aged leather. Columns of smoke still drifted up from several of the blocks, evidence of the destruction the rebel convicts had unleashed within.

‘Nothing,’ Flint repeated as his aide drew up beside him. ‘Anything on the vox?’

‘Channel is not good, sir,’ said Kohlz, ‘but the governor’s staff are telling the graf everything is fine and there is no need to send anyone in to help.’

Flint smiled grimly at that. ‘Any response from Aleksis?’

‘Odd, that, sir,’ said Kohlz. ‘Seems the graf just can’t get a clear channel. Every time Kherhart asks for an assurance that we aren’t sending anyone in to intervene, the channel goes down.’

‘That is odd, isn’t it,’ said Flint, glad that Aleksis was playing along. How long the graf could keep his deception going was another matter of course. Flint was painfully aware he wouldn’t have long to complete his reconnaissance and get his team out again before the governor got suspicious.

‘Pick it up,’ Flint said to Corporal Bukin at the thought of the mission’s time constraints. ‘Double time!’

‘You heard the commissar,’ said Bukin, his words slurred around the unlit Vostroyan cigar in the corner of his mouth. ‘Double time, ladies!’

It wasn’t long before the laager was lost to view behind the jagged craters and boulders scattered about the wasteland around the generatorium, though the sky above glowed with the reflected illumination of the camp’s numerous arc lights and the sound of its generators grumbled across the land. As they marched, Flint was reminded of the trek from the crashed drop-pod to the laager the night before, and was suddenly aware that he hadn’t slept a wink since planetfall. Despite that, he was wary, and he saw that the others who had undertaken that trek were too.

‘You see anything, Bukin?’ Flint asked the chief provost as they marched, keeping his body low. Bukin evidently shared his concerns, his cold eyes scrutinising any position an enemy could be lurking in.

‘See something, sir?’ Bukin growled as he marched, his heavy shotgun braced across his chest ready for action. ‘No, sir. But I can smell them…’

Flint was instantly alert, though he tried not to give the fact away by reacting to Bukin’s warning. ‘Report, corporal.’

The provost’s nose wrinkled in an exaggerated display of distaste before he replied. ‘Last night, it was just a handful, sir, and they were keeping their distance. Now though, the closer we get to this place, the closer they get to us, and there’s more of them. A lot more.’

A mix of disgust and dread rising within him, Flint studied the lengthening shadows, alert for any sign of danger. But as hard as he looked he saw no sign of whatever it was Bukin claimed to be able to detect. Maybe it wasn’t his sense of smell the chief provost was using, but some previously undisclosed psychic power manifesting itself under stress, he considered, but an instant later, he detected it too.

‘You smell that, sir?’ said Bukin. ‘That is the smell of filthy, dirty mutants.’

Bukin was correct, there was no denying it. The wind had changed direction and carried on it a truly vile taint that was nothing natural or wholesome. It was a blasphemous cocktail of the chemical and the biological, like distilled pheromones held in some irradiated suspension. It was unspeakably… wrong, calling to mind images of filth-ridden things copulating in dark holes far from the eyes of sane men.

‘Everyone, stay alert,’ Flint snarled into the personal vox-net linking each of his troops. ‘Pick up visual scanning and watch your arcs.’

The remainder of the journey passed without incident, but Flint grew increasingly certain the wastes about Alpha Penitentia were not so empty as they appeared to be. Whatever was trailing the group, it was nothing human and it appeared not to be interested in engaging the small force. Perhaps it was some native creature, Flint thought, some autochthonous life form beneath the notice of the astrocartographic surveyors whose task it was to catalogue such things. In Flint’s experience, the galaxy was teeming with life of every conceivable, and numerous inconceivable varieties, only a tiny fraction of it discovered or observed. Yet somehow, Flint knew whatever was out there it wasn’t an animal of any kind. Bukin was correct in his assertion it was a mutant, Flint could feel it deep down, and the very thought utterly sickened him.

Of the rest of the infiltration group, only Karasinda appeared to share the provost’s apprehensions. The medic hadn’t needed to be warned, but had cottoned on to the fact that they weren’t alone by herself. Her drills were flawless as she led the group forward in the point position, scanning every possible hiding place for signs of an ambush and calling her companions’ attentions to potential danger spots with a series of rapid hand gestures. Clearly, this Firstborn daughter had paid attention during training, while the Firstborn sons had been found wanting.

By the time the infiltration group had reached the outer limits of Alpha Penitentia, the sun had set and the blasted land was plunged into a darkness made all the more total because the starlight was all but obscured by its rearing form.

Having consulted his data-slate to get a fix on his position, Flint craned his neck to take in the sheer enormity of the complex’s outer surface. The structure was as bulky as any Munitorum ordnance silo and taller than a Ministorum cathedral. Up close, the outer surface of the carceri was largely featureless, a stark contrast to the ornamentation on the iron portals of the gate hall. Looking closer however, Flint could see that the weathered walls were studded with heavy-duty vents and access hatches that must have been sealed shut from the outside centuries ago. One such vent was nearby at ground level and guarded by a rusted grille that looked strong enough to keep a bull grox out.

‘Get to work,’ said Flint, motioning Dragoon Hannen, one of Lhor’s companions forward. The members of the logistics platoon appeared to conform to one of two types – they were either weasel-like clerks or hulking meatheads: bean counters or ammo-luggers. This individual was most certainly the latter.

Hannen grunted and unslung a canvas sack as he squared up to the grille.

‘Perimeter defence,’ ordered Flint to the remainder of the team. ‘You know the drill.’ At least, he hoped they did. Hannen went about his task as the other warriors tracked their weapons back and forth into the darkness. The Vostroyan was already assembling his portable plasma cutting rig, screwing the photonic cell into the main assembly as Flint peered into the vent through the rusted grille. The blades of the vent were visible and it was immediately apparent that they hadn’t revolved in some time, the fins visibly corroded and broken.

Flint drew his bolt pistol as Hannen ignited the plasma cutter. An incandescent tongue of violet energy lanced forth several centimetres from the nozzle and Flint looked away just in time to avoid being temporarily blinded.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Hannen, who had already lowered a photochromatic work visor. As the man got to work Flint took advantage of the sudden illumination to squint further into the vent’s innards. The conduit beyond the broken blades was visible by the flickering violet-hued light and Flint was grateful that the plasma cutter gave off next to no sound beyond that of bubbling liquid metal splashing across the dry ground. He kept his pistol trained on the darkness all the same, wary for any sign of movement.

Hannen worked fast and within another few minutes was on the last cut. With a gesture, Flint gathered the infiltration team around the opening ready to move as soon as Hannen was done. He was gratified to see two of Bukin’s men continuing to cover the darkness with their ugly Mark IIIs, moving backwards with combat shotguns raised as they prepared to pass through the vent as soon as it was accessible.

‘Almost there,’ warned Hannen as the plasma cut through the last few centimetres. Molten metal spat and hissed as it ran down the rusted grille. ‘Brace.’

Bukin motioned for two of his provosts to take hold of an edge of the grille each and just as the plasma cut through the last bar they lifted the whole structure to stop it falling noisily to the ground. Grunting, the two men shifted their weight and moved sideways, leaning the severed grille against the rockcrete wall beside the now open vent.

Flint motioned for silence and strained his ears for any sign of activity. After ten seconds he made a second sharp hand signal and Dragoon Lhor stepped forward into the opening, his heavy flamer raised. Flint lowered his night vision goggles, activating them with a turn of a brass dial. The goggles powered up with a brief, just-audible ultrasonic squeal and the scene was rendered into grainy green-grey.

No time like the present, Flint thought, making a downward chopping motion with his free hand.

Lhor was the first to move forward, the nozzle of the heavy flamer tracking left and right as he trod carefully along the tunnel. The weapon’s blue pilot flame was a ghosting will-o’-the-wisp in the blackness. The floor was strewn with gritty debris, the dried effluvium of several centuries of neglect that crunched underfoot as the team advanced. Flint was painfully aware of the sound resounding with the step of every warrior apart from Karasinda.

‘You hear that?’ slurred Corporal Bukin.

‘Shh,’ said Kohlz, earning a dirty look from the provost leader.

His aide’s warning echoing away to silence, Flint strained to listen to the ghost of a sound coming from somewhere up ahead. The tunnel made the sound indistinct and nigh impossible to pinpoint, as if it could be coming from any one of several directions. Then the sound came again and this time Flint couldn’t mistake its source. It was undoubtedly the sound of anger and pain.

‘Get ready,’ said Flint, raising his bolt pistol in one hand and loosening his power sword in its scabbard with the other. ‘Lhor, keep going, but be ready. Do nothing unless I tell you.’

As the group approached a turn a sudden crack of gunfire sounded from just around the bend. The report was deafeningly loud in the confines of the tunnel and it bounced around the cold walls like a ricocheting slug round. As one, the team members ducked back against the wall or hit the deck, weapons raised towards the bend.

The sharp smell of a primitive and badly mixed propellant struck Flint’s nostrils as a hazy blue cloud drifted into the tunnel from around the corner. A harsh shout followed, telling Flint that whoever had fired the crude weapon was scant metres beyond the turn. Bukin rose up with his combat shotgun raised to his shoulder but Flint waved him back.

As the sounds of combat continued, Flint listened intently. There was no more gunfire but plenty of improvised weapons clashing, crude iron striking flesh and bone, telling Flint something of the two parties fighting one another.

‘Two rival groups,’ Flint whispered to Bukin, who was knelt down next to him in the dark. ‘No coordinated or sustained fire, so the wardens aren’t one of them.’

Shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, Bukin replied, ‘Convict scum. Let them kill each other, sir?’

‘I want to know who’s fighting who, corporal,’ said Flint. ‘And why. And I want some idea what we’re up against.’

‘Then we let them kill each other, sir?’ Bukin grinned wickedly.

‘Maybe,’ said Flint, seeing Bukin’s pantomime expression of disappointment. ‘Wait a moment.’

Flint peered around the bend, first one eye and then both as he strained to make sense of the shadows. His goggles rendered the view static-shot and green-grey, the blurry images slowly resolving as the goggles registered the scene.

There was an opening into a massive chamber just ahead and the first thing Flint saw was a number of figures silhouetted against it, with more dashing to and fro in the space beyond. Two members of the dozen or so strong group were engaged in an animated argument. Flint couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could tell from their gestures and body language they were on the verge of a physical confrontation. More of the group were ducked inside the tunnel, several of them looking back towards Flint’s position as if considering fleeing.

‘Looks like an ambush,’ Flint whispered just loud enough for Bukin to hear. ‘They must have come this way and been jumped as they emerged into the chamber.’

‘Then why don’t they head back this way, sir?’ whispered Bukin.

‘Looks like one of them’s asking just that,’ Flint replied as the two men near the entrance squared off against one another. One was a huge brute and by the ugly firearm held in one hand it was he who had fired the shot before. Scanning the other members crouching in the shadows, Flint confirmed that was the only such weapon they carried.

A shotgun thundered and pulverised rockcrete showered the two men facing off against one another. Both ducked back to opposite sides of the tunnel, shouting loudly at one another despite the danger they shared.

‘Sounded like a Navy piece,’ said Bukin, edging as close to Flint as he could without exposing himself around the corner.

‘Or something looted from a warden,’ replied Flint. ‘Hang on…’

The shorter of the two arguing men stood and strode hurriedly away from the other. The larger man shouted something, but the only response he got was a crude gesture.

‘One of them’s coming this way,’ he hissed. ‘Take him, alive.’

Bukin looked hurt but the expression changed to one of nasty determination as he spun his shotgun in his grip, wielding it like a club. ‘How alive, sir?’ the provost sneered.

‘Talking alive,’ said Flint. A second later the convict rounded the corner at speed. Before he could even register the infiltration team’s presence the butt of Bukin’s shotgun slammed down on his neck and he collapsed in a crumpled heap.

‘I said “alive”.’

The convict moaned and tried to roll over but Flint restrained him with a gloved hand to the shoulder.

‘He is,’ complained Bukin. ‘And he’ll be talking too in a minute, sir.’

‘What…’ the convict spluttered as his eyes struggled to focus on Flint. Realisation dawned as the man took in Flint’s peaked cap and black leather storm coat.

‘Commissar?!’ he coughed, his voiced filled with horror. It was immediately evident to Flint that coming face to face with a commissar in the depths of a penal generatorium taken over by rebels was almost too much for the man to comprehend.

Deciding to capitalise on the man’s reaction, Flint raised his bolt pistol and racked the slide. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself – to me or to the Emperor. Your choice.’

Bukin almost guffawed, but Flint’s cold expression forestalled whatever insolent quip he was about to make.

‘Five seconds,’ said Flint, lowering the bolt pistol towards the man’s temple.

‘Solomon, sir,’ the man blurted. ‘Indentee-trooper, weapons platoon, D Squadron, 71st Jopall.’ The man reeled off a hugely long code that could only have been an Officio Munitorum troop serial number. He was Imperial Guard, or had been once, and the name, rank and number response was so ingrained in him that being confronted with a commissar had caused it to come tumbling out of his mouth unbidden.

‘Time’s up,’ Bukin sneered.

The man’s eyes darted towards the provost chief, then back to Flint as if he couldn’t decide who to be more intimidated by.

‘Who are you fighting?’ growled Flint. ‘And why?’

‘The rebels, sir,’ replied Solomon. ‘We were trying to break out.’

‘Out?’ said Flint. ‘Out of where?’

Solomon looked all around him, the gesture indicating he meant the entire complex. ‘Out,’ he repeated.

Bukin chipped in before Flint could respond. ‘Getting too hot for you in here?’

‘Shh!’ Flint hissed. ‘Where did you think you were headed?’

Something resembling realisation formed in the trooper’s expression, and he looked around again, this time focusing on the warriors around the tunnel. Most had their rebreathers raised and their night vision goggles lowered, so he could see little of their faces. ‘To the Guard,’ he stammered. ‘To you?’

Bukin’s eyebrows raised with exaggerated incredulity. Lifting his bolt pistol clear of Solomon’s head, Flint said, ‘Why were you heading back this way?’

The trooper’s face darkened before he answered. ‘We were ambushed on our way to the main gate. Someone must have sold us out, so I was for finding another way round.’

‘And the other, he disagreed?’

‘Skane,’ Solomon named the larger man he had been arguing with. ‘He wanted to fight through to Vendell’s lot. They’re in the gak, and we can’t reach them.’

Flint’s mind raced as he considered the situation. If there were convicts who hadn’t rebelled against the complex’s authorities and they were fighting for their lives right now, honour demanded he aid them. But the mission parameters would be best served by him cuffing Solomon and taking him back to regimental command right away. Flint was in no doubt the man would be able to offer up potentially vital intelligence about the rebels’ strengths and dispositions, and, by the looks of him, he would do so willingly.

Then, things changed again.

‘Sir!’ Bukin hissed. ‘Company!’

Another convict turned the corner. ‘Solomon?’ the man called out before his eyes penetrated the dark and registered the presence of several large calibre weapons pointed directly at his head. ‘Solomon, what the hell…’

‘Freeze!’ ordered Flint, and the man skidded to a halt. His wide eyes focused on the bobbing blue pilot light of Lhor’s heavy flamer.

‘Solomon?’

‘Silence!’ Flint barked, his bolt pistol aimed right between the man’s eyes. ‘Solomon,’ he continued, not taking his eyes from the newcomer. ‘Stand up and join your friend here.’

Movement in the periphery of the view through his night vision goggles told Flint that Solomon was obeying his command, and a moment later the convict was standing alongside his companion. Another shotgun blast resounded from outside, and the two convicts shared a wary glance.

Flint’s mind was made up.

‘Bukin,’ he said. ‘Get everyone ready. We’re ending this, now.’

‘Sir, the mission…’ Bukin protested.

‘Has just changed,’ Flint spat back. ‘If there are loyalists in there, I want them on our side. We need them on our side. Get going.’

‘You two,’ Flint rounded on the two convicts ‘You are at a crossroads. I need your help and you need mine. In a moment we’ll all be rounding that corner, but you’ll be going first, understood?’

The second convict, who was shorter than the first and blessed with a staggeringly ugly face only the Emperor could love, nodded in instant understanding. ‘We’re the messengers,’ he said. ‘Just hope we don’t get shot.’

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ said Flint. ‘Move,’ he waived the two convicts off with a flick of his bolt pistol.

Rounding the corner at the same time as the convicts, Flint and Bukin strode straight forward towards the group of men and women sheltering near the tunnel mouth. The nearest convict turned, and immediately shouted a warning. The big man, who Solomon had named Skane was ducked inside the entrance reloading his bulky firearm, which he raised one-handed as he spun around in response to the shout.

‘Don’t shoot!’ shouted Solomon. ‘It’s me!’

‘I see that,’ growled Skane, his weapon trained on Solomon but his eyes squinting into the darkness behind his fellow convict. ‘Who’s with you?’ His voice was deep and powerful, but laced with suspicion. ‘You sold us out?’

‘We’ve done this already,’ Solomon replied through gritted teeth. ‘We were trying to find the Guard, right?’

‘Right,’ said Skane, clearly expecting a trick.

‘Well,’ said Solomon, ‘they found us.’

Skane’s eyes searched the shadows behind Solomon, but it was clear he could see nothing more than the suggestion of the infiltration team’s presence. The crudely made firearm swept left and right, and Flint decided to take matters into his own hands.

‘Skane?’ Flint called out. ‘Solomon’s telling the truth. He hasn’t sold you out. We’re here to restore order.’

‘Then step forward, where I can see you,’ said Skane, though Flint could tell the man was still expecting a double-cross. ‘Nice and slow.’

Holstering his bolt pistol despite Bukin’s disapproving look, Flint stepped out around the two convicts and started up the tunnel towards Skane. As he did so he pulled his night vision goggles down around his neck and straightened his peaked cap.

‘Commissar…’ Skane snarled. Though the other man was silhouetted against the opening of the tunnel and his features cast in shadow, Flint could see his face forming into a bitter scowl. ‘Your type don’t help no one,’ he barked.

Another shot was fired somewhere outside in the carceri chamber, and the sound of angry shouting drifted into the tunnel. ‘Sounds like your people are dying out there, Skane,’ said Flint. ‘I’m here with the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn. I’m here to help.’

Skane’s eyes bored into Flint’s, the man’s hatred of commissars clear to see. Obviously, he had been on the wrong end of commissarial justice at some point, probably accounting for his presence in the penal generatorium. The man’s eyes darted back towards the tunnel mouth at the sound of the shouting, and Flint could read his desire to aid his companions.

‘Help who?’ said Skane, forcing Flint to suppress his rising frustration at the man’s bloody-mindedness. The shouting outside was getting louder and more urgent, as if a pitched battle were reaching a tipping point.

‘I’m not here to haul you off to the stockade, Trooper Skane,’ said Flint. While not totally sure that the man had been in the Imperial Guard, he had to try something. ‘You’re not on any charge. I can see you’re not a rebel, and it’s my duty to persecute those who are.’

Moments of silence punctuated by the sounds of distant battle followed, before Solomon spoke up. ‘He means it, Skane. It’s the only way. We don’t have any other choice.’

‘Okay, commissar,’ Skane said as he lowered his firearm. ‘What happens now?’

Flint let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘You tell me what we’re up against, and we go make a difference, trooper.’

‘Corporal,’ said Skane, his eyes locked on Flint’s. ‘I was a corporal. Ninety-ninth Elysian.’

‘Bukin?’ Flint hissed at the provost. ‘Arm Corporal Skane’s men.’

‘Sir?’ the chief provost said, a protest forming.

‘Share out your side arms,’ Flint ordered.

Kohlz was the first Vostroyan to obey, unholstering his laspistol and passing it butt-first to the nearest convict-worker. The man reached for the weapon, uncertainly at first, then as his hand closed around the grip, with conviction. But Kohlz held on to the weapon for a moment, before Flint nodded and he released it in to the man’s possession.

With obvious reluctance, Bukin unholstered a bulky autopistol from his belt, one of three side arms the provost carried, and handed it to a nearby convict. Within moments, Bukin had cajoled his fellow provosts into relinquishing their own personal weapons, and the convicts were all armed.

Skane nodded his thanks to Flint, and edged towards the tunnel mouth. Flint followed, and for the first time was afforded a view of the interior of one of Alpha Penitentia’s mighty generatoria chambers.

Lifting his gaze from the floor towards the distant, haze-shrouded vaults, Flint saw that the chamber was impossibly vast. But he didn’t have time to take in the full extent of the architecture, as the sound of another shotgun blast snapped his attention back to ground level. He was peppered with rockcrete shrapnel, and as soon as the powder-haze had cleared he located the firer.

‘Who the hell is that?’ growled Flint as he ducked back into cover. The biggest man Flint had ever seen was crouched in a nook forty or so metres down the wall from the tunnel entrance, his shotgun, obviously taken from a warden, raised before him.

‘That,’ said Skane, ‘is Arnil Khave. Biggest, ugliest Catachan you’ll ever see, and that’s saying something.’

The Catachan swung his weapon around towards a massive and unidentifiable piece of machinery and unleashed yet another volley. A shower of sparks erupted from the machine as hundreds of metal shotgun pellets struck what looked like some form of engine casing. Flint heard shouts from behind another, similar piece of machinery, and guessed that several more groups of convicts were pinned down by the Catachan’s fire.

‘Who’s he firing at,’ Flint shouted back to Skane. ‘Yours?’

‘Mine is one of three groups making for that vestibule portal,’ he pointed towards a distant section of wall made indistinct by the smoky haze that seemed to cling to the chamber floor. ‘He’s firing at Vendell’s lot.’

‘And the third?’ said Flint, raising his voice as the Catachan bawled an order to an unseen underling.

Skane didn’t answer. ‘Tell me, corporal,’ Flint ordered.

‘Vahn,’ he said. ‘He’s what you might call our leader.’

‘But?’ Flint pressed.

‘He should have got here before us,’ Skane said. ‘Before both of the other groups. But Vahn’s not here, and he is.’ Skane emphasised the subject of his statement with a nod towards the Catachan. Now things were starting to make some sort of sense, thought Flint, in a chaotic sort of way.

‘This Vahn, you think he’s sold you out?’ asked Flint. ‘You think he’s bought his freedom and you’re the blood price?’

Anger flashed across Skane’s face at so overt an explanation of what might have happened, but it was replaced a moment later by bitter resignation. ‘I’m not saying he has,’ Skane began. ‘But this doesn’t look good.’

‘No,’ said Flint. ‘It doesn’t. But regardless,’ he continued, looking out towards the huge mass of geotherm machinery. ‘We need to extricate the other group and get everyone back to base.

‘Listen up,’ Flint addressed both the dragoons and the convicts. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’

‘Move!’ Vahn hissed urgently as the Catachan fired another volley towards Vendell’s hiding place. Vahn’s group was still too far away from the action to intervene, and closing on the ambushers would mean crossing the open chamber floor and exposing themselves to the Catachan’s fire.

That wasn’t an option.

Vahn ushered Becka and the rest towards a mass of corroded pipework that sprawled across the ground, reminding him of an abattoir floor.

Angry shouts sounded from behind the cover where he knew Vendell and at least half a dozen of his group to be taking cover, followed by more from behind other scraps of corroded machinery. Vahn moved quickly and by the time he reached the mass of twisting pipes had almost overtaken the convict in front.

‘What now?’ asked Becka as she peered cautiously over the pipe. ‘We’re still too far away.’

Vahn rolled over onto his front and lifted himself up on both arms so that he too could see the action. Becka was right; they were still too far from the action to intervene and too far from the vestibule portal to escape. To make things worse, the enemy had the firepower, and was using it to pin the escapees down. Ultimately, Vahn knew that Vendell’s group would be outflanked and exposed to a lethal crossfire; it was only a matter of time.

‘Hang on,’ Vahn told Becka as he squinted into the haze that half-obscured the scene. Part of it was the smoke of gunfire, but without the air scrubbers the vast carceri chambers were filling with condensation. Thick white clouds were gathering in the vaults and creeping fog cloaked the ground. The air felt damp and oppressive, like a thunderstorm was building up.

‘Maybe we could use the fog,’ Vahn said, half to himself. ‘Head to the left and cross the floor under cover of the haze.’

‘That’ll bring us up behind the Catachan,’ said Becka, a nasty glint in her eye.

‘We deal with him, then link up with Skane in the tunnel mouth. Cross towards the portal and round up Vendell’s mob on the way, dealing with any more of Strannik’s scum as we go.’

‘Catachan’s the deal-breaker,’ said Becka. ‘Won’t be no pushover.’

‘No one ever said breaking out of an upsilon-grade Munitorum installation would be easy,’ Vahn grinned.

‘Go!’ Flint hissed, patting Bukin on the shoulder as he moved out at a stooped run followed by his provosts.

The provost section crossed fifty or so metres of hazy, yet open, ground before the Catachan fired. Flint had timed his order to coincide with the enemy reloading his weapon, and Bukin’s group had almost reached the cover of a large thermal transfer mechanism before the Catachan was able to fire again.

The ground at Bukin’s feet erupted in a hail of dust and shrapnel as hundreds of shotgun pellets tore into it, the provosts charging through and throwing themselves behind a huge, cog-toothed brass wheel. One didn’t make it, his broken form reduced to a torn, ragged mess by the blast. As Bukin ducked into the cover, he spun as a rebel convict appeared twenty metres away, firing his Mark III from the hip. The blast threw the rebel backwards and left only a fine red mist floating in the air where he had been. A moment later, another rebel appeared, and this time three of the provosts opened fire as one, scattering the bloody chunks that had been their target across the wall behind.

‘Go!’ Flint shouted to Skane and the recently armed convicts. The instant they appeared in the open the Catachan stood and levelled his shotgun right at them. Bukin and his companions fired from between the cogs of the huge gear wheel, peppering their target’s cover with a churning storm of pellets and rockcrete shrapnel. The Catachan ducked back into his nook with an audible curse, and Bukin’s group waited on overwatch for him to show himself again.

‘Our turn,’ said Flint, raising his bolt pistol in one hand and drawing his basket-hilted power sword with the other. He activated the blade’s lethal power field with a flick of his thumb, tasting the bleachy tang of ozone as the air around the sword burned. Flint stepped out of the tunnel mouth, feeling instantly incredibly vulnerable.

‘Sir!’ a woman’s voice shouted from somewhere along the wall behind him. Her tone was so sharp Flint responded on instinct, ducking down and throwing himself against the rockcrete. An instant later, a bolt of searing lasgun fire burned the air not a metre from Flint’s head and a figure he had not even seen dropped heavily to the ground.

Turning back, Flint saw Karasinda lowering her lasgun, a wisp of vapour wafting from the barrel as the heat of the discharge bled into the damp air. Before Flint could thank her, she turned and jogged after Bukin and the other provosts.

‘Putting the combat into combat medic, eh sir?’ Lhor said as he caught up.

Flint ignored the comment, too intent upon facing the Catachan.

‘Vendell!’ Flint heard Skane bellow across the hazy chamber floor. ‘Move!’

Hearing Skane’s order, the Catachan peered out of his cover. Seeing what was happening he bawled for his followers to attack and then ducked back into the nook before the provosts could open fire. While Skane and his convicts were heading west along the chamber wall towards the vestibule portal, Flint and the heavy flamer team were heading east, towards the Catachan, covering the escape and hoping to deal with the enemy leader.

The white smog beyond the Catachan’s hiding place grew dense with grey shadows, and Flint knew that more rebels were closing in, as he had expected them to. ‘Get ready,’ he growled, patting Lhor on the shoulder.

More shouts rang out from behind the various oversized machines around the chamber floor as Vendell’s groups coordinated their dash for freedom with Skane and Bukin’s. Flint didn’t turn, but kept his bolt pistol trained on the nook where the Catachan was still sheltering.

After a few more seconds the first of the grey shadows resolved into a solid figure. It was a rebel convict, wearing fragments of glossy black hardshell torn no doubt from the body of a slain claviger-warden. The man was wielding a length of serrated iron bar. Lhor grimaced in disgust at the sight of the cruel weapon, and raised his flamer, but Flint warned him off. ‘Wait.’

A few seconds later, more rebels emerged from the smog, each carrying an improvised weapon as cruel and inventive as the first man’s. They saw Flint and immediately recognised him as a commissar, breaking into a chorus of hateful invective that echoed around the entire chamber.

‘Now,’ said Flint.

‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Lhor.

A jet of chemical fuel arced from the nozzle of the heavy flamer, igniting into blinding orange fire as it passed through the hissing pilot flame. Intense heat erupted all around, and even though Flint was standing on the other side of the weapon’s business end he felt the exposed skin on his face singed by its force. Lhor had set the valve to fire a long, narrow blast, and the flames lanced through the smog, parting it before enveloping the lead rebel in burning fuel and transforming him into a raging column of fire, his rapidly disintegrating form collapsing to the ground. The man hadn’t even had time to scream.

Lhor cut the roaring flame off as the survivors faltered, some backing off into the all-enclosing smog.

‘Stand!’ the Catachan bawled from cover. ‘Or I’ll kill you myself!’

‘Easy for him to say,’ Lhor drawled, preparing to fire a second burst.

Seeing that Skane’s group were all clear, Flint decided it was time to get moving after them. ‘One more blast,’ Flint ordered. ‘Just to put them off following.’

A second lance of flame arced outwards, Lhor washing it left and right to catch as many of the rebels in the snaking burst as possible. Even over the roar of the weapon’s discharge and the stink of its promethium fuel, Flint heard the banshee wail of burning men and smelled the stink of roasting flesh. Even for a battle-hardened commissar, some things were hard to watch, but he forced himself to continue aiming his bolt pistol at the Catachan’s position.

He was glad he had, as the huge rebel leader powered out of his hiding place with his shotgun raised and unleashed an un-aimed blast towards Flint and his companions. At the very same instant, Flint fired his pistol and both attacks hit home at once.

The Catachan’s volley blasted one of Lhor’s fellow logistics troops to the ground as dozens of pellets tore into his right arm and shoulder. Flint’s bolt shell grazed the Catachan in the meaty flesh of his upper left arm, but it exploded too late to inflict its full potential of damage. The Catachan was so tough and heavily muscled that he fought on, bellowing a curse at Flint.

Backing away, the Catachan raised his shotgun one-handed, his wounded arm hanging limp at his side. Flint lined up a second shot, this one aimed straight at his enemy’s head, when the man spun on the spot and fired his weapon into the smog to his left. Flint’s aim was spoiled, but Lhor was ready to fire again.

‘Hold fire!’ said Flint.

‘I have them, sir,’ Lhor complained, his face now blackened and sooty from the heavy flamer’s backwash. ‘I can take the whole khekking lot!’

‘I said hold,’ Flint repeated as the Catachan retreated into the smog, treading through the smouldering remains of his dead followers and scattering still-burning cinders across the ground. One more shot boomed out of the fog, this time muted by the heavy moisture in the air. The grey figures the Catachan had been firing at emerged to Flint’s right, improvised weapons raised two-handed and eyes wild with a mixture of battle-lust and terror.

Lhor swept the heavy flamer back and forth, ready to incinerate the newcomers, but he held his fire as ordered.

Flint switched aim and pointed his pistol at the nearest figure. It was a woman, her clothes little more than rags stitched crudely around the curves of her body. She wore heavy, knee-high combat boots and a rebreather obscured the lower half of her face. She raised both hands as she skidded to a halt on seeing Flint.

A second figure emerged beside the woman, this one clad just as roughly and sporting waist-length dreadlocks. He however did not raise his hands, and Flint brought his pistol to bear on the man’s face.

‘Vahn?’ Flint called out, judging by his bearing that this was the leader of the third group of refugee convicts.

The two shared a quizzical glance as more convicts appeared behind them, spreading out but obviously nervous that more rebels would soon descend upon them.

‘Guard?’ said the man, flexing his grip on the iron bar he held in one hand.

‘Vostroyan 77th,’ said Flint as the sound of running footsteps rang from the fog beyond, soon accompanied by angry shouts. ‘Your men are safe.’

Vahn nodded towards Lhor and the huge weapon he was still pointing towards the convicts. ‘You sure about that, commissar?’

‘Stand down,’ Flint ordered Lhor. ‘Get moving. We’re leaving, Vahn. If you want out, now’s your only chance.’

Vahn and the green-haired woman exchanged words too quietly for Flint to overhear, then he waved the rest of the group forward. Satisfied that all of the convicts were moving, Vahn jogged after them, and soon the entire force was moving back towards the tunnel entrance. There, Flint ensured that his entire infiltration party was accounted for, including the man wounded by the Catachan’s shotgun blast. Vahn gathered his convicts, ordering them to follow their liberators. Flint could scarcely miss the tension between Vahn and Skane, but the two men appeared to reach an unspoken agreement that whatever recriminations would be voiced would have to wait until they were all clear of the penal generatorium.

With the dozen dragoons and the three-dozen or so convicts moving away down the tunnel towards the vent, Flint was the last to leave the carceri chamber. With one last look, he cursed the place, knowing it was just one of twenty such chambers, all of which would be swarming with murderous rebels. This, he knew, was just the beginning.

‘Welcome to Alpha Penitentia, commissar,’ said Vahn over his shoulder as he marched away after his companions. ‘Welcome to hell.’

Six

Integration

‘So what is this?’ snarled Corporal Skane. ‘You pulled us out just to torture us?’

‘Relax, corporal,’ said Flint. ‘No one said anything about torture. We just need to ask you some questions.’

Having extracted the convicts from the complex, Flint had brought them back to the regimental laager. Despite the fatigue and the post-battle comedown, Flint had known that he would have to segregate the convicts from the regiment until things could be squared with Aleksis, and so he had approached the intelligence chief, Major Herrmahn, and arranged the use of a number of habitents. The bulk of the liberated convict-workers were gathered in the largest, but Vahn, Becka and Skane had been separated and allocated a small side-chamber each. Flint had sensed that these three would have the most to tell him, whether they wanted to or not.

Now, Skane was seated in the centre of the habitent chamber that Flint was using to interview each of the segregated workers, the sole illumination provided by a portable lumen unit hung directly overhead. Major Herrmahn stood cross-armed behind the convict while Bukin loitered near the entrance, his Vostroyan Mark III rested nonchalantly over his shoulder while he chewed on the stub of his cigar.

‘What questions?’ said Skane. ‘You said I wasn’t on any charge.’

‘And you’re not, corporal,’ said Flint. ‘But we went in there to spy out the lie of the land, and we ran into you. We need to know how the rebels took over, how many there are and where they are. Start with how.’

Skane glanced around the bare habitent chamber, glowering at Bukin before looking back to Flint. ‘Colonel Strannik,’ Skane said. ‘You know him?’

‘Not personally,’ said Flint. Though he had tried to access the data- stack archives on the former colonel, Flint had been unable to penetrate the cipher-seal placed upon them. He had considered asking for Major Herrmahn’s help, but had decided against it until he knew the intelligence chief better. ‘What do you know about him?’

Skane sighed, then answered, ‘He was commanding officer of one of your regiments,’ said Skane.

‘I’m Commissariat,’ Flint replied. ‘You mean Strannik was Firstborn?’

Flint looked from Skane to Major Herrmahn, who shifted somewhat uncomfortably, then nodded subtly in confirmation.

‘Yes,’ said Skane. ‘I don’t know for sure what happened to him to end up in Penitentia, but there were sure some stories doing the rounds.’

‘I bet there were,’ said Flint, dismissing the comment. In all likelihood none of the stories Skane had heard bore any resemblance to the truth.

‘Can’t have been that bad though,’ Skane added. Flint raised his eyebrows in response, and Skane added, ‘Well, he wasn’t executed, was he?’

That thought had crossed Flint’s mind too. In all his years as a commissar, he had never seen a senior Guard officer who had committed a punishable crime sentenced to imprisonment in any sort of penal facility. Those charged with cowardice, gross incompetence or corruption were generally executed on the spot, while those with the clout to avoid such a fate were normally able to pull in some sort of favour that got them well away from the source of the trouble and any likely ramifications. Some fell back on past relationships with other officers now in a more senior position, calling in favours and buying themselves cushy appointments on the general staff or some backwater garrison. Strannik ending up in Alpha Penitentia was suspect indeed.

‘What was he like?’ Flint pressed.

‘He ran the place like he was the governor,’ Skane replied. ‘Like it was his birthright.’

‘And the other convicts, they accepted this?’

‘Huh,’ said Skane. ‘They didn’t have any choice. Anyone that didn’t play along got strung from the upper galleries.’

‘And the wardens, the clavigers. They allowed this to happen?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Skane sneered. ‘They made it happen.’

Flint saw Herrmahn shift again, as if he knew all this already and had no desire to hear it again.

‘How?’ said Flint. ‘And why?’

‘Commissar,’ Major Herrmahn interjected before Skane could answer. ‘Might I suggest we pursue this line of enquiry at a later juncture?’

Flint nodded slowly, acceding to the intelligence chief’s request. Herrmahn was perhaps his only ally on the regiment’s staff, and not an officer he wanted to make an enemy of. Only by showing consideration to the convoluted politicking of the noble clans that dominated the region’s military would he have any chance of fulfilling his duty as regimental commissar. Then something occurred to him. As commanding officer of a regiment of the Vostroyan Firstborn, Strannik must be, or must have been at least, part of that complex network of bloodlines and patronage. Perhaps, Flint realised, Strannik was a member of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan.

‘Commissar?’ Skane interrupted his chain of thought. ‘We done here?’

‘For now,’ said Flint. ‘Yes, we’re done.’

Bukin stirred himself by the portal, and led Skane back to his makeshift holding cell. ‘You want the next one?’ he asked.

‘Send in the Savlar,’ said Flint, consulting his data-slate. ‘Becka.’

Flint continued the interviews late into the night and well into the early morning, taking advantage of the convicts’ fatigue to eke information out of them piece by piece without it seeming like an interrogation. He himself was well used to the technique and had little trouble staying alert even though he hadn’t rested in what seemed like days. Nevertheless, Flint kept Kohlz on hand to fetch numerous cups of recaff. Bukin had nodded off several times, but had turned down Flint’s suggestion he get an hour’s sleep, his nasty streak compelling him to watch over every questioning session.

Becka turned out to be a former indentured labourer and erstwhile scum-ganger from the distant mining world of Savlar. While Flint hadn’t heard of the planet, Herrmahn and Bukin both had, and they filled in what details the archives couldn’t provide. Savlar’s mines were served by recidivists, petty criminals and their descendents, and its population was generally held to be one of the most undisciplined in the region. By Herrmahn’s account, the workers were so ungovernable they couldn’t even be trusted to serve in the Penal Legions of the Imperial Guard. Instead, they were subjected to a brutal regime in which they were given the choice of working or starving, yet some, Becka included, still managed to escape. Flint got little out of Becka regarding how she came to be interred in Alpha Penitentia having escaped her home world, and he let the matter go for the moment.

He also discovered just why she wore her rebreather even when the atmosphere was perfectly breathable. The Savlars, it seemed, were forced to submit to their overseers’ rule by keeping them addicted to a low level narcotic rationed out in canisters and inhaled via the facemask. Becka had replaced the regularly rationed chemical with whatever bootleg she could obtain in the seediest depths of Alpha Penitentia. Far from recreational, the continuous inhaling of the drug was probably all that kept her functional.

The Savlar had been unable to offer any more information on Colonel Strannik than Skane had and, in deference to Major Herrmahn, Flint hadn’t pressed the matter. Instead, he concentrated on her accounts of the uprising itself in order to get some idea of the events that had led to the outbreak of violence. He already knew from the briefing stacks that the uprising had been triggered when the Departmento Munitorum had ordered the installation to render up a portion of its inmates to serve in a new Penal Legion, to be fielded against warp-slaved rebels preying on the out-lying marches of the Finial Sector. The claviger-wardens had gone straight to Colonel Strannik and informed him that he would be responsible for deciding which of his followers would serve and which would be spared, and the complex had immediately split into two factions – those who Strannik sought to condemn to servitude and death in the Penal Legion, and his favourites who would stay behind. Inevitably, those loyal to Strannik were also the strongest and most brutal of the convicts, while those outside of his influence were the powerless and outcast.

Those Strannik consigned to the Penal Legion refused to serve, and driven to desperation rose up against him. The ensuing battle was brief but deadly, and within hours hundreds of Strannik’s enemies were dead, their broken corpses strung from the galleries and gantries of the carceri chambers. But the violence didn’t stop there, for the colonel’s followers took it upon themselves to punish all who weren’t allied to them. They initiated a purge of the entire convict-worker population in a week-long orgy of bloodletting and senseless violence.

Perhaps realising that the violence would reduce the population so much that he would be unable to meet the Officio Munitorum’s demands for a newly raised Penal Legion, it appeared that Governor Kherhart ordered the claviger-wardens to put down the uprising and to separate the warring factions. But that proved a grievous mistake, and one that Flint considered sufficiently dire to justify the governor’s removal from office. Both sides turned on the wardens and the uprising entered a new and tragic phase. Within another week, the explosion of unfettered violence had resulted in the deaths of almost ninety per cent of the prison staff and untold thousands of the convicts themselves. The clavigers had been pushed back so that now they occupied the gate hall but no other parts of the complex, and as Flint knew only too well, the convicts had control of the defence batteries.

Having obtained a graphic picture of the violence of the uprising from Becka, Flint dismissed her and ordered Vendell brought before him. As Bukin ushered the man into the makeshift interrogation chamber, Flint caught glares of mutual dislike, as if the two men had decided within seconds of laying eyes upon one another that they would be enemies. Bukin seemed to have that effect on some people.

Flint’s questioning of Vendell revealed that he was from the world of Voyn’s Reach. Vendell had been a breacher in the 812th regiment of the world’s heavy assault units, and had got himself into trouble with the Commissariat soon after his regiment’s founding. In truth, Flint had neither the time nor the inclination to delve into the seedy details of every convict’s fall from grace. Instead, he focused on quizzing Vendell on his knowledge of the rebels’ numbers and dispositions. The Voyn’s Reacher offered his best guess on both counts, estimating Strannik’s followers to number in the thousands and that they were based in Carceri Resurecti, a generatoria chamber on the opposite side of the complex to the gate hall.

A plan began to form in Flint’s mind as he questioned still more convicts. The ad hoc mission into the complex had achieved its objective, though not in the way Flint had originally intended. In liberating the convict-workers he had discovered more about the rebels than he may have been able to by way of a simple reconnaissance. Yet, it seemed that each convict he questioned had a different notion of the rebel’s capabilities and their true agenda. Solomon, the man Flint had encountered first in the tunnels leading to Carceri Didactio, seemed to think the rebels numbered in the hundreds of thousands and that the colonel was planning on taking over the entire world of Furia Penitens and proclaiming its secession from the Imperium with him as its king. It was clear to Flint that Solomon’s outlook was somewhat… limited.

With Solomon dismissed and returned to the holding area, Bukin brought the last of the convicts, bar Vahn himself, before Flint. Hailing from the feudal world of Asgard, Stank, called ‘Rotten’ by his companions, was as ugly as Corporal Bukin and just as surly. The man was missing his right ear, the wound still angry and red, as Stank had clearly not had access to proper medicae facilities since losing it at some point during the uprising. Stank voiced his opinion that the uprising was hiding something far more sinister, something heretical and unclean. Though Flint couldn’t dismiss the possibility, he suspected that something of the culture of Stank’s home world was coming through, the myths and folklore of Asgard’s forest-dwelling communities retold and re-imagined through his exposure to the horrors of the galaxy at large. The conversation provided little in the way of genuinely useful information, but did serve to solidify Flint’s growing belief that another mission, in larger force and deeper into the penal generatorium complex, was required.

As Bukin ushered Stank away, Flint and Herrmahn were left alone in the starkly lit habitent chamber. Flint had kept an eye out for Herrmahn’s reaction whenever Colonel Strannik had been mentioned, and decided to broach the subject before Bukin returned with the last convict, Argusti Vahn.

‘We’ve questioned almost three-dozen convicts,’ Flint began. ‘And still we know little of this Colonel Strannik or his motivations.’

‘I would have thought you’d have guessed some of it by now, commissar.’ Herrmahn said. ‘You’ve certainly heard some truth amidst the nonsense these convicts have gabbled tonight.’

‘I believe I have,’ said Flint. ‘But I prefer to deal in facts. Strannik was Firstborn, yes? And I’m guessing that he is related to Governor Kherhart by way of the Techtriarchs of the Anhalz clan. Am I correct?’

Herrmahn looked down at his feet as if considering how much of a truthful answer he should give. ‘You are correct in that much, commissar,’ he replied.

‘But there’s more, isn’t there,’ said Flint. It wasn’t a question. In his mind’s eye Flint could already see the labyrinthine genealogy chart spreading out before him, and he really didn’t like the look of where the lines were meeting, or who they were joining together.

Herrmahn sighed. ‘Yes, commissar, there is more. But it has to come direct from–’

‘Last one, commissar,’ said Corporal Bukin as he led Argusti Vahn into the habitent chamber.

Vahn was wiry to the point of emaciation, though Flint suspected that even in better times he was prone to leanness. His hair was formed into waist-long dreadlocks and his intense eyes gleamed with an almost feral light from the midst of his filthy face. Vahn wore a ragged assortment of clothes combining the basic uniform all of the convicts were issued upon their incarceration with whatever scraps he had obtained since, crudely stitched together in a fashion that reminded Flint of the attire worn by the hardcore of the Gethsemane rebels.

Despite Vahn’s vagabond appearance, Flint could tell there was something more to the convict. He had after all asserted himself as leader of the refugee group, and apart from a few underlying tensions most of them appeared to have accepted him in that station. As a commissar it was one of Flint’s duties to be aware of the ebb and flow of informal power that sloshed around Imperial Guard units, and the majority of the convicts he had questioned so far appeared to be ex-Guard, planetary defence force or militia. Even those like Becka who hadn’t served in a formal sense had probably run with the hyper-violent gangs they grew up around.

‘So,’ Flint said to Vahn, gesturing for him to sit in the chair in the centre of the chamber. ‘What’s your story?’

Vahn cast a suspicious glance at the seat. Seeing that it was nothing more threatening than a standard-issue folding camp chair and therefore no immediate threat he sat, though he remained obviously distrustful of his surroundings.

‘My story?’ said Vahn. ‘Can’t really say I have one, commissar.’

Flint’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his chest. ‘Come on, Vahn,’ he replied. ‘Everyone’s got a story. Let’s hear something of yours. Where you’re from, for a start.’

Vahn snorted as if recalling a joke he had heard a long time ago. ‘I’m from Alpha Penitentia, commissar. You?’

Flint didn’t answer straight away, but scanned Vahn for any scrap of a clue he could use to his advantage. Vahn’s arms were bare and covered in an intricate tracery of tattoos. Those on the right arm were fairly standard for many Imperial Guardsmen, depicting holy images and reams of votive text. Those on the left were less standard and of a more lascivious nature, but not unlike those sported by long-serving Imperial Navy ratings. Was Vahn either of these?

‘Originally?’ said Flint, going along with it to gain some degree of common ground, ‘Orana, more or less. Then Progenium and the storm trooper regiment based out of Cirillo Prime.’ Vahn looked blankly back at him, as if he hadn’t heard of the place Flint’s company had been based for the best part of three years. ‘Then the Commissariat, and eventually Gethsemane.’

Still nothing. Vahn shrugged, unimpressed by Flint’s credentials. Perhaps the direct approach would work better, he thought.

‘I’m assuming you weren’t born in the generatorium,’ said Flint. Though tinged with sarcasm, the question hardly stretched credulity. Those penal facilities that didn’t segregate the sexes or enforce routine sterilisation might have substantial populations of inmates born into incarceration, literally condemned for the sins of their fathers. Flint doubted this was so in Vahn’s case however.

‘No,’ said Vahn, his expression suggesting he found the suggestion mildly insulting. ‘I wasn’t born in that place.’

‘Fine,’ said Flint. There was definitely something about Vahn that made Flint suspicious, though he wasn’t any closer to uncovering just what it might be. Perhapschanging the subject would uncover more details hidden between the lines. ‘We’re here to flush this whole place clean, purge these rebels and restore order. I need your help.’

Vahn’s eyes flashed to Flint’s as the commissar seated himself opposite the prisoner. ‘How so?’ said Vahn.

‘We need to know what we’re up against,’ said Flint. ‘We’ve spoken to all of your people, but we’re not getting much of any use.’

Vahn smiled at that, then said, ‘I’m not surprised. Most of them had never left their own carceri chamber before the uprising. The complex is a big place, commissar, and a lot goes on most Emperor-fearing people really wouldn’t want to know about.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Flint replied, pleased to be getting somewhere at last. ‘And we’re here to stop it.’ Then, he added, ‘To stop him.’

‘You mean the colonel,’ said Vahn flatly.

‘I do,’ Flint replied. ‘I mean to execute him by my own hand.’

Vahn’s eyes flashed savagely at Flint’s oath.

‘You want to help?’ Flint pressed.

The feral grin that split Vahn’s dirty features was all the answer the commissar needed.

Seven

Advance Guard

By the time Flint had concluded his questioning of the liberated generatorium convict-workers, the sun was up and the red-brown wastes around the laager were aglow, casting everything from the regiment’s armoured vehicles to the faces of its troops in an infernal blood-red hue.

Stepping from the portal of the makeshift interrogation unit, a memory of another time and place flashed across Flint’s mind. It was his first battle against the rebels on Gethsemane, and he had sustained a vicious head wound during the initial breakthrough. Not long out of the storm trooper regiment and only a few weeks into his first appointment with the Commissariat, Flint had been given a classic junior’s job – watching over the morale of a second line support unit. A group of insurgents had infiltrated the supply depot in the early hours and launched a brutal assault against the unsuspecting Imperial Guardsmen. The young Flint had rallied the survivors and in time repelled the attack, and at some point in the battle one of the frenzied rebels had struck him a vicious blow. Flint had fought for an hour with his forehead split open and the blood blurring his vision and tinting everything red, just like sunrise on Furia Penitens.

The unpleasant memory was dispelled in an instant by an equally unwelcome present. Through the stink of the fuel, exhaust and oil of the regiment’s numerous vehicles came a gusting taint of that abhorrent stink that had so dominated the wastes. Then it was gone, carried away on the ever present winds.

Though bone tired, Flint dismissed his fatigue and set about formulating his plan and the pitch he would make to the regiment’s commanders. He had ordered Bukin to get a few hours sleep, for the man was practically dead on his feet. He had made the same demand of Dragoon Kohlz, but his aide was determined to perform his duty regardless of his own tiredness, further confirming Flint’s decision to keep him on.

Flint’s aide proved himself still more able as he fended off several attempts from regimental headquarters to summon Flint to brief Aleksis on the details of the mission. The graf had received only a brief summary of events and was growing increasingly impatient. Kohlz understood that Flint needed time to formulate a proposal for the next move, and that the commissar wanted to keep politics at bay as long as possible.

Over several cups of recaff, Flint had considered the situation and how he would overcome it. The reconnaissance mission had learned little first-hand, but in liberating the convicts had gained a useful source of local knowledge.

Locked in the darkness of his personal habitent, Flint sought to block out the raucous sounds of milling Guardsmen and the to and fro of armoured vehicles. Until they knew more of the rebels’ disposition, all of those Guardsmen and all of their mighty armoured vehicles were next to useless. While the 77th could simply drive in through the massive iron doors of the gate hall, Flint knew that to do so would be tantamount to suicide and a negligent waste of resources. The rebels were on home ground and would be well able to avoid the Chimera armoured transports.

The regiment could dominate the floors of the massive carceri chambers and labour halls, it could even launch sweeps of the larger vestibule tunnels, but Flint had learned from his questioning of the convicts as well as details provided by Major Herrmahn that the complex was riddled with thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of kilometres of vents, flues, pipes, access tunnels and service conduits. Ordinarily, such rat-runs would have been denied to the inmates, accessible only to the claviger-wardens as they moved from one zone of the penal generatorium to another. Since the uprising, the rebels had mastered these tunnels, and could use them to move around the entire complex at will.

No, thought Flint as the morning had dragged on. It was too soon to launch a major assault. The enemy had to be found and fixed in place before it could be brought to battle and destroyed.

His mind made up, Flint called Kohlz from the annex of his shelter. ‘Request a command conference,’ he ordered. ‘And get me some more recaff.’

The regimental headquarters was crowded with officers and aides as Flint entered, Kohlz in tow. It looked like the entire command staff had been gathered to hear Flint’s report, with tactical stations doubling as makeshift seats as the 77th’s officer cadre packed into every available space.

The crowd parted as Flint made his way towards the throng of officers that represented the highest level of command – Graf Aleksis, Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam, the adjutant, Major Skribahn and the chief of operations, Lieutenant-Colonel Karsten. While the officers’ own personal aides scattered before the approaching commissar, the officers themselves appeared distinctly unimpressed, even haughty and arrogant as they looked up from their discussions.

‘Commissar Flint,’ said Aleksis. ‘We are most glad you could spare us the time.’

So that’s how you want to play it, Flint thought as he slowed to a halt before Aleksis and his fellows. The reasonable Aleksis, the man he had spoken with in the aftermath of the meeting with Governor Kherhart, had been supplanted by the aristocrat, the noble scion of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan for whom maintaining face in front of the chevek was all. Flint recognised that moment for what it was – the tipping point on which his standing as regimental commissar would be defined.

‘My apologies, graf,’ said Flint, Aleksis grunting dismissively in response. ‘I seem not to have made myself clear.’

‘No need to apol…’ the graf began, before something in Flint’s tone brought him up short. ‘What?’

It was almost a repeat of the scene that had played out with the goons of the logistics platoon, and then once again with Bukin out on the wastes that first night. Flint stood like some lone gunfighter facing down a mob of frontier town bullies, his coat hooked back to reveal his bolt pistol at his belt. Aleksis’s eyes narrowed as his glance flicked to the weapon, the most direct and potent symbol of a commissar’s authority, then back to Flint’s.

‘You mean to threaten me, in my own headquarters…?’ the graf stammered incredulously. ‘You think you can…’

‘Stop,’ Flint ordered, holding up a pointing hand as if to transfix the other man. ‘Say nothing more, until I have explained things to you in a manner you might understand.’

When no one dared utter a word, Flint continued.

‘I have been appointed regimental commissar of this unit to ensure that the mistakes that led to its predecessor’s destruction are not repeated.’

The gathered officers gave an almost inaudible gasp at the mention of that which none dared speak of, and Flint continued.

‘The 77th was destroyed fighting the Asharians at Golan Hole. It was wiped out, utterly. The glory of ten thousand years, and the eternal debt of Vostroya, was reduced to ashes.’ Anger swelled in Flint’s heart as he spoke, for his reading into the tragedy of Golan Hole had left him with a poor view indeed of the traditions of Vostroya’s so-called noble classes.

‘Your forebears,’ he snarled, not even trying to conceal the anger he felt as he recalled the suppressed accounts of the battle, ‘Allowed themselves to fall prey to hubris and arrogance. The Techtriarchs that rule you sent the 77th to war against a foe they had no business engaging, and entirely for their own interests. The officers of that – of this – regiment were too enslaved to their own ideals of honour to object!’

Flint was all but shouting his denunciation of the officers of the last iteration of the 77th Firstborn, his anger and disgust twisting his features into a snarling mask of bitterness.

‘Does not the Tactica Imperium counsel that a commander who wastes lives for no gain risks failure? “Loss is acceptable”’, he quoted the holy text, ‘“Failure is not!” These are the words by which a thousand generations of officers have lived, fought, served and died – never for themselves, always for the Imperium! For the Emperor!’

He took a hard breath as he looked from one officer to the next, none of them able to meet his steely gaze.

None, apart from Graf Aleksis.

‘Your point is well made, Commissar Flint,’ said the commander, and Flint saw genuine contrition in his eyes. ‘Those… mistakes shall not be repeated. That is my word, given to you upon my honour.’

Flint nodded slowly, then covered his bolt pistol with his black leather storm coat once more. ‘Then I accept your word, Graf Aleksis.’

The moment passed and the tension leeched out of the air as officers began conferring with their neighbours once more, though few still dared glance in Flint’s direction. ‘Carry on with your duties,’ said the commissar.

‘Thank you,’ the graf said, something of his old bluster returning, though undoubtedly tempered by Flint’s words and what had passed between them. ‘Would you perhaps present your report?’

‘I would,’ replied Flint.

‘Then let us call this conference to order,’ said Aleksis. The graf’s second-in-command looked relieved as he nodded to a tacticae operator, who worked the dials of his station. A large, tripod-mounted pict screen nearby flickered to life.

The image on the pict screen resolved into the face of Governor Kherhart, his head tipped back against the padded leather of his high-backed throne. The man’s mouth was slightly open and his eyes were shut, and it was obvious to all that he had nodded off while waiting for the conference to begin.

What is it, Flint thought, with Imperial Governors? Was it just the aristocracy of the Vostroyan Techtriarchs, or did they all conform to such a type?

Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam spoke softly into his vox-pickup, and a moment later the sound of a cough sounded through the pict screen’s phono-casters. Flint recognised the sound, and guessed that Claviger-Primaris Gruss was just off-screen. Kherhart came awake with a start, his periwig slipping backwards to reveal a liver-spotted, bald pate.

‘About time,’ the governor barked. ‘Get on with it then!’

‘Gentlemen,’ Flint began. ‘Having thoroughly questioned the convict-workers liberated from the complex and collated all tactical debriefings, I am now in a position to recommend the next phase of our mission to Furia Penitens.’

‘Excuse me,’ interjected Polzdam, holding up a hand as he spoke. ‘We don’t even know if there will be a next phase. The Lord Governor remains confident that he can…’

‘The Lord Governor has lost control,’ Flint growled back at the lieutenant-colonel.

‘What?’ said Kherhart, his face expanding as he leaned into the spy-lens. ‘What did he say?’

‘By our best estimates,’ Flint pressed on, ‘the rebels have control of more than ninety-five per cent of the Alpha Penitentia generatorium facility. Worse, they have freedom of movement between zones and we have no real idea of their numbers.’

‘There might be just a few hundred,’ Major Skribahn cut in.

‘There might be just a few hundred thousand,’ Major Herr- mahn said before Flint could answer the adjutant.

‘Alpha Penitentia was constructed to house several hundred thousand convict-workers,’ Flint continued. ‘It’s almost as large as the smaller manufactoria on Vostroya, so you all know what that means in terms of population.’

‘What did he say?’ Governor Kherhart said again as he squinted right into the spy-lens.

‘Ordinarily, I might recommend gassing the rebels out, but that would render the entire facility unusable for some years, and as I understand it, the Munitorum’s demands for the foundation of a new Penal Legion still stand.’

‘They do,’ confirmed Captain Rein, the 77th’s chief liaison officer.

‘Then we are faced with the need to capture the installation intact, and to limit casualties.’

‘Limit casualties?’ said Polzdam. ‘We’re talking about rebels here, commissar, not innocent civilians.’

‘I’ve spoken to the convict-workers we extricated from Carceri Didactio,’ Flint went on. ‘And I believe we should deal with this insurrection the same way we would any other issue of discipline and morale.’

‘You mean shoot it through the head,’ said Polzdam. ‘Isn’t that how the Commissariat deals with most “issues of discipline and morale”?’

Flint glared darkly at the lieutenant-colonel. Polzdam had the truth of it in many ways, and Flint was glad to see the officers of the 77th hadn’t missed the irony. ‘As regimental commissar of this unit,’ Flint continued, ‘I do have certain… powers.

‘But,’ he continued before he could be interrupted, ‘I see no reason to invoke them, not yet at least. Instead, I wish to propose a course of action.’

‘Go on, commissar,’ said Aleksis. Unlike his senior officers, the 77th’s regimental commander appeared unphased by Flint’s mention of his powers as commissar. While a minor point, it did confirm to Flint that the graf wasn’t beyond redemption. ‘I would hear your counsel.’

‘Thank you, graf,’ said Flint. ‘I propose a second mission into the complex, using the convicts’ knowledge to locate the uprising’s centre of power. We engage them, then call in the remainder of the regiment to deliver the killing blow. We bring the leaders to justice, and the Munitorum gets its fresh meat.’

‘I forbid it!’ barked Governor Kherhart, his overly loud voice metallic and distorted as it blurted through the phonocasters. ‘The situation is in hand, I say!’

Flint ignored the outburst and fixed his gaze on Aleksis. ‘I am only suggesting this course of action,’ Flint growled. ‘I am not ordering it.’ Not yet at least. ‘I leave that to you as regimental commanding officer. Do I make myself clear, graf?’

Aleksis visibly paled as he glanced from Flint to the image of Governor Kherhart on the large pict screen. Flint was well aware that he had placed the graf in a difficult position, in effect forcing the man to choose between his duty to the Emperor and his fealty to his Techtriarch clan. Should he repeat the sins of his father, Flint would step in, performing a field execution right here, in front of the entire officer cadre.

The threat hung heavy in the air of the suddenly quiet headquarters, every officer knowing that should he decide that their commander had made the wrong decision Flint could force him out of office, and worse.

‘I understand, commissar,’ Aleksis said finally. ‘And I am in agreement with your plan.’

Governor Kherhart’s face became suddenly grim as he leaned back in his throne. Flint was aware of powerful lines of influence and patronage shifting before him. He had no doubt that the graf had made an enemy of his own kinsman, and so too had Flint.

‘If you plan to enter my beloved generatorium,’ said Kherhart, his tone suddenly changed to one of conciliation, ‘then at least let my men participate. Is that too much to ask?’

‘It is not,’ said Aleksis before Flint could answer. ‘It is only fitting, in fact.’

‘Then Claviger-Primaris Gruss and his best wardens shall accompany you,’ said the governor. ‘And this whole sorry business shall be concluded.’

Flint was less than keen about suffering the presence of the wardens, considering them a means for the governor to interfere. He knew that Vahn and his people were unlikely to react well either, but he set the issue aside for the moment.

‘What do you need, commissar?’ said Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam. ‘I assume you have drawn up a plan of action?’

‘I have,’ replied Flint, relieved to be moving on to a more mundane topic, but aware that his next suggestion might meet with some objection from the hidebound officer cadre.

‘Firstly,’ he continued, ‘I want the convict-workers liberated from the complex indentured to the 77th for the duration.’

‘You want criminals to join the ranks of my regiment?’ spat Graf Aleksis. ‘Surely, they’re just–’

‘Every one of them, as far as I can ascertain, is a trained Guardsman,’ Flint cut Aleksis off. He’d known the graf would object and was prepared for it. ‘In fact, most have more combat experience than your own dragoons.’

Several of the gathered officers appeared disgusted with the suggestion that convicted recidivists should join the ranks of their regiment, in particular Major Lehren, who held responsibility for the 77th’s training and indoctrination. Flint ploughed on before Lehren or any other officer could voice an objection. ‘And in addition, they have far more knowledge of the layout and the situation inside the complex.’

‘Gruss and his men know as much, surely,’ said Aleksis.

‘I’m sure they do,’ Flint conceded, ‘and their presence will no doubt be a benefit. But they can know nothing of the situation since the uprising. We need the convict-workers.’

‘Will they serve?’ asked Aleksis.

‘They aren’t being offered a choice,’ said Flint. ‘They’ll serve.’

‘This way, ladies!’ Bukin waved the liberated convicts into a wide area surrounded by sandbag revetments. Vahn’s first reaction was suspicion, the place looking like an ideal killing ground for a regimental firing squad. He glared at the chief provost as he led the line of convicts through the makeshift gates, seeing that it was in fact a quartermaster’s marshalling yard filled with cargo crates and busy logistics staff.

Vahn looked around as he waited for the three-dozen convicts to file into the yard, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. The sight of so much open space was quite alien to him now, his incarceration in Alpha Penitentia having robbed him of the feeling of standing beneath an open sky for so long. The sky was the same colour as the penal generatorium’s rockcrete walls – slab grey and dirty. Distant black clouds boiled, and the strobing of internal lightning told Vahn that a storm was brewing to the east. Turning on the spot, Vahn’s eyes followed the jagged mountains that bit into the sky along the western horizon, and he judged the tallest were at least three kilometres high. The red-brown ground all around had been transformed into a sprawling Imperial encampment of the type he had seen a hundred times before on a dozen different worlds.

With the convicts’ arrival, the logistics staff lugged over a number of crates and dumped them unceremoniously on the dusty ground before them, casting surly glances before shuffling away to the prefab habitent to one side.

‘What is this?’ said Vahn, growing rapidly tired of not being told what was happening around him.

Bukin grinned widely and pulled out a lighter from a pocket on his webbing. Having lit the cigar that had hung from his mouth all the way to the yard, he drawled, ‘You are in the Guard now, son. You call me corporal, chief or lord, your choice.’

Vahn stepped towards the provost, his fellow convicts gathering behind him. As Bukin puffed out a billowing cloud of blue cigar smoke, the other five provosts stepped up to his side. They were a nasty crew, each with the look of a thug, yet Vahn and his people had survived the worst Alpha Penitentia could throw at them and lived. He could take Bukin, if he had to.

‘I said,’ Bukin leered, ‘you are Guard now. You do as you are told.’

Vahn eyed the other man suspiciously and flexed his fists. He missed the reassuring weight and mass of his iron bar, but he knew how to use his fists. ‘You’d better quit messing me around,’ Vahn growled as Bukin squared up to him. ‘Tell me what’s happening or I’ll…’

‘What’s happening,’ said Flint as he strode into the yard, his aide not far behind, ‘is we’re heading back into the complex.’

‘Told you,’ Bukin grinned. ‘You are Guard now.’

‘Commissar?’ said Vahn, pointedly ignoring the ugly little chief provost.

‘I promised you I’d bring Strannik to justice,’ said Flint. ‘And I said I’d need your help.’ Flint scanned the nearest of the cargo crates the logistics staff had set down nearby, then kicked it so the hinged lid popped up.

Vahn’s dread at the thought of returning to the charnel house that was Alpha Penitentia warred with his desire to see Colonel Strannik and his murderous followers taken down. The latter won.

‘How?’ said Vahn.

‘Well,’ Flint replied. ‘I’m assuming you all know how to use these?’

Flint set a foot on the lip of the crate and pushed it forwards so that its contents spilled out across the ground.

‘Lasguns,’ said Vahn.

‘M40 Vostroyan-pattern carbine, Mark V,’ drawled Bukin. ‘Only the best for you, ladies.’

Vahn looked around at the remainder of the crates, noting the markings stencilled upon each. The Mark Vs were clearly old and battered, probably excess stock, but they were functional at least. One crate contained a variety of Firstborn-issue armour consisting of chainmail hauberks and plates of metal-chased carapace. Another contained frag grenades, a third an assortment of field gear and a fourth a selection of different support weapons, each at least as old as the Mark Vs. The equipment was basic and old and apparently drawn at random, but it would do. None of it was anything like the gold-filigreed, artisan-wrought heirloom weapons carried by the dragoons of the Firstborn, but it was clearly functional, and that had to mean something.

‘You trust us with these?’ said Vahn.

‘I do,’ said Flint. ‘He’s not so nice,’ he added with a nod towards Bukin. The chief provost was carrying several side arms about his person, as were his men, but at least they weren’t pointing them at the convicts.

‘Fair enough,’ said Vahn. ‘Not sure I would either, but I guess we’ll need them where we’re going.’

‘Then get to it,’ said Flint. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

The convicts, now penal troopers Vahn reminded himself, gathered around the crates. At first they were suspicious and not all were sold on the idea of returning to the hell that was their former home. Yet, all knew that there would be a price for escaping Alpha Penitentia, and for most that price was worth paying. What happened afterwards was another matter though, and a subject that Vahn was already giving thought to. If any of them survived their return to the complex, what then?

Maybe the weapons would come in handy later, thought Vahn as his companions opened the other crates and started rifling through the contents. Lasguns were passed from hand to hand and bandoliers of power packs slung over shoulders. The weapons were definitely cast-offs, he thought, short-form carbines, not the long-form, lovingly wrought and maintained weapons carried by the Firstborn. Webbing was donned and pouches stuffed full of grenades and other items. The penal troopers strapped armoured shoulder guards, vests and shin guards over their prison rags, and some took up the tall, furred helmet and rebreather so characteristic of the Firstborn. Evidently intent on starting up some new trade venture later on when supplies started to dwindle, Rotten had stuffed his pockets with as much gear as he could carry.

Becka inspected the standard-issue breath masks with obvious disdain, deciding to keep her own unit. Vahn, herself and several others decided against the wearing of helmets and rebreathers, feeling they would reduce visibility in the already dark and cramped environs of the complex’s twisting network of pipes, vents and tunnels.

Vahn heard Solomon give an exclamation of delight as he unwrapped a Vostroyan pattern long-las sniper rifle from its protective sheath. Solomon had always boasted he was a good shot, and by the way he cradled the rifle he was set on proving it.

Finally, the penal troopers had all armed and armoured themselves, and Vahn looked them up and down. Short of some sanctioned merc-house, he had rarely seen such a bunch of misfits bearing arms in the name of the Emperor. Vostroyan armour was mingled with torn rags, and even though the new troopers had been allowed to wash they still managed to look dirty. Casting a glance towards the distant spire of the complex, Vahn reflected that it would take a long time indeed to wash away the stain of that place.

‘Don’t you ladies look a treat,’ slurred Corporal Bukin as he checked his wrist chrono. ‘Now straighten up all of you,’ he barked as Commissar Flint strode back into the yard. ‘Attention!’

Most of the penal troopers had served in the Imperial Guard and at the sound of Bukin’s bellowed order half-forgotten training asserted itself with a vengeance. Even those who hadn’t had the training responded to the order, stamping their feet and standing ramrod straight. It was evident straightaway however that each of the ex-Guardsmen had learned a different drill, for no two worlds’ regiments held exactly the same military traditions.

‘You will have to learn Firstborn way, chevak,’ said Bukin, ‘But you’ll do.’

‘Thank you, corporal,’ said Commissar Flint as he paced the line of penal troopers. ‘Now listen up,’ he said as he came to Vahn. ‘We’ve got a mission to complete, and I mean for us all to come back in one piece.’

High atop the gate hall block, Lord Governor Kherhart, thirteenth Imperial Commander of Furia Penitens and proud cousin of the Anhalz Techtriarch clan entered a dark chamber, the walls lined with dull lead into which was engraved an impossibly complex pattern of hexagrammic and pentagrammic wards. The chamber was a last ditch refuge from where the sole survivor of a disastrous uprising could call for outside aid, whether in-system by high-power vox or, if he had the ability and needed to communicate over greater distances, with his astropathic mind-voice.

Kherhart stepped over the raised lip of the chamber opening, his ancient limbs protesting despite the numerous augment-procedures he had subjected himself to over the years. Once through, the Lord Governor turned and hauled on the wheel in the centre of the chamber’s armoured door, straining a moment before it yielded and swung inwards upon massive hinges.

Having turned the locking wheel, Kherhart proceeded towards the centre of the chamber. It wasn’t a large space, for it didn’t need to be. It was designed to protect its occupant long enough for help to be called. Once the message was sent, no one really cared what happened to the sender. In all likelihood, he would be a shrivelled corpse before help arrived, but his survival wasn’t the point.

The point, Kherhart mused, was retribution.

The centre of the chamber was host to a large vox-caster, its machine systems housed within a column that ran from ceiling to floor and was lined with snaking cables and chased with numerous glass meters and brass dials. Kherhart knew that the caster was powerful enough to communicate with a starship in orbit, and given the time for its machine-spirit to speak across the void, with one much further away. But the governor wasn’t here to talk to a starship, in orbit or anywhere else. He was here to communicate with someone much nearer by, and he needed the privacy afforded by the refuge-chamber to ensure that he wasn’t overheard.

‘Now then,’ Kherhart muttered to himself as he looked over the complex array of dials and levers on the vox console before him. ‘Strike the Rune of Initiation,’ he mumbled as he recalled the proper ritual for awakening the vox-caster’s slumbering machine-spirit. ‘The rune…’ he said as his rheumy eyes searched the console.

Finally locating a small, green-lit plate marked with the sacred machine-code inscription Omega nu, Lord Kherhart gingerly reached out a liver-spotted finger and depressed it according to the ritual. Nothing happened at first, but soon Kherhart could hear a high-pitched whirring like an atmos-purger spinning at full speed. Then he jumped in alarm as a multi-tonal chime boomed forth from a phono-horn mounted halfway up the column just above his head.

Forcing his breathing to a normal rate, Kherhart recalled the next part of the ritual. Locating a panel of brass alphanumeric keys, he entered his personal cipher seal, one key at a time, and waited. A moment later, a pict screen in the centre of the console guttered to life as the sound of machine nonsense blurted from the horn.

‘Are you there?’ Kherhart said with trepidation. Then he spotted a pickup shaped like the shell of some sea-dwelling crustacean, and leaned in towards it. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘I’m here,’ a voice replied from the phonohorn, ‘cousin.’

‘Good,’ said the Lord Commander. ‘Good. I shall make this brief. They’re coming in. They intend to bring you to justice and ship your men out to fight some secessionist rabble. They want to make an example of you.’

Ominous silence stretched out, punctuated by burbling machine chatter. ‘You couldn’t dissuade him?’ the voice replied, laced with threat despite the interference.

‘I could not,’ said Kherhart. ‘Our kinsman appears to have made a poor choice.’

‘Then we’ll have to settle this another way,’ the voice said. ‘I take it you’ve taken the necessary precautions.’

‘I have,’ said Kherhart. ‘One of my own is going in with them.’

‘Good,’ the voice said. ‘I shall await his signal. Out.’

Lord Kherhart waited a long minute, ensuring the communication was done with. Then he located the Rune of Deactivation and powered down the vox-caster. As the machine-spirit entered its slumber state, Kherhart dared to imagine his precious installation would soon be his again, despite the interfering of the Imperial Guard and his treacherous kinsman.

Yes, he thought as he shuffled back towards the armoured hatch. It was all about retribution…

As sundown approached, the grey skies darkened to a deep, velvety purple, the sweep of the local galactic arm bisecting the entire vista. The 77th’s provost section led the newly recruited – some preferred ‘press-ganged’ – penal troopers towards the staging point, where they would take their place in the assault force Commissar Flint had assembled. The provosts cajoled and harangued the troopers as they trudged along, making sport of their rag-tag appearance and questioning their ability to shoot straight with any of the weapons they had been equipped with. Vahn glowered at the thugs as he walked, promising they’d see just how straight he could shoot if he got the chance to show them.

The muster point was just outside the perimeter of the regimental laager, and Vahn found a small group waiting there. Flint and his aide was present, the dragoon fiddling with his over-sized vox-caster. Why the man didn’t use a Number Twelve set Vahn had no idea, for the Number Four he was using was way too cumbersome for use in the cramped confines of the conduits and sluice tunnels. The aide appeared to be listening intently to a signal while attempting to tune his set in, but by the expression on his face he wasn’t getting very far.

Corporal Bukin was there too, his shotgun rested over his shoulder and a cigar puffing blue smoke into the cold air. Despite the chief provost’s outward brusqueness, Vahn was savvy enough to catch the tension in his eyes. The man was wary, not of the penal troopers, but of something else. His gaze was constantly on the move, panning the surrounding wastes like he was expecting trouble at any moment. Seeing the provosts arrive with the penal troopers, Bukin moved off to confer with his goons, revealing another figure who had been standing behind him.

Vahn halted and brought his lasgun up with a fluid, instinctive movement. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Vahn demanded. As if being led by a commissar wasn’t bad enough, they expected his people to suffer the presence of a…

‘He’s going in with us,’ said Flint his tone the very model of diplomacy. ‘You will stand down, all of you.’

The three-dozen penal troopers had followed Vahn’s example, every one of them levelling his or her weapon at the hard shell-clad figure of Claviger-Primaris Gruss. Further back, a full squad of armed clavigers milled around, waiting for the order to move out.

The chief warden’s blank-faced mask scanned the penal troopers, the simple action somehow conveying as much disdain as a full sneer.

‘Put ‘em down,’ Vahn growled, lowering his own carbine to point at the dusty ground.

‘Why?’ Vahn said to Flint, his eyes not leaving the warden’s mask.

‘Same reason we need you,’ said Flint. ‘Inside knowledge. Now let’s…’

‘Wait,’ said Vahn, switching his gaze to the commissar. ‘Before we go back in there…’

‘Yes?’ said Flint, meeting Vahn’s gaze and holding it unblinkingly.

‘I want your word. We’re coming out again. No tricks.’

‘No tricks. If any of your people don’t come back, it’s because the Emperor had other plans for them, not because of me. Understood?’

Vahn let the question hang for a moment. Vendell grunted while Becka nodded subtly. Skane looked away with disgust written on his face.

‘Okay,’ said Vahn, his mind made up. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Eight

Penitentia

Trooper Stank, called ‘Rotten’ by his mates, didn’t trust the route the claviger boss had told Flint they should take, but he had little choice but to follow it. The Asgardian was on point, utilising his training to scout the way ahead as the assault force followed on a hundred metres behind. The force had entered through a service port carved through the sub-surface of the wastes, and having crept through the work bays infiltrated the ten kilometre-long tunnel that passed beneath the purgation chambers and joined the workings under Labour Hall 12.

Treading lightly as he advanced, Rotten scanned the route ahead through his night vision goggles. He’d never used such devices before – because the regiment he had served in before coming to Furia Penitens recruited from a relatively primitive society its members were considered incapable of adapting to such technological marvels. Well, Rotten had adapted very well to such things. He’d developed a taste for collecting useful gear, which had caused him to become something of an unofficial quartermaster in his old regiment – someone his fellow rangers could come to if they ‘mislaid’ their issued equipment and didn’t fancy their chances with the logistics staff. Rotten had earned a small fortune with his enterprise, but he had also earned a charge, and been sentenced to imprisonment in Alpha Penitentia.

A shape appeared in the middle ground, the goggles rendering it a roiling mass as they sought to focus on and refine the return. Rotten halted and went down on one knee, his carbine resting across his thigh. Cautiously, he strained his ears, and hearing nothing other than the ever-present dripping of liquid as condensation built up with the crippling of the air-scrubbers, he raised the goggles.

Without the aid of the machine-magic of the goggles, the scene up ahead was a mass of shadows tinged a deep red by what remained of the overhead lumens. Rotten focused on the large shadow as his eyes adapted to the darkness and he finally worked out what it was. It was a wrecked Admonisher, a class of armoured vehicle used by the claviger-wardens to herd large numbers of convicts from one part of the complex to another, in this particular case, between Carceri Resurecti and Labour Hall 12.

Standing, Rotten glanced over his shoulder, looking to judge how far behind him the main force was, but he neither saw nor heard much to indicate he was anything but alone in the tunnel. He turned back towards the tank, unable to suppress the urge to take a look inside as he crept past it. You never know what might have been left behind, he told himself with a wry grin.

Lowering the goggles again, he saw that they were still having difficulty rendering the shape of the ruined tank, though he still needed the goggles to ensure no rebel convicts were lurking in the shadows nearby. Advancing along the wide tunnel, he veered towards the centre and the ruined Admonisher, the goggles finally getting a fix on it as he approached.

The Admonisher was a variant of the ubiquitous Rhino armoured transport used by many branches of the Imperium, but was open-topped to allow the wardens it carried to maintain overwatch on the convicts they herded. The huge, V-shaped man catcher mounted at the tank’s front towered over Rotten like the prow of a warship as he approached, and he slowed as he spotted debris strewn across the rockcrete ground around the tank. Tracking back to the Admonisher’s open side hatch, Rotten saw that someone else had got there first. It looked like someone had rifled through the interior of the tank, the litter scattered across the ground indicating that nothing valuable had been found.

He was about to continue on his way when Rotten caught a whiff in the stale, damp air of the tunnel. It was meat, burned meat, and his gorge rose as he guessed its source. Penal mass-refectories rarely served high-grade grox steak – the meat in question could only be from one animal.

Rotten swallowed hard as the stink filled his nose and oozed its way down his gullet. He felt nauseous, but the sensation still warred with curiosity. Deciding to take just a quick peek, just to be sure the tank contained nothing that might threaten the mission, Rotten approached the side hatch and hesitantly leaned in to peer into the troop bay.

He wished he hadn’t.

Rotten had seen a lot of unpleasant things in his life; on his home world of Asgard and out in the wider galaxy in service to the Emperor. On the ocean world of Psamath, he’d seen a carnivorous sand clam bite Ranger Nandi in half, and on Klaranthe Station he’d seen an entire infantry platoon sucked into the cold void when a hangar bay integrity field malfunctioned. But both had been accidents, the sort of thing that just happened to the ‘poor bloody infantry’ in the course of their service to the God-Emperor of Mankind. What Rotten saw inside the Admonisher’s troop bay was different. It was a whole lot different.

The tank had been overrun at some point in the uprising, its attackers swarming up and over its high sides to fall upon its passengers and crew. The battle must have been brief, though the rebels’ ire looked like it had been stretched out over several hours, the clavigers being subjected to a degree of cruelty that Rotten had never before seen, even in a galaxy of wanton savagery and bloodshed. He couldn’t even tell how many wardens had been caught within the vehicle, so mutilated and burned were their remains.

Rotten turned away, fighting the urge to throw up.

‘Stank!’ a voice said in Rotten’s vox-bead, causing him to jump almost out of his skin.

‘Stank,’ the voice repeated. ‘Where are you?’

‘Frag!’ Rotten cursed. ‘Who the hell is…’

‘Stank,’ the voice repeated. ‘This is Vahn. We have eyes on some sort of vehicle. You there?’

‘I’m there,’ Rotten gasped as he fought to bring his breathing and heart rate back to normal. ‘It’s a wrecked ‘monisher. Passing it now.’

‘Understood,’ Vahn replied. ‘Flint says to pick up the pace. How far to the terminus?’

Squinting through his goggles, Rotten could just about make out the far end of the tunnel. ‘Another twenty minutes,’ he replied. ‘Moving out now.’

‘So,’ said Flint as he stared up at the structure coded Terminus R1. ‘How do we get through that?’

Terminus R1 was in essence a huge revolving door, but unlike any Flint had ever seen: its four wings were made of heavy grade armaplas measuring ten metres to a side. Each of the four armoured wings was attached to and rotated around a central shaft, the entire assembly held within a tubular enclosure with an exit on either side. The terminus was large enough to allow an entire sub-shift of convicts or a single Admonisher to pass through and, because there was never an open path right through, no one other than those permitted inside the enclosure could make a dash for freedom. Flint could well understand the function, but his question, addressed to Claviger-Primaris Gruss, was aimed at the fact that the mechanism was entirely immobile because its power source had been crippled during the uprising.

Gruss turned his blank-faced visor from the terminus and his unseen gaze settled upon Flint. ‘We don’t,’ said the warden through his hard shell armour’s hidden phonocasters. ‘We go around it.’

‘How?’ said Flint, looking around the end of the tunnel for any sign of other passageways offering an alternative route. Lifting his data-slate and consulting Major Herrmahn’s tri-D map, he saw no obvious way around the terminus.

‘Not every route is marked,’ said Gruss. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the need to keep certain access points hidden from the inmates, commissar.’

‘What about the main force?’ said Flint as Vahn stepped up beside him.

‘They’ll have the firepower to blast their way through, and they won’t be concerned with alerting the rebels to their presence,’ said Gruss. ‘We do not have such a luxury,’ he added.

‘How?’ said Vahn.

‘My men will lead the way,’ said Gruss, sidestepping the question.

‘Where?’ Vahn pressed, his voice a low growl.

Gruss turned on Vahn and Flint saw the signs of imminent confrontation. Moving between them, Flint said, ‘Gruss, lead the way. Vahn, get your people ready. We have a mission to complete.’

As Gruss stalked away to gather his squad, Flint turned on Vahn. ‘You need to drop the attitude, and quick,’ he hissed low so no one could overhear.

‘He’s the one with the attitude, commissar,’ Vahn replied, his voice equally low. ‘If we’re all such close friends now, why doesn’t he want us knowing where their secret tunnels are?’

The same thought had occurred to Flint, but he needed the clavigers and the ex-convicts working together and so had to avoid fostering suspicion between the two groups. God-Emperor knows, he thought, there were enough reasons for them to be at each other’s throats and he had no desire to give them more.

‘Give him a chance, Vahn,’ Flint replied. ‘Old habits die hard. And besides,’ he added, ‘I’m keeping my eye as much on him as I am on you, got it?’

‘Down there?’ said Rotten, following the claviger’s directions into what at first appeared to be the gaping, shark-toothed mouth of an articulated waste compactor. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘I’m serious,’ said the claviger, his mouth set in a smug grin that Rotten wanted dearly to punch right out. ‘It’s not like it’s powered up.’

Rotten leaned forwards into the compactor’s mouth and looked down into its workings. The entire inner surface was lined with multiple rollers edged with a million tarnished metal teeth. When activated, he knew that the rollers would come together and the teeth start revolving, annihilating anything thrown down the chute from masonry to corpses. In fact, Rotten could swear there were scraps of dried flesh lodged between some of the teeth, like bits of a gigasaur’s last meal. At present, the rollers were retracted into the chute’s wall, leaving a drop between them leading down into the darkness.

‘Not at the moment,’ Rotten muttered, leaning back and taking the rope line Solomon passed to him. He could hardly miss the expression of sympathy barely hidden on the Jopalli’s face. ‘How far down?’ he asked the claviger.

‘Only twenty metres or so,’ the warden replied. ‘Why?’ he added. ‘Scared?’

Rotten sneered but held his tongue, making sure to memorise the claviger’s face. It would be terrible if the warden was nearby when Rotten’s carbine discharged negligently…

‘What’s the hold up?’ Rotten heard Vahn call from behind the claviger. ‘Rotten? You wimping out on us?’

Ignoring the jibe and the leering grin from the warden, Rotten fixed the rope to a spar just above the lip of the waste chute and twisting it around one hand, tested it would take his weight. Satisfied, he edged into the gaping metal maw and set his feet on opposite rollers, the black throat of the chute visible between his legs as he looked directly downwards.

‘Twenty metres?’ he said to the claviger.

‘It’s twenty to where you want to go,’ the warden growled. ‘The chute goes further, but you really don’t want to follow it.’

Rotten swallowed hard but was determined not to show the slightest degree of trepidation, not to a claviger at least. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

Pulling the rope through the compactor’s mouth, Rotten sent it plummeting down its shadowed throat. With the toothed rollers retracted the chute was a couple of metres in diameter; with them deployed it would be less than a millimetre. Securing the rope to a loop attached to his webbing, Rotten took it in both hands and began his descent, one foot at a time.

Fortunately for Rotten, the teeth provided excellent purchase, and they weren’t sharp enough to trouble him. Yet, he could scarcely shake the thought of the rollers suddenly grinding to life and tearing his body to gristle as the chute contracted. He tried not to look at the teeth as he descended, especially at the debris lodged between them, yet he could hardly avoid catching the occasional glimpse. Most of the material was nothing more than long dried out scraps of food or torn ration wrappers. Yet, one piece looked like a man’s scalp, hair and bloody skin knotted together, and another like fragments of a jawbone, the teeth still affixed to a shrivelled length of gum.

‘God-Emperor on Terra,’ Rotten mumbled as he sped up his descent, carrying himself past what he prayed was not the body part it looked like. ‘Beati Khalus and Sister Ebrina too…’ he added, invoking two of his world’s patron saints as he screwed his eyes shut. It was the body part it looked like.

‘Stop!’ the claviger up top called out, and Rotten halted, setting one foot on a roller on either side of the chute. ‘Twenty!’ the warden called down, his head and shoulders barely visible as silhouettes against the bloody red light far overhead.

A burst of panic erupted in Rotten’s chest as he looked around for the side passage he was supposed to take. It wasn’t there – all he could see was the rollers lined with row upon row of metal teeth.

The claviger laughed coldly, and Rotten knew with dread certainty what was about to happen. He screwed his eyes shut, praying it would be quick…

‘Behind you, you fenker!’ the claviger called out cruelly.

Rotten’s breathing came hard and fast as he opened his eyes and slowly twisted around. Behind him, he saw the gaping mouth of a concealed side passage, its interior completely lost in shadow.

‘Hah!’ Rotten laughed, the relief welling inside him threatening to turn to maniacal laughter. Of course, he thought as he braced his hands gingerly against the rollers on either side and twisted his body completely around. At one point his boot slipped on a smear of fluid, but he caught himself before he could lose his footing. Having turned his body all the way around, Rotten stood over the chute facing into the side passage.

Suddenly, he was less than keen to be out of the compactor’s throat, the side passage looking somehow even more threatening.

‘Stank?’ Vahn’s voice called out from above. Rotten glanced upwards, and although he couldn’t make out Vahn’s features he could tell it was him by his mane of dreadlocks.

‘Uh-huh?’ he called back, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible. ‘Here.’

‘You found it?’ Vahn called. ‘Gruss says there should be a passageway leading towards…’

‘Yup!’ Rotten called back, ‘I’ve found it.’ Taking a deep breath, he added, ‘Going in now.’

The mouth was the entrance to one of the clavigers’ many hidden runs, the maze of secret tunnels they used to move about the penal generatorium without the need to enter the sealed carceri chambers, turbine chambers and cooling halls. The placement of the entrance in the throat of a waste compactor chute had ensured its continued secrecy, for not even the most desperate escapee would be insane enough to think of climbing into such a hellishly lethal place.

The tunnel beyond the mouth turned out to be less shadowed than it had appeared to Rotten from the throat of the ‘pactor. As he advanced he discovered it was lit by low-level lumen bulbs that emitted a wan, sodium-yellow light just bright enough to allow safe passage. The tunnel was all but featureless, its sides cast roughly from poured rockcrete. Unlike so much of the complex’s interior, the floor was free of the ever present debris that littered most areas, and as Rotten trod silently along its length his passing disturbed a carpet of dust that had lain untouched for decades, perhaps centuries.

Having pressed on another fifty metres or so, Rotten signalled that the route appeared clear, and the main body of the assault force began its descent, one trooper at a time. The clavigers came down first, their leader Gruss shouldering his way past Rotten to advance further along the tunnel. The Asgardian could tell that the claviger boss was jealous of the knowledge of the secret passages’ existence and would stubbornly guard the location of any other entrances.

Next down were Vahn and the rest of the penal troopers, and Rotten saw straight away the pattern Flint had chosen. With the clavies down first and the provosts last, none of the former convicts would be tempted to leg it. Not that they had anywhere better to be, Rotten thought.

Finally, the assault force was all safely down and Vahn clapped Rotten on the back as he overtook him. ‘Let Solomon take point for a bit,’ Vahn ordered, sensing the strain the descent had placed on Rotten’s nerves. ‘Farmer boy there could do with learning some new tricks,’ he winked.

The first stretch of the passage proved so dusty that the troopers were forced to don their rebreathers. The Firstborn provosts carried theirs as standard issue, and the clavigers had full-face helmets with inbuilt filters they could wear. But not all of the penal troopers had brought such items along and so Rotten was afforded his first chance to act as unofficial quartermaster. Flint had seen him hand off a spare rebreather to the highest bidding of his companions, bartering against future rations and equipment issues, but had not reprimanded him... yet.

The advance continued in single column, the tunnel too narrow for more than one trooper. Solomon took his turn on point, halting every now and then to train the high-powered scope mounted atop his rifle along the length of the tunnel ahead. Of course, such a weapon would prove useless were an enemy somehow able to jump out at Solomon from close range, and so one of Corporal Bukin’s provosts advanced just behind, his shotgun raised over Solomon’s shoulder.

After an hour or so of tramping through the billowing dust of the secret tunnel, Gruss raised a clenched fist and Flint signalled the column to a halt. With a nod of his blank-faced visor, the Claviger-Primaris indicated a slight recess in the ceiling up ahead. Flint nodded to Solomon, then ordered two of the nearby regimental provosts to link hands and give the penal trooper a boost up to the small, metal hatch set in the recess. The provosts’ objection to aiding the former convict was plain to see, and Bukin was about to issue a complaint when the sound of gushing liquid sounded from above, beyond the hatch.

Flint moved along the column until he was standing directly below the hatch. He listened intently as the sound of rushing water grew louder and he could make out solid objects bumping along the surface on the other side of the hatch. After a minute the sound receded, fading away to a low gurgling before disappearing entirely.

‘What’s up there?’ Flint asked Gruss. Though he guessed the assault force was below the target zone, Carceri Resurecti, the generatoria chamber in question was several kilometres to the side and they could be well off their intended course. And if they ran into trouble and had to call the main force forward prematurely, the chances of successfully linking up would be that much worse.

Gruss didn’t reply straight away, but glanced at one of his clavigers as if seeking confirmation. Whatever passed between the two men, Flint couldn’t tune in to it. ‘It’s the sluice-weir below Resurecti’s primary cooling plant,’ Gruss answered, but Flint could tell something was wrong despite the distortion imparted by his armour-mounted phonocasters.

‘But?’ Flint prompted.

‘The generatoria systems right across the complex were shut down or crippled during the uprising,’ Gruss began. ‘The weirs below each cooling tower are there to siphon off the moisture that builds up as condensation when the systems are offline.’

‘That,’ Flint indicated the hatch, ‘sounded like more than condensation.’

‘It was,’ Vahn interjected, shoving his way past the two provosts blocking his path. ‘I served three labour cycles in one of these chambers. These weirs can only handle a handful of cooling plants going down.’

Flint looked back to Gruss and asked, ‘How many are down?’

‘All of them,’ Gruss answered.

‘Then the system’s overloaded,’ said Vahn. ‘The weirs are filling up too fast and backing up into the outflow.’

‘Which that hatch opens up into,’ said Flint.

‘Yes, commissar,’ Gruss replied. ‘This is but one of several hundred secret access points built to allow warden patrols to move around the various generatoria chambers without the convict-workers’ knowledge. Without such hidden locations, many of our duties would be all but impossible.’

‘Pretty good place to hide it, sir,’ Bukin interjected, chewing his unlit cigar. ‘Right underneath a river.’

‘Maybe too good,’ said Flint. ‘I’m guessing the channel’s rarely used. Regardless, we don’t have a choice.’

Flint ordered the column to make ready, and just over ten minutes later the weir flooded again and the overspill drained away via the channel overhead. Flint estimated that a little under twelve minutes had gone by, and if the assault force were to avoid being caught in the open and dashed away that was the amount of time it had to get through the sluice gate and into Carceri Resurecti.

As the gurgling overhead faded away, Flint said to Solomon, ‘Ready, indenti?’

Solomon didn’t look especially ready, but he nodded nonetheless. ‘Ready, sir.’

Why me, thought Solomon as the two provosts boosted him up towards the hatch. Why is it always me? His rifle slung over his back, he reached up with both hands and caught hold of the locking wheel in the centre. The wheel was cold and damp, and he braced his feet in the provosts’ cupped hands and twisted with all his might.

A gush of stinging, chemical-laced water crashed down on his face and just for a moment Solomon thought he had opened the hatch too soon and brought death down on the heads of all his companions. Blinking as he gasped for breath, he heard the sound of the provosts below him swearing colourfully and he realised that the torrent had stopped as soon as it had started. The truth was, if the torrent hadn’t receded, he wouldn’t have been able to lift the hatch at all.

As Solomon lifted the hatch on creaking, corroded hinges, a shaft of blinding light shot downwards into the secret tunnel, widening as he opened it as far as it would go. The hatch clanged against a rockcrete wall and, lifting his head and squinting into the light, Solomon saw that he was at the base of the drainage channel, right up against one side.

‘I’m going up,’ he called down, and hauled himself painfully upwards. Blinking in the suddenly bright surroundings, he looked around. He was at the very base of a huge, circular chamber, the tapered vaults open to the sky hundreds of metres overhead. As his eyes got used to the brightness, Solomon saw that the motionless blades of the carceri’s scrubber bisected the circle of light. The glare was the morning sun passing directly through the small patch of sky, and it was reflected from the glistening, corroded surfaces of the tower’s interior walls. It was something of a shock to Solomon to realise that the force had been travelling throughout the entire six hours of Furia Penitens’ night cycle and the sun was up already.

‘What’s the problem?’ Solomon heard Bukin call from below. ‘You see something?’

‘Nothing, yet,’ Solomon called back down the chute.

‘Then move yourself,’ Bukin growled back, and Solomon stood upright and looked around the drainage channel.

The rockcrete surface was slick with corrosion, the result of long years of practically non-existent maintenance as the scrubber blades high overhead had sucked the air through the chamber. The corrosion extended right up the tower walls, what looked like crusted mineral deposits gleaming in amongst the moisture coating them. Pools of almost glowing liquid were scattered all about, and it took Solomon a moment more to orient himself. Then he saw the direction he should be moving in, and unslinging his rifle set out at a stooped run.

As Solomon dashed across the rockcrete channel bottom, his nostrils were assaulted by the sharp tang of the irradiated, chemical-laced water. It reminded him of the bleaching yards the Honourable Concern ran back home, where grox urine would be fermented for an entire year before being refined and shipped off-world for no possible reason anyone on Jopall could imagine. In fact, it was worse even than that, the vapours stinging Solomon’s eyes and bringing tears streaming down his cheeks.

His vision blurring, Solomon pulled down his goggles as he ran, almost dropping his rifle as he struggled to get the device straight. Panic rose in him again as he almost tripped on an object bobbing along just beneath the surface of the glowing liquid, but he kept his footing and dashed onwards towards the base of the ramp leading up towards the first tier of the weir.

The ramp was at least forty metres long, and it rose at least four metres over that length. Ordinarily, the gradient wouldn’t be a problem, but the ramp was coated in moisture and corrosion and Solomon had to climb not just it, but the next three in the next ten minutes or be washed away and drowned. Glancing back towards the chute and the concealed hatch, he considered heading back to tell Vahn and the commissar that this route wasn’t viable.

Then Solomon realised he had no choice but to go on. Deeply ingrained conditioning bubbled up inside his mind and the doctrine of the Indenti of Jopall came back to him. Only by service and sacrifice could the blessings bestowed upon his home world be repaid. Most Jopallis repaid the Imperium one enemy life at a time, counting off their debt as their kill-count mounted. But there were other ways too, including the performance of bold deeds when only the Emperor was watching. Glancing around the interior of the scrubber tower one last time, Solomon judged that indeed, only the Emperor would know his fate if he failed now.

By the time Solomon had struggled to the lip of the highest level of the weir, he was covered in chemical sludge and his eyes were stinging and almost gummed shut. His skin tingled as he imagined what radioactive substances were mingled with the slime, the liquid pumped into the mineral deposits far below the facility to generate heat. Throughout the climb he had managed to keep one thing above the slime and actinic liquid slowly rising in each tier, and that was his precious sniper rifle.

Reaching out a hand to steady himself against the two metre high lip, Solomon heard a deep, watery gurgle fill the stinging air of the chamber.

‘What now…’ he muttered as he saw that the liquid held on the other side of the lip was lapping over its edge. He saw then that he had only minutes to reach the gate beyond the last tier and the relative safety of the carceri chamber beyond. Turning, he looked back down towards the floor of the drainage channel, and saw the assault force approaching the lowest level of the weir and preparing to climb over the first lip.

Waving towards a figure he assumed was Rotten, Solomon turned and climbed up onto the last lip. Grunting, he pulled himself erect and looked towards the distant gate.

There, looking directly at him was a rebel lookout. The two men stood frozen for a moment that stretched into what felt like hours. Then both acted as one, the rebel lifting some form of communicator to his mouth at the very same moment Solomon brought his rifle up and sighted through the scope.

‘You,’ he said as he squeezed the trigger – the rebel’s head jerked backward, a small but lethal wound having appeared in the centre of his forehead – ‘are number one.’

A shout rang out from further along the gate, and Solomon snapped his aim right and tracked the source. It was another rebel. He’d obviously seen his companion fall but, thanks to Solomon’s rifle’s silencer, hadn’t yet realised why.

‘Two,’ Solomon intoned as his second shot trepanned the man’s cranium with explosive force.

Before the second rebel’s body had even hit the ground, Solomon was running along the narrow dam, the overlapping liquid splashing at his passing. He heard more shouts, this time coming from behind and below as the leading members of the assault force tried to find out what was going on at the top of the weir. Solomon had no time to answer them however, as he caught sight of a third rebel. This man had clearly seen him, and decided to make a dash for the gate to bring help.

‘Three,’ Solomon muttered as his third shot punched into the rebel’s back and sent him crashing against the gate hatch he was about to haul open.

Now the chemical liquid was spilling over the lip of the highest weir, lapping Solomon’s ankles, and he could see that time was almost up. Any moment now, the liquid would surge over the lip and set off another chain reaction in the lower tiers. Then, millions of litres of the stuff would surge down the drainage channel and drown anyone still crossing it.

‘Hurry!’ he shouted down. ‘It’s rising!’

Rotten was the closest member of the assault force, and on hearing Solomon’s warning he relayed it back along the column. In moments, the entire assault force was swarming forward, Commissar Flint yelling commands to ensure a smooth cover-and-move advance despite the urgency of the situation.

With the assault force heading for safety, Solomon dashed along the dam, which was now almost entirely submerged as the liquid in the upper tier surged over it. Passing the bodies of the slain rebels he rushed towards the gate they had been guarding, finding the mighty iron portal half a metre ajar. He slowed as he approached, checking back over his shoulder and seeing that Rotten, Vahn and Skane were helping each other over the weir and climbing onto the dam. Edging his way towards the open gate set in the rockcrete wall of the chamber, Solomon peered cautiously through into Carceri Resurecti.

‘Pash…’ he swore in his native Jopalli tongue. ‘Why me…’

Nine

Resurecti

Commissar Flint hauled himself up onto the dam, which by now was functioning as anything but. The stinging liquid in the upper level of the weir was flooding down over him, and it took all his strength to pull himself up against the torrent. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he saw that Kohlz had waited for him, against his express orders, and was offering his hand to help Flint up.

Pulling himself up with his aide’s help, Flint checked that no one was left behind on the sloping ramp of the weir, and waved Kohlz on to the safety of the gate area. Even as the two ran the liquid swelled upwards towards their knees and the chamber filled with the roaring of millions of litres of the stuff.

Reaching the end of the dam, Flint climbed up onto the lip around the gate, finally out of the stinging liquid. The assault force had reached the gate not a moment too soon, and as its members stood soaking around the portal, the tide broke over the upper dam.

A great swell appeared in the centre of the upper enclosure, the irradiated liquid chemical bubbling as if some gargantuan beast of the deepest ocean were rising to the surface. An unseen valve somewhere in the guts of the overflow was forced open and a column exploded upwards with the force of an artillery shell. Flint and his companions were forced back towards the gate, the sheer spectacle of the tower of surging liquid rendering them impossibly vulnerable.

When the mass came crashing down around the spout, the upper enclosure burst spectacularly over the dam. In moments, billions of litres of irradiated liquid flooded each level of the weir in turn and surged down the overflow ramp. The drainage channel the assault force had passed along scant minutes earlier was transformed into a raging watercourse as mighty as any natural river Flint had ever seen, obscuring the access point the force had entered by and gushing away into the brightly lit tower.

As the roar receded and the flow decreased, Flint took a deep breath and turned towards the assault force. Every one of them, from the provosts and the other members of the 77th to the penal troopers and the claviger-wardens were soaked from head to toe in actinic chemical and stinking slime. Dragoon Lhor was attempting to clear the nozzle of his heavy flamer and get its pilot light re-lit, while the combat medic Karasinda was tending to a minor wound suffered by one of the provosts. The Savlar, Becka looked thoroughly dejected, her mohican hanging in lank strands around her face. Bukin was lighting a cigar – Flint had no idea how he had kept it dry.

‘Solomon,’ said Flint, addressing the Jopalli by the gate. ‘You’re off point. Good work.’

Flint expected Solomon to express his gratitude or relief at being relieved of point duty but the man seemed barely to register the command. He was looking through the gap in the huge iron doorway he was guarding, and his face had turned completely pale.

Vahn had seen the man’s face too. ‘What is it, Solomon?’ he said.

Seeing the man wasn’t going to respond, Flint gently but firmly moved him aside and leaned into the gap.

‘Damn…’ said Flint.

‘Resurecti,’ said Vahn.

The vast, stygian void of Carceri Resurecti loomed beyond the gate, Flint’s senses having difficulty translating the space into a reality his mind could make sense of. The largest of the carceri chambers, the floor stretched so far that the opposite wall was lost to atmospheric haze. Because he was already wet, it took Flint a moment to realise that a fine drizzle was coming down from far above, and he saw that the upper reaches of the vast space were smeared grey with dirty clouds. The complex’s generatoria were crippled, but the liquid pumped down into the geotherm sinks was still circulating, Flint realised. Each carceri chamber was developing its own climate, and in Carceri Resurecti, it was raining.

But this was no ordinary rain. It was raining blood.

The space overhead was cut by dozens of precarious iron gantries, and along these walkways were mounted the shrivelled remains of hundreds of corpses. The drizzle falling above was washing the bodies, their fluids mixing with the water droplets and staining the air below pink. Flint’s gorge rose and some of the very first prayers he had ever been taught came unbidden to his lips. It was almost as if dark forces were converging on Furia Penitens, drawn by the vile deeds of traitors and murderers. Even as he walked the halls and chambers it was as if these forces were reshaping reality to better resemble their own blasphemous patterns…

‘Strannik,’ Flint said coldly as he looked away from the vile spectacle with open disgust. He’d seen anti-Imperial insurgents desecrate their enemies’ remains in a less blasphemous manner. The rebel colonel who had led the uprising was clearly an individual of exceptional depravity to have ordered the bodies, or what remained of them, strung up in such a way.

Tearing his gaze from the bodies, Flint swept the chamber for signs of more rebels. The immediate area seemed clear, yet the haze as well as the dark forms of machines looming out of it obscured much of the view. The nearest of the gantries cutting overhead was clear of enemies, while the others were too far distant for Flint to be sure that no lookouts were stationed on them. In fact, such a lookout could be lining Flint up in his gun sights right now and he wouldn’t know about it.

The centre of his forehead suddenly itching, Flint ducked back inside the gateway and found the members of the assault force looking back at him dejectedly.

‘What?’ said Flint.

‘Some of these ladies are not too happy, commissar,’ Corporal Bukin drawled, his shotgun held across his chest. ‘Some think they don’t get paid enough for this khek.’

‘Service is its own reward,’ Flint quoted the Dictum Commissaria.

‘Solomon told us what’s out there, sir,’ said Vendell. ‘We don’t want to join them, that’s all.’

Flint didn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to gauge the situation instead. The slime-streaked faces that looked back at him were more fatigued than mutinous. He’d stared down the most determined of turncoats in his time and he knew the signs well. There were plenty of commissars serving in the Imperial Guard who would have drawn a bolt pistol and shot Vendell through the head as an example to the rest, but Flint was more experienced and knew that while such field executions had their place, this was not it.

Instead, he passed over Vendell’s comment and addressed Vahn. ‘Twenty minute layup,’ he ordered. ‘Get your people cleaned, fed and watered.’ Then he turned to Bukin. ‘Corporal, perimeter security detail. Get on it.’

Bukin grumbled and his provosts cast jealous glances at the penal troopers, but the tension was broken and if there had been any genuine threat of mutiny it was dissipated, for the moment at least. In showing favour to the penal troopers over the provosts, Flint had demonstrated empathy for the ex-convicts, and earned a modicum of trust. No doubt Bukin would resent it, but Flint didn’t care.

As the chief provost chivvied his section into action setting up guard points around the area and disposing of the corpses of the rebels Solomon had dropped, Flint took the opportunity to clean up himself. His storm coat was coated in a fine layer of chemical residue, and his high boots caked in sludge. He struggled to shrug the coat off without getting more of the irradiated muck on the cuirass he wore beneath it.

‘Let me, sir,’ Dragoon Kohlz said, appearing behind and taking hold of the heavy coat and pulling downwards.

‘Really, Kohlz,’ Flint protested, ‘there’s no need…’

‘No problem, sir,’ Kohlz said, then hissed, ‘it’s Gruss, sir. He’s using a sub-etheric relay to communicate with someone inside the complex. I’ve been picking up strange vox-signals since we set out from the laager and I’m sure it’s him. You’re welcome, sir.’

Glancing surreptitiously towards the Claviger-Primaris, Flint hissed back, ‘You’re sure?’

‘Certain, commissar,’ Kohlz replied. ‘But the signal’s encrypted.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flint as Kohlz carried the filth-encrusted storm coat off to wash it in the now-still waters of the weir’s upper tier. Flint doubted the water was much cleaner than the coat, but it might do some good. Flint drew his bolt pistol and checked its mechanism was clear of the crap he’d had to wade through, causing several of the penal troopers to glance warily his way as they cleaned up or unwrapped ration packs. Flint used the distraction to study Gruss more closely, trying to work out if he might be talking into a vox-pickup hidden beneath the glossy, blank-faced visor of his armoured helmet. Of course he could, Flint thought, but did that mean he couldn’t be trusted?

Perhaps the chief warden was simply communicating with his fellow clavigers, but if that were the case a personal vox would be sufficient and Kohlz would have been able to detect it easily. No, Flint thought. Far more likely Gruss was communicating with Lord Governor Kherhart, keeping his master informed of proceedings. Again, nothing intrinsically wrong with that, he thought as he glanced sidelong at Gruss while ostensibly cleaning the basket hilt of his power sword of slime. Studying the chief warden’s stance, he certainly could be holding a conversation with someone over a secure vox-channel.

‘Kohlz?’ said Flint as his aide was finishing off with the storm coat. ‘Anything from regiment?’

‘No, commiss…’ Kohlz started, then changed tack as he caught Flint’s meaning. ‘I’ll check, sir,’ he said as he crossed to where he’d set down his Number Four, its console protected from the liquid by a rubberised cover.

Flint strode casually over to Kohlz as his aide knelt down and lifted the cover from his vox-set. Through his peripheral vision Flint saw Gruss look sharply up.

Kohlz lifted the headset, holding one phone to the side of his cocked head as he worked the dials with his other hand.

‘Anything?’ said Flint.

‘Trying to raise headquarters now, sir,’ said Kohlz, then he hissed, ‘There was a signal, sir, but it cut out suddenly.’

‘Commissar?’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss as he approached. ‘Is there a problem?’

Flint pretended he hadn’t seen Gruss approach, nodding in casual greeting and replying, ‘No problem, just checking in with HQ.’

Gruss looked slowly about the interior of the tower. The brilliant light lancing down through the motionless blades of the air-scrubber was fading as the sun moved across the sky, but Flint read his meaning.

‘We thought the open construction here might allow a decent signal through,’ said Flint.

Gruss nodded slowly, and said, ‘And did it?’

‘Kohlz?’ Flint said to his aide.

‘Nothing, sir. This set doesn’t transmit on the sub-etheric, but the higher bands are just hash.’

‘I could have told you they would be,’ said Gruss. ‘Most of the generatorium’s outer skin is covered by a demodulation grid. Individual nodes are deactivated to allow sanctioned signals through.’

‘But unsanctioned signals get overridden with hash,’ Kohlz finished. Gruss nodded silently in response.

‘Why weren’t we told?’ Flint growled. ‘How are we to contact the main force?’

‘This facility,’ Gruss replied, his metallic voice sounding oddly distorted as it growled from his armour’s phonocasters, ‘is rated amongst the most secure of its type in the sector. My primary duty is to keep it that way.’

‘My question still stands,’ said Flint. ‘How are we to contact the main force?’

‘Easily enough,’ said Gruss. ‘Using the code I will provide to deactivate the local jamming nodes.’

Flint suppressed a scowl, now convinced that the chief warden’s use of a concealed sub-etheric transmitter was anything but innocent.

‘Sir?’ Corporal Bukin interrupted his chain of thought. ‘Twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you, corporal,’ said Flint as the provosts began rounding up the penal troopers, rudely kicking awake those who had taken advantage of the brief lull to catch forty winks. ‘Come on, ladies,’ Bukin drawled as he stalked away. ‘Beauty sleep’s over!’

Becka was on point, ghosting through the shadows at the base of what looked like a ten storey-high crankshaft when a blood-curdling scream made her freeze. Her experience running with the narco-gangs far below Savlar Sink Nineteen kicked in. Better to stay still, she knew, better to melt into the shadows or play dead. That way, whatever was tearing apart whoever it was doing the screaming might not notice you.

The screaming cut out abruptly and it started raining. Not just a wet mist or the fine drizzle they’d first encountered as they pushed into Carceri Resurecti, but actually raining. Becka hated rain; after all, she’d grown up in a mine and never experienced it before escaping the world of her birth. To see it raining inside a generatorium installation was something she considered totally wrong, as well as thoroughly uncomfortable. Plus, it ruined her hair.

Blinking runnels of oily, stinging liquid from her eyes, Becka squinted into the downpour. It was coming down in sheets that obscured almost everything beyond, but she caught sight of movement nonetheless. She waited, focusing on the dark patches as she felt a rumble pass through the rockcrete ground, up the metal of the crankshaft and into her hand resting gently upon its surface.

‘Witch,’ she hissed. ‘Witch’ was the term the inmates of Carceri Absolutio and several other chambers used to describe a class of walker used by the clavigers to keep the convicts in line. Based on the common Sentinel scout and anti-insurgency model used by the Imperial Guard and many planetary defence forces, the vehicle’s proper name was the Dictrix-class. Instead of a heavy weapon it was armed with a neural whip that lashed outwards from a launcher resembling a primitive harpoon gun operated by the pilot in his caged cockpit. With that simple, non-lethal and supremely painful weapon, the pilot could control dozens of convicts with just the threat of its use.

Checking behind, Becka saw that the nearest member of the assault force was creeping forward some twenty metres behind her. It was Skane. She waved him back and made a hand signal only a fellow ex-convict would recognise, pantomiming the Witch’s gait with two fingers.

As Skane waved his understanding and passed the message back down the line, Becka peered out from the crankshaft again. The downpour was clearing, as seemed to be the pattern in the weird, unnatural weather system evolving within the complex. As the last of the chemical rain splashed on the wet ground, a curling mist rose up through which the closest of the Witches stalked, each heavy step sending ripples chasing across the puddles formed on the rockcrete floor.

Its black-painted hull had been scrawled over with crude graffiti, and as its cockpit pod swivelled on its ball-joint waist a far more gristly form of decoration was revealed mounted on its sloped frontal armour. It was the former pilot, his limbs tied down with taut barbed wire. With a gasp, Becka realised that the man was still alive despite his wounds, his blood washing away as the last of the actinic rain flowed over him.

Becka’s first instinct was to sneer at the fate of the claviger, but that ignoble reaction was soon eclipsed by the unfamiliar notion of pity. Scant weeks ago she might have fantasised about inflicting such ruin upon the body of one of the hated Witch pilots, but now, seeing it before her, the only hatred she felt was for those who had perpetrated the crime.

The Witch swivelled the other way and stalked off through the creeping vapour, and another stomped forward to take its place. This one was flexing its neural whip back and forth, the rebel piloting it obviously enjoying the sparks and hisses sent up as the cruel length cracked back and forth through the damp air. Just like the first, this one had its original custodian tied down with barbed wire across the front of its cockpit, though Becka couldn’t tell if this one was still alive.

After a moment, the second Witch strode away, and a third followed after it. Only when she was certain it was safe did Becka report what she had seen to Vahn and the commissar.

Flint stooped as he ran, the mists parting before him as the shadowed bulk of an unidentifiable machine loomed up ahead. Gaining the shadow of the cover, Flint waited for Kohlz, Karasinda, Lhor and several others to catch up, then he motioned for silence. His breath was ragged, his lungs heavy with the sharp-smelling vapour building up from the crippling of the air-scrubbers. He could tell his companions were equally affected.

After a moment of quiet, he heard them. The clanking of hydroplastic- actuated mechanical legs, the grind of metallic claws on rockcrete and the background hum of a crystal battery generation unit marked the presence of the unseen walker as it stalked the mists to the left. It was hard to gauge distances, the white fog muffling sound and causing weird echoes. Many of Flint’s troops were getting spooked.

‘Lhor,’ Flint hissed to the burly dragoon. ‘You’re on point. Go.’

The group was on the move again, and as they advanced Flint could hear the tread of more of the walkers as they moved through the carceri chamber. What they were doing he could only guess, probably hunting down loose convicts not part of the rogue colonel’s uprising, or seeking out isolated claviger-wardens to brutalise and murder. Flint reminded himself that his enemy was, or had been, a trained officer of the Vostroyan Firstborn, and as such was fully capable of deploying his forces in a militarily effective manner. It was possible that Colonel Strannik had anticipated that the Guard would make an incursion into his territory, and the walkers were actively patrolling against such an attempt.

A hydraulic hiss roared close by, and Flint and his group swung around with weapons raised. A grey silhouette loomed through the drifting mist not twenty metres away, before lurching off just as suddenly as it appeared.

‘Move,’ said Flint. ‘Quietly.’

He lingered as the troopers resumed their advance towards Becka’s position, focused on the depths of the fog. ‘You too, Karasinda,’ he said to the last of the warriors. The combat medic was tracking her raised lasgun left and right, her face a mask of concentration.

‘Medic?’ said Flint.

Karasinda’s eyes darted to Flint then back towards the mist. ‘There’s another one out there, sir,’ she said.

‘I’ve no doubt there is,’ said Flint. ‘So let’s get moving.’

‘I could take it, sir,’ she said, her voice cold and flat. Coming from anyone else in the 77th Flint might have taken the statement for a ridiculous boast, but something about the medic’s bearing and tone told him she believed what she said. Furthermore, so did Flint.

‘Now’s not the time, Karasinda,’ Flint hissed, injecting a note of authority into his voice. ‘Move out, now.’

The medic got the message, though Flint could tell she was reluctant. Finally, she lowered her lasgun and moved off behind Flint. He hadn’t had the opportunity to study her service record yet, but he made a mental note to do so when the opportunity arose.

Following after Karasinda, Flint soon found the rest of the group massed behind the huge crankshaft, backs pressed against its casing as the troops took advantage of the brief rest.

‘Report,’ he ordered Becka, keeping his voice low in case the mists played tricks and revealed their presence to some unseen foe.

‘Something like a dozen Witches, sir,’ said Becka, adding, ‘the walkers,’ at Flint’s quizzical look. ‘I think they’re moving from a sub-chamber a kilometre or so ahead and patrolling the southern reaches of Resurecti.’

‘So they’ll be back this way eventually,’ Flint mused, as much to himself as to the Savlar woman. ‘How long to make the circuit?’

‘It’d take them twelve hours or so to run the complete lap, sir,’ she said. ‘But their crystal stacks have to be recharged every six hours of normal operation.’

‘Can you find the sub-chamber from here?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Becka replied. ‘It’ll be guarded though.’

‘That’s why we’re going there,’ Flint replied.

Vahn could see arc lights shining through the white mist up ahead, each as fuzzy and bright as the sun rising over the fog-wreathed moors of home. Though the thick airborne vapour diffused the white light, it was almost blindingly bright and it hurt Vahn’s eyes to look directly into it.

Halting beside a burned-out crate, Vahn sighted down the carbine’s barrel and scanned left and right. The bulk of the sub-chamber loomed in the mist, and as his eyes adjusted to the glare he saw that the arc lights were mounted along a parapet walkway. The sub-chamber occupied a point where several dozen gantries and walkways converged at various heights, the void in the centre forming an almost totally enclosed space. It was from here that Becka had guessed the Witches were patrolling, and Vahn was leading the scouting mission to check it out.

‘Anything?’ Vahn whispered to Rotten, the Asgardian only just visible in the lee of the crate at Vahn’s side.

‘If it’s where the Witches are based,’ Rotten whispered back, ‘there’s no one home now.’

‘Crew?’ said Vahn.

‘Can’t see any,’ said Rotten. ‘But my guess is yes.’

‘Agreed,’ said Vahn. ‘Wait here, Rotten,’ said Vahn, preparing to muster his penal troopers to move in on the sub-chamber. ‘I’ll be…’

A piercing scream cut through the fog, the weird acoustics making it sound like the source was mere metres away.

‘Crap!’ hissed Rotten.

‘Shhh!’ Vahn hissed, swinging his carbine around towards the source and shrinking down into the small amount of cover afforded by the wrecked crate. The scream cut out, but as Vahn concentrated on locating its source he half-heard more sounds, like grunts and muffled threats.

The scream sounded again, and this time Vahn was sure of its source. Then it cut out to the sound of clinking chains, followed by a cruel laugh and the wet thud of a body hitting the rockcrete.

‘Bastards,’ Vahn growled, memories of the first days of the uprising coming unbidden to his mind. The colonel’s followers had become fiends, murdering those who wouldn’t join him with a feral glee the like of which Vahn had never before seen. The carceris, sub-chambers and vestibules had run red with spilled blood, and clearly, it hadn’t ended yet.

‘Argusti?’ said Rotten, looking at Vahn with a mixture of concern and suspicion. ‘What’s up?’

‘Where are the guys?’ said Vahn.

‘Vendell and Solomon are closing,’ said Rotten distractedly. ‘Skane and Becka are with the commissar… Why?’

‘Just wondering what the odds are, that’s all,’ said Vahn as he plotted an approach to the sub-chamber. ‘Flint wanted us to take a look, right?’

‘Right…’ said Rotten.

‘So let’s take a look.’

Not giving Rotten the chance to object, Vahn grabbed hold of the man’s webbing and shunted him towards the sub-chamber. His eyes adapting to the bright light from the arcs overhead, he saw the form the sub-chamber took. True to his suspicions, the space where the gantries intersected had been fortified to create something that looked like a tower with dozens of walkways leading from it. The base of the tower was made from blocks of piled rockcrete, steel re-bars jutting out at odd angles. Its sides were clad in chunks of metal plating suspended from the gantries.

And that wasn’t all that was suspended from them. Bodies, and somehow worse, body parts, were also strung from the gantries, thick black pools of clotted blood pooled on the rockcrete below. Vahn’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his carbine. As another grunt of pain sounded from within the sub-chamber, Vahn decided that things were very much about to turn nasty, if he had any say in the matter.

Vahn, Rotten, Vendell and Solomon moved into the full glare of the overhead arcs as the mist thinned to the extent that any sharp-eyed sentries walking the gantries overhead would surely see them. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, he picked up the pace, dashing through the hazy space towards the towering structure, the others at his heels. Reaching its base, Vahn pressed his back against the rockcrete and ushered his fellow penal troopers onwards. Rotten reached his position and moved along the base of the wall to cover one approach with his carbine; Solomon did the same from the other side, his sniper rifle raised to his shoulder as he scanned the darkness through its powerful scope.

‘We got any sort of plan?’ scowled Vendell as he came to stand beside Vahn.

‘Flint wanted this place checked out. We’re doing it.’

‘And we have to do it from close range?’ said Skane as he looked left and right along the rubble-strewn base of the sub-chamber tower.

‘Something’s going on inside,’ said Vahn. ‘You can hear it.’

‘And you want some payback, is that it?’

‘Screw you,’ Vahn snarled, just as another scream rent the air. ‘You want out anytime just say it, Skane. I’ve had enough of this gak.’ Turning his back on Skane, Vahn addressed the other two troopers. ‘You guys with me?’

Rotten nodded, his disgust at whatever was happening inside the chamber clear to see. Solomon looked less certain, but nodded nonetheless.

‘So?’ Vahn said to Skane.

The Elysian didn’t reply straight off, but listened a moment to the sounds of blunt instruments slamming into bare flesh. His face set in a grim mask, he nodded. Skane’s thumb flicking his carbine to full auto was all the confirmation Vahn needed.

‘Good choice,’ he snarled, and moved off along the rubble-piled base surrounding the sub-chamber. As he edged around the uneven space towards the opening, he saw signs that Becka had been correct in her assumption that this was where the walkers were based. A power node rose from the ground near the entrance, fat couplings snaking from its terminals. Markings were stencilled onto the rockcrete, giving directions towards maintenance bays. What had once been a workshop and storage facility had been fortified by the rebels into a small bastion that could be defended from a major assault. But, Vahn grinned, he and his three companions weren’t a major assault, and they had the advantage of surprise.

The sounds grew louder as Vahn closed on the entrance to the sub-chamber. The opening was large enough for one of the walkers to pass through, the structure reinforced by the chamber’s new owners. A flickering orange light spilled out from within, and Vahn realised its source was some kind of open fire. Then the stink of burning flesh hit his nostrils, and he understood why.

‘Get ready,’ he growled to his fellows.

Pressing himself flat against the uneven wall, Vahn edged his way along the last few metres and leaned forward to peer within the sub-chamber. After the hazy white glare it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowed interior, but when they did he saw clearly who was making the noise, and the smell.

A group of at least two-dozen rebel convicts were gathered around the remains of several dead clavigers. It was obvious that the rebels had been torturing the wardens, venting hate and bitterness nurtured throughout the long years of their imprisonment in Alpha Penitentia. Each gripped the instrument of his vengeance, from rusted chains to still-glowing pokers. Their fun at an end the rebels looked ready to disperse, and Vahn saw his opportunity.

Pulling back, Vahn opened a channel on his personal vox. Each of the troopers carried such a device, and with it they could communicate within the small force, though it was not powerful enough for longer ranged transmissions. So far, they had maintained vox silence, but Vahn decided now was the time to break that rule.

‘Vahn to Flint,’ he hissed into the pickup. ‘Commissar, do you read me?’

His ear filled with hissing static for a moment, before Flint’s voice came on the channel. ‘Vahn? This had better be good…’

Getting straight to the point, Vahn replied, ‘I have multiple enemies clustered inside the sub-chamber. Send Lhor forward, commissar, I can–’

‘Denied!’ Flint’s voice hissed back. ‘We’re not here to liberate, not yet anyway. We’re here to watch, you know that.’

Frustration welling inside him, Vahn pressed on, ‘Commissar, there are at least twenty of them, and…’

‘And they’ll be a hell of a lot more if we show our hand now, Vahn,’ said Flint. ‘You’ll stand down now, trooper, or you’ll face the consequences. Resume passive reconnaissance. Flint out.’

‘Bastard!’ Vahn hissed, fighting the urge to storm into the sub-chamber and open up on full auto. But even with the element of surprise, he knew it would be suicide; there were just too many rebels for the four penal troopers to deal with.

‘Come on, boss,’ said Rotten, taking hold of Vahn’s shoulder, his expression showing he shared Vahn’s feelings. ‘Time to pull back.’

Vahn heard the rebels moving inside the sub-chamber, their cruel voices raised and he knew Rotten was right. At that moment he wasn’t quite sure who he hated more – the rebels or his own commander.

Ten

Excoriation

‘Vahn, report,’ Flint growled into his personal vox. ‘Report right now, over.’

The channel burbled and blurted a garbled response that may or may not have been Vahn’s return transmission and Flint closed the link in disgust. He resented the need to use the vox in the first place, knowing that there was an outside chance it might betray his force’s presence to the rebels, however remote that chance might be. ‘Kohlz?’ Flint said testily to his aide. ‘Keep your set open, let me know the moment you hear anything.’

‘Is there a problem, commissar?’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss as he approached. Flint suppressed an irritated rejoinder, annoyed with Vahn for the challenging of his orders, and with the chief warden for noticing it.

‘No problem, Gruss,’ said Flint. ‘Just having issues with the low-pass carriers.’

Gruss nodded. ‘Your scout element has pushed too far ahead and your vox-sets cannot penetrate the structural interference.’

‘Something like that,’ Flint replied flatly. ‘My scouts have reached the sub-chamber housing the walkers,’ he changed the subject. ‘It’s been fortified and it sounds like there’s a substantial rebel presence guarding it.’

‘Then we leave it to the main force,’ said Gruss. ‘As per mission parameters.’

‘Indeed,’ said Flint, feeling that the chief warden was somehow mocking him behind that glossy visor.

The force moved out, passing through the drifting banks of smog towards the sub-chamber Vahn had reported on. Soon, the fog thinned and the glare of white arc lights became visible up ahead, but just as soon it began to rain once more. Flint pulled his peaked cap down to cover his face and fastened his storm coat over his cuirass, though the oily downpour could hardly be kept out. As he trudged on, ever vigilant for signs of the enemy, Flint pondered the issue with Vahn. He’d thought the leader of the penal troopers a reliable, if hard to read soldier, but now he was showing signs of weakness. The scouts were pushing forward out of personal vox range, and Flint suspected it was a deliberate attempt to make communications between the two groups difficult. The next time Vahn found a group of rebels he thought he could take out, he might not ask for permission to engage. And that, Flint knew, could very well compromise the entire mission.

‘Anything?’ Flint snarled to Kohlz, his aide trudging along beside him with the collar of his coat turned up to ward off the downpour. ‘Any word from the scouts?’

Kohlz had his headset pressed tight to his ear in a vain attempt to keep the water out of its machine systems, and after a moment more listening to the churning garbage, he shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir, just background hash.’

‘What about the main force?’ said Flint. He still hadn’t heard a thing from the main bulk of the 77th, which should by now be ready to push into the complex once Flint’s force located the rebels’ stronghold. He knew the answer even before his aide shook his head in the negative.

The advance continued in smaller groups better able to make use of the cover afforded by the clumps of massive generatoria machinery. As he marched, the thought struck Flint that the interior of the installation was more akin to that of some grotesquely oversized engine, though he was beginning to suspect that the effect might be partly cosmetic, designed to dehumanise and brutalise the worker-convicts. Sometimes, he fancied he spied movement amongst the gears and shafts, as if the machinery were stirring. He couldn’t help but dwell on what might happen to the small, soft bodies of the troopers were they to get caught up inside those gears and pistons. He knew they would be mashed to a pulp in seconds. The tech-masons who had built the place were true masters of their art, Flint thought as he cast off the grim thoughts the architecture conjured in his mind.

Marking the sub-chamber’s position, Flint took the force in a wide loop around it. He knew his forces were easily sufficient to defeat the rebels manning the strongpoint, but equally, he wanted to avoid the alarm being raised were he to order a direct assault. Far better, he knew, to log the enemy’s strengths and push on, ever deeper into their territory.

As the force infiltrated further, its members reported ever more gruesome signs of the rebels’ activities. Great smears of blood and gristle stained the rockcrete ground, even the chemical rain failing to wash them away. One group had thought to take temporary shelter from the downpour in the lee of a vast piston housing, only to find the ground crunching beneath their feet. On closer inspection, the troopers had found the blackened remains of scores of bodies carpeting the entire area, and moved on quickly. Bukin’s provosts discovered an open conduit stuffed with hundreds of mutilated bodies, the sight causing even those hardened individuals to blanch. As the force pressed on, its members became somewhat cold to the sights they were seeing, though Flint was ever watchful for signs of some individuals being pushed too far. They would either get angry, he knew, or they would crack, and it was his job to anticipate which.

‘We’re approaching another sub, sir,’ said Flint’s aide, snapping the commissar from his musings. Raising his hand to shield his face from the downpour, Flint saw that Bukin’s provosts had reached another structure, this one taking the form of a slab-like blockhouse at least ten storeys high. The frontage was dominated by an armoured portal, and from the light cast up from the top Flint judged it was roofless.

‘Gruss?’ he said as the Claviger-Primaris appeared at his side, three other wardens close behind.

‘Excoriation block, commissar,’ the chief warden responded. ‘I’m sure you know its purpose.’

Flint eyed the man’s featureless visor with suspicion, barely able to curtail his lip from snarling in response to the comment. Gruss was correct in that as a commissar he was well versed in the Rites of Excoriation, but such methods were only ever used by the Munitorum as a last resort. Clearly, the masters of Alpha Penitentia made use of them, though for no reason Flint could fathom.

Little wonder the convicts had rebelled.

‘Kohlz,’ Flint addressed his aide, deliberately not answering Gruss. ‘Anything from Vahn?’

Kohlz was fiddling with the controls of his vox-set, his face set in concentration. ‘A sub-carrier communion, sir,’ he answered. ‘I can’t read the transmission, but I can get a fix on where it’s coming from.’

Squinting through the rain towards the distant excoriation block, a sense of dread came over Commissar Flint. ‘Where?’ he growled, his gaze settling on the armoured portal.

Kohlz followed Flint’s gaze, before replying, ‘Down there, sir. Somewhere…’

‘Go!’ Vahn waved Solomon forward as he covered the alleyway with his carbine. The Jopalli disappeared into the shadows between the carceri wall and the free-standing block and Vahn lost sight of him within seconds.

‘Rotten, you’re next,’ he hissed. ‘Get moving!’ If anything, the Asgardian was an even better stealther than Solomon, melting into the darkness the second he moved into the alley.

That left just Skane.

‘You up for this?’ Vahn asked the big Elysian, just to be sure. There were still tensions between the two men, and now would be a bad time to air them.

‘After what we saw back there?’ Skane cocked his head back in the direction the scout group had come from. ‘Abso-fragging-lutely.’

‘Get moving then,’ said Vahn. ‘I’ve got you.’

Skane checked his weapon’s charge counter one last time and then ran after the first two men. Skane was nowhere near as stealthy as Solomon or Rotten: he was the wrong shape and size for it for a start and his regiment’s specialisation was entirely different. As a former Elysian drop-trooper, Skane was far more used to plummeting from a great height with only a grav-chute to save him from a messy end, or going into battle in the troop bay of a Valkyrie airborne assault carrier. Vahn grinned in wry amusement as he watched Skane move off down the alley, guessing that the Elysian was passing the other two troopers even if he couldn’t see either. With one last look around him to ensure that no enemies lurked nearby, he followed after Skane.

Although Vahn thought of the space as an alleyway, it was really just a void between the cliff-like wall of the carceri chamber and one edge of the free-standing structure. The shadows swallowed him the moment he stepped into the space, the only light that of a hazy, orange illumination flickering far overhead. The ground was covered in detritus that crunched painfully loud under Vahn’s tread. He slowed his pace and lightened his step, feeling the texture of the ground under his booted feet to ensure he didn’t give his presence away any more than he may already have done.

The alleyway was around a hundred metres in length, and all that was visible overhead was a thin strip of orange illumination. Vahn forced himself not to look upwards, knowing that even that wan light might ruin his night vision. He slowed as he saw the bulky mass of Skane’s back a few metres ahead, turning slowly to face back the way he had come, his carbine at his shoulder.

Movement. Vahn froze, the fold-down stock of his weapon pressed tight against his cheek. Whatever he’d seen, it had passed across the mouth of the alleyway at some speed but was now gone. Had it looked down the alley and seen them? He had no way to tell, but he wasn’t going to stick around and find out the hard way.

Walking backwards with his carbine still trained on the opening, Vahn caught up with Skane, who had seen something was up and was waiting with his own weapon raised and his back pressed hard against the rockcrete. Skane didn’t ask what was wrong, but Vahn raised his left hand and pantomimed a fast-walking figure moving from left to right with two down-turned fingers. Skane patted Vahn’s shoulder to indicate his understanding.

Vahn ushered Skane onwards and in another few seconds he sensed more than saw the other two scouts not far ahead. He felt a tap on his leg and looked down to see Rotten kneeling in the shadows. Vahn went down beside the Asgardian.

‘There’s an entrance round the corner,’ said Rotten. ‘Left of the end of the alley.’

Vahn realised that Rotten’s deduction was based on the quality of the sounds bouncing around the chamber. Though he hadn’t noticed it before, a low murmuring was steadily growing as the men pressed further on. Straining his ears, Vahn realised the sound was that of dozens of voices, moaning or whimpering in hushed tones. The sound dripped with misery, seeming to rise to a mournful dirge the more Vahn concentrated on it. He knew he had to find out its source.

‘To the left?’ Vahn whispered to Rotten as the other man appeared at his shoulder. Rotten nodded, and Vahn leaned out to take a look.

Another thirty or so metres along the wall, Vahn saw a tall opening. The same orange light that flickered high above shone from the portal, reflecting on the damp floor in front of it. But it wasn’t just the light that emanated from the portal, the sound of misery spilled forth too.

Vahn scowled as he guessed that the sub-chamber was being used as a holding pen for those inmates who had dared stand against or flee from Colonel Strannik and his rebels. The murderous bastards had rounded them up and brought them here to await whatever vile end they decided to mete out. Vahn had seen it dozens of times in the weeks since the uprising and he was reaching the limit of his endurance.

‘Vahn?’ said Rotten. ‘What’s up?’

Vahn didn’t answer straight away, but concentrated on the flickering orange light pouring through the portal and the sound emanating from the chamber within. From his hiding place, he couldn’t see through the opening, but his mind was conjuring images of hellfire and damnation the most rabid preachers of the Imperial Creed would be hard-pressed to invoke.

‘Vahn,’ Rotten said again, placing a hand firmly on Vahn’s shoulder.

‘We’re going in,’ he hissed. ‘Get ready.’

Rotten sighed. ‘I knew you were gonna say that.’

‘What?’ said Solomon from further back inside the alley. ‘What’s up?’

‘We need to see what’s happening inside,’ said Vahn as he turned towards his companions. ‘And maybe do something about it.’

Solomon’s mouth hung open for a moment as if he were about to object, then he nodded with resignation. Rotten looked grim-faced while Skane nodded his agreement with Vahn’s statement.

Another wave of misery spilled from the orange-lit portal and Vahn stepped out of the alleyway into the open.

‘Sir?’ said Karasinda, squinting down her scope towards Excoriation Block 412. By her tone Flint could tell it was important. ‘The tunnel mouth, to the right of the portal.’

Flint followed Karasinda’s direction and saw a group of figures emerging into the open, carbines raised as they approached the opening.

‘Vahn,’ said Flint, to no one in particular. The medic didn’t answer, but continued to track the scouts through her scope. ‘What are they…?’ he started.

‘Enemies,’ Karasinda hissed. ‘Five, correction, seven, contacts at the portal.’

A group of rebel convicts were emerging from the guttering depths of the orange-lit portal, and the scouts couldn’t yet see them. ‘Damn it,’ said Flint. ‘Kohlz, you’re going to have to–’

‘I really wouldn’t, commissar,’ interjected Claviger-Primaris Gruss. ‘If you transmit on that set in this chamber Strannik will know it.’

‘How can you be certain?’ said Flint, instantly suspicious.

Gruss paused as if caught off guard by Flint’s question. ‘Strannik has already transmitted various threats and demands using vox equipment captured during the initial uprising. Would you risk the rebels detecting the full extent of this operation?’

Flint stared into the blank, glossy depths of Gruss’s visor for a moment. ‘I’ll do whatever needs to be done to complete the mission. Karasinda,’ Flint turned his back on the chief warden. ‘You have them in your sights?’

‘Confirm target, sir,’ said the medic, not taking her eye from her scope. ‘I have Trooper Vahn in my reticle.’

‘Stand by,’ Flint growled, distracted by a new sound only just audible at the edge of hearing. An image from a battle fought two decades ago flashed into his mind: the plains of Delta Suthi, the survivors of his storm trooper detachment ambushed by the home-made stalkers of the isolationists…

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz.

‘Wait,’ Flint hissed as he turned sharply towards the source of the faint noise. Squinting into the damp shadows of the chamber he saw a glint of light as it caught on a shallow pool, ripples spreading slowly across its oily surface…

‘I hear it too, sir,’ whispered Karasinda as she swung her rifle sharply about, bringing it to bear on the darkness beyond the pool. All that was visible was a twisted mass of girders and debris.

‘Bukin,’ said Flint. ‘Get the–’

The commissar never completed his order. At that moment a white light strobed sharply from behind, accompanied by a sharp whip-crack and the screams of several provosts and penal troopers.

‘Enemy walkers!’ Flint bellowed into his vox, the bead churning with a mass of angry static. ‘Rally to me!’

The first of the Dictrix-class walkers pressed in from behind as Flint spun about. It was three times the height of a man, its angular, caged cockpit mounted on a pair of reverse-jointed mechanical legs. On one side of the cockpit was a harpoon-like weapon, into which was retracting the glowing white neural whip it had just unleashed upon the rearmost of Flint’s force while they were distracted by what was happening up ahead.

It was that thought that saved Commissar Flint from the same painful fate. The second of the walkers burst suddenly through the mass of twisted girders, scattering debris in all directions as its cockpit tracked left and right in search of a target. The pilot saw Flint straight away and unleashed the massive harpoon whip in his direction. But Flint had seen it coming.

The darkness was lit blinding white as the whip fired straight forward out of its tubular launcher. Flint ducked as the air was split by the weapon’s deafening crack and a moment later he was rolling across the floor as the whip scythed overhead. Though Flint had avoided the strike, so potent were the disruption charges surging along the whip that he felt the half of his body exposed to it burning as he rolled away, but others of his force weren’t so fortunate.

A penal trooper not three metres away was struck across the chest and one of Bukin’s provosts was caught across the shoulder. A third man, one of Dragoon Lhor’s assistant flame troopers, took a glancing hit to an ankle as he dived clear. The effect on all three men was immediate. A disruption charge powerful enough to debilitate a bull grox surged through the whip, all three men screaming like the wailing souls of the damned as they went down. Even as the whip retracted, its victims’ bodies went into violent spasm where they had dropped, each alive but very much out of the fight.

Knowing he had just seconds before the first Dictrix discharged its weapon a second time, Flint cast about for Dragoon Lhor, his flamer one of the few weapons that could take down the marauding walker. But Lhor was too far away to intervene before the walker fired again.

The half-forgotten battle against the isolationist stalkers flashed across Flint’s memory once more and in an instant he knew what had to be done. The only way to avoid being gunned down by those, or any similarly constructed walker, was to get inside its reach before it could react…

‘Engage it!’ Flint bellowed as he powered forward, his gaze fixated on the machine’s whip launcher. ‘Get in close and take it down!’

Too shocked to react to Flint’s order, most of those nearby stood transfixed while others simply dove for cover. Fools, he cursed, vowing to hammer home some discipline if he survived the next few seconds. The launcher on the walker’s side glowed white as it charged its disruption systems, the cockpit swivelling towards Flint as he dashed across the open ground before it.

Then, it fired again.

This close, it was a simple matter for Flint to sidestep the attack, but its passage less than a metre to the left still inflicted burning pain down his entire side, ripping a snarl of anger from his throat. More screams from directly behind told him more of his troops had gone down, but by that point Flint had more pressing concerns.

Ducking left past a clanking mechanical shin, Flint found himself directly beneath the walker’s cockpit. Up close, its pneumatic articulation seemed crude and ill-maintained, but just one slip could spell death if the pilot tried to stamp down on him. The walker lurched right and Flint guessed the pilot had seen the danger. Its metal limbs squealed and hissed but Flint caught another sound in amongst the cacophony. It was a warning, delivered just in time.

Flint dove forwards straight between the walker’s legs as the neural whip snapped back into its launcher with a shockingly violent discharge of arcing disruption energy. Glowing corposant streaked outwards from the launcher to chase up and down the metal legs, the sight highlighting what Flint had to do next.

‘Emperor grant thy servant strength,’ Flint quoted the Dictum Commissaria as he threw himself forward and up, gripping hold of an access handle on the side of the cockpit. ‘That I might deliver thy judgement to the guilty!’

Gripping tightly, Flint hauled himself upwards and hooked a leg about the front of the boxy cockpit. The Dictrix lurched violently sideways as it was thrown suddenly off balance and in a second Flint found himself face-to-face with the pilot, shielded behind the corroded mesh of his cockpit cage.

The man’s eyes bulged wide in surprise as he saw an Imperial Guard commissar appear mere centimetres away. He drew backwards and the walker did likewise as he all but forgot the control column bucking in his hands. Flint hung on for dear life as the machine spun about, almost toppling before its self-righting mechanisms cut in and the pilot wrested control back once more.

But before the pilot could shake his tormentor from his machine’s back, Flint let go of one hand and with a feral snarl drew his bolt pistol. The man saw his doom and hauled violently on the column, forcing the commissar to redouble his grip or be thrown clear and no doubt crushed beneath its splayed mechanical feet. But it wasn’t enough. As a storm trooper, Flint had tallied four confirmed stalker kills in the swamps of Delta Suthi. He might be twenty years older, but the method was unforgettable.

Hauling his bolt pistol around as the walker span crazily about, Flint grit his teeth against the growing centrifugal force. At the last, he levelled the pistol straight at the pilot’s face, the man screaming a valedictory curse that would ensure his soul was damned for an eternity.

‘By your own confession be judged!’ Flint spat as he squeezed the trigger. The pilot was dead before the bolt detonated, the explosion sending up a cascade of brain matter and bone shards as Flint kicked back against the cockpit and tumbled through the air to get clear of the madly spinning, out of control walker.

The impact on the hard, wet ground drove the air explosively from his lungs but Flint was soon scrambling backwards and away as the Dictrix went down in a tangled mess of tortured metal and kicking mechanical limbs. At the last, the machine’s self-righting mechanism gave up and the limbs disengaged with a mechanical sigh.

‘Sir?’ the voice of Dragoon Kohlz came from somewhere off behind. ‘Are you…’

But Flint never heard the rest of his aide’s question, with the now still wreckage of the walker being kicked violently aside as the second machine appeared overhead, bearing down on the commissar’s prone form. With a hiss of pneumatics, it raised one leg, ready to bring it slamming down on its intended victim…

A single las-bolt rang out from the darkness, striking the second machine’s pilot straight between the eyes. The walker’s leg froze in mid-air and Flint rolled clear as the entire walker toppled backwards and crashed to the floor, lifeless.

Flint knew without looking who had fired that shot. Wherever the medic Karasinda had learned to shoot, it certainly wasn’t in the Vostroyan defence militia.

Vahn heard the rebels before he saw them, his instincts kicking in before his conscious mind had a chance to voice an objection. In a single motion, he swung his carbine down on its sling and tucked it in behind his right arm. An instant later the rebels stepped out of the portal and turned to walk off in the opposite direction.

In the two or three seconds it took for one of the rebels to register Vahn’s presence, the other three penal troopers had clocked what was happening and stowed their own weapons. In an instant, the four press-ganged penal troopers became rebel convicts, for as long as they could get away with it at least.

‘Hey…’ the rearmost rebel growled as he caught sight of the penal troopers.

‘What?’ Vahn said brazenly, walking forward as if he had every right to do so. ‘What?’ he repeated, his three fellow troopers spreading out behind him. He cast a furtive glance into the flickering depths of the portal but all he saw were flames spouting from crude barrel fires.

‘What you doing here?’ the largest of the rebels snarled, hooking his thumbs into his belt as he looked down at the strangers. The man was almost as massive as the Catachan they had encountered during their escape attempt. The mess that had at one time been his face showed all the signs that he was some kind of pit fighter. The man’s bald cranium was pitted with metal studs, as were his knuckles. Definitely a pit fighter, Vahn thought, and a nasty one at that.

Vahn thought on his feet. ‘Got a message for Bing,’ he said, plucking the name of a convict-worker he had once shared a geotherm sink work shift with from his memory. ‘He inside?’

The pit fighter thought on it for a second, Vahn preparing to sweep his carbine upwards from behind his arm should the other man come to the wrong conclusion.

‘Dunno,’ the pit fighter said. ‘Who’s the message from?’

‘From the top,’ said Vahn. ‘That’s why we came four-handed.’

The insinuation that Vahn was acting on behalf of the uprising’s leader had the desired effect on the pit fighter, yet several of his companions looked unconvinced. One, a wiry fellow who looked like a particularly ugly simian hybrid decided to face-off with Solomon.

‘I seen you before?’ Monkey Man snarled right into Solomon’s face.

Solomon looked down at the rebel with barely concealed disgust, but he held his tongue, aware that one wrong move could bring the whole thing to a very messy end.

‘We don’t got time for this,’ said Vahn, pointedly addressing the pit fighter rather than Monkey Man. ‘You gonna let us pass or not?’

Behind his back, Vahn flicked the safety off of his carbine and his three companions did likewise.

The two Dictrix walkers were defeated, but Commissar Flint was in a foul mood. Those struck down by their neural whips were back on their feet having been dosed up with an unhealthy stimm-shot by Karasinda, who was observing the scene at the sub-chamber through the scope of her rifle.

‘Looks like Vahn’s going inside, sir,’ Karasinda reported. ‘Orders?’

Flint ground his teeth as a hundred possibilities rushed through his mind at once. What if Vahn and his fellow scouts were overcome and made to talk? What if the two dead Dictrix pilots had reported his force’s presence? The rebels would learn of the 77th’s mission and maybe even their strength and deployment. Or perhaps Vahn was on the verge of betraying the 77th? After all, he’d meant to escape the penal generatorium but had ended up getting himself and his friends press-ganged into the Imperial Guard. Maybe he was having a second go at it.

‘Is he going willingly?’ Flint asked the medic.

‘Yes, sir, I’d say he is. I won’t have a clear shot for much longer though.’

‘Stand down, Karasinda,’ he ordered, deciding despite himself to place the entire mission in Vahn’s hands. If you let me down though, Flint swore, I’ll go in there and execute you myself…

It took Vahn’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark as he and his companions entered the sub-chamber. The vast space resembled the inside of a cooling tower, barely lit by guttering barrel fires, the smoke and embers rising upwards towards the opening above. Vahn’s earlier suspicions were soon proved correct – the sub-chamber was being used as a huge holding pen. The multiple barrel fires were strung together with heavy, barbed chains that formed the outer perimeter of a paddock in which several hundred moaning prisoners were held. The sight of inmates chained to one another and unable to move further than a metre brought bile to Vahn’s throat. To make things even worse, many were dead, their weight still useful to the rebels to restrain those forced to endure the horror of being tethered to a bloated, stinking corpse. And above it all, the low, mournful dirge of human suffering swelled and echoed around the curved walls of the chamber, echoing upwards along with the darting embers of the barrel fires.

‘Pash…’ Solomon cursed. ‘Why is it–’

‘Quiet!’ Vahn hissed, checking that none of the rebels had overheard Solomon’s outburst. Pit fighter and Monkey Man were talking conspiratorially and there were at least another twenty rebels guarding the prisoners, but with the barrel fires raging in the darkness it was all but impossible to be sure of their numbers.

‘We can’t do anything,’ said Skane as he came to stand beside Vahn. ‘I wish we could, but…’

‘I know,’ Vahn replied bitterly. ‘But we at least need to log this place, make sure the following forces do something about it. Then…’

‘Bing’s not here,’ Pit Fighter interrupted as he strode up to Vahn. ‘Mash says he’s with Khave’s crew.’

Vahn fought to contain his surprise that his earlier ploy had paid off, finding himself suddenly faced with a new opportunity. ‘Where?’ he tried his luck.

‘Carceri control,’ the pit fighter replied. ‘Khave’s been ordered to attend the colonel after his frag-up over in Didactio. You’d think a big lad like him would be able to stop a bunch of runaways, but apparently not…’

The Catachan. He was talking about the leader that would have ruined Vahn’s escape attempt mere days before had it not been for Flint’s intervention. Evidently, this Khave’s failure to stop Vahn and his companions escaping had earned the wrath of Colonel Strannik.

‘Carceri control, you say?’ said Vahn, scanning the scene of misery beyond the guttering barrel fires once more. ‘Then I think we should go pay them a visit.’

It was only as Vahn walked back out through the sub-chamber’s portal that he realised he’d been had.

‘You looking for me, stranger?’ a phlegmy voice rasped. ‘Heard you got a message from the colonel.’

The owner of the voice was a grotesquely obese individual attended by a mob of goons armed with lengths of iron bar and wickedly serrated shivs. No one had any business getting that fat, thought Vahn, not in a prison where food was a luxury and most of the inmates were chronically malnourished. The man’s skin was pale and waxy, his bare torso a mountain of heaving fat. His face was a twisted, mashed up mess and his eyes and mouth were little more than folds amongst layers of flesh.

‘Bing, huh?’ Vahn nodded slowly, reading what was about to unfold. There must have been at least two-dozen rebels up front, while Pit Fighter and Monkey Man, along with at least a dozen more were still behind inside the sub-chamber. But most importantly, only a handful of the rebels appeared to be carrying firearms, and most of those were improvised blunderbusses or practically useless breech-loaders.

Vahn swung his carbine around on its sling, bringing it from behind his arm to point directly at the flesh mountain. In an instant, Skane, Rotten and Solomon had done likewise.

‘Cover the rear,’ Vahn told Solomon and Rotten.

Amazingly, the obese rebel leader didn’t seem in the least bit intimidated by the las-weapons aimed squarely at his body. Perhaps the rebel was stupid enough to think he had the mass to absorb a few shots, Vahn thought, preparing to find out.

‘This ain’t gonna finish how you think it will,’ the obese man rasped. Heavy footsteps sounded from behind as Pit Fighter and Monkey Man had joined the party.

Something inside Vahn was getting dangerously close to snapping. ‘To be honest, I don’t really give a crap how it ends. But you’re right,’ he added. ‘It is ending…’

‘Vahn?’ said Skane, his voice low so the rebels couldn’t hear him.

Vahn was about to continue his death wish taunt when something in Skane’s tone made him pause. ‘What?’

‘Don’t look,’ the Elysian whispered. ‘Eleven o’clock, three hundred metres.’

‘Don’t look?’ hissed Vahn. ‘How do you expect me…’

‘Don’t!’ Skane hissed urgently. ‘Not if you want them to…’

A flash of colour off in the shadows along the cliff-like rockcrete wall of the carceri chamber caught Vahn’s eye despite Skane’s warning.

‘What the…’ said the obese rebel leader.

A las-bolt hammered out of the mists and slammed into the leader’s meaty shoulder. A puff of flash-boiled blood mushroomed upwards and a look of dumb, quizzical surprise crossed the man’s face before he toppled forward with a dull thud.

Three more las-bolts lanced out of the fog, three more rebels falling to the ground, before anyone thought to react.

‘Move!’ Vahn roared, diving to his right as one of the rebels unloaded a blunderbuss directly at him. The air was filled with a mass of scything shot. Miraculously, Vahn and his companions avoided the blast as they dived across the ground.

‘Four,’ Solomon counted as he squeezed off a sniper rifle shot all but un-aimed. The weapon was never intended for use at such close quarters, but even firing from the hip Solomon took a rebel clean between the eyes and sent his brain matter vomiting from the back of his cranium.

In a moment Vahn was up and pushing the gangly Jopalli before him as he scrambled to get clear of the killing zone. He fired his carbine into the mob as he moved, catching one rebel at the elbow and causing his severed arm to cartwheel backwards through the air, and another in the stomach causing him to double up as he dropped.

‘Rotten!’ Vahn yelled, spinning around as he cleared the immediate crossfire. The other two men were close behind, but the Asgardian wasn’t clear yet, pausing to let off more shots to cover his companions’ withdrawal. ‘I appreciate the thought,’ Vahn shouted. ‘But it’s time we were somewhere else, get moving!’

Rotten looked almost disappointed as he squeezed off one last burst before upping and running. A shotgun blast split the air he had just vacated and tore up the ground he had been standing on.

‘Thanks,’ Rotten laughed madly as he overtook Vahn. ‘Where now?’

The rebels were scattering in all directions and dozens of their fallen were sprawled across the ground. Most of the survivors were making for the safety of the sub-chamber and those without the sense to do so were being gunned down mercilessly by the closing Guard force.

‘Wait,’ said Vahn. ‘Crap…’

‘What?’ said Rotten as he shot down another fleeing rebel. ‘Vahn?’

They’re heading back to the pens,’ he said.

‘Seven,’ said Solomon as he lined up and fired, his sniper rifle kicking back into his shoulder with its fierce recoil. ‘The prisoners?’

‘The prisoners,’ said Vahn, scanning the carceri chamber. ‘Where’s Flint?’

‘Over there!’ said Rotten, pointing towards the source of many of the incoming las-bolts. The majority of the rebels had by now reached the sanctuary of the sub-chamber and the weight of fire was lessening. ‘Right flank, by the gear shaft.’

A group of troopers were firing from the cover of an oversized gear casing. Commissar Flint could be seen directing their fire and Corporal Bukin was further along the line, loosing shot after shot at the retreating rebels as he led his provost section in a wide flanking manoeuvre. Then Vahn saw the flash of colour again, and realised it was Becka, her acid green mohican visible through the drifting tendrils of airborne vapour. ‘Becka!’ he yelled. ‘Tell Flint there are multiple prisoners inside that sub!’

Becka waved her confirmation that she had heard him. ‘And tell him we’re getting them out!’

‘He’s what?’ Flint snapped as the Savlar finished relaying Vahn’s message.

‘He’s getting them out, sir,’ Becka repeated, glancing nervously back towards the sub-chamber portal. The firing had died right down, reduced to the occasional solid slug unleashed indiscriminately from the shadows of the opening. Stray rounds were still zinging around and the gear shaft didn’t offer nearly as much cover as Becka would have liked.

‘I heard what you said,’ said Flint. ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’

This time, Becka didn’t answer. ‘Can I go now, sir?’ she said, her discomfort in the presence of a commissar obvious to see, even with half of her face obscured by her ever-present rebreather.

‘Go,’ said Flint. ‘Muster the penal troopers under Corporal Bukin and be ready to move out at my command, understood?’

‘Well,’ Flint turned to Claviger-Primaris Gruss. ‘It looks like Trooper Vahn has made a somewhat precipitous decision…’

‘You’ll be executing him in due course,’ replied the chief warden.

‘What?’ said Flint, distracted for a moment from the plan forming in his mind. ‘Execute him?’

‘For disobedience, commissar,’ said Gruss. ‘And for compromising the mission.’

‘He may not have done that, Claviger-Primaris,’ Flint replied. ‘We might be able to salvage something from this yet.’

‘You can’t be…’ Gruss started.

‘Serious?’ Flint cut him off. ‘I’m serious, Gruss. Vahn went in there for a reason, came out, and now he wants to head straight back in again, even in the face of that.’ He jerked his head towards the entrance as a torrent of gunfire sounding like a dozen tree branches being snapped at once burst from the portal. ‘I don’t like him, and Emperor knows I’d put a bolt-round through his temple myself. But,’ Flint concluded, ‘in this, I’m deciding to trust him.’

Gruss’s blank-faced visor held Flint’s gaze for a moment before he shook his head in evident resignation. ‘Where do you want my men?’

Flint considered the question, weighing the options. Gruss’s clavigers were equipped with far superior armour than any of Flint’s troops, and that would be vital in an assault. In addition, they carried combat shotguns ideal for a close quarters storming action.

‘I need them taking that portal,’ he replied, knowing he was asking a lot. ‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed, commissar,’ said Gruss. ‘I’ll make preparations,’ he said, before departing to brief his men.

Seeing Gruss departing, Kohlz tapped his headset and gestured towards the chief warden’s back. Flint got the message, but had more immediate concerns. With Vahn leading the scout element back towards the sub-chamber portal Flint saw no choice but to intervene before things got completely out of hand.

Drawing his power sword in one hand and his bolt pistol in the other, Flint gathered up the remainder of his troops, including Lhor with his heavy flamer.

‘I want you going in with the wardens,’ Flint ordered Lhor as he broke cover and worked his way through the snaking mists towards the provost section. Lhor looked like he was just about to voice a complaint at serving alongside the penal generatorium’s staff, but he shut his mouth at Flint’s venomous glance. ‘Do it.’

Stooping as he ran across the open space between towering piston casings, Flint ducked into Bukin’s position. The chief provost had cleared his flank, as evidenced by the sight of a dozen or more dead rebels littering the open ground in front, pools of blood spreading out around each.

‘Cover the wardens, Bukin.’ Flint ordered. ‘And Vahn reports there are prisoners inside, so play nice.’

Bukin looked mildly hurt but any objection was forestalled by the sound of armoured boots pounding the rockcrete behind him. Claviger-Warden Gruss and his men appeared, ready to carry out Flint’s order to storm the opening.

Another ripple of gunfire sounded from the portal, stray shots spanging from the metal casing Flint and the provosts were sheltering behind and sending up a shower of angry sparks. The commissar peered around the edge and caught sight of a hugely muscled rebel armed with a primitive blunderbuss standing in the opening, blood covering his bare torso.

‘Ugly mother…’ said Bukin, puffing on his cigar before plucking it from his mouth and grinding it against the metal piston casing to extinguish it. Dropping the smouldering stub into a webbing pocket, he said, ‘That one’s mine, sir.’

Flint ignored Bukin’s boast and nodded to Gruss. With a command that Flint couldn’t hear, Gruss ordered his wardens forward out of cover and into the open. The clavigers set their shotguns against their chests, lowered their helmeted heads and charged forward across the corpse-strewn open ground.

The instant the clavigers were out in the open the rebels opened fire. Rough cast solid slugs and a hail of scatter-shot spat out from the opening, most of it missing its target but some slamming into the wardens’ hardshell. One warden staggered as a slug struck his bulky shoulder armour, but in a moment he was continuing in his advance, stepping over the corpse of a fallen rebel to rejoin the line. A second claviger took the brunt of a shotgun blast, the hammer blow almost casting him from his feet. Incredibly, he straightened up and carried on towards the objective, his armour having absorbed the worst of the impact.

‘Up!’ Flint bellowed, raising his power sword high and then chopping it downwards to indicate the axis of advance. Breaking cover, he sprinted forward after the claviger-wardens, ensuring that Dragoon Lhor was following close behind. Corporal Bukin shouted his own battle-cry, something that definitely wasn’t approved by any of the texts Flint had studied, but it had the desired effect. The provosts echoed Bukin’s shout and powered forward along with the remainder of Vahn’s penal troopers.

‘Loosen up!’ Flint shouted as the line advanced. As the clavigers closed on the opening, Dragoon Lhor took position, his heavy flamer ready to disgorge into the portal and incinerate any rebels sheltering within. As the wardens closed to firing range they set their shotguns at their hips and at Gruss’s bellowed order opened fire. The thunderous fusillade made a mockery of the rebels’ crudely improvised firearms and bodies twisted and fell or were torn to shredded rags as shot after shot was pumped into the opening.

Flint’s warriors roared in savage celebration at the spectacle, and it wasn’t just the soldiers of the 77th that did so. The penal troopers, until recently subject to the clavigers’ brutal stewardship, bellowed just as loudly. Clearly, the sight of the rebels being cut down was enough to overcome whatever misgivings the former convicts might have harboured at fighting alongside Gruss’s men.

‘Lhor!’ Flint shouted as he closed on the sub-chamber’s outer wall. ‘Ready?’

The burly dragoon grinned and lowered his anti-glare goggles over his eyes as he followed behind the clavigers. At Gruss’s signal the line of wardens parted to make room for Lhor, and the weight of return fire increased as the defenders realised what was coming their way. Shots rang out from the opening, but Lhor ignored the torrent of lead screaming in his direction despite the risk that he would be transformed into a human torch if his fuel tank was struck and ignited.

‘Give him space!’ Flint ordered the nearby Firstborn dragoons. None, he realised, had seen a heavy flamer discharged at close range, but by the reaction of the penal troopers most of them had. The dragoons ducked away from Lhor as he set his feet wide, lifted the flamer and opened the valve wide. A raging cascade of burning chemical death spurted forth and arced right into the sub-chamber’s opening, incinerating the few defenders who had remained to guard it. Lhor washed the burning jet left and right, backwash billowing up and out of the portal in great raging sheets of fire. Though Flint was at least ten metres away from Lhor when the dragoon opened up, the heat was tremendous, forcing the commissar to turn his face away as he gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes tight shut.

‘Disengage!’ Flint shouted, and Lhor closed off the heavy flamer’s valve. A cloud of greasy black smoke mushroomed upwards and flames sizzled from stray gobbets of flamer fuel. The fire that had engulfed the portal had burned itself out and no more movement was visible there.

Lhor lifted his goggles, his face now entirely black apart from the circle around each eye. From the look of sheer joy on his face, Flint knew he would have trouble getting the flamer off Dragoon Lhor after the battle. Even before Flint could wave the force onwards again, Gruss’s clavigers were storming the portal. Though the opening was wide enough to allow five or more men to pass through at once, the wardens, experienced in such actions, split into two assault parties one taking each side of the opening.

‘Bukin!’ Flint called as he came to the wall and knelt down. ‘Take a multiple right and back them up!’ Acknowledging Flint’s order, Bukin peeled off to the right as he dashed across the open ground, waving two-dozen provosts and penal troopers ahead of him.

‘Everyone else,’ Flint bellowed, ‘With me!’ Two-dozen other troops clustered in behind Flint, and at that moment the wardens pressed in through the opening. They went through in two stacked groups, the front men ducked down while another two leaned in over his back to present as small a target as possible to any defenders left inside. A shot boomed out and a warden grunted as he fell to the ground. Another stepped forward and took his place as a third dragged the convulsing form clear.

The entire portal exploded in smoke as the clavigers opened fire as one. Massed combat shotguns roared and the wardens pressed in and were gone. ‘For the 77th!’ Flint shouted, rising and waving the troops onward. On the other side of the portal, Bukin made an equivalent shout to muster the penal troopers and the two groups rushed forward into the opening.

The ground around the portal was a bubbling mass of blackened rockcrete and flesh, and Flint felt something close around an ankle as he stormed through after the wardens. The twisted and blackened arm of a still-living rebel grasped upwards in an attempt to drag Flint down to share his grisly death. Flint sneered with disgust and swept his power sword downwards in a savage arc, severing the rebel’s arm at the elbow. Even as the man’s face twisted with hatred and pain, Flint levelled his bolt pistol and put a round right into the rebel’s open mouth, blowing out the back of his neck and severing his head.

‘Keep going,’ Flint growled at the penal troopers who had backed up behind him. ‘But watch your fire!’

Plunging into the darkness, Flint looked around for more enemies, his bolt pistol raised as he tracked it in a wide arc. The interior of the sub-chamber reminded him of some mad artist’s vision of eternal damnation, the only illumination provided by the guttering barrel fires and the flash of the wardens’ combat shotguns as they gunned down the cornered rebels.

Flint’s eyes started to adjust to the hellish gloom and he saw the prisoners. There were hundreds of them, emaciated wretches cowering inside the ring of flame formed by the chain-linked barrel fires. Denied cover from the shots winging back and forth over their heads, the prisoners pressed themselves to the ground or cowered behind what little cover was afforded by the corpses of their dead fellows. While most made every possible effort to hide, some were becoming so maddened by the unfolding scene that they strained futilely at their chains in an effort to break their bonds. Sickened by the grim spectacle, Flint determined to end it, straight away.

But before he had the chance, a savage bellow filled the cavernous space; the prisoners cringed with what Flint could immediately see was a deeply ingrained fear response. The source of the terrible sound was an obese rebel leader, his shoulder a burned mess of ruined flesh, held out amidst his surviving companions at the far side of the holding pen and backlit by raging flames. He roared his defiance at the incursion into what must surely have been his personal fiefdom.

‘He’s mine!’ Bukin called out to his men as he led them forward. Flint was just about to grant the chief provost permission to engage when a figure appeared behind. Vahn stalked towards him, his dreadlocks silhouetted against a raging barrel fire and his eyes glinting with menace.

‘No,’ Vahn growled. ‘That’s Bing, one of the colonel’s bosses. We need that one alive.’

Hearing Vahn’s words, Bukin hesitated, and looked to Flint for confirmation. Though the chief provost dearly wanted to take the obese rebel down, if Vahn was right, the man had to be spared, whatever his crime.

‘Agreed,’ Flint growled. ‘The rest are yours, corporal, but take that one alive.’

The far side of the chamber erupted in gunfire: a brief competition of combat shotguns and las-weapons against blunderbusses and breech-loaders. The exchange was over in seconds, and could only have one winner.

‘Well?’ said Flint ignoring the last of the gunfire.

‘Well what, sir?’ he replied.

‘Who’s in charge here, Vahn?’ Flint said, his voice low and dangerous.

‘Huh,’ said Vahn. ‘That’d be you, I guess, commissar.’

‘Correct,’ said Flint, his point made. ‘So what’s so special about this one?’ he said as Bukin returned leading the obese rebel leader in front. The man was huge, his shoulder wrecked and his bare torso smeared with his own blood. His face was a crumpled, twisted mask of bitterness, initially aimed at his captor but redirected towards Flint the instant he saw the commissar’s unmistakable uniform.

‘He knows where Strannik is,’ said Vahn. ‘Carceri control, they said.’

‘Does he now?’ said Flint, meeting the man’s hateful, porcine eyes. ‘He’d better speak up then, hadn’t he?’ he said as he racked the slide on his bolt pistol.

The rebel leader sneered, his flabby lips peeling back to reveal black teeth. ‘You ain’t no competition for the colonel, mister,’ he said. ‘Nothing, not a thing you could do to me would be anywhere as bad as what he would do if he found out I’d blabbed. I ain’t tellin’ you a thing.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Flint, glancing around at the crowd of troops gathering about the confrontation. It was clear the rebel meant every word and the simple threat of summary execution wouldn’t suffice. A nasty little germ of an idea forming, he cast his eye over each of the onlookers, discounting the Firstborn and settling on a knot of penal troopers watching sullenly. Solomon looked like he’d rather be somewhere else, but that appeared to be his normal state, while Karasinda was dressing a light wound to Stank’s left arm. Vendell and Skane were scowling, their hatred boring into the rebel. But neither of them was regarding the man with anything like as much unfettered bitterness as the Savlar, Trooper Becka.

A cruel grin twisted Flint’s lips and he leaned in towards the rebel. ‘You might not fear me,’ he whispered, his voice low so the other man had to strain to hear his words. ‘But I’m just a commissar, so I’ve only been indoctrinated into the first seventeen procedures of the Rites of Excoriation. I know I could flay the skin from your body and you’d still be more scared of your colonel, so that leaves me with just one option.’

The man’s leer faded as he followed Flint’s nod towards Becka. Slowly, the Savlar drew a serrated combat blade from a thigh-high leather boot and ran a thumb along its lethally sharp cutting edge. As she lifted the blade to examine it in the flickering firelight, a thin line of crimson appeared across her thumb.

‘She’s not indoctrinated into any of the Rites,’ Flint said even lower. ‘Not officially at least. Where she’s from, they make it up as they go along. Plus, she’s a she, and that means she knows more about inflicting pain on a man than you or I could ever imagine…’

‘May I, commissar?’ Becka said coyly, right on cue.

‘Not fair, sir,’ whined Bukin, causing Flint to suppress a snort of amusement. ‘I said he was mine.’

The rebel’s eyes darted towards Bukin, then back to Becka. It was clear which he was more afraid of. ‘He’s all yours Trooper Becka, but not here. Listen up!’ Flint called out. ‘We move by sections starting in two minutes, one minute intervals. Muster at grid three-three-nine. Understood?’

The assembled troops grumbled their understanding as Bukin’s provosts started mustering them into sections. Within a couple of minutes the first group was moving out to the map reference Flint had indicated, and he was looking around the charnel pit of the sub-chamber.

‘What about them?’ said Vahn, nodding his dreadlocked head towards the holding pen beyond the barrel fires and the hundreds of prisoners cringing inside. ‘They’re the reason I came back.’

‘I noticed,’ said Flint, though they weren’t the reason he came back. ‘Did you plan this far ahead?’

Vahn smirked slightly, and admitted, ‘Not really, commissar.’

‘Well,’ said Flint, holstering his bolt pistol as he made to follow Becka as she led the rebel leader away. ‘Do something, and quickly.’

Grid three-three-nine was a twisted mass of conduits Flint’s force had passed through on its way towards the excoriation sub-chamber. It had been chosen as a muster point because it offered a defensible position the entire force could lay up in. Pipes several metres across rose from the rockcrete ground, some snaking away across the surface, others running directly upwards and disappearing into the overhead murk. Some seemed to writhe around one another like mating serpents and none of them had any discernable purpose. Nevertheless, the sound of liquids and gases rumbling through the large, corroded pipes was audible as Flint waited for Vahn to catch up having dealt with the freed prisoners.

‘Anything?’ Flint asked Dragoon Kohlz, who was hunched over his vox-set in the shadow of the conduit.

‘I’m getting a carrier wave, sir,’ the aide replied. ‘I can attempt communion on your say so, though I can’t guarantee I’ll get a good signal.’

‘Good work,’ said Flint, knowing that Kohlz was right in not attempting to establish two-way communication just yet. Even if it worked the rebels might detect the signal and then the infiltration force’s presence and disposition would be betrayed.

‘Can you keep the carrier wave fixed until we need to call the main force in?’ Flint asked.

‘I can try sir,’ said Kohlz. ‘It’s a risk though. As Gruss said, the structure is shielded and I could lose the wave any time.’

‘Speaking of the Claviger-Primaris,’ said Flint, his voice low. ‘Anything?’

Kohlz glanced around the muster point to ensure that the nearest of the clavigers was out of earshot. ‘Nothing showing up, sir, but I’m on it.’

‘Good,’ said Flint, clapping his aide on the shoulder as he turned at the sound of someone approaching. The mists had come down again and ambient illumination was almost at whiteout, but Flint could just about make out a figure walking directly towards his position.

‘Contact ahead,’ Flint heard medic Karasinda hiss through the personal vox-net. ‘One target.’

‘It’s Vahn,’ Skane replied over the net, and by the dark halo of dreadlocks around the figure’s head, Flint could see that Skane was correct. ‘Stand down,’ Skane ordered the medic, and she lowered her lasgun, reluctantly, it seemed to Flint.

A moment later, Vahn had climbed over the conduit and was standing before Flint. ‘Well?’ the commissar asked.

‘I freed them,’ he answered.

‘Where to?’ Flint asked.

‘I didn’t ask,’ said Vahn. ‘They were in a bit of hurry to get moving.’

So long as they don’t interfere with the mission, Flint thought. The last thing he needed was a body of freed convicts getting in the way. Besides, they would soon be returned to captivity once the rebels were defeated.

‘Anyway,’ said Vahn, looking around at the troops waiting to move on. ‘We ready to get going?’

‘As soon as Becka’s finished up,’ Flint grinned coldly. ‘I got what I needed and left her to her fun.’

‘Always knew your lot were cruel bastards,’ said Vahn. ‘But that’s just–’

Vahn’s words were cut-off when a blood-curdling scream rang out from deep amongst the nest of twisting pipes. The scream turned to a sob, and the sob to an unintelligible plea for mercy. Flint and Vahn shared a look of sympathy even for the vile rebel. Becka’s attentions were anything but gentle.

A moment later, Trooper Becka appeared from the nest of conduits the Savlar was using as an ad hoc interrogation cell.

‘Anything to add?’ Flint asked. Having gleaned the location of the rebel colonel’s strong hold early in the ‘conversation’, he doubted Bing had anything further to add, but it was worth trying.

‘I may have broken him, sir,’ Becka sneered. ‘But what he told you was the truth, I’m sure of that.’

Vahn smiled grimly at that, but Flint pressed the trooper for more.

‘Can he lead us to the rebels’ hiding place?’ asked Vahn.

Becka tilted her head playfully, and replied, ‘He won’t be leading anyone any place, not for a while anyway.’

‘We don’t need him to, I got the location,’ Flint said. ‘We know where Colonel Strannik’s holed up.’

‘Where?’ pressed Vahn.

‘He said the rebels have set themselves up in a control facility in the air scrubber chamber,’ said Flint, drawing his data-slate and invoking Major Herrmahn’s tri-D map of the complex. The slate came to life and the image of Carceri Resurecti revolved slowly in its centre.

‘There,’ said Flint, pointing out a grid reference high atop the northern face of the chamber’s wall. ‘If I was the colonel, that’s where I’d be too.’

Flint had already studied the map and calculated the quickest route to the atmospheric processors. A honeycomb of tunnels led through the wall face but he judged it would be costly to lead an assault through them. Too costly for the small force he was leading.

‘We confirm that’s definitely where they are, then we exfiltrate and call in the regiment to launch a full assault on that position.’

‘Fat boy said that’s where they are…’ said Becka.

‘I know,’ Flint held up a gloved hand to forestall Becka’s complaints. ‘But I need visual confirmation before I call in the regiment. Understood?’ Not that he needed her to understand, but Becka was one of the more competent of the penal troopers and he’d need her for the next phase of the mission.

‘Five minutes,’ Flint announced, loud enough for all of the troops nearby to hear. ‘Section leaders, check ammunition distributions and get everyone ready to move out.

‘This is it,’ he growled. ‘This is what we get paid for.’

‘We get paid?’ Becka muttered to Vahn as the commissar stalked off. ‘No one told me…’

Eleven

Heart of Darkness

Becka squinted up into the clouds staining the vaults high above. It was raining again, and not just a fine drizzle. The closer the force got to the cooling tower and its crippled scrubbers, the worse the weather. She sneered in amusement at the thought of weather inside a prison, but it was the truth. The chamber’s roof space was in effect an artificial sky, and that sky was now dominated by boiling black clouds that looked for all the world like they were about to explode in lightning.

‘Becka, you okay?’ said Vahn over the personal vox-net. ‘You want someone else to take point?’

She didn’t answer straight away, but scanned the vista up ahead, cautious for the presence of more rebels. The infiltration force was approaching the northern wall of Carceri Resurecti, and that wall was now looming from the haze, pale and glistening, like the tallest cliff face rearing from an ocean. The base of the wall was still lost to almost oceanic fog, while the very top was wreathed in darkness and churning clouds. Inbetween was several hundred metres of slab-like, cyclopean rockcrete, studded with thousands of small openings, each a cell portal.

The sight made Becka shiver, for she knew that high atop the wall was the rebels’ fortress. And inside it, Colonel Strannik, the insane butcher who had orchestrated all of the bloodshed she had witnessed over the last few weeks. And that, she knew, was where the commissar was now saying they had to go.

‘Becka?’ Vahn repeated, the gain on the transmission pumped up so that his voice squawked painfully loud in her ear. ‘You reading me, Becka?’

Becka slowed as she walked, tracking her carbine slowly left to right. ‘Here, Argusti,’ she replied. ‘What’s up?’

There was a pause, during which Becka squinted into the drifting mists as she blinked the rain out of her eyes. The downpour was definitely getting worse, the entire surface of the chamber floor looking like one huge, shallow lake. The air was darkening too, what little natural light that was able to shine down through the upper levels being cut off by the steadily thickening cloud layer. Then, Vahn’s voice came back.

‘I don’t like this, Becka,’ he said.

‘Hah!’ she snorted inside her mask. ‘You don’t like it?’ I’m the one on point, she thought.

‘I mean it,’ he said, his irritation obvious in his voice even over the static-laced personal vox-channel. ‘Something’s up.’

‘Repeat last,’ said Becka as the channel burst with distorted interference. ‘You’re breaking up, Vahn.’

‘I said,’ Vahn repeated, ‘something isn’t right.’

Becka glanced back the way she’d come. All she could see was rearing machinery and massively over-scale chains hanging down from above, slick with rain and wreathed in coils of mist. She’d got too far ahead and would have to slow to allow the remainder of the force to catch up. ‘You sure this channel’s secure?’ she said.

‘As sure as I can be, Becka,’ he replied. ‘I can see things going very wrong, and I want us ready for it.’

‘By us, you mean the convicti,’ she said. ‘Not the guard, right?’

‘Right,’ Vahn replied. ‘I don’t know what it is, but be ready, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she replied as she spied a figure approaching through the mists back the way she’d come. She rapid-blinked to clear the rain from her eyelashes and saw that the figure was the Claviger-Primaris, Gruss. She waited a moment, allowing him to close up the line of march, then turned to resume her progress. Just before she turned her back on the chief warden, however, Becka got the impression from his head movements that he was talking to someone, though she couldn’t be sure.

Having closed on the base of the northern wall, Flint had decided it was time to split the force up into smaller groups. At this point, force security was less of a concern than fulfilling the mission, and they would have more chance of doing so if split into sub-units.

The upper reaches of the wall were lost to shadow and mist, and its surface was honeycombed with portals, each leading back into a complex network of tunnels and chambers. According to the former convicts, the tunnels afforded dozens of different routes upwards and just as many dead ends. At the very top was the chamber that housed the crippled scrubbers, a chamber which, if the obese rebel leader were to be believed, housed the rogue colonel’s stronghold. Chances were those tunnels would be well guarded, certainly well enough for any lookouts to detect the approach of Flint’s force and warn their fellows to lock down their defences. By splitting into smaller groups, Flint hoped to bypass at least a few of the lookouts and increase the chances of getting a confirmed fix on Colonel Strannik.

Flint watched as the last of the ten-man multiples tramped off towards the wall, each allocated a different route up to the air scrubber chamber. Most of the squads were made up of the newly inducted penal troopers, but Flint had assigned one of Bukin’s provosts to lead each. He doubted any of the former convict-workers would be especially keen to switch sides but he had to make sure none would decide to make for some dark corner and wait the battle out. Gruss had led his squad of clavigers away, leaving Flint with Bukin, Lhor, Hannen, Kohlz and Karasinda.

‘Everyone ready?’ said Flint, lowering his night vision goggles.

A chorus of affirmatives confirmed they were, and Flint led his squad through its assigned portal. Immediately, they encountered signs of the rebels’ atrocities, the walls splashed with long-dried blood. Someone had used the blood to scrawl crude graffiti along the length of the tunnel, and Flint’s lip curled in disgust as he read the first few words.

The statements daubed in blood were telling, offering clues into the mental state and motivations of the rebels and their leader. Flint was alert for signs of outside influences at work in the complex, perhaps aliens, or worse, having inspired the uprising. The Dictum Commissaria warned commissars of the signs of domination by such forces, and Flint was well versed in detecting such taint. Though he doubted alien interference, he was genuinely concerned that the servants of the Archenemy, Chaos, might be behind the uprising and that the rogue colonel might be some manner of demagogue or high priest of the Ruinous Powers. He had looked for the telltale signs of such corruption, but had yet to see any direct evidence, though there was plenty in his surroundings to disturb him. The uprising, Flint had cautiously concluded, was the result of hubris and ambition and the refusal to yield to duty, and nothing more sinister.

The floor became increasingly strewn with debris the higher the squad advanced, and it was soon an effort to avoid crunching on the litter underfoot. At one point Flint halted to examine a pile of bones scattered across the tunnel floor, deciding that a corpse had been stripped of its flesh by some manner of vermin, the gnawed remains left strewn all about. The air was musty and the temperature was rising. The humidity increased as the squad moved deeper into the tunnels and Flint’s chest stung with the taint hanging in the air that he breathed, sharp pains stabbing his chest with each breath. Soon, he was forced to don one of the Firstborn’s standard issue rebreathers, designed to be proof against the choking pollution of Vostroya’s industrial nightmare landscape. The rebreather made the going easier, though combined with the bulky night vision goggles, Flint felt encumbered and somehow more vulnerable than before.

The tunnel corkscrewed and twisted through the rockcrete cliff face with no apparent logic until Flint had all but abandoned any attempt to track progress on Major Herrmahn’s tri-D map. The purpose of the tunnels was far from clear too, for they appeared cut from the rockcrete instead of being built that way. While most of the complex’s myriad tunnels and passageways were lined with kilometre after kilometre of pipes and cabling, these were not, suggesting they’d been carved by the inmates themselves as if in an effort to create a refuge from the overwhelming weight of the vast space of the open carceri chamber beyond. If that was the case, Flint could well sympathise, for the chamber’s sheer scale was oppressive in the extreme, the unnatural weight of the void overhead thoroughly crushing.

Ten minutes into the ascent, Flint’s squad came upon the first of many junctions. Cautious of an ambush Flint sent Lhor and Hannen forward, ready to unleash a devastating burst of heavy flamer fire should any enemy show themselves. None did, and the squad continued its climb, the going getting all the more rough as they progressed.

After another few minutes, Kohlz started to notice odd signals reverberating through the airwaves and the short-range personal vox-net that linked each warrior was completely shut down by the tunnels. There was now no way of coordinating the actions of the different squads as they each climbed upwards through the dank darkness towards the air scrubber chamber and the rebels’ stronghold. Truly, the mission was at its most vulnerable, and its success rested entirely in the hands of the God-Emperor.

‘This is such a load of crap,’ Vendell moaned as Vahn’s group picked its way along a corpse-strewn length of steep climbing, pitch-black tunnel. Thankfully, the squad’s provost watchdog, a man called Katko, was either hard of hearing, concentrating on other things or he just didn’t care for any of the penal troopers’ complaints.

Vahn was on point, leading his squad through the labyrinthine tunnel network. He’d insisted on taking the lead position, mainly as a statement of intent to show the squad, and in particular Provost Katko, who was boss. The provost didn’t seem that bothered and had barely uttered a word to the penal troopers since being given command over them.

‘How much further?’ muttered Solomon from behind Vahn. ‘This is getting old.’

‘Quit your moaning, will you?’ Vahn growled. ‘Just for once…’

‘It wasn’t moaning,’ Solomon whined. ‘I mean, we should be getting near the scrubber chamber, shouldn’t we?’

Vahn slowed, examining the darkness up ahead through the grainy green vista afforded by his night vision goggles. He could see no visual clues of the squad’s location at all, but Solomon was right. They’d been climbing for some time and must be approaching the objective.

Vahn held up a hand for quiet as he advanced along the corridor, stepping cautiously over more scattered debris. Even through the mask of his rebreather, he was aware that the air was getting warmer and heavier, and the walls glistened with moisture as if sweating.

‘Hear that?’ Vendell whispered from directly behind Vahn. How the Voyn’s Reacher could hear anything with a missing ear Vahn couldn’t tell, but he paused nonetheless, straining his hearing to pick up whatever Vendell had heard.

‘What?’ said Solomon. ‘I don’t hear–’

‘Shhh!’ Vahn hissed. He could hear something too, the low grumble of a generator or some other form of machinery. The sound of raw power arcing through the air crackled and seethed nearby, but Vahn couldn’t discern the source. The damp air became charged, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The other members of the squad looked at one another uncertainly, until Katko pushed forward, his shotgun raised.

‘Get moving,’ the provost growled.

Resuming his advance, Vahn felt the renewed conviction that something was definitely wrong. Before, his concerns had been centred on the involvement of the clavigers and what might happen if the mission went badly awry, but now something else gnawed at his subconscious mind. He slowed again, signalling a halt with a raised hand.

Solomon looked ready to complain, but shut his mouth when he saw Vahn was serious. He knelt, signalling the squad to do likewise, and scanned the rough-hewn, rockcrete walls. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary up ahead, Vahn panned along past the squad.

‘Crap…’ he whispered.

‘What?’ said Solomon, before Katko pushed past him and repeated the question.

‘Wait a second,’ said Vahn. He skimmed a hand across the damp wall, feeling the texture. The air buzzed as if charged with energy, and the sound rose in pitch as his hand swept higher.

‘Crap,’ he repeated.

Provost Katko placed a hand on Vahn’s shoulder and made to pull him around.

‘Get your hand off my shoulder, friend,’ Vahn growled. ‘This ain’t the time to…’

‘You’ll tell me what’s got you spooked,’ Katko said, his unshaven face closing on Vahn’s. ‘Or I’m taking over and you’re on a charge.’

‘You want to know what’s up?’ said Vahn, a note of derision entering his voice. ‘Look straight up.’

Katko swore under his breath.

‘What?’ Solomon repeated. ‘Can’t anyone just tell me what’s…’

‘We’ve just walked right through an operational power shield,’ said Vahn.

Solomon’s face resembled a fish gasping for air as he looked to Vahn, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. ‘How…?

‘Must be configured for one-way passage,’ Vahn explained, though he deliberately withheld the source of his assertion. ‘We pass through the other way, we get fried.’

‘Crap…’ said Solomon.

Flint’s squad was passing along a wide landing strewn with shattered bones and scraps of torn clothing when Bukin stooped down suddenly, examining the ground. Flint gestured for the squad to hold and everyone went firm.

‘Someone’s been through here,’ Bukin hissed, holding up a scrap of discarded food. Flint couldn’t tell what the food had been, and didn’t really want to. ‘And recently,’ Bukin added, sniffing distastefully at the morsel.

Flint pressed forward with his bolt pistol raised, clapping Bukin on the shoulder to indicate he should continue. They were nearly there, Flint was sure of it – it certainly felt like they’d climbed several hundred metres of sloping tunnel towards the upper reaches of Carceri Resurecti. His leg muscles were burning and his lungs stung. Every now and then the tunnels had converged with others, and several times the squad had thought it had caught glimpses of others as they worked their way upwards. Each time, the point men had waited as footsteps echoed weirdly through the passageways, but aside from the occasional silhouette or darting shadow, hadn’t come close to encountering one another.

‘One of ours?’ Flint whispered as he and Bukin moved cautiously towards the end of the landing. He doubted it, but had to check.

‘No, sir,’ Bukin said as he held up the morsel of discarded food, an expression of disgust twisting his face. ‘Not even Vahn’s mob would eat this…’

‘Agreed,’ said Flint as he caught sight of the slimy object Bukin was holding. ‘Proceed, with caution.’

‘And besides,’ added Bukin. ‘Can’t you smell it? This place stinks of mutant.’

He was right. In amongst the reek of decay and destruction was that same underlying taint that had, now Flint considered it, always been present. It was that almost familiar, but indiscernible cocktail of biological corruption and chemical pollution, permeating the very air Flint breathed.

Flint nodded and Bukin led the squad to the end of the landing where a smaller tunnel branched off, rising steeply as it corkscrewed upwards through the rockcrete. It was too dark to see much, but Flint could certainly hear something. Voices.

Not risking giving the squad’s presence away, Flint gestured for a cautious advance. Edging slowly forward Flint lowered his rebreather, freeing himself of its constriction and reduced airflow. Immediately, the dank, chemical-laced air rushed into his lungs and he almost gagged. The higher up the carceri chamber’s wall the squad advanced, the worse the air quality. How many of their fellow convicts must the rebels have slain in the preceding weeks to produce such a reek, he thought? What diseases must even now be swarming in the unclean air he was breathing?

Pushing onwards, Flint felt a stirring in the rank air and sensed a wide, open space at the end of the narrow passageway just beyond the turn, dirty light oozing in from beyond. The space the passageway opened into was low and broadly circular, lit by columns of harsh daylight lancing down from directly overhead. The roof was formed by a rotor several hundred metres in diameter, its multiple blades, each the size of a heavy bomber’s wing, streaked with washes of garish corrosion. This then was the air scrubber that when operational kept the air moving through Carceri Resurecti. The light streaming downwards between the massive fan blades cast the scene in harsh shadows, but the air was stale and rank, held immobile since the scrubber had shut down. However, it wasn’t the rotor that had caught Flint’s baleful eye, but the figures occupying the chamber beneath it. There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, the scrofulous ranks filling the entire chamber. Rebels. An army of rebels.

‘Saint Nadalya’s mercy…’ Bukin mouthed.

Flint shouldered past the chief provost to get a better view and he bit back a bitter curse as he took in the spectacle before him. The rebels were mustering, not as a huge, unruly mob, but as an organised body of troops. As he looked on, Flint saw squads organised into platoons, and platoons organised into companies. The voices he’d heard before must have been the last of the rebels gabbling as they settled into position, but now, silence descended on the massed ranks. The rebels were standing to attention, almost like proper, drilled and trained soldiers.

Then it came to him. They were proper, drilled and trained soldiers. If the convicts assimilated into the 77th were anything to go by, the majority of the rebels must be erstwhile members of the Imperial Guard or other bodies such as planetary defence forces. Granted, they’d been expelled for transgressions too severe for the regimental provosts and commissars to deal with, but nonetheless, many must have been well used to military discipline. The rebels were scruffy and ill-equipped, but there was no doubt they were being drilled as soldiers. It made sense. If the infamous Colonel Strannik was in charge, he’d be using rigid military discipline to keep the murderous scum under his command in line.

And then, Flint saw the huge figure of the Catachan come into view as he passed through a downward-shining beam of wan daylight. The man was a mountain of scarred and tattooed gristle, his oversized frame barely contained within his ragged combat fatigues. His left shoulder was bound in crude bandages, the result of the bolt pistol round Flint had clipped him with during their last confrontation. His face was cast in harsh shadow by the light source directly overhead, emphasising his heavyset features. But by that light, the Catachan’s face was revealed as bruised and his lip was split, as if he’d been savagely beaten sometime in the last few hours.

Trained by the Commissariat and a veteran of dispensing similar justice, Flint knew for certain that the Catachan hadn’t been set upon by any of his fellow rebel convicts. None would have been able to take him down and if they had he’d no longer be in a position of command. No, the Catachan had submitted to the beating, administered by, or at the command of, the only man with the power to do so – the renegade Colonel Strannik.

As Flint watched, the Catachan walked the length of the first rank, his steely gaze sweeping over the men lined up before him. Even the toughest of those men shrank before the Catachan’s gaze, his eyes smouldering with menace. Flint recognised the signs of a man recently humbled by a superior and who needed scant excuse to enact his vengeance on those weaker and further down the pecking order than himself. Clearly, this was the only form of discipline that would keep such men in line.

As the Catachan reached the end of the first rank, Flint saw movement at the far end of the chamber. A shape appeared through a hatch in the far wall, silhouetted against the harsh column of light shining down from above. But the form was far from that of a normal man, even though Flint could barely make it out from his hiding place. It was twisted and distended, and moved with a hideous shuffling gait. Its every step was imbued with unbreakable threat and sullen menace.

Silence descended on the assembled rebel convict soldiers, the single figure cowing hundreds of his underlings by his very presence. Flint couldn’t make out the face, but he knew instantly exactly who the figure was.

‘Strannik,’ Vahn hissed, ducking back into the mouth of the stairwell he and his squad were hiding in.

‘You’re sure?’ said Katko. ‘You’re absolutely sure that’s our target?’

‘That’s him,’ Solomon gulped before Vahn could answer. ‘You don’t forget that bastard in a hurry…’

‘I’m sure,’ said Vahn. ‘Solomon’s right. Once you’ve seen that murdering scum up close you don’t forget, even if you’d rather.’

‘Then we extract,’ said Katko. ‘Inform the boss and call in the regiment.’

‘You forgetting something?’ Vahn growled. ‘We’re going nowhere. Not the way we came at least, not with that power shield operational.’

Katko’s face twisted in frustration and he sighed as he looked back down the stairwell. ‘You know a better way?’

‘There was a junction a hundred metres down,’ said Solomon. ‘We could take that and hope–’

‘Hope it bypasses the power shield?’ Katko interrupted the Jopalli. ‘That’s a pretty big ask.’

‘It’s the only way,’ said Vahn. ‘Unless you know how to deactivate the shield trips.’

‘No?’ Vahn pressed, hefting his carbine and preparing to head back down the stairwell. ‘Then it’s the junction. Come on.’

‘Target confirmed,’ Flint growled beneath his breath. ‘Kohlz?’

Flint’s aide failed to answer, and in a moment, he knew why. Something was happening in the chamber, and that horribly familiar stink was back, now stronger than ever before. But it wasn’t just a taint that filled the air, Flint realised as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A charge was building, one he hadn’t experienced in a long time, not since going into combat alongside the Imperial Guard’s dreaded battle psykers at the height of the Siege of the Iron Bastion. The air thickened, the light bending in ways no tech-savant could possibly explain. Time stretched and became distorted, so that a single breath took an age of screaming torment to inhale and exhale while a billion thoughts flashed through Flint’s mind in the same span of experience.

If the effect upon Flint was drastic, those in the chamber beyond were affected a thousand times worse.

As one, every rebel in the chamber staggered to his knees. Hands clamped over ears as the crimson glint of spilled blood twinkled in amongst the shadows. Two thousand and more pairs of knees slammed into the hard floor and those hands not struggling to contain rapidly expanding grey matter thudded hard to the ground. A cacophony of torment erupted as rebels moaned, wailed or vomited, even the Catachan reduced to a helpless form splayed at his master’s feet. Waves of malevolence washed outwards from the colonel and as each one broke against the ranks of his followers the rebels were forced into ever-greater acts of obeisance. Foreheads ground into the dirt in abject supplication until the skin was rasped off to reveal the bloody, white bone beneath.

All the while, the figure of Colonel Strannik, his features thankfully obscured by the shadows of the chamber, drank in the enforced adoration of his personal army. Hatred welled inside Flint’s heart as he struggled to break the spell, the words of every catechism he had ever learned spilling through his mind in an instant.

The moment stretched on forever, Flint’s perspective altering in every possible way. He caught a hint of movement in the periphery of his vision, though it was gone by the time he could fix his gaze upon it, his reactions glacially slow. Another burst of movement darted across the centre of his vision and he thought he caught the sight of a ghostly skull face imprinted upon the strained reality before him. It was almost as if a shoal of oceanic predators was circling the shadowed form of the colonel, as if drawn to him, though Flint couldn’t tell if it they were circling around him like hunters, or if they were answering his call for obeisance.

Then it ended. The colonel lowered his spread arms and uttered a groan of hideous release. Where minutes before his army had been arrayed in perfect ranks, now it was a sprawling mass of writhing, bloody limbs. What blasphemous display of dominance Flint had just witnessed the commissar could not fully explain, for it defied all logic. The rebel leader had wilfully reduced his own warriors to mewling, puking victims of his psychic brutalisation simply to demonstrate his power, and for that, he was damned. Colonel Strannik must surely have been a psyker, an abominably powerful one at that, and his control over his subjects was total.

Even as Flint composed himself, the rebels were recovering; men and women staggering to their feet as the colonel turned and made his way from the chamber. Soon, the Catachan was staggering to his feet too and lashing out at his underlings, bullying the ranks into some semblance of order.

There must be two thousand of them, Flint estimated, and most were armed, with weapons looted from slain clavigers. That put the rebels on a rough par with the 77th in terms of raw manpower, but the calculation was nowhere near that simple. The Vostroyans were better equipped, that much was true, but then the rebels were on home territory. The 77th would be assaulting a prepared position and the rebels were both experienced and cornered, a lethal combination in Flint’s experience.

Right now, the odds were stacked in the rebels’ favour, unless Flint could bring the regiment down on their heads, hard and fast, before the enemy could react.

‘Sir?’ said Flint’s aide as he knelt down beside him, his voice cracked and strained.

‘Time to call the regiment, Kohlz,’ said Flint. ‘Do you still have that carrier signal?’

Kohlz worked the dial at his headset, evidently grateful for a distraction from what he had just witnessed and experienced. Very soon however, his expression darkened.

‘Kohlz?’ said Flint.

Kohlz fiddled with the controls for a few moments longer, then looked up at the commissar. ‘The signal’s gone, sir. It’s being blocked.’

‘Who by?’ said Flint. ‘Who would–’

‘There’s something else, sir,’ Kohlz added. ‘Another signal.’

‘Who,’ Flint pressed, glancing impatiently back towards the mustered rebel army. ‘Quickly…’

‘I can’t tell, sir,’ said Kohlz. ‘It’s encrypted, high level. I can’t break it with this set.’

‘Sir?’ Bukin interjected before Flint could press the matter further. The chief provost’s face was almost completely drained of colour and he appeared to have aged at least a decade. ‘I really think we should be moving out, sir.’

Flint looked back into the chamber, the distant form of Colonel Strannik shambling away on mechanical callipers. ‘What the…’ he mouthed.

‘Sir?’ Bukin insisted, pointing towards a large group of rebels starting to move out, directly towards Flint and his force. ‘They are on the move, sir.’

‘Understood,’ said Flint. ‘We’re moving out too, but only when I say so. Bukin? Gather up all the frags you can. We’re not leaving without a parting shot.’

Vahn was the last out of the stairwell having allowed Katko to lead Solomon, Vendell and the rest away from the air scrubber chamber. He leapt from the stair onto the landing beyond, scattering debris as he dashed after the last of the squad. As he ran Vahn fought to recall the route they’d taken and find the path that avoided the area seeded with power shield trips. His mind was all but shot by the warp craft that bastard colonel had unleashed, and he was running on a noxious cocktail of instinct and adrenaline. He cursed inwardly as he ran along the dark corridor, his night vision goggles robbing him of depth perception so that several times he almost tripped or slammed into the trooper in front. He cursed Colonel Strannik, he cursed Alpha Penitentia, and he cursed Commissar Flint. A terrible sense of entrapment was welling inside him, the rebel army behind and the power shield somewhere up ahead.

Katko had halted the squad, his hand raised for silence.

‘What?’ said Vahn as he skidded to a halt, almost knocking into Solomon.

‘Shh!’ the provost hissed. ‘I thought I heard…’

‘There!’ said Solomon, un-holstering his laspistol, his sniper rifle next to useless in such cramped environs.

Vahn strained his hearing until he heard it too. Footsteps. Lots and lots of footsteps…

‘They’re coming!’ Solomon gulped. ‘The whole pashing lot…’

‘Get moving,’ Vahn ordered, shoving Solomon ahead. ‘It’s the third branch on the left, but watch out for more trips, got it?’

As the squad moved on and the sound of hundreds of tramping feet echoed madly about the rockcrete tunnels it became clear that Solomon was right, the rebel army was definitely on the move. Each time he halted Vahn imagined the rebels gaining ground, but in truth he couldn’t tell if they were actually pursuing or just moving out. Then, he heard the first of the gunfire.

The distinctive whip-crack of a las-bolt sounded from somewhere nearby. The sound rang through the tunnels and rebounded in such a way that Vahn had no way of discerning its source. Then another shot rang out, followed by an angry shout and Vahn thought the source might be a tunnel branching off not far ahead.

Katko had his Mark III raised and pointed into the dark mouth of the side tunnel. Vahn pressed himself against the wet tunnel wall and leaned in to peer along the side passage.

A shot rang out, impossibly loud in the narrow tunnel, and powdered rockcrete spat in Vahn’s face. He ducked back instinctively, swearing loudly as he rubbed the grit from his eyes.

‘That was a knock-off piece,’ Vahn growled as he cleared his eyes and raised his weapon to his shoulder. ‘Return fire!’ he shouted as he leaned around the corner.

Vahn and Katko swung into the tunnel mouth as one, their weapons scanning left and right for a target. The tunnel was barely wide enough for one man to pass along it and its floor glistened with moisture running down from its walls. The passageway turned twenty metres ahead, and Vahn and Katko both saw the rebel figure as he cleared the bend, a bright smudge of pale green through the grainy vista of the night vision goggles.

Both men opened fire as one. Katko’s shotgun blast took the rebel square in the chest, while Vahn’s las-bolt struck him in the throat. The rebel flew backwards, twisting and flailing as his chest cavity emptied itself across the ground.

The weapons’ discharge filled Vahn’s vision with pulsating static, the goggles’ viewfinder fouled by the sudden brightness. Vahn jerked his head back and flicked the goggles onto his forehead, his vision replaced with almost pitch-black.

At that exact moment, Katko fired down the tunnel a second time, the report of his shotgun almost blinding. His target was a second rebel edging along the bend in the tunnel and stepping gingerly over the remains of his comrade. Katko’s blast took the man in the stomach and he tumbled forward, his improvised firearm clattering across the ground before him. The instant Vahn’s eyes recovered from the sudden flash he squinted down the barrel of his carbine just as a third rebel appeared.

This one was smarter than the first two, and he stooped as he threw himself forward, a claviger-issue shotgun raised towards Vahn and Katko.

But Vahn was ready, and the rebel passed right into his iron sights. He squeezed the trigger and the carbine spat its las-bolt straight and true, right into the rebel’s forehead, explosively vaporising the man’s head.

A mass of angry bellows betrayed more rebels massing beyond the bend in the side tunnel. It was time to get moving.

‘Go!’ Vahn shouted as he unclipped a frag grenade from his webbing. Katko grinned wickedly and was gone. Vahn flipped the fuse to three seconds.

As Vahn stooped to roll the grenade along the tunnel’s wet floor, another shot blasted from its depths, striking the wall where he had been standing less than a second before. Mouthing silent thanks to the God-Emperor, Vahn sent the frag skidding across the ground and dived clear of the opening.

Another shot hammered out of the side tunnel as the rebels swarmed down its length, then a savage curse echoed from its depths. Mad laughter erupted from Vahn’s mouth as he hit the ground at the exact moment the grenade detonated. The blast tore everything in the side tunnel to shreds and the overpressure hammered down the main passageway, throwing Vahn and the rest of the squad forward as flame and black smoke erupted all around.

His hearing replaced by a high-pitched whine, Vahn staggered upright, feeling his arm grabbed by another trooper. It was Solomon and he was saying something, but Vahn’s ears were still ringing after the explosion. ‘What?’ he shouted. ‘I can’t hear…’

Then Vahn’s hearing returned in a wave of noise, the once eerily quiet tunnels now echoing with gunshots and shouting.

‘…the side passage!’ Solomon was saying, pointing along the passageway with one hand as the other dragged Vahn along. ‘Katko’s found it!’

Realising what Solomon was trying to tell him, Vahn staggered forward and caught up with the provost, who was aiming his Mark III down another passage. ‘This the one?’ said Katko. ‘You reckon its safe?’

‘No,’ Vahn laughed humourlessly. ‘But I don’t see we have much choice, do you?’

‘What we waiting for then?’ he said as he pressed into the passage that Vahn hoped would take them back down towards the carceri chamber floor and avoid the power field trip they had encountered on the way up.

Katko disappeared into the darkness and Vahn waved the other members of the squad after him. Having checked behind him one last time, he ducked into the passageway and followed after them, the black smoke of the grenade’s detonation roiling down the corridor in his wake.

‘If I find out it was one of ours that fired first,’ Flint shouted to Bukin as he and his companions powered down the corridor, filthy puddles splashing around them, ‘I’ll shoot him myself.’

‘Not if I get there first, sir,’ Bukin shouted back as he ran, his waxed moustaches trailing behind. A muffled explosion sounded somewhere in the labyrinth of tunnels not far behind, the combined force of the dozen or so frag grenades Flint had rigged as a trap for their pursuers. He’d learned that trick on Gethsemane stalking the rebels’ notorious cannibal death-squads in the equatorial war zones, and had used it several times since.

The tunnels concentrated the blast so tightly it sounded to Flint like a mass-yield nucleonic detonating at his back, backwash flames licking at his and Bukin’s ankles as they pounded down the tunnel. The explosion must have slain dozens of rebels.

‘Commissar!’ Karasinda shouted from up ahead. The medic had discovered something sprawled across the wet tunnel floor. Flint skidded to a halt and Bukin quickly moved to cover their rear.

‘What…’ said Flint as he looked down at the ground.

‘More like who, sir,’ Karasinda said.

‘Looks like one of Vahn’s mob, sir,’ said Kohlz, his words coming out in ragged bursts as he fought to regain his breath after the mad flight. ‘Tobos?’ he said. ‘Or something like that.’

The shape at Karasinda’s feet had been a man, but now it was little more than a lump of charred meat, the stink of seared flesh filling Flint’s nostrils. The combat medic appeared entirely unmoved by the sight or by the smell, but Kohlz was on the verge of throwing up.

‘Move ahead, Kohlz,’ Flint told his aide to avoid him being violently ill. ‘But be careful for–’

‘No, sir!’ Karasinda barked, her gaze sweeping up the tunnel wall and along the ceiling.

‘What?’ Bukin called back, angry that he couldn’t see what was going on.

Kohlz froze. ‘What?’

‘Listen,’ Karasinda hissed.

Flint did so, and there, beneath the muffled sounds of gunfire echoing through the rockcrete, he heard a high-pitched hum.

‘It’s a generator,’ said Flint, craning his neck as he swept the shadows above. ‘Something like a Terminus-pattern…’

‘Kohlz,’ said Flint. ‘Step back, very slowly, now.’

The aide stared dumbly back, then followed Flint’s gaze to look directly overhead. There, set into the rockcrete, was a small brass hemisphere, glinting dully in the low light of the tunnel.

‘Crap,’ said Kohlz.

‘Now!’ Flint hissed. ‘Slowly, Kohlz…’

Kohlz swallowed hard and tensed, setting one foot gingerly behind the other as he edged backwards, his eyes fixed on the brass power node. The humming increased in pitch and volume with each step, and then a searing white arc spat outwards, passing through the space where Kohlz had been standing and grounding itself in the wet rockcrete floor.

Finally clear, Kohlz spluttered, ‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s a power shield,’ said Flint. ‘One way, by the looks of it.’

‘Terminus-pattern, as you said, sir,’ Karasinda confirmed. ‘One more step, Kohlz, and you’d have ended up like that,’ she jerked her head towards the burned corpse sprawled nearby.

‘So what now, sir?’ Bukin called over his shoulder.

‘We find another way down,’ said Flint. ‘Get moving.’

Another explosion sounded from down another side passage as Vahn dashed across its mouth, a billowing cloud of dust and vapour swallowing him for a moment before he burst through the other side and pounded down the passageway after Trooper Solomon. Even at full tilt they were less than halfway towards the chamber floor. Once again Vahn was starting to feel cornered, and when that happened, people often got hurt.

The tunnels were turning into a warzone, though they were so intertwined and complex that Vahn’s squad had yet to cross paths with any others from their force. But they had heard them sure enough, the las-bolts, shotgun blasts and grenade explosions of the Imperial Guard competing noisily with the discharges of the myriad looted or hand-cast weapons used by the rebels. They had heard angry shouts and grunts of pain, and orders bellowed back and forth. On several occasions Vahn had been positive that one of his fellow penal troopers was just around the corner, only to find no one there. Once, a grenade had rolled out of a side passage and Vahn had only just dived clear as it detonated, lacerating his back with painful, yet ultimately non-lethal, fragments of shrapnel. He found no trace of who’d thrown the grenade.

A curse sounded from up ahead and Vahn only just threw his arm across his face as a blinding white light filled the tunnel. The air erupted and bolts of seething energy danced across the moisture coating the floor and walls, crackling and spitting as the air filled with ozone. A hot, greasy shock wave powered up the tunnel, throwing troopers aside or slamming them into the walls.

Then it all went quite and the stink of burning meat assaulted Vahn’s senses. Someone swore loudly, and someone else vomited even louder.

‘Sound off!’ Vahn shouted, his vision still swimming with livid nerve light.

‘I said…’ he shouted, before he heard the first of the squad call his name. As Vahn’s vision cleared he guessed what had happened and shouldered his way to the front of the squad.

A smoking corpse was strewn across the floor, battledress and armour burned away to reveal blackened and cracked skin. It was Katko, and he’d run straight through another power shield trip.

‘No one move,’ Vahn said through grated teeth as he quickly scanned the walls. It didn’t take long to locate the hemispherical brass nodes secreted in the rockcrete.

‘What now?’ said Solomon, his face pale and his eyes wide as he glanced back up the tunnel the way they’d come. Muffled sounds of combat drifted back from the darkness.

‘We double back to the last branch,’ said Vahn. ‘Press on ‘til we meet up with the rest.’

‘Or not,’ scowled Vendell. Several of the other penal troopers nodded while others cast nervous glances between Vahn and Vendell.

Here it comes, Vahn thought.

‘We don’t have to link up with the rest,’ Vendell said. ‘Do we? We got a whole generatorium to get lost in, if we want.’

Vahn drew himself up to his full height as the sound of closing pursuit echoed through the tunnels. Squaring off against Vendell, he looked down his nose at the man’s upturned face.

‘We’ve done this already,’ Vahn growled as he met the smaller man’s glare. ‘Now is a really bad time to kick off, Vendell.’

The other man’s face twisted in a nasty leer as he gave thought to pressing the point, but when no one else seemed willing to join him he relented. Vendell stepped backwards and stalked a few paces back up the passageway.

‘Okay,’ he called back. ‘We’ll do things your way. But I ain’t taking point,’ he nodded back towards the smoking corpse of the provost.

Vahn sighed as he shoved Vendell aside and took position at the head of the squad to lead the former convicts back the way they’d come.

Flint and the rebel came around the corner at exactly the same moment, but the commissar was quicker and far better armed. His power sword plunged through the man’s guts, its glowing tip lancing upwards to emerge between the shoulder blades. The rebel was dead before he even knew he’d been struck, and Flint pulled the blade free to let the corpse fall forward and slam into the rockcrete floor at his feet.

A las-bolt whipped down the tunnel, dispelling the shadows in the blink of an eye before slamming into the shoulder of another rebel. Flint threw himself sideways against the wall, drawing his bolt pistol as he did so. Karasinda fired again, her next shot dropping the second rebel.

A shotgun boomed in the darkness, filling the passageway with smoke and fire. Bukin racked the slide of his shotgun and fired again, shouting incoherently at enemies closing on the rear beyond Flint’s sight.

The tunnel up ahead was filling with rebels, but there was no other way down. Gritting his teeth, he levelled his bolt pistol and stepped around the corner. The space in front was some kind of landing, three or four side passages joining together and rebels streaming out of each. Flint’s first shot caught a rebel in the side of the head, the initial impact sending the man cart-wheeling backwards to crash into two others before the bolt buried in his cranium exploded and showered them both with shards of bone and grey matter.

His lip curling in disgust as he jerked his pistol left, Flint’s second shot struck another rebel and severed the arm that was raising a heavy gun jack’s piece, sending the ugly pistol clattering across the wet floor.

By the time the rebels were organised enough to fire back, Flint was already moving. Sidestepping right, he avoided a burst of automatic fire that chewed into the wall he’d just been standing in front of. His third shot took the firer clean in the centre of the chest, the bolt exploding as it plunged through his heart. The rebel’s death spasm caused him to empty his weapon’s entire magazine in less than a second, a wild spray of bullets stitching death across the landing and felling three more rebels.

An instant later, Karasinda and Kohlz were at Flint’s side, pumping fire into the mass of rebels spilling out of the tunnel entrances. Though cut down like chaff, their numbers seemed endless and it was only a matter of time before Flint’s group was overwhelmed.

‘Lhor!’ Flint called out. ‘Front and centre!’

The burly dragoon emerged from the portal, Hannen at his side with a spare fuel canister in each hand. Lhor’s face was a greasy black mess, his eyes and teeth shining white as he grinned insanely.

‘Stand clear!’ he drawled, and Flint, Kohlz and Karasinda ducked back to avoid the worst of the backwash.

The heavy flamer erupted in searing chemical fire, the nozzle set to a wide aperture. A wall of fire washed outwards in an unbearable torrent, the front rank of the rebel mob simply scoured away. Those rebels further back were engulfed in seething flames and transformed into screeching human torches, though the screams of pain were mercifully attenuated. The rebels towards the back of the mob, those who had might have thought themselves safe from immediate harm, suffered the most, as gobbets of flaming promethium splashed over their bodies. It burned through clothes and skin in seconds to melt fat and bone to liquid as they bellowed in pain and threw themselves to the floor in a futile attempt to douse the all-consuming flames in steaming puddles.

‘At them!’ Flint bellowed over the roar of burning corpses as he waved the squad forward. The landing had been transformed into a vision of damnation, the floor a mass of guttering flames and smoking chunks of flesh. A shot rang out from behind as Karasinda put a las-bolt through the head of a rebel who hadn’t had the sense to die just yet. Glancing back, Flint suspected it was more an act of military necessity than one of medical compassion.

As he pressed towards a portal on the opposite side of the landing, Flint’s throat started to fill with thick, black smoke, and he coughed to clear it before lifting his rebreather over his mouth and taking a deep breath. The mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but it couldn’t keep the stench of burning flesh out.

Advancing through the burning charnel house, Flint came to the nearest of the portals and leaned in to check the way ahead. The tunnel was dimly lit by a wan light source shining from below, and Flint realised it must open up into the carceri chamber. They were almost free of the labyrinthine tunnels.

‘Sir!’ Karasinda shouted, her voice so urgent Flint froze, his subconscious telling him what was wrong before he fully realised what was happening. He looked upwards, and saw set in the rockcrete a small, brass hemisphere, its surface spitting white arcs as the air filled with a deep, subsonic hum.

‘Back away, sir,’ the medic called out. ‘Slowly.’

‘Stupid mistake,’ Flint growled under his breath as he backed carefully away from the power shield node, watching as it sparked and guttered as if reacting to his movement. As the light at the base of the steep tunnel receded as he backed away, he cursed his stupidity and thanked the Emperor for Karasinda’s alertness.

‘Which way?’ said Kohlz as he looked towards the other portals leading off into more tunnels. None of them appeared to be heading in the same direction as the one Flint had been about to plunge into. They were so close, but the power shields must have been placed to herd them into deadly killing zones as they fled towards the safety of the open carceri chamber.

Soon after taking point Vahn found an almost sheer, spiral stairwell leading straight downwards and threw caution to the wind as he descended into its lightless depths, taking the steps three or four at a time as the sound of pursuit rang out from above. He was placing his faith in the stairwell not being seeded with more power shield trips, for the ones they’d encountered so far were all set in straight corridors.

‘We must almost be there!’ shouted Solomon. Vahn was thinking the same thing and despite the sound of heavy footsteps and angry shouts ringing from high above he slowed up, his carbine raised as he approached what must have been the last few turns of the spiral stairwell.

‘What the hell is that stink?’ said Solomon, lifting his rebreather to cover his nose and mouth. ‘Smells like…’

Vahn held up a hand as he crept around the last turn and Solomon shut up. The dank air was filling with greasy black smoke illuminated by a flickering orange hell-light. As he descended the last few steps, Vahn heard the sound of crackling meat and popping fat. He made the signal to be ready for contact with an unknown number of enemies up ahead.

Counting down to zero with the fingers of his raised hands, Vahn took a deep breath and stepped neatly out from the stairwell…

…and stopped dead as he found himself staring down the barrel of Corporal Bukin’s Mark III.

‘What took you?’ Bukin leered.

Vahn lowered his carbine, which he had been about to discharge in Bukin’s face, and breathed out, his blood thundering in his ears. He looked around the landing he found himself in, his lip curling at the sight and smell of the guttering corpses feeding the fires that raged all about. Commissar Flint and his aide were approaching, while Karasinda, Lhor and Hannen covered the other entrances opening into the area.

Ignoring Bukin’s jibe, Vahn called across to the commissar, ‘We’ve got company, no more than a minute behind!’

‘Understood,’ Flint shouted back. ‘Lhor, cover the stairs, Vahn, get your squad covering the other mouths.’

As Vahn waved his squad out of the stairwell, Dragoon Lhor approached, a savage grin lighting his soot-blackened face. It looked to Vahn like the logistics man was enjoying his new role rather too much.

‘Everyone back,’ Lhor growled as he test-fired a short huff of burning promethium and placed his feet wide at the entrance to the stairwell. ‘This is gonna hurt.’

Lhor waited a moment longer as the sound of heavy footsteps descending the spiral stairs grew louder. Then, he opened the nozzle, angled the heavy flamer upwards into the stairwell and let out a three second burst that arced upwards in a seething torrent of flame, silhouetting him against the raging inferno. Even against the roaring flame, Vahn heard the banshee wail of men burning alive, and he held up a hand to shield his face from the searing backwash.

‘Vahn!’ Flint shouted over the roar. ‘Have you seen any other groups?’

‘No, commissar,’ Vahn said. ‘But we saw Strannik, positive ident.’

‘Us too,’ said Flint. ‘Now we need to reach the regiment.’

‘Problem?’ said Vahn, knowing something was wrong.

‘You could say that,’ Flint muttered as he leaned inside the tunnel that the medic Karasinda was guarding and squinted up at the shadowed ceiling. ‘You’ve encountered the power shields, I take it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Vahn. ‘We…’

‘Hey,’ said Bukin. ‘Where’s Katko?’

Vahn opened his mouth to answer, but an explosion somewhere overhead rocked the landing and brought rockcrete dust showering down on the warriors.

‘Dead?’ said Bukin.

‘Walked into a power shield. I’m…’

‘Stupid khekker,’ Bukin growled, ducking his head into the tunnel mouth that Flint had just looked down into. ‘Always was. Anything, sir?’ he said.

‘Can’t tell,’ Flint growled back, scowling as another grenade explosion shook the rockcrete and brought another drift of dust pattering down. ‘Looks like we might have to take the unsubtle approach.’

‘Blast through?’ said Vahn, his eyebrows raised incredulously. ‘I guess that could work…’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ said a new voice, and every warrior on the landing spun around as a black-clad figure appeared at the mouth of the side tunnel that Kohlz was supposed to be watching. Flint’s aide swung his lasgun up sharply, but the figure caught its barrel and pushed it firmly away.

‘Gruss,’ said Flint, as the Claviger-Primaris came into the open, his squad of wardens emerging behind and spreading out. The commissar looked far from happy to see the head warden. ‘We’ve tried that passage,’ Flint nodded towards the portal. ‘There’s a power shield down there.’

‘This is our domain, commissar,’ Gruss’s voice sounded from his armour’s hidden phonocasters. ‘Despite what the inmates might believe.’ Looking around the corpse-strewn, guttering landing, he added, ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Wait!’ Flint snarled. The two men squared off against one another, the tall commissar looking down into the chief warden’s glossy, black visor. The guttering corpse-fires cast baleful reflections but nothing of the man’s face was visible. ‘You knew about the power shields?’ Flint said, his voice low and dangerous.

‘Of course, commissar,’ Gruss matched Flint’s tone.

‘And you didn’t think it worth informing me?’ Flint barked.

‘Certain information regarding this facility’s security measures is–’

A deep, rumbling quake shook the landing and great chunks of rockcrete tumbled from the ceiling along with clouds of billowing dust. Neither Flint nor Gruss moved, though it was clearly time to get out, and quick.

‘Everyone!’ Vahn bellowed over the explosion’s aftershock as he darted for the mouth of the tunnel the clavigers had just emerged from. ‘Move!’

None needed telling a second time. Another deep rumble shook the rockcrete chamber and Vahn made to leave. ‘You coming or not?’ he shouted to the commissar and the chief warden.

The two men continued to stare at one another a moment longer, then each stepped backwards, the stalemate broken.

A moment later all three men were heading towards the open space of Carceri Resurecti.

Commissar Flint blinked as he emerged into the carceri chamber, a strobing wave of nigh blinding white light arcing down from directly overhead. He raised an arm to shield his eyes from the pulsing glare and saw that the light was sheet lightning, flickering in the black clouds high in the chamber. The air was charged and heavy and the instant Flint stepped out into the open he was drenched by the fine, relentless drizzle.

Several dozen warriors were emerging from nearby openings. Even though they’d found their own way around or through the Terminus field trips they must have suffered casualties, their numbers drastically reduced.

‘Commissar?’ Dragoon Kohlz pointed towards a group of penal troopers clustered around a portal further along the chamber wall. ‘It’s Skane’s multiple, sir. Looks like he’s having trouble…’

‘I’ll give him trouble,’ Flint snarled, drawing his bolt pistol. Flicking the safety off his pistol, he blinked as the lightning flashed again and the rumble of thunder ground overhead.

Movement, in the shadows perhaps a kilometre away. The lightning flashed again and Flint caught the sight a second time, figures clustered around the base of a towering drive head. The instant the lightning was gone his vision was replaced by seething after-flash. He lowered his night vision goggles and concentrated on the shadow at the base of the massive drive.

‘Emperor’s mercy,’ he breathed.

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz, appearing at his side. ‘What’s… Oh khekk…’

‘Bukin! Vahn!’ Flint bellowed. ‘Get everyone ready to move out, right now!’

The two men turned and followed his gaze. With the next flash of lightning they saw what Commissar Flint had seen. A mass of rebel convicts was spilling around the base of the towering machinery and was even now charging outwards across the rain-lashed rockcrete floor of the carceri chamber. The water that spilled across the surface was transformed into a fine mist by the pounding of a thousand and more feet and a hateful roar was slowly rising as the rebels crossed the open space.

For a moment, Commissar Flint stood transfixed by the sight of so many enemies surging forward towards his small force. Scenes from a dozen and more battles flashed across his mind. In its own way, each was just as desperate and uneven, yet somehow, he had walked away from them all. He had walked away from them because he was schooled in the dictates of the Commissariat, raised on the words of a thousand holy men. All their teachings distilled down into a single principle – the Emperor protects. When all else appears lost, a true servant of the Emperor knows that whatever else befalls him, he shall sit at the right hand of the Emperor for all eternity.

But not just yet, thought Flint. Not while there’s a mission to complete, a regiment to call in and a warp-spawned mutant uprising to crush.

Vahn, Bukin and the provosts herded the troopers into order and made ready to move out at Flint’s word but several of Skane’s group were making to head off on their own along the chamber wall in the opposite direction. The big Elysian was engaged in a bellowing altercation with another of his squad, the two men’s words lost to the crash of thunder and the growing roar of the onrushing rebel host. Snarling, he racked the slide of his bolt pistol. ‘What’s the problem here?’ he barked over the rumbling of thunder. ‘We’re leaving, now!’

‘We ain’t going with you!’ shouted the man Skane had been arguing with. ‘We ain’t.’

‘Barra!’ Skane snarled. ‘Don’t do this.’

‘Why the hell shouldn’t we?’ the penal trooper bellowed. ‘We’re leaving! We’d rather take our chances on our own!’

Flint raised his bolt pistol and levelled it squarely at Barra, mere centimetres from his forehead. The man froze, his eyes fixed on the gaping barrel before him, and his companions stopped where they were. The sound of the onrushing rebel horde grew louder by the second, but right now, the only battle Flint cared for was the contest of wills between Barra and himself.

‘Barra,’ said Skane, his voice low but insistent. ‘Do as he says. It’s the only way.’

Flint’s eyes bored into the other man’s and his finger tightened on the trigger of his bolt pistol. Barra blinked, knowing full well that Flint would enact his field execution if he had to, that he was trained to do so, and had performed the act dozens of times before. The sound of the baying rebel horde grew louder still, the first shots from crude, improvised firearms rippling up and down the front rank. Stray shots zipped through the air and impacted on the rockcrete chamber wall, making Barra flinch.

Commissar Flint didn’t even blink.

‘Barra…’ Skane hissed.

‘Frag!’ Barras exclaimed. ‘Okay, we’re coming,’ he said to Flint.

The commissar jerked his bolt pistol to the left and fired. The body of a fleeing penal trooper tumbled to the ground, his back blown open in a ragged mess. The fool had tried to flee under the cover of the confrontation, but Flint had seen every trick in the book and acted accordingly. Flint lowered the smoking weapon and returned his gaze to the other man.

‘That was your last warning,’ he said, loud enough for the whole group of would-be deserters to hear. ‘For all of you.’

‘Get them together,’ said Flint. ‘And if any give you trouble, you know what to do. They’ve had their warning. Understood?’

Skane nodded grimly and turned his attention back to the onrushing mob. The sight reminded Flint of the death-wave tactics used by the Gethsemane rebels, each bellowing with incoherent anger as they all but tripped over one another in their thirst to close the gap and descend upon their foe. But these were no hate-fuelled fanatics. These were simple convicts, but they appeared to have descended to the level of mindless savages.

Flint knew he had scant time to issue his orders. ‘Move back the way we came, Vahn first, by squads,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the nearest group of rebels which was now closing to within five hundred metres. ‘Bukin, you and I are leading the rearguard.’

And that was all Flint had time to order as the first of the rebels closed towards the effective range of the lascarbines carried by the penal troopers. The first las-bolts lanced outwards, slamming into the horde and sending up puffs of red blood mist as rebels staggered and fell. More blasts spat out, felling more rebels, but those who followed simply trampled over the dead and the wounded alike, the horde’s momentum unaffected.

‘Move out,’ Flint shouted to Vahn, clapping him on the shoulder. The penal trooper and his squad were gone in a second.

‘Skane!’ Flint called. ‘Go!’ The Elysian’s squad dashed off along the wall close on the heels of Vahn’s group. Flint’s eyes narrowed as he watched Trooper Barra move out but he had other things to worry about.

‘Becka,’ Flint shouted to the next group along. ‘Go!’

The Savlar made what Flint assumed was intended as a salute and shoved the nearest of the group she was leading, pushing the man after Skane’s squad. Flint almost chuckled as he caught the gist of the curse words she was snarling at her squad to get them moving. Almost.

‘Stank!’ Flint barked to the last group of penal troopers. Stank’s squad was pouring a torrent of disciplined fire into the oncoming horde, which Flint judged to be closing on four hundred metres with no signs of slowing up. ‘You’re next, move!’

The troopers of Rotten’s mob squeezed off one more burst each, then stood and dashed off after Becka’s squad.

‘That leaves just us, sir,’ Bukin shouted over the combined roar of the rebel horde and the crash of thunder, slamming a fresh twenty-round magazine into his Mark III. ‘And them,’ he jerked his head towards Gruss and his squad of clavigers.

‘They can look out for themselves,’ Flint snarled, now entirely distrustful of the Claviger-Primaris and his motivations. Frankly, Flint couldn’t care less if Gruss left or not.

Nevertheless, Gruss and his wardens were heavily armed and armoured and they knew the territory well. In addition, they appeared to have knowledge of hidden security measures and that made Flint distinctly uncomfortable. Evidently, he would have to suffer the clavigers’ presence a while longer.

With the rebel horde closing, Flint decided it was time to be somewhere else. He bodily pushed Bukin forward to get the squad moving. Though Flint’s small force was massively outnumbered by the horde of rebels he knew he had one major advantage – the small size made it easy to outmanoeuvre the enemy and to lose them in amongst the clusters of oversized machine plant. The low light conditions and the mist and rain made that objective easier too, and within minutes Flint’s squads were gaining ground, each stopping to cover the one following on behind in a classic display of light infantry tactics that Flint knew his schola progenium drill abbot would have been proud of.

Within ten minutes Flint’s force was pushing south across the carceri chamber floor and the storm raging in the eaves kilometres overhead was steadily growing. Sheet lightning seethed deep within the boiling, grey clouds and the rain lashed down in a violent torrent. Flint maintained his position at the rear of the column, ensuring that no stragglers got separated from the force and keeping an eye on the pursuers even as the horde lost coherency and broke down into dozens of smaller groups. The rebels were scouring the carceri chamber for the interlopers, bawling their frustration as loud as the storm raging above. The screams and cries echoed weirdly through the charged air, reverberating from the massive engine casings and towering manifolds strewn across the chamber floor. Several times, one of those groups closed on the rearmost squads and Flint had to lead vicious counter-attacks to slay the pursuers before their presence was betrayed to the bulk of the rebel horde. Flint’s power sword hissed and spat in the downpour, the blood of his enemies washing away with the rain each time his squad clashed with the savage rebels.

It was only when the column had finally put a kilometre between its rearguard units and the pursuers that Flint had could take stock of the situation. An hour into the pursuit the storm reached an unprecedented severity, rivalling violent and natural atmospheric phenomena Flint had witnessed on a variety of worlds. Ducking into the cover of an overhanging conduit to speak to his aide, he had to shout to make himself heard.

‘We need to get through to regiment!’ he bellowed into Kohlz’s ear as the two took temporary shelter from the driving downpour and the relentless pursuit. ‘Have you got the carrier signal back yet?’ he said.

Kohlz hefted the heavy vox-set from his back and set it down at his feet, peeling back the canvas cover to reveal its controls. For several long minutes he worked its dials and levers, the horn pressed tight to his ear and his rain-slicked face a mask of concentration.

After another minute, Flint said, ‘Well? Come on Kohlz, we really don’t have the time…’

‘I’m not getting a thing, sir,’ said Kohlz. ‘I don’t know if it’s the storm, the installation’s structure or if we’re being jammed, but I’m sorry, commissar. I can’t get a signal. I think we’re on our own.’

Twelve

Rearguard

For three gruelling hours, Flint led a tense rearguard action against the pursuing rebels, rallying troops verging on panic but stopping the retreat turning into a full-scale rout on several occasions. Flint saw no choice but to lead his force back through the carceri chamber, which seemed somehow twice the size it had on the way in, towards the insertion point. If he couldn’t call in the location of the rebels’ stronghold, there was no point in doing anything other than fight back to the regiment, but the commissar raged inside that the mission was unravelling with each passing minute.

Though the retreat was conducted with commendable discipline, Flint knew from experience that many of his troops were on the verge of collapse. Most had been fatigued even before battle had erupted and the pace of the retreat had been necessarily relentless. To slow up for just a moment would have invited disaster and Flint and the provosts had been forced to motivate the troops to keep moving and fighting by every means at their disposal.

Thirty minutes into the retreat, Flint’s force had taken its first casualty. A blunderbuss had been fired from a gantry high above and by sheer fluke found a target. One of Stank’s troopers, a man by the name of Skelt, stumbled and fell, his companions assuming he’d tripped over some piece of the debris scattered across the rockcrete floor. Turning back to aid his companion, Stank had cursed loudly when he saw the wound torn in Skelt’s neck. The man had died before Stank could help him, the blood washed away across the ground in the torrential downpour.

Less than five minutes later a dozen rebels leaped down from a gantry that Vahn’s squad had been passing under, swarming down the heavy chains hanging from the walkway to splash heavily to the wet ground. Without even breaking stride, Vahn opened fire as he charged the enemy, unleashing a burst of semi-automatic lascarbine fire that cut down three of the snarling rebels before a brutal melee erupted. As the last of the rebels fell dead to the floor, Vahn saw that two of his own squad had fallen too and three more had sustained wounds that would slow them all down as they pressed back towards the extraction point. Vahn and the unwounded members of his squad helped their fellows on, refusing to abandon them to the murderous attentions of the pursuing rebels.

Flint himself had been forced to draw his sword on several occasions, and each time he had used the opportunity to provide an example to the men and women under his command. It was a commissar’s duty to lead from the front, to do exactly what the troops were being asked to do, and to watch for signs of doubt or cowardice. On one occasion a group of rebel convicts had emerged from an oily sump Flint’s force had been dashing past, one of them catching hold of a penal trooper’s ankle and pulling the man down into the black depths. Even as the waters thrashed and foamed blood red, a dozen more rebels emerged, their bodies coated in oil that glinted every colour in the spectrum as it ran to the ground. Flint beheaded the first with a sweep of his power sword and was gratified to see the body erupt in blue flame as the sword’s generator touched off the flammable liquid clinging to the man’s form.

Shouting a line from the Adoration of the Techno-Magi, Flint unleashed a roundhouse kick that propelled the flaming body through the air and sent it plummeting into the chemical sump. A moment later, the entire lot went up in a raging column of blue flame, consuming those rebels yet to emerge, as well as what remained of the penal trooper. The rest of the ambushers were cut down easily as they broke and fled, cut-off from their escape route.

Though the ignition of the chemical sump had slaughtered untold numbers of the ambushers, the resulting conflagration had provided a beacon, to which countless more were drawn. Howling atavistic war cries or screeching ululating cries of delirium and bloodlust, the rebel convicts pressed in from all directions, forcing Flint to cut his way through a tide that threatened to drag him down from behind.

When a trio of Dictrix walkers surged forward through the mob, the rebels scattered lest they got caught in the lashing attack of its neural whip. Flint knew there was no way his small force could face three of the hideous machines, and certainly not with thousands of screaming maniacs closing on them all the while. The Emperor was surely watching, Flint saw, as the walkers mistimed their attacks and caught dozens of their own compatriots in their arcing whip strikes. Those struck convulsed where they fell, and there were so many of them that the walkers were forced to wade through a carpet of twitching flesh and bone in their desperation to close with the fleeing Imperials.

Incensed by the sight, more of the ground-pounding rebels turned on the walker pilots, swarming up the machines’ flanks and dragging the crews out by force. The last Flint saw of the machines was a pilot being torn into at least six separate chunks of meat by the baying, vengeful horde. As if to confirm the God-Emperor’s benefaction, no others among the enemy appeared able to re-crew the walkers, and with the horde in utter disarray, Flint’s small force was able to escape.

Three hours in the mist and rain up ahead slowly thinned to reveal the kilometre-high precipice of the southern wall. The column finally closed on the armoured portal that led through to the sluice chamber with its stinking weirs and raging torrents flooding in from the overloaded sinks every twelve minutes. Part of him was relieved to reach that milestone on the march back to the extraction point, but another, the greater part, was almost consumed with anger at the thought that the mission might be compromised by something as simple as the inability to transmit the rebel’s location to the main force of the regiment.

But, as the ragged column approached the far end of Carceri Resurecti and Flint plotted the next phase of the forced march, he recalled something of the details of the structure, revealed to him by Claviger-Primaris Gruss the last time they were there…

Distracted by his chain of thought Flint almost missed the group of rebels emerging from the ventilation gate in the side of a huge, corroded manifold. Karasinda shouted a warning and Flint dove to the left, only just avoiding the first of the shotgun blasts that hammered through the air towards him.

A moment later, Flint, Kohlz and Karasinda had thrown themselves into the shelter of a collapsed actuator housing, the rebels’ fire hammering loudly into the metal and sending up a shower of angry sparks.

‘We’re cut off, sir!’ Kohlz shouted over the sound of shotgun pellets pounding the other side of the housing. ‘And we’re last in line!’

Karasinda raised her lasgun to her shoulder and leaned calmly sideways out of the cover. She squeezed off three aimed shots and ducked back as a torrent of return fire scythed through the space she’d just vacated.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Flint said, slamming a fresh magazine into his bolt pistol. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready, sir,’ Karasinda replied, her voice as cold as her eyes.

‘Kohlz?’ said Flint, seeing that his aide was reaching the limits of his courage and endurance. Another shotgun blast hammered into the cover and Flint judged by the angle that the rebels were working their way around to the left. They would soon be in a position to unleash a lethal torrent of enfilading fire. ‘I need you alive for this, got it?’

Kohlz swallowed hard and nodded, resolving not to let Flint down. ‘Got it, sir,’ he said, fumbling for his lasgun.

‘I’m serious,’ Flint growled. ‘I’ve got a plan, a way to call the regiment in. But I need you functional. Understood?’

Kohlz saw that Flint was serious and the message got through.

‘On three, then,’ said the commissar, patting his aide on the shoulder and nodding to Karasinda. ‘Three!’ he said, and dove out of the cover on the opposite flank the rebels were heading in on.

Karasinda’s lip curled as she unleashed a burst of covering fire, catching one rebel in the gut and sending the rest diving for cover. ‘Go,’ she told Kohlz calmly, then followed as he dashed after the commissar.

His blade hissing in the damp air, Flint pounded towards the corroded structure the rebels were still emerging from. A dozen las-bolts lanced through the air as Karasinda covered his charge and another two rebels went down screaming. A moment later, Kohlz opened up too, his first shot decapitating a screeching rebel.

Flint reached the manifold at the exact moment a rebel propelled himself out and landed heavily in front of the commissar. This one must have been twice the size of his fellows, his chest and arms so massively over-muscled they reminded Flint of an abhuman ogryn. But the glint of oily metal augments in amongst the bulging musculature told Flint the man was no stable strain of mutant.

Flint skidded to a halt and brought his power sword up into guard position. The fighter leaned forward and roared, his mouth gaping wide as he bellowed an utterly incoherent war cry. Flint looked into his opponent’s eyes and saw nothing very much there. The mountain of corded sinew had been created purely as a fighter. Flint guessed it needed help just feeding itself.

‘Abomination,’ Flint growled as he sidestepped left to circle the monstrosity. ‘You are nothing natural, nor the work of the Omnissiah.’ A passage from the Dictum Commissaria came unbidden to his mind and he found himself reciting the opening lines of the Twelfth Absolution of Saint Jark. ‘From the work of the heretic, Emperor lend us strength…’

The monstrosity growled as if it recognised the curse levelled against it. It lunged forwards clumsily, a fist the size of most men’s skulls hammering through the air. The blow was clumsy and easily sidestepped, but had it struck home it would have pounded Flint’s body to paste.

‘From the horror of the beast of iron made man,’ Flint continued the Twelfth Absolution. ‘Let my heart be steeled…’

Flint allowed the creature to advance towards him as he backed away, drawing it into the open where he knew that Karasinda and Kohlz could intervene if he needed the help. His mind raced as he sought a way to end this, quickly. With the rebels in pursuit, he had no time to tarry in a pointless confrontation.

The monstrosity growled, baring teeth of rusted iron and pounded both fists down into the ground simultaneously. The rockcrete cracked, showering rank water and making the corroded manifold it had climbed through tremble.

Though he had to end this, Flint knew that one false step would see him dead.

‘Come on then…’ Flint snarled, looking to taunt the monstrosity into making a wrong move. He swung his power sword lazily as if to mock the muscled beast. A howl echoed from somewhere far behind and the beast glanced towards the sound. That was all the opening Flint needed.

Darting forward, Flint lunged with the very tip of his power sword and cut a long, if shallow wound across his opponent’s rippling chest muscles. The creature roared and stumbled back as the skin across its pectorals peeled backwards to reveal the glistening red musculature beneath. Simple enough to get inside the monstrosity’s guard, Flint thought, but the wound hadn’t slowed it in the least.

Quite suddenly, Flint’s enemy reversed its backwards movement and twisted its torso at the waist, bringing its right fist up as it did so and hammering the air with a piledriver punch that Flint only just avoided.

Ducking as the fist pistoned over his head, Flint raised his sword two-handed and drove it into the flesh of the beast’s forearm, using his enemy’s strength against it. The sword spat arcs of raw power as its generator shunted lethal energies into the blade’s edge and the beast howled as it pulled its fist clear. At the last, Flint reversed his grip and pulled the sword towards him, the blade slicing out through the creature’s wrist, its entire forearm cut in two and hanging in useless strips of ragged muscle.

The creature stumbled backwards and slammed into the huge corroded manifold, making it tremble as if about to fall. It bellowed, but now its cry was not just of anger but of pain and sheer, dumbfounded incredulity that another being could make it bleed.

Shots sounded from somewhere behind and a part of Flint acknowledged that time was almost up. Karasinda and Kohlz weren’t far away, their weapons raised as they tracked enemies Flint himself couldn’t see. ‘Get moving!’ Flint ordered, then flung himself aside as the mountain of muscle and anger that was his opponent threw itself forward with both its arms raised above its head and its face a mask of inhuman rage. Flint knew in that split second that here was his chance, but if he mistimed his attack he would be dead; those arms, each as big and strong as a power lifter’s hydraulic claws, hammering down upon him.

He lunged, scything his power sword two-handed across the beast’s stomach. The flesh split as the power field parted molecules asunder. The creature staggered backwards as it voiced a scream like twisting, tortured metal. Flint gritted his teeth and drove the blade onwards, hewing muscle and bone until the creature’s innards ripped apart. Long, looping guts shot through with cabling flopped out at his feet and he sprung backwards to avoid the torrent of coiling viscera.

The monstrosity finally realised it was dead as it toppled backwards against the manifold. Sliding downwards, its head slumped against its massive chest and made one last huffing sigh.

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz. ‘What the crap was that?’

It took the commissar a moment to regain his breath, but when he did, he answered, ‘Something that had no business existing, Kohlz. Not even in a place like this,’ he added, looking around the hellish place. The portal to the sluice chamber was only a few hundred metres distant and he guessed that the rest of the column would be closing on it even now. An ululating howl from somewhere behind pressed home the urgency of getting a damned move on.

Flint soon found out that the clavigers had hung back. Rounding the base of a huge storage tank he found them as they guarded the flanks against potential attackers. Flint barely suppressed a growl as the thought crossed his mind that Claviger-Primaris Gruss may have waited, but he hadn’t intervened in a combat that could have cost the commissar his life.

‘Are you the last, commissar?’ Gruss demanded as Flint reached his position and stopped, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

‘Only recidivists and traitors behind,’ said Flint, looking past the chief warden’s shoulder to the huge armoured portal. His troops were visible as they secured the entryway, bright light shining through it. White light, Flint thought, realising that the chamber had been lit by harsh white daylight from above the last time they had travelled through it – how much time had gone by since then, he wondered…

‘Commissar?’ said Gruss, his voice metallic and distorted through his armour’s phonocasters. ‘Are you wounded?’

‘What?’ Flint said, the exertion of the last few days threatening to catch up with him. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, realising just why Gruss had asked. He was covered with the blood of the thing he had killed by the manifold. ‘None of it is mine.’

A few more minutes later Flint and his companions were walking through the great armoured hatch into the sluice chamber. At his back, Carceri Resurecti appeared to be coming alive with grim, shrill screams, some of anger and bloodlust, others of savage pain. The sound reminded Flint of his time fighting secessionists on the frontier world of Farout, where the enemy encampments were consumed by raucous anarchy each night. It was louder even than the nocturnal chorus of the death world of Chbal, where as a young storm trooper he had once been unfortunate enough to spend an entire terrifying month.

‘Taking it out on each other,’ said Vahn as Flint passed. The penal trooper was leaned against the inner wall of the portal, his face etched with weariness as he gazed back into the depths of the massive carceri chamber.

Flint grunted, distracted as he walked through the portal into the towering space of the sluice chamber. As before, it was illuminated stark white by a column of daylight shining directly down from the open space at the very top of the chimney-like interior. Just like before, the air was filled with the vile stink of billions of litres of polluted, irradiated water.

‘Kohlz?’ Flint called as he craned his neck upwards and covered his face to protect his eyes from the glare.

‘Remember what Gruss said about the jamming nodes set into the generatorium’s structure?’

Kohlz hesitated, his brow furrowing, before he replied, ‘Yes, sir. He said he could deactivate them when we needed to transmit to the main force.’

‘You believe him?’ Flint said, lowering his voice so that none of the wardens could overhear.

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz, not getting it. ‘I don’t…’

‘What’re the odds?’ Flint pressed, weariness creeping into his voice. ‘How likely is it that if I asked him to deactivate the jamming nodes he’d find some excuse not to?’

Kohlz thought on it a second, then answered ‘I might take that bet, sir.’

‘I wouldn’t, dragoon,’ said Flint, his gaze searching the open space far above, before tracking downwards the two hundred metres towards the slimy bottom of the sluice channel.

‘Sir?’ said Kohlz, concern and confusion etched on his face. ‘What’s up, sir?’

Flint fixed his aide with an almost sympathetic stare. ‘How are you with heights, dragoon?’

‘Sir?’

‘Sorry, Kohlz,’ he said to his aide. ‘Gambling’s against regulations.’

‘Unfortunately, commissar,’ said Claviger-Primaris Gruss as the sound of raging water grew in volume from the weir at his back. ‘I am unable to deactivate them. The rebels must have corrupted the machine-spirits, or aggrieved them in some manner.’

Flint and Kohlz caught each other’s eye and the aide’s discomfort grew. Flint took a deep breath as he scanned the chamber walls closely, studying the lurid streaks of corrosion and decay etched into the rockcrete. An ancient and rusted ladder was set into the wall, climbing upwards hundreds of metres, but to reach it one would have to cross the sluice channel, which was even now filling with surging waters as the overflow systems far below filled up.

Gruss followed Flint’s gaze. The commissar looked sharply away from the distant ladder towards the area where the secreted chute and the entrance to the hidden tunnel was located. Gruss took the bait.

‘We have no choice, commissar,’ the chief warden stated flatly. ‘We must extract via the infiltration route and summon the regiment in person.’

Yes, thought Flint, that would suit you nicely. But why? What was the Claviger-Primaris up to? Was he just trying to keep the 77th out of the penal generatorium to save face so that the eventual glory of retaking it would be his? Or was there something else at play, he wondered, something far darker…

‘We’ll have missed our chance by then,’ Flint snapped back, frustrated. ‘It’ll take hours to extract, and longer to lead the regiment back in. By that time the rebels will have scattered. Strannik won’t be where he was and we’ll have to track him down all over again. He’s got the entire installation to get lost in – we were lucky this time, but we might never find him again.’

‘Then I’m sorry for the wasted effort,’ Gruss replied, his phonocasters increasing in volume in order to be heard over the steadily growing roar of the rising sluice tide. As the three men looked on, the chemical sludge at the bottom of the channel swelled, objects that could only be bodies bloated with corpse-gas and pollution bobbing on the surface as the tide rose. The rockcrete platform they were standing on began to tremble, lightly at first, but soon building to something approaching a low-level quake. It was obvious this flood would be far more violent than the last.

‘It won’t be wasted!’ Flint shouted over the roar of water.

‘What?’ the chief warden shouted back, even his augmented voice all but swallowed up by the sound of the surging tide.

‘The effort won’t be wasted,’ Flint shouted back, looking upwards towards the open top of the chimney structure. Both men followed his gaze as the waters broke, billions upon billions of litres of water surging down the sluice channel in a raging tsunami so loud that no more conversation was possible for the next few minutes. Uncounted items of debris were swept along in the torrent, bloated, decaying bodies intermingled with thousands of tonnes of rubble and other unidentifiable waste.

As the waters finally receded, the worst of the tidal wave having passed, Flint smiled grimly, though not with any cruelty.

‘Sorry, Kohlz,’ he said to his aide.

‘No!’ protested Kohlz as the waters finally washed away, the bottom of the sluice channel glistening with millions of tonnes of stinking silt and garbage. ‘I can’t sir, I…’

‘You won’t be going up alone,’ Flint said, glancing around the faces of the other troopers. Every one of them looked away, distracted by something only they could see. In truth, he’d already chosen the troopers who would be making the climb with Kohlz.

‘Stank!’ Flint barked. ‘Front and centre.’

A groan sounded from behind and Trooper Stank pushed through the crowd, shouldering Solomon roughly aside as the gangly Jopalli tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle.

‘Solomon,’ said Flint. ‘You too.’

Solomon’s face dropped and he turned white as his mouth gaped open. ‘You heard me, indenti,’ Flint growled. ‘The Emperor’s got a job for you. He’s got a job for all three of you. Now listen up…’

‘I really didn’t sign up for this!’ Trooper Solomon shouted back at Kohlz as he ploughed through the knee-high chemical filth at the bottom of the sluice channel.

‘We’ve been through this. You didn’t sign up at all,’ Rotten snapped back. ‘None us signed up for any of this crap…’

‘Keep it down,’ said Kohlz, his face flushed as he struggled with the heavy vox-set. ‘If the commissar hears you talking like that he’ll–’

‘I don’t care, ‘ Rotten replied petulantly as he struggled to pull one leg in front of the other, the sheer effort making him breathless. ‘A bolt-round to the head would be a welcome break from this.’

Kohlz grit his teeth and carried on, deciding not to waste breath bitching about the task the three had been given. Despite his outward stoicism however, Kohlz was seething inside. He’d served the commissar diligently since his arrival and this was his reward. Ordered to cross an eighty metre wide sludge flow, climb several hundred metres up a rusted ladder, then cling to the upper reaches of the cooling tower structure while attempting to operate the heaviest pattern vox-set manufactured in the entire sector. Solomon was right, he thought – he really didn’t sign up for this.

Since the last time the force had been this way, the channel had filled even deeper with chemical sludge dredged up from the outflows far beneath Alpha Penitentia by the sudden rise in water levels caused by the crippling of the air scrubbers across the entire complex. No one could say how many decades, even centuries worth of outflow had collected in the sinks and was now swelling to the surface, but the slime seemed to Kohlz like a gruel of congealing, decomposed matter distilled in a faintly-glowing suspension that must have curdled in the darkness far below for an age.

The smell was so strong, so vile that even the Firstborn’s standard issue rebreathers could not keep it out, and they were designed to withstand the worst of the acrid, scorched metal stink of Vostroya’s polluted surface. The rebreather was constricting Kohlz’s breathing, making him even more light-headed with exertion. But he dared not remove it, for the stink bubbling up with his every step was so bad it made him gag even with the mask on. Without it, he knew he wouldn’t make it across.

‘Half...’ Solomon stammered before taking a gulping breath through his mask, ‘…way.’

Keep going, Kohlz told himself, his every step made leaden and slow by the constant sucking of the actinic chemical slime. He forced his head up as he ploughed on, making sure the three were on course for the ladder set in the rockcrete of the opposite wall. Locating the corroded rungs, he wondered again how the commissar could possibly be sure they wouldn’t come loose the moment any pressure was put upon them. Then an even worse thought struck him – what if they came loose when the three men were halfway up the wall…

‘Six minutes!’ Rotten called out breathlessly. ‘Come on, guys, pick it up!’

‘I’m pashing well…’ Solomon started, breaking off mid curse. ‘Wait,’ he stammered. ‘What was…’

‘Get moving!’ Kohlz shouted as he realised what was happening. ‘The pressure’s rising. The intervals are getting shorter!’

Even before he could draw breath to bemoan this new twist of cruel fate, the rockcrete floor beneath the river of stinking sludge started trembling. Kohlz felt the stirring of titanic forces transmitted up through the ground and he knew that the next flood would be an order of magnitude worse than the last. Even as panic rose up inside, Kohlz heard the warriors assembled on the now distant platform at the top of the weir complex shout out. But he couldn’t hear anything of their words above the sound of his raging breath, the thundering of his blood and the rising torrent.

Kohlz swore loudly as he realised the mire around his knees was swelling with water, its consistency thinning as the waters rose up from the overflow sinks far below. Bubbles of acrid gas broke on the surface, splattering the three men with gobbets of reeking muck, and the surface shifted as the sound of a raging flood grew.

‘Seriously, guys!’ Solomon wailed. ‘We’re not gonna…’

‘Shut the hell up and keep moving!’ Kohlz yelled. They were closing on the opposite bank and the lowermost of the corroded metal rungs was in sight.

As the sludge thinned to a luminescent gruel the going got easier and soon the three men were splashing desperately towards the ladder. Even as they closed on it, a great roar went up behind them…

The iron gate slammed shut with a deep, resounding crash and the dozen warriors who’d pushed it too heaved on the huge bolt mechanism, locking the gateway shut.

‘You think that will keep them out, sir?’ Bukin asked Flint with evident scepticism.

‘No,’ said Flint, his answer making Bukin grimace as he chewed on the sodden remains of his cigar. ‘But we’ll be gone long before they break through.’

As if to test the veracity of Flint’s statement, the gate boomed as something heavy impacted against the other side. The gate was constructed of twenty-centimetre thick armaplas and reinforced with heavy crossbars, but it bowed inwards under the pressure nonetheless.

‘What the khekk…’ Bukin mouthed.

‘Present!’ Flint bellowed, waving the nearest of the troops into a firing line before the massive gate. There was a pause during which more warriors rushed to join their fellows, and soon almost three-dozen lasguns were levelled on the gate.

Then the impact sounded again and a mist of fine rockcrete powder drifted down from above. The metal of the gate buckled and a muffled roar went up from the other side. It sounded like an entire army of rebels was gathering on the far side of the armoured hatch and something even bigger than the monstrosity Flint had slain was throwing itself against the gate.

‘Mutants,’ Corporal Bukin sneered, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Flint had smelled it too, but in truth the taint was now so prevalent it permeated the entire place.

‘Gruss,’ Flint demanded as the Claviger-Primaris waved his wardens to join the firing line. ‘Tell me what that is,’ Flint demanded. ‘I faced something big outside, but that must be twice its size.’

Gruss turned his blank-faced visor towards the hatchway at the exact moment a third impact caused it to buckle even further. The troops on the firing line cast nervous, sidelong glances at one another, several swallowing hard.

‘Gruss?’ Flint pressed.

‘I don’t know, commissar,’ the Claviger-Primaris snapped.

‘I think you do,’ said Flint.

‘What?’ he growled.

‘That thing I fought out there,’ said Flint. ‘That was no inmate, no Guardsman serving out a penal sentence. That was something else and I don’t believe it could exist right under your nose without you having some idea of its presence.’

The hatchway boomed again, the loud report echoing through the sluice chamber. The troops in the firing line shuffled nervously, their eyes darting between the violently shaking gate and the confrontation developing between the commissar and the Claviger-Primaris.

Gruss squared off against Flint and several of his wardens broke off from their places in the firing line. ‘Are you accusing me of something, commissar?’ said Gruss, his voice low but carrying across the platform even over the howls and roars coming from the other side of the portal.

‘I’m asking you a question, Claviger-Primaris,’ Flint snarled back. ‘What the hell are they, and how did they come into being?’

‘Sir?’ Flint heard Bukin mutter from behind him. ‘I think…’

‘Not now,’ Flint replied. ‘Gruss?’ he pressed.

‘Sir,’ said the chief provost insistently. ‘I really think…’

Flint risked a quick glance towards the armoured portal. ‘Mercy…’ he muttered. A fracture had appeared in the slab-like armaplas and movement was visible beyond.

‘Prepare to address!’ Flint shouted, then lowered his voice and said to the Claviger-Primaris, ‘We’re not done, Gruss.’

If Gruss heard Flint he didn’t respond, instead joining his fellow wardens, his plasma pistol levelled two-handed at the compromised hatchway.

Even as the sound of rising liquid swelled from the sluice channel behind, the sound of another massive impact striking the portal boomed forth. The force steeled itself to face whatever was trying to hammer its way through.

Kohlz’s hands closed around the corroded rung set into the crumbling, run-off-streaked rockcrete, the rising chemical river swelling below him. He hauled with every ounce of his strength, his weight feeling like it was doubled by the water soaked into his battle-dress and the heavy Number Four strapped to his back.

‘Get a move on, will you!’ Rotten called from below, the glowing waters now at his waist. A deep, resounding rumble sounded from back across the channel and a wave crashed into Rotten, almost knocking him over. Kohlz knew he had to get himself higher up the ladder to allow the trooper to get clear of the rising flood.

He pulled even harder, his muscles burning, and the rung slipped suddenly with a pattering of loose rockcrete chips, but it held despite its sudden instability. The torrent increased in volume and Kohlz grasped for the next rung, hauling himself hand over hand until the lower rungs were clear. Finally, Rotten had the space to climb up.

With Solomon leading the way the three men climbed upwards, the channel filling to overflowing with the chemical filth dredged up from the stygian sumps beneath Alpha Penitentia. The smell was awful, the flood accompanied by gales of sharp-smelling gas. The waters were oily and black, and lumpen forms were carried along by the relentless, swirling currents. Many of the forms were clearly corpses, some fresh, no doubt convicts slain in the uprising in the last few weeks. Others were shrunken and pale as if preserved in formaldehyde for countless centuries, washed up from the depths by the rising torrent and held together by little more than ropey sinew.

As the tsunami reached its climax all further thoughts were drowned out by the deafening crescendo. Kohlz concentrated on placing one hand before the other and hauling himself upwards blindly, his eyes screwed tight against the stinging spray. Several times he felt his feet engulfed in crashing waves and knocked by debris washed along and he prayed that Rotten was able to hold on for he must have been submerged as the flood waters crashed down the sluice channel.

Then the waters had receded and Kohlz opened his eyes. Rotten was still clinging to the rungs, his battledress sodden and his rebreather torn away by the force of the flood. The Asgardian had only managed to hold onto his lascarbine by looping its sling around his elbow while he held onto the rung for dear life. One side of his face was bruised livid purple where the weapon had been battered against his face by the torrent.

Rotten looked surprised that he was still alive and Kohlz was shocked how high the three men had climbed in their bid to escape the torrent. A wave of vertigo washed over him and his vision swam for they’d somehow climbed almost fifty metres. The bottom of the channel was returning to its former state, a sea of glowing, reeking sludge settling on the rockcrete, coils of noxious vapour creeping upwards from the bubbling mass.

Redoubling his grip on the corroded rung, Kohlz forced himself to look upwards and he was immediately dazzled by the white glare blazing through the open roof. Forcing himself to look into the nigh-blinding light he saw that Solomon had managed to cling on too, then sought to judge how much further the three had to climb. He cursed as he realised they had climbed less than a quarter of the way. The view overhead was a dizzying shaft of slab-sided rockcrete chimney, the circle of sky like a blazing singularity at its summit.

‘Solomon?’ Kohlz called up to the Jopalli. ‘You okay? We need to get moving!’

At first, Solomon’s only reply was low, petulant muttering, but then the Jopalli said, ‘What?’

‘Get moving!’ Kohlz snapped, rapidly losing his patience. ‘You’re on point and we’re going nowhere ‘til you get your arse shifted!’

‘Why me…’ Solomon muttered. ‘Why is it always me?’

Flint shielded his eyes against the glare as he stared up at the three tiny figures working their way painfully slowly up the ladder towards the distant, open roof of the sluice chamber. Another impact sounded on the portal and the scream of tortured metal tore his attention back to more pressing concerns. The gash in the buckled plate had widened and now a pair of massively oversized, gnarled hands gripped on its jagged edges as if to tear them further apart.

‘Front rank!’ Bukin bellowed at a nod from Flint. ‘Three rounds, fire!’

The dozen or so kneeling warriors of the front rank opened fire as one, the air filling with the flash of las-fire, smoke and the stink of ozone. The bolts lanced into the gash and the massive hands disappeared in a burst of sparks and smoke. A bellowing howl of rage sounded from the other side and something at least as large as an ogryn plunged its entire arm through the tear, right up to the shoulder, and groped for something, anything, to grab hold of and haul back through the gap.

The firing line opened up with a second fusillade, a dozen las-bolts slamming into the hugely muscled arm and sending up a puff of greasy, flesh-stinking smoke. But the limb was huge, its sinews as strong as corded iron and its stone-hard flesh seemingly able to absorb even multiple direct hits.

The kneeling troops fired their third fusillade and this time several of the fingers, each as thick as a man’s forearm, were severed. The thing howled and the arm pulled back, though Flint saw more movement through the dark wound in the armoured portal.

‘I have seen mutants, killed mutants,’ Bukin muttered to himself. ‘But what the hell was that?’

Though he knew the question was largely rhetorical, Flint answered the chief provost nonetheless. ‘It’s not just a random mutant,’ he said. ‘It’s something bred, hybridised and enhanced with some form of heretech. It’s been deliberately created down in the lowest depths of the geotherm sinks. And it looks like it’ll get through before help does.’

‘A hybrid?’ Bukin looked far from convinced. ‘In a penal facility, sir? No one breeds such things in a khekking prison…’

Flint glared pointedly at Claviger-Primaris Gruss, who was barking orders to his wardens. ‘They do if no one stops them, Bukin,’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t he stop it, sir?’

‘He might if he were in charge.’

‘But he is not, sir?’

‘Doesn’t look like it, does it. I’ve seen enough of this hellhole to guess something of what’s been going on,’ said Flint, his gaze fixed on the back of the Claviger-Primaris’s helmet. The roaring of the horde beyond the armoured gate resounded through the sluice chamber and made it unlikely Gruss would overhear anything. ‘It looks to me like Lord Governor Kherhart isn’t in charge at all, and neither is Gruss. It looks to me like this Colonel Strannik is the real leader around here and that he’s been running this place like his own personal kingdom for years.’

‘Makes sense, sir, I suppose,’ Bukin replied, raising his voice over the crash and boom of another impact against the portal. The metal buckled still further as a massive shoulder rammed into it, accompanied by the jubilant howl of the rebels amassing to swarm through the instant the gateway ruptured.

‘Listen,’ he said, glancing upwards at the distant climbers. ‘With that thing leading the assault, we both know there’s no way help’s getting here before that door gives out.’

Bukin nodded grimly, evidently having reached a similar conclusion. ‘Your orders, sir?’ he said.

Flint thought on it a moment longer, considering and rejecting a dozen options in an instant. ‘We have to hold them here as long as possible,’ he said, considering the length of the sluice channel and the distance to the secret infiltration tunnel. ‘There’s no way we’d get the whole force back down in the time between the floods.’

Bukin nodded. ‘Unless we went in small groups, sir.’

Flint raised his eyebrows in question, and the provost continued, ‘Break them down into smaller sections, sir, say, five, ten troopers. Move fast, get down the chute before the flood comes.’

Flint considered Bukin’s suggestion but he instantly saw a flaw. ‘By the time there’s just one section left the gateway will be all but broken down. They’d have to face the horde alone. It would be suicide.’

‘That might not be such a bad thing, commissar,’ Bukin growled, looking pointedly towards Claviger-Primaris Gruss. ‘Depending on who the last section was, if you see what I mean, sir.’

Once again, Flint felt justified in having selected Bukin as his chief provost, and grateful they were on the same side. But as devious as Bukin’s suggestion was, Flint knew it wasn’t workable. ‘I appreciate the sentiment,’ Flint grinned as he replied, ‘But I don’t see how Gruss would go for that.’

‘No,’ he continued. ‘We have no choice but to make our stand here. Hold out as long as we can.’ His gaze settling on the many and varied items of flotsam lodged in the upper section of the weir a plan came to mind. ‘Get a detail together. If we’re staying put we’d better make ourselves at home.’

By the time Kohlz and his companions reached the halfway point in their climb all three were so fatigued they had long given up on bemoaning their fate. Their every effort was focused on the simple act of placing one hand on the next rung and hauling their aching bodies ever upwards. As they climbed higher Kohlz realised the folly of looking down the way they had come, vertigo threatening to make his hands clamp around the metal rung so tightly they might never be prized off.

Taking a deep, rasping breath, Kohlz pulled his right foot up and set it on the rung, the act made all the harder by the weight of the water sloshing around his boots. He grunted as he set his weight on the rung and pushed upwards, grabbing hold of another with his free hand. A deep rumble sounded below and he thought for a moment that another flood was about to come raging along the sluice channel. Then he realised another wasn’t due for several more minutes.

The rumble sounded again and the sound of voices raised in anger drifted upwards from the platform at the top of the weir where the rest of the force was mustered. He’d heard firing ten minutes earlier but hadn’t seen any sign of the gates being compromised. Now, it sounded like they had been flung wide open and the rebel horde was pressing in.

Kohlz wished he hadn’t looked, his vision swimming before he could locate the platform. He felt his grip on the rung slipping. He screwed his eyes tight shut and hooked his free arm around the next rung, catching himself before he could slip.

His blood thundering in his ears and his last ration pack threatening to come back up the way it had gone down, Kohlz concentrated on the climb, his eyes screwed shut as he got back underway once more. Though slowed by the need to grope blindly for each and every rung, he found after a while that his progress got back underway and the sounds from below receded. When the next flood powered down the channel he was able to keep going, ignoring the spray lashing his face.

As the last of the flood roared away down the channel, something grabbed hold of Kohlz’s wrist. He cursed and pulled back as he opened his eyes, a shadowed figure with a bright light behind it looming over him. He panicked and lashed out at the shadow with one hand and almost lost his grip entirely. Then the grasping hands took hold of him again and pulled him bodily forward.

‘Kohlz!’ someone shouted. ‘It’s me, calm the pash down!’

Kohlz found himself spread-eagled on a flat rockcrete ledge, bright light filling his vision and cold air stinging his face. After the interior of Alpha Penitens the light seemed so bright it threatened to blind him and he struggled to throw a forearm over his face as he fought to work out what had just happened.

‘Saint Katherine’s arse,’ another voice exclaimed. ‘If anyone ever asks me to do anything like that again,’ it continued, ‘Just shoot me…’

His senses returning, Kohlz sat up, his head swimming as he took in the sheer scale of his surroundings. Solomon appeared over him again, leaning down to offer a helping hand standing up. ‘Thanks,’ Kohlz said as he and Solomon clasped forearms and he was pulled to his feet.

The sight before Kohlz’s eyes was almost enough to send him screaming back down the ladder to the relative comfort of the interior of the penal generatorium. Though Kohlz was foundry-born, raised in the cathedral-size manufactoria of Vostroya, he had never stood on such a vantage point as this. The three men had emerged onto the flat, open rim of the chimney-like structure of the cooling tower, which itself was but a small spire on the side of the vast form that was Carceri Resurecti. They were hundreds of metres up and the surface of Furia Penitens formed a cyclopean panorama all around.

The wastes stretched southwards for kilometre after kilometre, hundreds of ancient craters appearing like minor pockmarks from so high up. In the far distance, made hazy by the effect of aerial perspective, the distant mountains rose upwards over the horizon, their white-capped peaks jagged and cruel.

A cold wind made Kohlz squint and brought tears to his eyes. His skin stung, his system having grown used to the chemical humidity of the interior. Turning east, he saw that the distant mountains rose to sweep in over the horizon, spilling across the surface towards the complex. The rearing, blocky forms of other carceri chambers were clustered all about, and Kohlz felt something of the true scale of the penal generatorium as he considered how large the interior of each chamber truly was.

Turning north, Kohlz was confronted with the slab-like flank of the central spire towering so far above that its very top was lost to the seething clouds that guttered and pulsed with their weird inner light far overhead. In that instant, Kohlz felt utterly insignificant, small and weak. Another gust of wind caused him to stagger backwards a few steps and Solomon caught him before he got dangerously close to the open roof and the huge drop to the sluice channel below.

‘Come on,’ Solomon shouted over the howl of the wind. ‘We’ve got a job to do!’

Kohlz nodded several times as he looked around for a place to set his Number Four. He shrugged the heavy vox-set off his back and prayed to the immortal God-Emperor of Man that it hadn’t been damaged on the climb up.

While Kohlz set about his task, Solomon and Stank went about providing him with cover. Rotten unslung his carbine and took position over the ladder, squinting into the shadows below as he tried to work out what might be transpiring in the depths around the portal. Solomon stalked out onto the circular, guard-less space around the chimney and knelt as he looked out across the roof of the carceri chamber from which the chimney projected. The roof was largely flat, though strewn with a multitude of smaller, ancillary vents and spear-like antennae that must have been the jamming nodes that blocked the signal from within the complex. Some looked like extensions of the massive, unidentifiable machinery that so dominated the interior of the complex while others were most likely geotherm ventilation shafts.

As Kohlz searched furiously for a viable channel, a sense of dread settled over him just as Solomon knelt suddenly and raised his sniper rifle to his shoulder to squint down its scope. At first nothing was visible apart from the irregular grey surface; pipes, vents and slab-like projections jutting from it at seemingly random angles. Then something moved behind a ten-metre tall funnel.

‘Solomon?’ said Kohlz. ‘What is it? What have you seen?’

Solomon didn’t answer at first, his only reaction a tightening of his stance as his aim jerked left and tracked a target that Kohlz couldn’t see. The Jopalli’s finger tightened on the trigger and the weapon bucked against his grip, its report swallowed up by the howling wind.

‘Eight,’ Solomon mouthed.

The air filled with light and smoke as the firing line unleashed another salvo into the breach, forcing the mutant-hybrid-thing back once more. Flint added the weight of his bolt pistol to the fusillade, firing a well-placed mass-reactive shell into the centre of a howling face that appeared briefly at the wound in the gate. The bolt exploded with a shower of blood and gristle. The enemy forced temporarily back for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes, Flint ejected the spent magazine from his pistol and slammed a fresh one into place.

The platform was a scene of fevered activity as those warriors not assigned to the firing line struggled to construct a makeshift barricade from the flotsam and jetsam gathered from the churning sluice channels. Initially, Flint hadn’t been especially confident that the work detail would locate any materials of any great use but his hopes had stirred when the first of the detail returned dragging great lengths of heavy boarding behind them. Though not as tough as the flak board used to construct temporary field fortifications, those the troops had found were nonetheless useful enough. They must have been used in the fabrication of holding pens somewhere else in the complex. The plan was for the firing line to remain in place as long as possible while the makeshift barricade was erected behind them, and then to fall back to its cover once the breach in the armoured hatch was torn so wide that the troops couldn’t hold the rebels back any longer.

It might just work, Flint thought, so long as Kohlz could get the message out to the regiment and they could hang on long enough for help to arrive. The barricade was taking shape, a mass of misshapen boards and ragged stanchions lashed together with random lengths of cabling and barbed wire.

With a howl of tortured metal the mutant monstrosity was back once again, its arms, now bloody and scorched from the mass of las-fire they had absorbed, reaching through the ragged tear. The mighty hands braced against the jagged sides and pushed outwards as Bukin bellowed for another salvo. The short distance between the firing line and the breach filled with bright darts of las-fire and billowing smoke, forcing the arms to retract as the mutant howled in rage and pain. It was driven off, but the breach was that little bit wider. Very soon, it would be wide enough to allow the rebels to press through.

‘Bukin!’ Flint shouted. ‘Hold the line.’

Dashing across the platform to the edge of the uppermost weir, Flint came across a group of five men struggling to haul a large metal crate up towards the barricade. The waters were strewn with all manner of debris, including the dark forms of dead things looming under the oily surface. He made a mental note to ensure every member of the infiltration force was treated for contamination when, or indeed if, they made it back to the regiment.

Another impact struck against the hatch and Flint stepped down towards the weir, striding knee-deep into the luminescent liquid. He grabbed hold of the leading edge of the huge metal container and added his strength to the effort to drag it from the water. In another minute or so Flint and the men had hauled the crate from the weir, dragged it across the rockcrete platform and lodged it at the end of the barricade.

‘That’ll have to do it,’ Flint said breathlessly. As if in confirmation the hatchway shook and the entire door buckled inward violently. The piston-like bolt snapped in two and the separate parts spun off across the rockcrete floor.

‘Bukin!’ Flint shouted. ‘Get ready to pull the firing line back. They’ll be through any moment.’

As Bukin took his place behind the firing line, Flint located Dragoon Lhor and his assistant. ‘Sir?’ said Lhor, his face still black with the backwash from his flamer.

‘How much fuel do you have left, Lhor?’ Flint asked. Flint suspected Lhor would be sleeping with his heavy flamer by his side from now on so attached to the weapon had he become. ‘I may have a job for you.’

Lhor frowned as he replied, ‘Not a lot, sir. One good blast in this flask, then one more load before I’m out.’ Lhor’s second was now carrying just a single fuel flask, the tank strapped to his back ready to be swapped out when Lhor had exhausted the one he was using. The two looked distinctly disappointed that their role as flame troopers might soon be ended with the last fuel flask.

‘Understood,’ said Flint. ‘I want you forward, covering the retreat when it goes off. One blast through the breach at the exact moment Bukin orders the line back. Got it?’

Lhor nodded grimly as he hefted his flamer. ‘Got it, sir,’ he said before the two headed off towards their station. Flint drew his bolt pistol and braced it against the parapet of the barricade as another impact struck the hatch, scattering shards of metal and rockcrete across the space before the portal.

‘Bukin!’ Flint yelled over the tearing of metal and the roaring of the rebel convicts. ‘Stand by!’

‘Twelve!’ Solomon counted off his latest kill between gusts of howling wind. The crack of his sniper rifle was whipped away by another gale, but Kohlz was focused on the console of his vox-set.

‘Repeat!’ he shouted over the howling wind. ‘Call sign Crimson Eagle to last sender,’ he shouted. ‘Repeat last, over.’

The earpiece churned with static and howled with painful feedback, but Kohlz was sure he could hear a voice in amongst the hash. The console’s dials indicated someone was transmitting, but the structure of the installation, the atmospheric conditions and no doubt the effect of the complex’s internal jamming nodes were combining to interfere with the signal so badly he could barely keep a lock on the transmitting station.

‘…aquila, over,’ the voice said in a moment of relative quiet, the background static receding for a few seconds. ‘Repeat, authenticate aquila, over.’

Thank the Emperor, Kohlz mouthed, fumbling to pull a small tactical data-slate from a pocket inside his coat. Invoking the authentication key, he quickly scanned the code table and identified the proper response. ‘Authenticate Beati, Nine, over,’ Kohlz transmitted.

The channel howled and churned as he waited for a response, barely registering that both Solomon and Stank were now rapid-firing down at the chamber roof. Finally, the response came back, ‘Confirm authentication. Kohlz?’ the voice continued. ‘That you?’

Kohlz smiled as he realised he was talking to Corporal Drass, a well-liked member of the signals platoon.

A shot whined through the air nearby and he ducked instinctively. ‘Drass?’ he said urgently. ‘Flint wants the regiment forward, as soon as possible. We’ve located the enemy stronghold, over.’

Another shot whined through the air as a dozen or more figures darted across the roof from cover to cover as they closed on the chimney spire. Solomon tracked the nearest enemy but he made cover before he could fire.

‘No need, Kohlz,’ Drass replied, the channel fizzing and popping as he spoke. ‘Graf Aleksis got bored waiting for you. He’s ordered the entire regiment forward already, over.’

What? thought Kohlz, his mind racing. That wasn’t the plan. ‘Repeat last, Drass,’ he replied. ‘The regiment’s already inbound?’

‘Not just inbound, Kohlz,’ said Drass. ‘We’re deploying now. That’s why this signal’s so poor. We’re not in the open wastes, we’re already breaking in, over.’

A bark of mad laughter came unbidden to Kohlz’s lips as he finally realised what had happened. Aleksis, Emperor bless the old bastard, must have got tired waiting for the infiltration force to report back and ordered the main force forward. It was against the plan, which stated flat out that if Flint’s force couldn’t identify the rebel stronghold then the regiment wouldn’t be going anywhere. Thank the Emperor for gakked up plans, Kohlz thought.

‘Understood,’ Kohlz replied. ‘Transmitting our current coordinates now, over.’

Kohlz sat back as the vox-set churned out the location of the infiltration force, daring to hope that things might not end quite so badly as it had looked like they might.

At the edge of the platform, Solomon’s sniper rifle barked again. ‘Lucky thirteen,’ the Jopalli said, oblivious to anything other than the righteous slaying of the Emperor’s enemies.

‘Firing line!’ Flint bellowed over the howling of the rebels. ‘Prepare to fall back!’

The mutant battering ram had torn a great gash in the armaplas hatch and the entire door was on the verge of being forced inwards. ‘Lhor!’ Flint shouted, raising his power sword above his head. ‘Now!’

On Flint’s order, Lhor dashed forward with Hannen close behind and took position beside the breach. Raising the flamer towards the wound in the armoured hatch, Lhor braced himself as he looked back towards the commissar. Flint brought his power sword down in a chopping motion, and Lhor opened up.

The Vostroyan angled his fire so that the stream of incandescent promethium arced through the breach and exploded against the first object it struck. That object, by the Emperor’s beneficence, turned out to be the mutant monstrosity. The thing bellowed like a wounded bull grox but instead of going down it charged forward as if the pain enveloping its senses drove it on with redoubled determination. The breach now resembled a gateway to some hellish dimension, a flaming portal through which the screams and howls of the damned competed with the raging of infernal conflagrations and the rending of metal. The flaming mutant thing braced its arms against the inner edges of the breach and pushed outwards with every ounce of its strength, its muscles cording and its vile face twisting with agony and rage.

Lhor and Hannen staggered back as the huge hatch finally buckled and gave way explosively as the two halves crashed inwards.

‘Get clear!’ Flint bellowed to the two dragoons. ‘Firing line, back!’

Damn it, Flint seethed, cursing the mutant’s seemingly preternatural vigour. Lhor’s burst of heavy flamer fire should have reduced it to greasy ash, yet still it came on. And now the gate was open and the hordes beyond were massing to press through.

Lhor shrugged the spent fuel flask from his back and the two men bolted. The firing line was up and moving too, the warriors pausing every ten metres or so to turn, kneel and fire a quick burst of semi-automatic las-fire into the mutant and the howling convicts around it. Flint’s bolt pistol barked as he added his fire, the sound almost swallowed up by the enraged bawling of the mutant.

The creature staggered under the weight of fire, its torso twisting as rounds hammered into it, but still it came on. In a moment it had clambered over the broken remains of the armaplas hatch and was finally able to draw itself to its full height. The beast was as wide at the shoulder as it was tall, standing almost three metres at the hunched-over shoulders. Like the creature Flint had encountered earlier, its massively overlarge, flame-wreathed arms were augmented with metal pistons, cabling and rebars, all adding to its already unnatural strength. Its torso was a mass of augmented muscle and its head appeared to be that of a man, its features dominated by a pugnacious brow, heavy jaw and small, porcine eyes. Those eyes were alight with uncomprehending, feral pain and entirely devoid of even a glimmer of lucidity.

Flint fired again, the bolt hammering into the creature’s collarbone and exploding to leave a smoking crater but otherwise failing to slow its progress as it stumbled forward into the open. There was a roar and dozens of rebels pressed through the smoking portal, spreading out and charging on even in the face of a wall of concentrated las and shotgun fire. Dozens were gunned down before travelling more than a few metres forward. Dozens more clambered over the still-writhing forms of the dead and the dying.

As the last of the firing line vaulted over the barricade and took their positions behind it, Flint realised that something drastic had to be done. Things looked desperate, but he’d been in such seemingly hopeless positions before. Visions of the Fall of Nova Tellus flashed through his mind, the final days of that epic campaign etched in his mind forever. The razing of the shrineworld of Volupia had taught him that faith was the greatest weapon that any servant of the Emperor had in his arsenal. As a commissar, Flint knew well how to wield it.

‘Warriors of the Emperor!’ Flint bellowed, drawing himself to his full height so that all could see and hear him. ‘Our Lord on Terra watches! Deliverance is at hand! We need but stand, and fight!’

The troops at the barricade set their weapons to their shoulders and redoubled their rate of fire, a wall of las-bolts splitting the air and scything down rebels without mercy. But the mutant beast staggered on, its every step shaking the rockcrete platform. The first glimmer of doubt appeared in the warriors’ eyes.

‘We fight for the Emperor!’ Flint bellowed over the staccato crack of massed las-fire rippling up and down the barricade. ‘We fight for Vostroya!’ Knowing that only a portion of the force were from that world and were instead former convicts of Alpha Penitentia, each from a different world, Flint added, ‘We fight for deliverance!’

‘Deliverance!’ Bukin echoed, bellowing over the cacophony of war.

‘Deliverance!’ three-dozen more voices echoed Flint’s war cry, the light of zealous duty glinting in their eyes and chasing away any doubt.

The mutant beast staggered to a halt, its imbecilic eyes glowering at the barricade. They came to rest on Flint and its drooling mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. Clearly, the mutant thing had taken Flint’s war cry for a challenge, and one that it fully intended to answer.

The beast shrugged its massive shoulders, flexing its muscles even as the last of the burning promethium guttered out. Its skin was a blistered, bubbling mass, burned away in many places to reveal raw glistening muscle as well as tarnished steel beneath. Its blackened form gave off creeping tendrils of smoke as it moved. The stink of burned flesh was so powerful it stung the back of Flint’s throat.

Then, it charged.

Flint only barely registered one of his subordinates, probably Bukin, bellowing for all weapons to be brought to bear on the mutant as it charged across the rockcrete towards Flint. As its momentum increased it lowered its shoulders like a drunken ogryn, bearing down on its rival, scores of black las-wounds appearing across its form as it came on. The commissar barely had time to react but in the few seconds he guessed he had before the beast flattened him he knew he had to draw it away from the barricade. If he couldn’t, it would smash the entire structure aside and the battle against the remainder of the horde would be lost.

‘Come on then!’ Flint shouted directly at the mutant as he leapt back from the barricade. A massively oversized arm swung out to cleave the air where he had stood but a moment before, a trail of smoke stinking of burning flesh and metal billowing in its wake.

The beast roared and bent double as its tormentor evaded it. Using all four limbs as pistons, it leaped into the air and came down on top of the barricade, warriors scattering in shock as it stood there swinging its mighty arms left and right. One man was too slow, his head crushed down into his shoulders by a brutal overhead impact while another was caught by a swinging arm and propelled twenty metres through the air to land in the glowing oily waters of the uppermost level of the weir.

Seeing the flailing warrior splash into the water gave Flint an idea and he turned and ran for the water’s edge, yelling for the other troops to keep up their fusillade as he went. Las-fire strobed behind as he pounded the platform, the ground trembling as the mutant leapt from the barricade and powered after him.

Flint turned at the water’s edge and raised his power sword. The mutant slowed to a halt, thinking it had him cornered, but the ground was still trembling and Flint knew why. He swung his power sword in contemptuous sweeps, baiting the mutant to come onward.

The beast fixed him with its beady, vacant eyes, and took a step forward, clenching and unclenching its fists as if imagining them wrapped around Flint’s neck.

‘Monstrosity!’ Flint snarled, comparing this creature to the one he had faced previously. He’d thought that one superhumanly strong and unnaturally overgrown. This thing before him was twice as muscular and larger still. It was a grotesque anathema of the human form, and his heart swelled with hatred as it advanced. ‘You have no right to exist in the Emperor’s Imperium,’ he shouted over the increasingly loud rushing of the waters at his back. ‘I condemn you, beast!’

The creature bent forward and roared in Flint’s face, its breath a wind as noisome as the chemical waters of the sluice channel. It took one step forward, the rockcrete ground shaking, and Flint’s blade lashed out, scoring a wound only a hair’s-breadth wide, but a hand’s span deep, in its arm. The beast squealed, the sound quite innocuous coming from such a massive bulk of muscle and flesh, then lashed out with its other arm.

Flint sidestepped, his ankles suspended over the precipice as the waters rose. The weirs were filling rapidly as the sluice channel flooded and the roar of an oncoming tsunami filled Flint’s ears.

The commissar ducked as another punch drove through the air over his head, the mutant surging forward until it too was right at the water’s edge. Flint sprang sideways and the mutant twisted to follow his movement. In that instant Flint had the beast exactly where he wanted it. Powering forwards, he rolled under the creature’s grasping arms and as he came up behind it, cut savagely behind with a backhanded swing of his power sword. The blade cut deep into the mutant’s hamstrings, flesh vaporising and cables sparking as both parted.

The monstrosity roared, arching its back as its legs gave way beneath it. ‘Now!’ Flint bellowed as he dove clear.

Though his voice was barely audible over the roaring of the torrent now surging down the sluice channel those nearest him had heard. They opened fire on full auto, unleashing a fearsome salvo into the creature’s back. It staggered forward on ruined legs, crashed to its knees and toppled forward into the now churning waters. In an instant, it had vanished beneath the raging waters.

The last Flint saw of the mutant monstrosity was a hand, rising once from the sucking waters to grasp for the edge of the platform before being pulled under by the current and swept away down the sluice channel.

A flash strobed from behind and Flint spun to face the ruined portal. The warriors at the barricade were firing at full pelt, the report of their las-weapons swallowed up by the raging flood echoing around the massive sluice chamber. Dozens of rebels were dying but dozens more were pressing forward through the gate to assault the barricade.

Drawing his bolt pistol once more, Flint rejoined his warriors. Soon, he was pumping round after round into the seemingly endless wall of screaming flesh surging towards the barricade.

‘Fifteen,’ Solomon muttered as he put a las-bolt right between the eyes of a screaming rebel. ‘Kohlz, Stank, go!’

Neither did as Solomon shouted, instead standing their ground at the chimney rim as they poured fire down into the rebels swarming across the carceri chamber roof. ‘I said–’ he started to repeat.

‘Okay!’ Stank shouted back, his voiced raised over the whip-crack of solid slugs coming in from the rebels below. The fire was poorly aimed and the weapons incredibly inaccurate but stray rounds spanged off of the corroded metal and cracked the rockcrete cladding all around them. ‘Kohlz, you first.’

‘Why me first?’ Flint’s aide yelled back as he continued to fire, his indignation clear in his voice even over the discharge of his weapon.

‘We’re only here to cover your arse!’ shouted Solomon. ‘Get moving, will you?’

Solomon lined up another shot as a group of rebel convicts dashed along a raised gantry a hundred metres below. Though the angle was poor he squeezed off a shot to keep them busy, the sniper rifle bucking hard against his shoulder. The las-bolt struck a guardrail and sent up a shower of sparks, causing the convicts to scatter for cover. Glancing over his shoulder, Solomon saw that Kohlz was hefting his bulky vox-set over his shoulders and securing his carbine for the climb down.

‘You’re next!’ Solomon shouted to Stank.

The Asgardian grinned. ‘What’s got into you, Solomon?’ he said before unleashing a three-round burst towards a group of rebels taking up position behind a ventilation funnel. ‘How come you’re so keen?’

Solomon had no time to respond and even if he had, the heavy stubber opening up on them would have drowned out his words. Where the hell the rebels had got hold of a heavy auto piece like that he had no idea but the chimney rim suddenly felt ten times more exposed than it had a moment ago as hand-cast slugs sang through the air all around.

Stank dropped and Solomon thought for a moment his fellow penal trooper had bought the farm. But a moment later the Asgardian was crawling towards the ladder that Kohlz had disappeared down a few moments before. Not a bad idea, Solomon thought as he too dropped to his stomach and brought his sniper rifle up to scan for the enemy heavy weapon crew. The instant he was down, the air above his head was filled by the angry buzz of dozens of heavy stubber rounds. Guessing roughly where the weapon crew must be positioned he squinted through his scope and tracked across the rockcrete roof, the viewfinder blurred before he found his range.

‘You coming, Solomon?’ Stank shouted over the hail of incoming bullets as he lowered his legs onto the ladder’s upper rungs. ‘Or you determined to play the hero?’

Having located the flashing barrel of the heavy stubber Solomon ignored his friend. It was protruding from a mass of pipes and exposed cabling and all he could draw a bead on was the business end of the weapon. The firer was out of his field of vision somewhere inside the mass of confused cover.

‘Solomon?’ Stank repeated. ‘Come on!’

Holding his breath to steady his aim as the stubber chattered angrily away, Solomon shifted his aim, settling the cross hairs over a point above and slightly to one side of the flaming barrel. He might not be able to see the rebel manning the heavy weapon, but he could guess where he was.

A heavy round split the air near Solomon’s head, the sheer force of its passage stinging the exposed skin of his upper face. Knowing he might be dead in a heartbeat Solomon took the shot.

The rifle kicked and the pipes cracked apart in a shower of fractured metal. The heavy stubber fell silent as the barrel tipped upwards, the last of the burst it had been firing cutting through the air above.

‘Sixteen!’ Stank shouted. ‘Now can we just get the frag out of here?’

Don’t look down, Solomon told himself. Just don’t look down.

Having claimed his sixteenth tally in the effort to pay the Emperor back for the blessing imparted upon Solomon’s home world, the Jopalli had followed Kohlz and Stank back down the ladder. He was elated that Kohlz had been able to contact the regiment and that help was incoming even now, but as he fought to keep his grip on the wet, corroded rungs, reality was rapidly reasserting itself. People, he realised, had been trying to kill him…

A muffled explosion sounded from far below, the noise of battle drifting up from the gate. Solomon concentrated on the climb, muttering to himself as he went. The sound of las and shotgun fire intensified and someone was shouting. Was it the commissar? He couldn’t be sure but the tone sounded right for the Imperial Guard’s morale officers – confident, inspiring, and just daring you to ignore it so they could put a bolt shell through the back of your head.

As the descent continued Solomon realised that the steadily growing, subsonic roar of another flood was swallowing up the sound of battle. Now, he looked down.

Stank had halted ten metres below and looped his arms tightly around a rung. He was looking straight downwards but Solomon couldn’t see past him.

But before Solomon could find out what was causing the hold up, the sluice channel exploded. If the flood had been bad before, now it was cataclysmic. The outflows surged upwards and where before the waters had come in a tsunami now they came in a solid line of geysers. The luminescent waters erupted straight upward and in an instant Stank was engulfed. A nanosecond later, Solomon’s world turned cold black and his only thought was to cling as tight as he could to the iron rung. The waters surged upwards, buffeting him against the rockcrete wall and he felt the rung loosen under the incredible force, threatening to pitch him into the hundred-metre tall spout and carry him away to his doom. The roaring of a billion litres of water filled his ears, drowning out his shout of denial.

Then the waters were gone and it felt to Solomon like the force of gravity had slackened. Coughing actinic liquid from his mouth he blinked his stinging eyes and looked downwards. ‘Stank?’ he shouted over the receding roar. As he blinked his eyes clear he saw his friend’s sodden form still clung to the ladder, the churning waters a hundred metres below. ‘Stank, are you and Kohlz okay?’

The Asgardian looked up but he didn’t reply. His eyes said it all.

Flint’s aide was gone, carried away by the sheer force of the surging waters.

Thirteen

Deliverance

The 77th Vostroyan Firstborn Dragoon regiment was finally on the move. Dozens of armoured vehicles were advancing through the tunnels and chambers of the generatorium, months of tedious practise suddenly translating into something very real indeed.

Graf Aleksis was leading the advance in the manner of his illustrious ancestors – from the forefront, riding in his command vehicle. For years, Aleksis had served in the staff cadres of numerous different Vostroyan Firstborn regiments, always near the centre of power but never quite close enough to claim it for himself. When the previous iteration of the 77th Dragoons had been wiped out at Golan Hole, destroyed pursuing a mission dictated not by the Departmento Munitorum chain of command, but by the Techtriarchs of Vostroya, a small part of him had rejoiced. He had seen that chance to finally claim the power he so craved, and he had called upon every shred of influence his status with the clans granted. Though the price had been steep, Aleksis had bought himself the one commission he so dearly craved – a colonelcy in a Firstborn regiment.

But Aleksis was not the power-hungry petty noble he might have seemed to the unschooled. He was a scholar too, a man well versed in the glorious histories of the Vostroyan Firstborn. Unlike many of his kin, he had some understanding of the roots of the home world’s ten millennia old tradition of sending its firstborn male children to fight in the Imperial Guard. Once, he knew, though he dared not speak of it even to Polzdam, Vostroya had failed the Imperium, turned her face from the Emperor and refused to send troops to fight in His wars, claiming that the men were needed to meet the armaments production quotas. In the aftermath of an ancient war only known to most by way of myths, legends and dire warnings, Vostroya renewed its oath of fealty, promising that its firstborn sons would serve for all time as an act of racial contrition.

Aleksis knew these things, and he cared deeply about the ramifications they implied. His immediate forebears had showed weakness at Golan Hole, allowing their loyalties to become divided in a cruel repeat of what had happened ten thousand years ago. Weak, stupid men had led the glorious 77th to defeat, khekking on the long, glorious history of Vostroya.

No more, Aleksis growled, his gorge rising the nearer the Chimera approached to the war zone. No more dishonour, no more vainglory. The ignominy of Golan Hole will be wiped from the annals, and a new 77th will rise to replace its predecessor. His grip on the overhead rail was so tight his knuckles were turned white. The Chimera bucked violently and Aleksis redoubled that grip to remain upright, before the vehicle settled back on its suspension as it ground north-west through Vestibule 41.

‘Sorry, sir!’ the driver called over the intercom. ‘There’s debris everywhere. The forward tracks are saying its getting denser further in.’

‘Understood,’ Aleksis replied. ‘Keep your eyes to the front, please, driver.’

Huffing his impatience, Aleksis lowered the periscope and thumbed on the night sights. He silently mouthed the requisite prayer as he set his face against the rubberised surround. The Chimera jolted again as it careened over an especially large and solid piece of debris and Aleksis banged his forehead against the metal casing.

Suppressing the urge to reprimand the driver, Aleksis waited a moment before sighting through the periscope. The viewfinder was grainy and shot through with machine hash, a side effect, so he was informed, of the installation’s machine systems. The view plate showed the wide, arched tunnel of the vestibule, pale lumen strips zipping by intermittently overhead. Even in the low light conditions, Aleksis could make out graffiti scrawled across the walls. His lip curled with distaste as he caught random words as he passed – Emperor, deny, choke, resist. A dark shape loomed suddenly out of the darkness and clattered against the pintle-mount overhead. A body, Aleksis saw, reduced to little more than bones, strung from the ceiling on long, rusted chains.

The graf’s first proper taste of regimental command was not shaping up to be the glorious endeavour he had looked forward to.

‘Report,’ Aleksis said through gritted teeth, folding the periscope up into its housing.

Behind Aleksis sat Lieutenant-Colonel Karsten, his chief of operations. Aleksis knew Karsten to be a proficient officer and one of the few in the regiment to have some measure of genuine command experience. The man had served in the Vostroyan defence forces and had proved himself worthy of his commission during the badland uprisings of 932. Some regimental commanders might have seen Karsten as a rival and relegated him to some obscure post far from the glory. Much to the consternation of several others, Aleksis had resisted that temptation and ensured Karsten’s experience would be of use.

‘Reconnaissance tracks have reached junction designate X-delta-nine, sir,’ Karsten replied smartly, his eyes not leaving his glowing strategium terminal. ‘Moderate resistance, small arms, nothing they can’t handle, sir.’

‘Understood,’ Aleksis replied, scanning his own command console. The multiple screens displayed reams of data, so much that it took a conscious effort to filter out the extraneous information. That was what officers like Karsten were there for, to take the strain and allow him to command.

‘Additional,’ Karsten announced, his hand pressing his headset to his ear as he concentrated on an incoming message. ‘Signals report contact with Flint’s force. Stand by…’

Aleksis hooked his arm over the back of his seat and turned to face his operations chief. The chatter of a stubber sounded from somewhere up ahead, muffled by the Chimera’s hull and almost drowned out by the growl of its engine. Come on, Aleksis thought.

‘Confirmed,’ Karsten said. ‘We have Flint’s coordinates.’

‘And?’ Aleksis pressed. ‘Has he located the rebels’ stronghold?’

‘Unknown at this time, sir,’ Karsten replied. ‘It sounds like Flint might be in a spot of bother.’

‘Does it now,’ said Aleksis, smirking slightly despite himself. ‘So he might appreciate a little help?’

The operations chief grinned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘He might that, sir.’

‘Inform all sub-commands, Mister Karsten.’ Aleksis ordered. ‘Plot us a route to Flint’s location. Lead us in.’

Commissar Flint’s pistol barked and the rebel convict dragging himself up over the barricade was thrown backwards with a smoking crater punched in his chest. Even as the rebel cartwheeled backwards through the air, his arms flailing and a gory tail of displaced viscera trailing behind, he screamed such blasphemies against the Emperor that Flint was all but driven to put a second bolt into him just to silence him. Then the bolt exploded, and the remains were lost to the press of the horde. Within seconds another had taken the rebel’s place.

The next rebel to face Flint was every bit as rabid as the last, and the clotted, dirty wound across his forehead told the commissar he was one of those who had been forced to make obeisance to the colonel in the chamber high above. That recognition took but a second to implant itself upon Flint’s consciousness, and it was followed an instant later by an impression of something deeply… wrong in the rebel’s eyes. They were almost alight, though not with anything so conventional as illumination. Rather, the light of the warp shone behind the wildly staring orbs and it threatened to reach out and entrap Flint’s soul with its pernicious grasp.

‘Back!’ Flint growled, only just avoiding a blow from the rebel’s serrated meat cleaver blade that would undoubtedly have decapitated him had it struck. ‘Lost and damned! Slave to darkness! Back!’ he bellowed, recalling the words the Dictum Commissaria reserved for the most diabolic of foes.

The rebel snarled as he squatted like some feral beast upon the barricade, his crude weapon drawn back for a second blow. The fell light of the warp sparked from his eyes and he opened its mouth as wide as it would go, then opened it more. The yawning, fang-lined chasm seemed to swell before Flint’s eyes, and part of him was aware that the man must be touched by the creatures of the beyond and drawing somehow on the power of their darkling realm. The lips peeled back still further, revealing first the teeth, then the gums, then, with a hideously wet tearing sound, the glistening musculature beneath the skin of his face.

‘In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind…’ Flint uttered, and the creature drew back, hissing, even as some weirdling illumination guttered and sparked in the wet depths of its gullet. Drawing strength from his faith and the fact that the enemy seemed weakened by the very same weapon, Flint redoubled his spiritual assault. The words of a regimental priest he had once seen face down a charge from an alien monstrosity the size of a Scout Titan sprung unbidden, though not unwelcome, to his lips.

‘Die!’ the priest had bellowed, and so too did Flint. ‘In the name of Him on Terra, I command thee to die!’ Now those words were echoed from the distant past by Flint’s invocation of a man who had himself died seconds after uttering them. ‘Die!’ he repeated, focusing every ounce of his faith and his hatred of the Emperor’s foes into that one, single word.

The spell was broken and Flint’s bolt pistol was raised before he even realised he was wielding it. Without conscious effort, the barrel was thrust into the abomination’s gaping mouth, the creature clamping oversized fangs down around it in a vain effort to avert the inevitable.

‘Emperor!’ the words of the Litany Against the Mutant came to Flint’s lips. ‘Let your undeniable light burn on the misshapen and the twisted!’

Absently aware that several warriors nearby were joining in the recitation, Flint continued. ‘Let me see them with pure sight!’

Now still more voices joined the commissar’s as he completed the litany. ‘And purge them with righteous fire!’

When it came, the bolt pistol’s report was both deafening and spectacular. The blast dissolved the rebel’s head in a shower of biological filth that all but blinded the commissar with blood and fragments of pulped grey matter. As he blinked his eyes clear, Flint saw the body tumbling back down the barricade and into the seething mass of rebels. The energy that had carried the rebel and his fellows up the barricade seemed to ebb, and the tide recoiled, if almost imperceptibly.

The barricade was holding, but Flint knew that couldn’t last. The small force was fighting like true servants of the God-Emperor but with their backs against the waters of the upper weir there could be no retreat. The last time the channel had flooded the waters had swelled right up and over the upper level, swamping the area before the gate in stinging backflow. Even now, with the flood receded, the force was fighting in ankle deep water.

Another rebel threw himself atop the barricade but instead of maintaining the impetus of his charge he paused a moment to wave his fellows onwards. Once more, an all but imperceptible flicker appeared in the man’s eyes, the daemon-haunted warp threatening to break through into the material realm. Flint saw his opening and lashed out with his power sword, taking the man in the ankles. The blade’s seething edge parted flesh and bone with barely any effort and the man let out a scream like that of the damned. He collapsed backward to land atop a handful of his fellows and Flint’s section of the barricade was momentarily clear.

Taking advantage of the brief respite, Flint ejected his almost spent bolt pistol magazine and replaced it with what he realised was his last spare. At this rate, by the time relief arrived he’d be long dead. That grim thought reminded Flint of his aide and the mission he must by now have completed and he turned to look down the stepped tiers of the weir pools and out across the sluice channel. The waters in the sluice channel were at their lowest ebb and on the verge of rising once more. The overflow was getting ever more frequent and soon the entire area would be inundated. Movement at the base of the slime-coated weir ramp caught Flint’s eye as two figures struggled upwards. Both were coated in chemical filth and giving off a coiling miasma of vapour but they were clearly his men.

‘Kohlz?’ Flint called out. The two men struggled onwards, their fatigue obvious in their every step.

Militarily, it mattered not at all which of the dragoons had returned, only that they had completed their allotted task. With a mild shock however, Flint realised in that moment that he did care. These were his troops, and they were fighting not just for the Emperor, their regiment or anything else. They were heeding his words and following his example, he was almost overwhelmingly proud of them.

The battle at the gate raged on, the sound of gunfire echoing out over the waters and Flint knew he had no time to waste in sentimentality. Renewed gunfire boomed from close behind, the loudest reports those of the wardens’ shotguns, the clavigers fighting side by side with the penal troopers they had guarded not so long before. Though he was needed back at the barricade Flint had to know the result of the mission.

Finally, the nearest of the men stumbled up the last few metres and hauled himself up onto the lip. Flint reached out a gloved hand and helped the man up. Only when he wiped his face clear of a portion of the filth caking his features was it revealed as Trooper Stank.

Bending double, Stank stumbled up onto the lip. With his hands on his knees he threw up a great gout of luminescent liquid. Flint left him to it and proffered a hand to pull the next one up. From the man’s gangly frame it was clearly the Jopalli, Indenti Solomon.

‘Kohlz?’ Flint said flatly as he helped Solomon up onto the lip.

Solomon started to speak, then spluttered and like Stank before him coughed up a stream of garish liquid. Stank straightened up as Solomon spewed his guts across the wet rockcrete and answered the commissar’s question. ‘We got separated on the way down, sir.’

‘Separated?’ Flint repeated, guessing the trooper’s meaning straight away. The last overflow had been the worst yet and the geysers that had erupted from the sluice vents had reached halfway up the chimney at least.

‘Did he get through?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Solomon said, straightening up. ‘The regiment’s already inbound, sir.’

‘Time to contact?’ Graf Aleksis barked, not taking his eyes from the dozens of icons flashing across his command console.

‘Estimated five minutes, sir,’ Karsten replied. ‘Lead tracks report increasing resistance but nothing coordinated.’

‘Yet,’ Aleksis muttered to himself as he oriented his position on the glowing tri-D map on his main viewing slate. The dull crump crump crump of an autocannon firing from one of 1st Company’s Chimeras sounded from close by, followed a moment later by a sharp explosion. The graf’s blood was up and he was starting to enjoy himself. For so many years he had watched other, lesser men write their names in the histories of Vostroya. Now finally, he was the one wielding the auto-quill.

‘Time to get into the fight, then,’ he growled, reaching above his head to unlock the Chimera’s turret hatch.

‘Sir?’ Karsten’s voice came over the vehicle’s intercom. ‘Might I suggest you leave that to someone…’

Aleksis ignored his chief of operations and pushed the hatch upwards so that its two halves clanged loudly on the upper armour.

‘If Lord-Marshall Supovka had stayed on his command barge at the Siege of Thaltor, do you think the Blood Angels would have delayed their drop? Hah! If General Kolskoi had not led the assault on King Tancred’s fortress from the command deck of his Leviathan, do you think that fate would have granted him another day before the death of that entire world?’

Warming to his subject, Aleksis dredged up still more examples from the annals of Vostroyan military history. ‘What of the 109th at Kvalgron, or Battlegroup Volga at Horthn IV, or Lord-General Royanz in the death-glades of Nashe’s World?

‘No?’ Aleksis pressed when Karsten dared not advance any more objections. ‘Quite right,’ he said, pulling himself up through the open hatch. The noise of the outside world flooded in and threatened to overwhelm the graf’s senses with a cacophony of clattering tracks, gunfire and roaring engines. Pulling himself up, Aleksis seated himself high in the turret and took hold of the twin-gripped pintle-mounted stubber. He took a deep breath but grasping for his rebreather he immediately wished he hadn’t.

The air stank, and not just of the engine fumes of the vehicle in front. It was tainted and damp, thick with corpse-gas and pollution. It was an unutterably vile cocktail of chemicals and decay. The armoured column was grinding its way along the barrel-vaulted tunnel of Vestibule 39 and according to reports was closing on the main entrance into the vast generatoria chamber called Carceri Resurecti. The bulk of the headquarters company was rolling along at full speed, smashing aside the piles of debris scattered all about. Ahead of them, the ‘armoured fist’ Chimera-borne infantry of 1st Company were approaching the chamber entrance while the other four battle companies were following behind the HQ. With the air-scrubbers disabled, the air was so thick with mist and the exhaust fumes of dozens of vehicles that visibility was reduced to less than a hundred metres.

Aleksis activated his vox-pickup and opened a channel to his company commanders. ‘All commands, this is Cobalt Lead,’ he said identifying himself by his designated call sign. ‘This is it, gentlemen, the first battle honour of many. The 77th Firstborn shall this day be reborn! You have your orders, follow them and glory is ours. Cobalt Lead, out.’

A series of affirmatives flooded back over the vox as the company commanders joined in with their commander’s show of bravado. Listening to their oaths and affirmations, Aleksis was proud and suddenly very aware of his place in history. The 77th had served for countless generations and won hundreds of battle honours but Aleksis and his fellow intake of officers had much to prove.

The crackle of gunfire brought the graf’s attention back to the head of the column as it passed under the archway and pressed into Carceri Resurecti. The Chimeras of 1st Company’s armoured infantry platoons spread out as they ground into the chamber with turrets tracking left and right as they unleashed a torrent of autocannon, multi-laser and heavy bolter fire on an enemy Aleksis couldn’t yet see. Hull-mounted weaponry added its weight to the fusillade and individual vehicle commanders were manning the pintle-mounts atop the turrets. Soon, the entire firing line was shrouded in the discharge of dozens of heavy weapons, the rolling smoke lit from within by continuous, strobing muzzle flares.

It was a stirring sight, making Aleksis eagerly tighten his hold on his stubber’s twin grips as his Chimera trundled towards the archway. His blood pumped hard as the sounds of battle increased, the back and forth updates of his subordinate commanders a constant background buzz in his ears.

As the Chimera passed under the archway, the buzz cut out as Lieutenant-Colonel Karsten engaged his override. ‘Sir? I really must insist you allow someone else to…’

A sudden movement in the shadows to the right caused Aleksis to swing the stubber around on its mount. A figure wrapped in trailing bands of ragged fabric rose from a pile of stinking rubbish and raised a purloined heavy combat shotgun to its shoulder.

Aleksis found himself staring down into the gaping barrel of a weapon obviously taken from the dead hands of a pious servant of the Emperor and knew utter contempt for his foe. But before he could draw a bead the man pulled the shotgun’s trigger.

The blast was deafening, but to his total shock Aleksis was unharmed. It seemed that time itself was frozen like a clock hand unable to move past the hour. The rebel convict groped for a reload but before he could retrieve a fresh cartridge Aleksis snapped out of it. Squeezing the stubber’s grips hard, he ground his thumbs into its trigger plate, gritting his teeth against the anticipated recoil and the sight of his foe being ripped to shreds by the close range burst…

…but nothing happened. The two men locked incredulous gazes and the rebel’s face twisted into a feral sneer. The Chimera ground on, the driver oblivious to the one-on-one battle for life and death being enacted outside. The rebel darted forwards, tensed his rag-clad body and pounced upwards towards Aleksis.

Acting purely on instinct Aleksis reached to his belt and withdrew his laspistol, an heirloom weapon carried into battle by seven generations of his line’s firstborn sons. He might never have fired a heavy stubber in anger but he was well practiced in the noble art of duelling and the pistol was like an extension of his very body.

With a flick of his thumb the safety was off. With a squeeze of a finger the weapon spat an incandescent blast that for an instant chased away the shadows beneath the archway. The las-bolt struck the rebel at the very apex of his leap, his hands twisted into atavistic claws and struck him a glancing blow to his left shoulder. Momentum carried the rebel forward, slamming him into the Chimera’s side armour, but instead of slumping down, its side his arm was caught in the tracks as they clattered over the topside of the nacelle.

The Chimera ground on and the mortally wounded rebel, now screaming as he saw his impending death, was dragged along with the track. In a moment he was lost to the graf’s view and the scream cut off abruptly with a sickening crunch.

A moment later, the Chimera passed out of the archway, and into the staggering vastness of Carceri Resurecti.

‘Warriors of the Emperor!’ Flint bellowed over the roar of the rebel horde. ‘Deliverance is at hand!’

His bolt pistol spat its last burst as it stitched a line of exploding craters across the bodies of a wave of rebels clawing their way over the barricade. Flint had never seen such hatred in his foe, even when facing the most fanatical of the insurgents on Gethsemane. The rebels had been whipped up into a frenzy beyond anything Flint had ever encountered and were on the verge of overwhelming what remained of his force.

His bolt pistol spent and with no spare magazines to hand Flint dropped his weapon, unable to spare the second of precious time it would take to holster. As another pair of rebels clambered over the barricade his power sword was up and blood was flying.

Even amidst the anarchy of hand-to-hand combat Flint knew well enough that the position was untenable and would fall within minutes. The roar of the rebel horde was so loud it echoed back through the sluice chamber and by its pitch and volume the enemy were as good as numberless. Fallen rebels were piled up before the barricade, the dead and the dying hideously intertwined as those following after used the broken bodies as a ramp to assault the Imperial position. Countless more were pressing through the ruined hatch, pushing the rest forward by the sheer mass of the endless tide.

‘There’s no end to them!’ Flint heard a penal trooper nearby shout, the unmistakable edge of panic in his voice. ‘We have to fall back!’

‘Nowhere to fall back to, lad,’ Bukin bellowed in response. That didn’t help.

‘Shut the hell up,’ Flint shouted at Bukin. ‘And let me do my job.’

The defenders were on the verge of a rout, yet, as Bukin had so crudely put it, there really was nowhere to go with the surging waters of the sluice channel cutting off any retreat or redeployment. Though the regiment was inbound there was no way of knowing when they might arrive as the lost Kohlz had the only high-powered vox-set. In such situations, Imperial commissars had two means of motivating the troops – make an example or be an example. Punish fear or overcome it.

Flint hauled himself onto the barricade where everyone, friend and foe, could see him. Immediately, a dozen screaming rebels surged towards him and he was forced to hack all about in a crude arc just to keep them at bay. Most recoiled from the scything blade while those not quick enough or unable to push back against the pressure behind lost limbs and lives.

‘At this, our moment of need!’ Flint bellowed over the roar of the enemy and the crack of lasguns discharged at impossibly close range, ‘The Emperor casts his gaze upon us!’ It was the twenty-ninth Catechism of Duty, which the drill abbots had taught the adolescent Flint and his fellow progenia so many years before. The words came to him without conscious effort yet the troops needed more.

‘We are the instruments of the Emperor’s will!’ he invoked the twelfth chapter of the catechism. ‘Through our deeds his enemies are felled!’

This is it, Flint thought, the moment of truth. As the rebel hordes roared and surged forwards once more, he decided to commit his fate to the God-Emperor in whose glory he was raised. In so doing he would set such an example to his warriors that the impossible odds facing them might seem as nothing.

Flint leaped off the barricade and into the chaotic mass of frothing enemies.

The mist parted in coiling vortexes as Aleksis unleashed a stuttering rain of heavy stubber rounds at the silhouetted rebel horde. With the turret weapon adding its weight of fire to his own he could barely even hear the weapon that jerked and bucked in his grip. The vast chamber had come alive with the fury of battle as groups of rebels emerged from side passages and floor vents to throw themselves at the 77th as the Chimeras ground across the debris-strewn floor. Bones crunched under his vehicle’s treads as Aleksis ordered his driver onwards, plunging through the dense mists enshrouding the entire chamber floor.

‘Have at it, you bastards!’ Aleksis yelled with savage battle lust, his voice inaudible over the roar of the engines of dozens of Chimeras and the constant report of their weapons. ‘For the Grey Lady!’ he invoked Nadalya, the patron saint of his home world. ‘For the 77th renewed in glory!’ With a loud, metallic clack, the stubber’s ammo feed dried up and he hauled on the release that freed the hopper. Even as he slammed in a fresh box and cranked the belt home, a massive shape loomed out of the mists towards his vehicle.

It was too close for the turret to engage but Aleksis brought the stubber to bear on the fresh target, this time ensuring its action was clear. His eyes widened as the huge shape resolved into something only vaguely resembling a humanoid body, its proportions grotesquely exaggerated by some unwholesome and probably forbidden process.

‘Mutant,’ he growled, suddenly reminded of the stories of the twisted creatures that dwelled in the ruined industrial badlands of Vostroya’s northern polar regions. ‘Filthy, dirty–’

The rest of his tirade was snatched away as he pressed his thumbs hard into the heavy stubber’s trigger plate. The weapon erupted in his hands, its stabilised mount only barely able to contain its savage recoil. A hundred rounds and more scythed through the air and hammered into the mutant’s upper torso. Though the air was still too hazy for the graf to see his target clearly or to judge the effectiveness of his fire, it staggered under the weight of the stream of rounds, its arms thrashing about as if the bullets were bothersome insects it was trying to swat away.

Incredibly, the mutant monstrosity wasn’t cut down by the opening burst. It bellowed, splitting the air with a shrill cry unlike that of any natural creature. It lowered its shoulders and rushed on through the mists. Aleksis kept his thumbs on the trigger plate as the form became fully visible through the mists, a prayer for deliverance forming on his lips.

The beast’s vile features twisted in savage rage, its naked body a mockery of the human form. Its head was set low between the rippling slabs of its shoulders and its over-muscled arms ended in forearms and fists the size of barrels. Its legs were bent at the knee and undersized compared to the rest of its body, lending it a hunched gait and its skin was smeared with oily filth.

Worst of all, Aleksis caught sight of corroded machine augmetics protruding from angry purple wounds in amongst its seething muscles and he knew that such a creature was unsanctified by the machine priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and therefore impure.

Aleksis unloaded another long, steady stream of heavy rounds, hammering them one after another into the knotted muscle of its chest. Yet, now the thing was in motion, nothing appeared capable of stopping it.

Nothing perhaps except thirty-eight tonnes of armoured transport travelling at full pelt straight over it.

The Chimera crashed into the mutant at around seventy kilometres per hour. The beast roared as if challenging a rival and brought its massive fists hammering down onto the glacis plate the instant before impact, inflicting a pair of huge dents before it was dragged under the bow and the vehicle ground overhead.

It was far from dead; Aleksis could tell that from its shrill and frenzied cries as it receded behind, punctuated every few seconds as another Chimera ground over it. But the column was closing on the portal leading from the carceri chamber to the area beyond, where according to reports, Flint’s beleaguered force was holed up. The seething mass of rebel scum pressed in around the wrecked gateway into that chamber was all the confirmation Aleksis needed that the commissar and his troops were there.

‘All commands!’ Aleksis shouted into his vox-set as he cranked the heavy stubber’s mechanism. ‘Close on target as per orders.’

‘In the name of the 77th!’ he added as he opened fire on the rearmost of the horde. ‘Cut them down!’

Flint’s entire world was swallowed up in the press of bodies, limbs thrashing in all directions as rebels sought to pull him down. Flint’s power sword burned white hot as he swept it in a great arc. Bodies were sliced open as the power field split flesh and spilled organs across the rockcrete ground. Limbs were severed and rebels fell at Flint’s feet yet still more foes came on.

Flint gave himself utterly to his duty as a commissar, certain beyond any shred of doubt that the words he had spoken moments before were true. The Emperor was watching and Flint was most certainly the instrument of His will. He was divine retribution, the manifestation of the judgement that should have been visited upon the wretched denizens of Alpha Penitentia long ago. He hacked and sliced and parried instinctively those attacks the rebels launched against him. His blade cut all other weapons in two, its power field scything through the crude weapons wielded against him. His arm rose and fell what must have been a hundred times and more before he eventually became aware that the press of bodies was lessening. The tide was receding and the ever present muted roar was changing into something very different.

It was turning into a cry of terror and woe.

Reality came crashing back in and Flint found himself standing in the midst of dozens of bodies. The rebels were backing off towards the portal and the safety of the carceri chamber beyond and the space before the hastily erected barricades had been reclaimed. Firstborn, penal troopers and claviger-wardens alike had followed Flint’s example and vaulted the obstacle to take the battle to the surging enemy.

Flint was about to issue the order to run the last enemy down when the sound of heavy weaponry opening fire sounded from the carceri chamber beyond. A cacophonous roar of multiple types of weapons rang out and the last of the rebels surging through the portal were cut down. The wrecked hatchway was soon clogged with ruined bodies.

The sight of so much blood made Flint look down at his own body and only then did he realise that he’d sustained scores of small wounds in his insane battle against the rebel horde. His cuirass was scratched and dented in countless places and the tails of his heavy leather storm coat were ragged and torn. His breeches were cut open and soaked in blood, his own and that of his enemies, and his peaked cap was gone having been lost at some point in the battle.

At the last, the blunt prow of a Chimera armoured transport ground over the bodies and halted on the far side of the portal. An officer with golden epaulettes at his shoulders stood high in the turret manning the pintle-mount. ‘Aleksis?’ Flint muttered. He could scarcely believe the regiment’s commanding officer was manning the overhead weapon of the lead vehicle.

Flint looked sidelong at Bukin as the chief provost appeared at his side. The other man was a ragged mess and covered in as much blood as the commissar. ‘Get the force together,’ Flint ordered. ‘This is far from over.’

As Bukin fished a fresh cigar from a webbing pouch, Flint added, ‘And get someone looking for my hat.’

Fourteen

Consolidation

Over the next few hours the 77th Firstborn cleared the southern extent of Carceri Resurecti with ruthless efficiency, the un-blooded dragoons soon earning their first kills amongst the corroded machine edifices and along the creaking suspended gantries. But the rebel convicts were on home ground and made the Firstborn pay for every square metre they took. The bulk of the rebel horde scattered into scores of smaller bands as the Chimeras pushed outwards in a solid line of growling ceramite that secured a large area of the chamber in the first hour. While the undisciplined mass was broken up easily enough the smaller bands soon proved a lethal prospect to locate and engage amidst the twisted machinery and gantries of the chamber. A series of running battles soon developed as dismounted infantry pushed up into the spider’s web of walkways criss-crossing the air. The dragoons soon discovered the rebels were using the vast lengths of heavy chain suspended from the roof to move from one level to another, descending through the ever-present mists to launch devastating rear attacks on units passing by.

Despite his fatigue and the grumbling of his warriors Flint insisted on leading the counter-attack to secure the lowermost of the overhead gantries. This was the first occasion he had climbed up onto the rusted walkways and he was disgusted by the number and nature of the trophies attached by hooks and chains to the guardrails. One walkway was festooned with a long line of grinning skulls, the flesh crudely flensed from the bone. Great loops of long-dried intestine hung from another like a grim version of the seasonal decorations sometimes seen at the Feast of the Emperor’s Ascension.

Stealth was all but impossible for while the mists provided visual cover, the tread plates and grilles underfoot were so corroded they creaked and split as troops passed, the metallic grinding echoing weirdly through the fog. On one length Flint found thousands of teeth scattered across his path. Despite his best efforts the teeth cracked horribly underfoot. Seeing movement up ahead and suspecting an ambush, he led his force on another route and the ambushers were caught in the flank and slaughtered to a man.

Even when Flint and his small force weren’t engaging the vicious bands of rebel convicts that haunted the upper walkways the sounds of battle resounded all around. The stuttering roar of turret-mounted autocannon was an ever-present accompaniment to the action to clear the southern extent of the chamber. Sometimes the clamour was explosively loud from directly beneath the walkway along which the force advanced, at other times it sounded several kilometres distant. The mist was so dense in places it appeared that Flint was leading his force along a gantry that passed over the clouds themselves and that the ground was many kilometres beneath.

Then it started raining harder than it ever had before. The mists were blown away in the span of minutes and a hot, tainted wind started up. The vox-channels burst into life as desperate queries flew back and forth between the different units. Yet the signals were so distorted by the installation’s structure and by the freakish weather that few got through.

None of the 77th had ever experienced such a downpour for they were foundry-dwellers and everyone knew it didn’t rain inside buildings. Yet here they were, inside a generatorium complex almost the size of a hive with each of the vast carceri chambers developing its own, interrelated climate without the moderating systems of the air scrubbers and cooling towers.

Some regions experienced hugely disproportionate increases in air pressure while others were subject to sudden drop offs. The juncture between each chamber became the site of a great, raging battle between unnatural elemental forces that caused howling winds and driving rains to concentrate along unbearably dense weather fronts. The longer vestibule tunnels linking each carceri chamber were hit the worst for they funnelled what felt like entire tornadoes along their lengths and soon became impassable to any unit not mounted in armoured transports with the hatches buttoned firmly down. Several of the regiment’s lighter-equipped units were cut-off as the vestibules became too dangerous for them to pass along. The reconnaissance platoon, mounted in its open-topped Salamander transports, was forced to take shelter in a sealed-off meat storage chamber that despite the lingering stench had, thankfully, been stripped of its former contents. The light walker troop, mounted in its Sentinel scout walkers, was so battered by the winds as it probed Vestibule 47 that the pilots had to abandon their machines. These were found later wrecked by rebels moving unseen through the complex’s labyrinthine tunnel systems.

By the end of the day, if such a measure of time had any relevance by that point, Flint was forced to pull his penal unit out of the line for fear of the troopers simply collapsing from fatigue. Instructing Vahn to get the unit fed, rested and rearmed, he and Bukin made for the temporary command post Graf Aleksis had erected in the midst of a cluster of vent-sinks three kilometres into Carceri Resurecti. As the pair were about to enter the circle of grumbling command vehicles, Vahn caught up with them.

‘I thought I told you to get the unit down,’ Flint shouted over the driving rain.

‘I did, commissar,’ the trooper answered. Even over the wind and rain, his voice sounded as tired as Flint’s. ‘They’re down.’

Flint halted and turned on his heel to face Vahn. ‘Then why aren’t you?’

‘Because, sir, like you said earlier, we’re not done here yet.’

Flint’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the man before him. Vahn looked a mess, but then they all did after so many hours fighting through the rank depths of Alpha Penitentia. Vahn’s battledress, a mix of his convict fatigues and Vostroyan issue armour, was encrusted with the chemical filth they had all had to wade through crossing the sluice channel and it was ripped and torn in multiple places. His waist-length dreads were matted and dirty, his general state far from acceptable, even on campaign.

With a wry smile, it occurred to Flint that some commissars he had served alongside would have executed Vahn on the spot for presenting himself to them in such a state. The trooper must be serious, he realised.

‘What’s up?’ Flint asked. ‘Why are you here, Vahn?’

The trooper glanced towards the bustling command post, then back at Flint. ‘I wanted to make sure we’re still in this, sir,’ he said.

Flint noted a cold glint in Vahn’s eyes as he spoke. He knew what it meant.

‘You want this,’ he said. ‘You want… payback?’

Vahn didn’t answer straight away, but shuffled almost nervously. He looked like a man placed on a charge despite the fact he was in the opposite situation.

‘Yes, sir,’ Vahn eventually replied. ‘The guys and me,’ he continued. ‘We’ve got a lot of stuff to settle.’

‘With the rebels?’ said Flint.

‘With Strannik,’ Bukin interjected from beside Flint. ‘That right, son?’

‘Vahn?’ Flint pressed.

‘Yes, sir,’ Vahn finally replied. ‘If the regiment’s going after him, we want in.’

‘Who wants in?’ Flint asked. ‘You, or the rest?’

‘All of us, sir,’ Vahn replied, nodding back the way he had come. Flint followed the gesture and saw Vahn’s fellow penal troopers sheltering from the rain beneath a low gantry, looking on from a distance. ‘We all want it.’

Flint nodded slowly then answered, ‘Understood. You’d better come along then.’

The command post was a circle of Chimeras belonging to the headquarters company’s various sub-units, including specialised command, signals and service tracks. Staff officers and tacticae advisors went about their business, setting up or manning augur transponders and vox-terminals bristling with antennae masts and revolving sensor dishes. Canvas awnings extended from the rear of each Chimera to keep men and equipment from getting drenched in the stinging rain but it was impossible to keep the worst of it out. The sound of explosions and gunfire was clearly audible even over the relentless rain, the battle to push into the vast carceri chamber raging as hard as ever just a few kilometres north.

Pulling down the rim of his peaked cap, which one of Bukin’s men had located under the body of an eviscerated rebel convict, Flint located Graf Aleksis. The commanding officer of the 77th was conducting an orders group beneath the shelter at the rear of his command track.

‘…echelon to laager at reference point zero-delta-nine with recovery section and three squads from 4th Company. Go,’ Aleksis was saying as Flint and his two companions arrived. The officer the graf had been speaking to saluted and dashed off and Flint stepped smartly into the vacant space leaving Bukin and Vahn to stand uncomfortably hunched in the rain beyond the awning.

‘This operation has now escalated from a policing and suppression mission to something far more serious,’ Aleksis continued, obviously glorying in the escalation he was describing. ‘I can no longer guarantee the Munitorum will get their Penal Legion from this place. Frankly,’ he concluded as Flint edged to the front of the gathering, ‘our objective is now to defeat these rebels, no matter the cost.’

A dozen heads turned towards Flint and at that same moment a distant explosion rumbled through the chamber from the direction of the front line. How different the officers all looked after a few hours in the field, how their once starched uniform jackets and peaked officers hats were now drenched by the stinking rain and creased from sitting in the back of a Chimera for a while. A little humility would do them good, Flint thought as the heads turned back towards Aleksis, most pointedly ignoring the commissar.

Flint listened as Aleksis and Polzdam issued a stream of perfectly routine orders, growing increasingly impatient as he waited to hear anything of the assault on the enemy stronghold the commissar’s force had identified what felt like days earlier. Several times the graf was forced to raise his voice over the dull crump of distant explosions. Eventually, Aleksis concluded his address and asked the assembled cadre if anyone had any further questions.

‘I do, graf,’ Flint spoke up over the sound of rain hammering the topside of the awning. Once again, several dozen heads turned in his direction. ‘When do we clear the rebel leadership out? We know where they are, but they may not be there long.’

‘A good question, commissar,’ replied Graf Aleksis. ‘And one I do not yet have a proper answer to. If you would…’

‘Graf,’ Flint interjected, his gorge rising. Having fought through hell and not slept for days he was in no mood for diplomacy. ‘Why not?’ he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

‘I am instructed to wait before the final assault is launched,’ Aleksis replied bitterly.

‘Instructed?’ Flint repeated incredulously. ‘Instructed by whom?’

‘Commissar…’ Lieutenant-Colonel Polzdam interrupted, evidently uncomfortable with Flint’s tone. ‘I really must insist–’

Aleksis held up a hand to silence his second-in-command and Polzdam shut up, though he continued to glower at the commissar bitterly. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘The commissar has every right to know, as does everyone.’

‘Go on,’ Flint scowled, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

‘This operation has certain… limitations placed upon it,’ said Aleksis, raising his voice over the growing rumble of an approaching transport track.

‘What limitations?’ said Flint, his eyes narrowing. Despite his ire he had an inkling that this was nothing of the graf’s doing. The question was, what would Aleksis do about it?

‘We are here to aid the authorities of Furia Penitens in regaining control of this installation,’ Aleksis continued, raising his voice over the growl of an armoured vehicle’s engine. ‘We have a duty to consider the wishes of those authorities.’

It was immediately obvious which authorities Aleksis was referring to. The sound of clattering treads made him and the rest of the gathered officers turn in time to see a vehicle slow to a halt just outside the awning.

The vehicle was a Rhino armoured transport, a smaller and boxier vehicle than the Chimeras used by the Firstborn, though its armour and many other characteristics were generally superior. The vehicle’s slab-like sides were streaked with rain and its upper surfaces were misted over completely with the back-spray from the heavy downpour. The flash of a distant explosion glinted from the rain-slicked armour and illuminated the crest of the world’s ruling body. The vehicle’s every surface was covered in complex heraldic motifs, Imperial eagles bearing keys and death’s-head skulls behind portcullis gates. Flint recognised the motifs and even as the side hatch swung down to thud into the wet rockcrete he knew who would disembark.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Graf Aleksis. ‘Due respect, please.’

The officers moved backwards to clear a space under the awning as movement stirred inside the open hatch. The Vostroyan officers doffed their caps but Flint kept his firmly on his head. A brass rod emerged jerkily from the opening and was followed a moment later by a second, the pair feeling forward like a blind insect using its antennae to discern its surroundings. A moment later, the hideously gnarled hands holding each stick appeared, followed by the rest of Governor Kherhart.

Lord Kherhart was attired in a ridiculously impractical robe of office that must have been even older than him and that looked on the verge of collapsing to a ragged heap of scraps. The robe was made of the rarest black void silk and must once have glittered like the starfield after which it was named. About his shoulders Kherhart wore a cloak of silver fur, the hide of some exotic beast Flint couldn’t identify. On his head he wore a periwig at least three times the size he had worn when last Flint had seen him. His face was twisted in concentration as he manoeuvred himself down the Rhino’s hatch using the brass sticks as support. Finally, the governor stood beneath the awning and he squinted myopically. With both hands occupied gripping the walking sticks he was unable to raise his lorgnette to his eyes in order to see clearly.

The governor lurched suddenly forward, angling his face up towards Captain Bohman, the chief signals officer. ‘Aleksis! You will tell me what is going on, right now!’

Bohman stood rigidly to attention and stuttered, ‘Bohman, sir. This is Graf Aleksis.’

‘Quite,’ the governor spat before swinging his head around to face Graf Aleksis.

‘My lord, I…’ Aleksis began before Kherhart cut him off with a brass walking stick jabbed in the chest. If it weren’t for the graf’s body armour he might have sustained a nasty, sucking chest wound.

‘Look what you’ve done to my domains!’ Governor Kherhart shrieked, the sudden and unexpected outburst making several of the gathered officers flinch. ‘I approved no more than a reconnaissance and now look! The entire place is in anarchy!’

‘With respect, my lord,’ Flint interrupted, ‘it was like that when we got here.’

‘And who are you?’ Kherhart rounded on Flint. He leaned right forward, his impossibly wrinkled face pushed uncomfortably close as he looked Flint up and down. ‘Commissar is it, eh?’

‘Regimental commissar,’ he answered. ‘Flint.’

‘Well, Commissar Flint,’ Kherhart sneered. ‘You and Aleksis here and all of the rest of you can just clear out of my facility, do you understand?’

‘Clear out?’ Aleksis blurted before Flint could respond, causing the governor to swing back around to face him. ‘The commissar here has located the rebels’ lair, my lord. We were hoping you would acquiesce to an immediate assault upon it, so that we–’

‘No!’ Lord Kherhart screeched in response. ‘I will not acquiesce! You will leave here, this instant, do you–’

The remainder of Lord Kherhart’s words were drowned out by a sharp explosion nearby. The blast wave ripped at the canvas awning and fragments of shrapnel pattered from the hull of the graf’s command track. The officers ducked for whatever cover they could find while Claviger-Primaris Gruss appeared out of nowhere accompanied by several other wardens and formed a protective circle about the governor. A moment later the chief warden was bundling his master back towards his transport and was lost to Flint’s sight.

‘Bukin?’ Flint bellowed, striding out from under the awning to be greeted with the sight of a huge, orange fireball blossoming upwards just a few hundred metres away. ‘What the hell was that?’

The chief provost was nearby, Vahn at his side as staff officers ran to and fro. ‘Looks like one of our tracks went up, sir,’ he shouted over the raging of flames, the wind and the rain. ‘Must be rebels in the wire!’

‘Vahn,’ Flint shouted over the rising pandemonium gripping the command post. ‘Muster your men and get them here. Go!’

Vahn nodded and was gone, leaving Flint with Provost Bukin. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ he muttered.

‘Sir?’ said Bukin, shielding his eyes from the rain as he squinted towards the roiling flames and the column of black smoke rapidly rising into the air.

‘He’s counter-attacking,’ Flint shouted.

‘Who is, sir?’ Bukin bawled in response.

‘Strannik,’ Flint shouted. ‘That’s what I’d do!’

Another explosion blossomed nearby and a Chimera less than fifty metres distant lifted into the air, flipped onto its side and came to rest on its back with flames consuming both fuel tanks. Muzzle flares lashed out of the darkness overhead as figures appeared on gantries that the headquarters security platoon had declared secure. Flint saw Vostroyans cut down where they stood, unaware of the danger from above and he shouted a warning to get behind cover. Las-fire erupted all around, competing with the deep, resounding boom of combat shotguns and handmade junkers. A great roar filled the air, a sound Flint had grown all but accustomed to during the battle in the sluice chamber. It was the sound of a horde of rebels attacking in numbers greater even than they had back then.

Vahn reappeared with the remainder of the penal troop at his back. The soldiers were struggling to pull on armour and backpacks only recently set down and most appeared not to have slept a wink.

‘What the…’ Vahn started as he came to a halt beside Flint and Bukin. ‘Oh frag…’

Fifteen

Revelation

With an explosive release of stinging luminescent liquid, Kohlz awoke, rolling onto his side and vomiting the chemical gruel across the rockcrete floor. Every muscle in his body screamed with pain and his bones felt like they’d been pulped. Still, he wasn’t quite convinced he was actually alive until the painful dry heaving finally ended and his eyes stopped streaming long enough to see clearly.

Hauling himself up onto his elbows, Kohlz realised that the ridiculously heavy Number Four vox-set was still strapped firmly to his back. Punching the release catch at the centre of his chest he shrugged the hated thing off and let it drop hard to the ground as he struggled painfully to his feet.

‘Where the hell…’ he started as he looked all about. He was at the base of some manner of shaft, a small circle of light visible twenty metres or so above. He’d come to rest on a slim ledge at the side of a sluice channel, the filthy waters having deposited him there safely against all the odds.

Safely, except that to escape he would have to climb yet another set of corroded rungs. For a brief moment Kohlz seriously considered just sitting back down and waiting this one out but the idea was a fleeting one that soon left his mind. Besides, he thought, aside from the vox-set he had no one to talk to.

‘Oh fu…’ he began, realising that he’d dropped the vox-set so heavily it might no longer be functional. His heart suddenly pounding at the thought of being left alone at the bottom of the drainage shaft, he bent over the Number Four and folded back its canvas protective covering. ‘Come on…’ he implored the device.

Throwing the main power rune he was greeted by the sound of churning static. ‘Thank the Grey Lady!’ he blurted out deliriously. ‘Thank Her I wasn’t dumb enough to get a Number Twelve…’ There was no way he could get a signal where he was, but at least the vox-set was functioning. He was as certain as he could be that he’d be able to transmit from the top of the shaft.

Then Kohlz heard something out of place, a sound from high overhead that brought his head up slowly towards the circle of light that formed the mouth of the shaft. ‘What the hell…’ he muttered, straining to hear more over the rush of water and the hiss of static. Cocking his head, he concentrated on the noise. It sounded disturbingly like an odd combination of animalistic grunting and the creak of old leather.

Something Trooper Solomon had said many times over the last few days came to Kohlz’s mind as he bent over, deactivated the vox-set and shrugged it back over his shoulders. ‘Why me?’ he mumbled as he cautiously took hold of the lowest of the ladder rungs. Given that the last one he relied upon had given up on him and cast him into a raging flood and almost drowned him in the process, he tested it first, making sure it was firmly set in the rockcrete.

Reasonably satisfied, Kohlz climbed slowly up the dark shaft, concentrating all the way on the sounds emanating from above. The higher he climbed the louder the noises became until he was dreading actually seeing what might be causing them. His body had yet to even start to recover from the harm done to it by the flood and he was sure he’d be covered in livid bruises when all this was over and by the time he neared the top his muscles were screaming for respite. At the last, he halted just below the lip, his ears filled with the hideous sounds.

Swallowing hard, he raised his head and peered out.

The sight that greeted him made him wish he’d taken his chances with the sluice and been washed further on into the bowels of the geotherm sinks. He was at the northern end of Carceri Resurecti, that much he could tell by the sight of the cliff-like wall and the many openings through which the force had climbed previously to infiltrate the stronghold up above. From out of those openings came a steady stream of hideously deformed figures, some massively large and machine-augmented, others small and twisted. Hundreds, probably thousands of the creatures were staggering and trudging south across the open ground and the sound Kohlz had heard earlier was their mute mumbling and the flexing of their vile musculature.

‘Mutants…’ Kohlz breathed. Hundreds upon hundreds of mutants, dredged up from the darkest bowels of the geotherm sinks.

‘These must be the ones we saw in the stronghold!’ Flint yelled into his vox-pickup as he ducked into the cover of a burned out Salamander, its shattered armour still radiating heat. ‘They’re properly armed with weapons taken from the clavigers,’ he continued. ‘They aren’t the cannon fodder we faced at the sluice chamber!’

‘Understood, commissar,’ Graf Aleksis’s voice came back through Flint’s earpiece, barely audible through the interference and the constant barrage of gunfire all around. Yes, Flint was sure of it. The rebel convicts attacking the regiment were well armed and they were organised into squads and platoons, just like the formations Flint had seen during the infiltration of the stronghold.

That being the case however, Flint was wondering where the rebel colonel, Strannik, might be.

Leaning out from behind his cover Flint sought to decipher the enemy’s deployment, to fathom the centre of the formation’s mass and where its commander might be directing it from. The scene before him was hazy with the weight of rain pounding the ground and the light levels were at an all time low, yet he could make out dark shapes running from the cover of one machine edifice or pile of debris to the next. One group was engaging First Company almost a kilometre to the west. Another, larger mass was probing towards the east where its leading edge was contacting Third and Fourth Companies along with elements of the support echelons. If I were the overall commander, Flint thought, and I had nothing in the way of vox, I’d be… over there, advancing in the lee of that twenty-metre tall piston housing.

‘Vahn?’ Flint shouted back towards the penal troopers huddled behind a line of tracked supply wagons belonging to the assault pioneer platoon. ‘Get ready to move out!’

‘Come on, come on, come on…’ Kohlz muttered as he worked the dials and switches of his Number Four. Hanging from the ladder just below the lip of the shaft with hundreds of vile mutants swarming past scant metres away, it really wasn’t easy.

‘Come on!’ He repeated through gritted teeth. A line of red lights turned green, telling him the set had achieved machine communion with a transmitting station. ‘Yes!’ he hissed as he raised the horn to speak.

But before he’d said a word his headset phones spat into life and a voice cut through the static-laced feedback.

‘…aren’t willing to do as I say, cousin,’ the voice said. Kohlz froze and lifted his thumb from the transmit rune. ‘He refuses to honour his familial duty, thanks to that damned commissar…’

That got Kohlz’s attention and he worked the dials to get a clearer channel.

‘Very well,’ a second voice replied. ‘I anticipated such a turn of events. I have mustered the… inmates, of the under-sinks. They are inbound now.’

‘Are you…’ the first voice stammered. ‘…are you sure that’s, er, wise…?’

‘Cousin!’ the second voice hissed, the tone coldly intimidating to Kohlz even though he wasn’t its target. ‘You will listen to me and you will heed my words, do you understand?’ When there was no reply the voice continued. ‘I do not care if every one of my followers is slain, I do not care if this entire complex burns down around me, but I have told you, I shall not submit to them. I cannot, and not just for my sake, you know that, Kherhart, it’s for the sake of the entire damned line, understood?’

Kherhart? Kohlz was stunned. The first voice was the governor of Furia Penitens. Not just the lord of Alpha Penitentia, but the Imperial Commander of the entire world.

So who then was he speaking to?

‘Understood, cousin Strannik,’ Kherhart replied, his voice petulant and defeated. ‘Then I see I have no choice but to leave if you are set on your course of action.’

Strannik? Kohlz almost lost his footing on the ladder and was forced to grab hold of another rung. He almost dropped the vox-horn in the process, his breath short and his blood pounding in his ears.

‘Do what you must, kinsman,’ Strannik replied. ‘Be gone. I am unleashing the under-sink host now. Our traitorous kinsman and his regiment won’t know what hit them, cousin. Within the hour, they’ll be dead. Every last one of them.’

‘Khave,’ Vahn hissed from the shadows at Flint’s side. ‘He’s mine.’

‘The Catachan?’ Flint replied as he leaned out from his hiding place behind a huge storage tank that had been torn open by multiple heavy bolter rounds. ‘Then make it quick, we don’t have time for personal vendettas.’

‘Understood,’ Vahn replied and a moment later he had the detachment up and running. Flint could see the unfettered hatred etched on the face of each penal trooper as they dashed by his position. It was clear that the penal troopers were kept going far beyond the point of exhaustion by a motivating force Flint hadn’t yet considered. It wasn’t duty or honour that was keeping the ragtag group going – it was hatred. Hatred of every rival convict that had been part of the uprising they themselves had chosen not to participate in.

Out of a population that had numbered in the tens or hundreds of thousands before the uprising, that small group represented the last few souls who had, for whatever reason chosen not to surrender to the bloodshed and anarchy that the rebel Colonel Strannik had unleashed upon Alpha Penitentia. He’d thought they were following him. Instead, as they charged past with their carbines raised and mouths roaring unspeakable oaths of vengeance, Flint decided he would follow them.

Flint broke cover and joined the mad charge towards the enemy lines. Bukin bellowed something from behind but he ignored the chief provost. Then Bukin was beside him, he too surrendering himself to the mad rush.

As Flint steeled himself the first shots rang out. Vahn and his fellow penal troopers fired their carbines from the hip as they advanced at full pelt through the rain and many had attached bayonets in preparation for the charge hitting home. Flint’s world was reduced to a tunnel of las-fire and rushing bodies and the blinding white lances of the carbines were soon competing with a heavy weight of return fire. The detachment had the advantage of surprise but as it closed on its target, the Catachan and the rebels he was leading started to recover and fire back.

The first of the penal troopers went down. A scream of frustration and pain split the air so loudly it competed with the whip-crack of carbines and the thunderous report of the rebels’ crude firearms. The man fell at Flint’s feet and he had no choice but to vault over him. Landing heavily, his power sword instinctively raised to the guard position, he found himself face to face with the Catachan.

The enemy roared, filling the air with a blasphemous curse and swung his shotgun like a heavy club. Flint ducked back from the clumsy attack but before he could advance another came in. The Catachan was far quicker than a man of his bulk had any right being.

Flint parried without thinking and his power sword’s white-hot, monomolecular edge scythed the improvised club clean in two. The Catachan’s already ugly face twisted into a hideous mask of hate and he flung the two halves of his ruined weapon to the ground with a savage curse.

The charge was hitting home all around Flint, Vahn’s penal troopers surrendering themselves to the hatred and fury that had built up within them since the first slaughter-filled days of the uprising. Facing off against the Catachan, Flint glanced quickly left and right and saw the troopers engaged in bitter, one-on-one fights to the death.

He saw Becka strike an ape-faced rebel hard in the side of the head with the butt of her carbine then reverse the weapon in her hands to stab the bayonet savagely up into her enemy’s guts. The Savlar screamed something in the man’s face as he fell at her heavy-booted feet, comparing his features to those of a simian and casting aspirations on his parental legitimacy.

Trooper Skane, the big Elysian, was wrestling with a huge enemy with metal studs crudely mounted in his bald skull and other scraps of metal protruding from his heavily muscled body. The two men were soon locked in a death-grip only one of them could possibly win. Skane’s foe pulled back his head, the whipcord muscles of his grox-like neck tensing like steel cables. An instant later he drove his studded head straight towards Skane’s but the Elysian was ready and rolled sideways at the last possible moment. The rebel’s head slammed into the wet rockcrete ground and sent up a spray of rainwater mingled with blood.

Trooper Vendell, the one-eared Voyn’s Reacher, had cast his carbine aside and was sat astride a screaming, desperately squirming rebel. His knees clamped around the man’s head as he drove his thumbs down into, and through, the eye sockets.

Trooper Stank, the Asgardian, had been cut across both cheeks by a crude, serrated knife wielded by an impossibly skeletal but preternaturally fast rebel convict. But the Asgardian was faster and fuelled by a thirst for vengeance his opponent could never match. Stank twisted sideways and in a flash his enemy’s blade was in his hand. Another flash, of steel and blood, and the knife was in his enemy’s throat right up to the hilt.

Even Solomon, the lanky Jopalli indenti, was there in the thick of it along with over two-dozen more penal troopers whose names Flint had yet to learn. Solomon had his beloved sniper rifle slung over his back and had drawn a laspistol with which he was gunning rebels down at shockingly close range.

Flint looked around for Vahn but the Catachan lunging forwards snapped his attention back to the fore. He drew his power sword back and tensed his body in preparation to strike when he was pushed hard from the side.

‘He’s mine!’ Vahn shouted, drawing a curse from Flint’s lips as the commissar was knocked almost off of his feet.

‘What the hell?’ Flint snarled, turning to see that Vahn was already engaging the Catachan. His dreadlocks streaming behind him like a ragged mane, Vahn screamed and drove forward with his bayonet-tipped carbine. The Catachan ducked left and by his own move, Vahn had expected him to duck the other way. A meaty fist came out of nowhere and slammed into the side of Vahn’s head and he only just managed to roll with the blow sufficiently to avoid it breaking his neck.

Seeing that Vahn was outclassed, Flint began circling around toward the Catachan’s blind spot. Vahn growled a stream of incoherent curses but he had the sense to circle around the Catachan in the opposite direction to Flint.

But the Catachan wasn’t stupid, despite all appearances to the contrary. He did exactly what Flint would have done in the same circumstances, and dived forwards onto Vahn before Flint could get behind him. The last blow must have dazed the penal trooper for he reacted too slowly to dodge the Catachan’s two-handed grasp for his neck. He went down screaming, his mouth twisted into a savage, animalistic snarl as he dropped his carbine and attempted to lever his enemy’s girder-thick wrists away.

No chance, Flint thought, knowing the Catachan would snap Vahn’s neck within seconds.

‘Vahn!’ Flint bellowed over the chaos of battle and the pounding rain. ‘Twist!’

Not waiting to see if Vahn had understood, or even heard, his order, Flint reversed his grip on his power sword’s basket hilt and lunged forwards, the Catachan’s rippling back firmly in his sights. He caught a glimpse of Vahn’s face, his eyes bulging from pain or panic, he couldn’t tell which.

With a snarl, Flint drove his power sword into the Catachan’s back, forcing it through the mass of sinew and muscle. As the blade plunged into the man’s innards Vahn twisted and an instant later the sword was sunk all the way to its hilt. With a shout, Flint twisted the blade and drove it straight upwards, through the Catachan’s upper torso, and out of his right collarbone.

His torso split in two, a fountain of blood spat upwards as the two halves peeled apart. Gore spattered at Flint’s feet and the body finally collapsed, its eviscerated organs tumbling forth.

‘Frag!’ Vahn spat, looking up at Flint from the butchered corpse on the ground between them.

‘Commissar Flint?’ The commissar heard in his ear.

‘What?’ said Flint as he fought for breath, his heart pounding after the exertion of the deathblow.

‘That was…’ said Vahn as he fought to regain his own breath having been choked almost to death.

‘Commissar Flint?’ the voice repeated.

His mind catching up and his head clearing of the battle lust that had driven him through the last few seconds, Flint raised a hand to silence Vahn.

‘Flint here,’ he said into his vox-pickup. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Dragoon Kohlz, sir,’ the voice said. ‘Commissar Flint, you’ve got multiple…’

‘What?’ Flint demanded, thinking for a moment the confusion of combat and the pounding rain had addled his mind. ‘Repeat last, over.’

‘I said, this is Dragoon Kohlz, commissar. Listen, please, I don’t have time to explain, sir, but you have multiple mutants closing towards you, and–’

‘Mutants?’ Flint demanded, recalling the two abominations he had already faced.

‘Yes, sir, mutants,’ Kohlz pressed. ‘Thousands of–’

‘Mutants…’ Flint growled. ‘Filthy mutants…’ Glancing around, Vahn’s penal troopers had slaughtered the majority of the Catachan’s fellow rebels and the rest were scattering. But Flint knew it wouldn’t last long.

‘Vahn, Bukin!’ he shouted. Vahn looked half dead. Bukin looked like he’d been enjoying himself. ‘Get the detachment ready to move out, right away,’ he barked, wiping blood and rain from his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘Where are we going, sir?’ Bukin replied.

‘We need to find the colonel,’ Flint said. ‘Right now, or this is all over.’

It took Flint and his small force the best part of twenty minutes to locate Graf Aleksis and his staff, and as he did so, Kohlz filled in the spaces in his report and provided a running description of what he was seeing. By the time Flint had pushed his way through the bustling staff manning the graf’s command post he had a good idea what was going on and he was utterly livid.

‘You won’t deny it?’ he thundered at Graf Aleksis, his rage incandescent. ‘The leader of this rebellion is,’ he paused for breath, ‘is your own cousin?’

‘I will not deny it, Commissar Flint,’ Aleksis replied, his command post falling silent with shock. In a moment, only the rain pounding the awning overhead and the sound of ominously close gunfire was audible. ‘He is, as you say, my cousin.’

‘And when were you going to tell me this?’ Flint raged. No wonder, he seethed inwardly, the archive on Strannik was sealed.

‘In truth,’ the graf replied defiantly as he faced off against the furious commissar, ‘I was hoping to deal with the matter without sullying my clan’s good name.’

‘Your clan’s…?’ Flint spat incredulously, the ignominious fate of the 77th’s predecessors forcing its way into his consciousness. ‘You gave me your word, graf. You swore you would not repeat the sins of your forebears and allow your loyalties to be split–’

‘I understand your reaction, commissar,’ Aleksis insisted, ‘But rest assured, I have every intention of bringing my… cousin, to account for his deeds.’

Flint was about to retort with a barbed reply when he saw something in the graf’s expression that made him hold his tongue. He nodded for Aleksis to continue.

‘This sort of thing…’ Aleksis started, uncertainly at first but with increased resolution as he spoke. ‘It is normally dealt with by way of certain… formalities.’

‘Meaning?’ Flint replied.

‘Meaning,’ Aleksis went on, ‘we of the Anhalz Techtriarchs prefer to keep our own house in order, and not involve outside parties.’

Flint fixed the graf with an ice-cold stare, weighing up the man’s future on the balance of his words. ‘You do realise, graf,’ he growled, his words punctuated by the heavy rain, ‘that I could have not just your regiment for this. I could have your life.’

Aleksis held Flint’s gaze a moment, before replying. ‘Yes, commissar. I am very much aware of the extent of your powers.’

In that moment, Flint’s mind was made up. ‘Then prove it.’

‘I intend to, commissar, believe me. I intend to clear this entire damned installation of every last rebel scum lurking within it,’ he growled, his voice low and vengeful. ‘It was one of my clan that started this and so it is I who must end it,’ he concluded.

‘This Strannik,’ Flint replied. ‘If he’s one of your Techtriarch clan, why is he here, in Alpha Penitentia?’

A number of the senior officers looked to one another uncomfortably and Polzdam opened his mouth to object. But Aleksis raised a hand to forestall any interruption and answered Flint’s question. ‘He’s here because he deserves to be, commissar.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Flint, growing impatient to end the discussion with the abominations Kohlz had reported closing all the while.

‘You have read that the 77th was destroyed at Golan Hole, that there were no survivors,’ Aleksis said darkly.

‘Sir!’ Polzdam interjected.

‘No!’ Graf Aleksis rounded on his executive officer with a savage burst of anger. ‘This cannot go on! It shall not go on. Commissar Flint will have the truth of it, and you shall not say a word more, unless you want me to call the provosts, understood?’

Polzdam fumed silently, but said no more.

‘The records of the Battle of Golan Hole state that every last member of the 77th perished…’

‘The records lie?’ said Flint.

‘The records were doctored. One individual survived.’

‘Strannik,’ Flint said coldly.

‘Graf Strannik,’ said Aleksis. ‘My kinsman, and my predecessor as colonel of the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn.’

‘How?’ Flint asked. ‘And why was he imprisoned?’

‘How, I cannot fully explain, though I suspect his crimes extend beyond the moral. I believe that he has manifested certain… abilities, deemed blasphemous by the creed we all share.’

‘So he’s a mutant,’ said Flint. ‘Are you suggesting he’s manifested psychic powers too?’ If that was the case this mission might not be completed without the intervention of an Ordo Hereticus strike force, and that would escalate matters by an entire order of magnitude.

‘Possibly,’ said Aleksis. ‘I cannot be sure. But as to the second part of your question, he is here because he has sufficient rank to have the death sentence such crimes should lead to commuted. He is a traitor and a coward. His actions led to the destruction of the 77th, and he is a mutant and an unsanctioned psyker. Believe me, I intend to settle this–’

‘And the prison governor is his kinsman,’ Flint interrupted.

‘Indeed,’ Aleksis replied dejectedly.

With time running out and it being futile to press the matter further, Flint changed tack. ‘Graf Aleksis,’ he announced, loudly enough for every officer nearby to hear clearly. ‘We have a mountain to climb, and an abominable enemy to defeat if any of us are to see the daylight again.’

‘I suggest you gather your officers, Aleksis, and issue a warning order. I suggest this regiment gets advancing, sir, right now.’

Dragoon Kohlz had been following the mutant horde for what felt like hours, always close enough to be sure of its course yet never so close that his presence might be discovered. Had he been seen, he would have been torn limb from limb or eaten alive by the unutterably vile creatures of the mutant horde. The young Firstborn’s deeds went unrecorded, for there was no one else there to write up a citation. In balance however, this was a good thing, for there was one deed that Kohlz would never want written up in any form of communiqué.

Kohlz had tracked the horde for over an hour and had only just avoided detection by a gang of stooped, ghoulish fiends with mouths dripping with congealed blood when the familiar silhouette of a Vostroyan Firstborn warrior loomed in the shadowed entrance of a waste grinder, just like the one the infiltration force had been forced to travel through hours before. The shaggy fur headgear and the long, crimson coat were unmistakable, and it was all Kohlz could do to stop himself calling out to his kinsman.

It was fortunate indeed that he didn’t, for the twisted ghoul creatures appeared to have picked up the other Firstborn’s scent and were looping back to investigate. Kohlz ducked into the cover of a wrecked flatbed cargo hauler and was just about to open a channel on the personal vox-net when he realised the identity of the trooper emerging from the tunnel. It was Dragoon Slavast – better known in the ranks of the 77th as ‘Slug’. Immediately, the bruises earned at the hands of Slug and his goons just a few days before started throbbing as bitterness and shame at the beating he had received swelled inside.

His eyes narrowing as he watched, Kohlz saw that Slug wasn’t alone. He was leading his squad and several of the meatheads were further inside the tunnel, struggling with boxes of heavy ammo. Obviously they had been tasked with bringing fresh ammunition to the fighting units, but they were shirking that duty like the cowards they truly were.

Kohlz lifted his thumb from the vox-switch, deciding against warning his fellow troopers of the imminent danger. Even as he watched from the shadows, the ghouls closed across the open chamber floor, and it was only at the last that Slug caught sight of them.

Instead of standing and fighting like they had been trained to do, the squad fell back into the tunnel, compounding their crime of cowardice with that of dereliction of duty as they dropped the ammunition and fled.

With a blood-curdling shriek, the ghoulish mutants dashed by Kohlz’s hiding place, so close he could see the pallid translucency of their shrivelled, filth-encrusted hides. An instant later, they were pressing cautiously into the waste grinder, sniffing the damp ground as they followed the scent of Slug and his fellows.

His mind suddenly clear, Dragoon Kohlz broke cover and dashed for the opening of the waste grinder. A moment later he was by its mouth, the sound of shouting emanating from within. It sounded very much like Slug and his goons were attempting to call for help over the personal vox-net, and a blinking telltale on his set confirmed it.

Whichever station was receiving Slug’s distress call, it was never completed. Kohlz slammed his fist down upon the waste grinder’s activation rune, causing the toothed, metal walls of the tunnel to stir into sudden motion. A roar like that of a million gears shifting as one blasted from the tunnel mouth, followed a moment later by the twitching gristle that had once been the ghoul-like mutants and the half a dozen Firstborn, mingled together into a steaming gruel of mangled flesh and shattered bone.

Kohlz slammed his fist down on the rune a second time, the gears disengaging with a wet, metallic rumble. Hefting his heavy vox-set, he resumed his pursuit of the mutant horde, resolving never to say a word of Slug’s fate.

Sixteen

Judgement

The charge of the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn Dragoons was, as Graf Aleksis had said it would be, a glorious thing indeed. Dozens of Chimeras formed into a line several kilometres wide straddling the centre of the southern end of Carceri Resurecti and advanced through the driving rain to meet the mutant horde head on. The vast darkness of the carceri chamber was lit as bright as day as the Chimeras’ heavy weapons opened up on the shambling, howling mass of abominations seething across the floor. Heavy artillery, following the main push in bounding advances, lobbed hundreds of high explosive shells overhead, their passage as loud as a freight conveyor and their detonations sending limbs and greasy, black smoke arcing high into the air.

Commissar Flint was riding high in the turret of one of the HQ Company’s Chimeras, every one of the regiment’s armoured vehicles advancing and every one of its guns blazing away at the horde up ahead. The acid rain stung his eyes and the already polluted air was tainted further by the discharge of so many weapons. The roar of engines made communication all but impossible in his exposed position, but Flint no longer had need to communicate. Kohlz had given him the last piece of information he needed.

Following in the wake of the horde, an act of extreme courage for which Flint had already decided his aide would be commended, Kohlz had maintained a continuous reconnaissance. Eventually, he had located the target Flint had ordered him to find and reported his sighting back to the commissar.

Colonel Strannik.

As the line of Chimeras closed to within a hundred metres of the enemy, Flint finally got a close look at the creatures the force was up against. The shambling mutants were obviously related to the two he had faced already, yet those two must have been the more controllable of the mass for the rest appeared a riot of screeching, thrashing limbs and gaping maws. Each was at least as tall as an ogryn but represented no stable abhuman strain. These mutants were grotesquely malformed, each limb a different size. Some hauled themselves along on massively oversized arms, their legs so atrophied they couldn’t even walk. Others were all barrel-shaped, contorted torso, arms and legs jutting out at improbable angles. Some had limbs protruding from entirely the wrong point of their bodies, creating the overall impression of a wall of disjointed muscle and flesh surging across the chamber floor.

Flint bellowed a prayer to ward off the foulness of genetic corruption, most of his words snatched away by the rush of air and the roar of bullets but enough of them getting through to his vox-pickup that the rest of the regiment could hear and take heart. Captain Bohman, the chief of signals, relayed Flint’s words through the regimental vox-net and every dragoon in the 77th Firstborn heard him as they charged towards their foe.

As the range closed, Flint opened fire with his pintle-mount, keeping up his tirade of zealous invective even though he couldn’t even hear his own words. The heavy stubber spat a stream of fire towards the line of mutant flesh and he was gratified to see torsos exploding and limbs cartwheeling overhead. Soon Flint could make out individual faces and he was struck by an almost overwhelming sense of revulsion. He had reached the conclusion that these mutants must have bred, or been bred, in the deepest, darkest geotherm sinks beneath the penal generatorium, though from what corrupted stock he had yet to discover. The heat that drove the generatoria was derived from the radioactive decay of sub-surface minerals, so perhaps that had something to do with the obscene process. Whatever the cause, their very existence was a blasphemy against the God-Emperor of Mankind. Once more, Flint would be the instrument of judgement.

Finally, the charge of the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn Dragoons struck home. The wall of steel met the wall of flesh and battle was joined.

The Chimeras ground through and over the first ranks of the teeming mutant horde, crushing hundreds to gristly pulp within seconds. But despite the devastation those mutants not slain in the first few seconds threw themselves forward without fear or hesitation as if compelled beyond reason to tear down all that was pure and unsullied by corruption in the world. Flint angled his heavy stubber almost straight down, firing continuously with no need to aim. An ocean of thrashing limbs and rippling muscle surged beneath him, grossly distended claws reaching up like breaking waves to pull him down. The sound was nigh deafening and the stench was beyond description. It was like the mutants had gestated within an irradiated, amniotic sack swelled with chemical fluids in which a million corpses had slowly rotted and their otherwise naked bodies were smeared with all manner of unimaginable filth.

The Chimeras ground onward into that undulating sea of mutant flesh, firing hull and turret weapons without pause. Top hatches swung outwards by prearranged order and the men and women of the 77th rose from the armoured troop bays and took position atop their transports. Lasguns, flamers, plasma guns and grenade launchers were discharged at all but point-blank range, often right into the howling faces of the enemy who were attempting to swarm up and over the Chimeras.

Gunning their engines against the sheer force of the press of mutant bodies, the drivers pressed on. Though a seemingly crude tactic, the attack was in essence a classic heavy cavalry charge. The drivers were under orders to press on at all costs, to break through the horde before turning around and hitting it again. They couldn’t stop, for to do so would be to shed momentum and then all would be lost. Even when dragoons were pulled screaming from fighting compartments to be dragged into the horde still they couldn’t stop. Even when vehicles were swamped and disappeared beneath a wave of thrashing corruption, they had to keep on going.

Almost as soon as the armoured assault crashed home it was breaking through the other side of the mutant horde. Flint spun the cupola about just in time to witness the bloody path his Chimera had crushed through the mass of bodies disappear as the mutants pressed in. Several nearby Chimeras were overrun by howling mutant abominations and the dragoons within torn limb from limb, but there was nothing he could do – the plan was all.

Ahead of the advance was an open area of the carceri chamber floor dominated by a high platform resembling an oversized gallows. Fittingly, the platform was the control pulpit for the surface-to-orbit weapons battery that had shot Flint’s drop-ship down what seemed like weeks earlier. It was Flint’s target, because Kohlz had reported it was where Colonel Strannik waited, watching and directing his blasphemous horde as it surged across the chamber.

Flint drew his bolt pistol and checked its action. He’d only had the time to scare up a single spare magazine. Let that be sufficient, he prayed to the Emperor. Let your will be done…

Reaching a prearranged phase line, the entire wave of Chimeras and other armoured vehicles slowed and by companies turned back to face the way they had come. The only vehicle that didn’t halt was Flint’s, which carried himself, his aide, Vahn and the best of his penal troopers. The driver followed his orders to press on for the towering weapons control platform at all costs. Flint holstered his bolt pistol and dropped through his hatch into the Chimera’s red-lit troop bay.

A dozen faces looked back at him, their expressions grim but determined.

‘Ready?’ he shouted over the roar of the Chimera’s engines.

‘Go!’ Vahn barked as the Chimera’s assault ramp slammed into the ground. An instant later, Becka, Solomon, Vendell, Skane, Stank and the rest were charging out of the vehicle’s troop bay and into the rain and the all-consuming darkness outside. At a nod from Commissar Flint, Vahn followed his fellow penal troopers out into the open area beneath the target platform. Weapons control, the rebel colonel’s seat of power and, so Flint had ordered, the site of his execution.

The air was alive with unreal etheric energy, seething arcs chasing up and down the metal structure of the weapons control platform. It was as if the tower was the very epicentre of the storm, though it was far from calm. The air was so charged the hair on the back of Vahn’s neck stood on end and his skin itched maddeningly.

‘Move!’ Vahn bellowed, knowing they had no time to waste. Already, the line of Chimeras was opening up again, pouring fire into the raging horde, which had changed direction and was surging back towards the regiment’s lines. Within minutes, what had been the horde’s rear rank and was now its leading edge would crash against the Imperial Guard lines and the slaughter would begin afresh. The 77th was wreaking bloody ruin on the mutants but it couldn’t stand forever.

Vahn’s squad rushed the base of the control tower, rebel convicts emerging from amongst its girders and conduits. Becka was by his side the whole way, an avenging angel of scorn and fury. The penal troopers opened fire, discharging carbines from the hip as they ran for the metal steps leading upwards. A snarling brute of a man emerged from the shadows and lunged straight for the commissar. Karasinda, who Vahn hadn’t even realised was nearby, put a las-bolt through the rebel’s left eye without breaking stride. A dozen more rebels were cut down within seconds, and soon Vahn’s squad was pounding up the open metal stairwell, carbines raised into the darkness above as they advanced.

His heart racing, Vahn mounted the steps, Becka just a step behind as the tread plate rang at their passing. Commissar Flint was close behind, his power sword drawn and a prayer that could be heard even above the roar of gunfire and rain on his lips. Vahn and Becka took the stairs three at a time, the need to end this madness all but consuming them. Vahn’s hatred for those who had led the uprising drove him on despite his fatigue until finally, he and his fellow penal troopers mounted the last few steps and charged out onto the carceri control platform.

Gale force winds buffeted Vahn as he stepped out onto the open space, rain lashing his face mercilessly. Squinting against the onslaught he realised the platform was far higher than he had imagined from the base, rearing above the sea of mutant flesh far below. It was long and narrow, the far end obscured by the rain and a mass of machinery. Weapons control stations lined the central space, but all were long dead, their machine-spirits extinct and none of their original custodians alive to operate them. He cast around for his target with his carbine raised and a figure appeared out of the rain in the centre of the platform, its features obscured by shadow.

No, Vahn realised. Not by shadow. By a blank mask.

‘Gruss…’ Becka hissed in warning, the other penal troopers loosing their own curses as they emerged from the stairwell and spread out behind Vahn.

The Claviger-Primaris stood defiantly in the centre of the wind- and rain-lashed control platform but made no reply. Instead, he raised his right hand and levelled his snub-nosed plasma pistol past Vahn to a target behind the penal trooper.

‘Commissar Flint,’ Gruss said, his voice amplified above the raging storm by the phonocasters mounted in his black hardshell armour. ‘Leave this place now. You hold no authority here.’

Bitterness threatening to overwhelm him, Vahn looked sideways as Flint stepped up to stand beside him and Becka. ‘What…’ he started, before Flint interrupted him.

‘Gruss!’ Flint shouted over the wind and the rain. ‘Stand aside. It’s him I’ve come for. He’s Guard, and this is Commissariat business.’

Flint stood his ground even though the Claviger-Primaris had the plasma gun pointed straight at his head. In truth, Flint didn’t expect the chief warden of Alpha Penitentia to surrender Colonel Strannik, but he needed time to formulate a plan.

‘How is this any of your business?’ Gruss spat, his pistol tracking Flint as he edged sideways to get a better view of the figure that lurked at the end of the platform some distance behind the Claviger-Primaris. ‘Last chance, commissar,’ he said, jerking his pistol for emphasis.

‘You don’t want to do this, Gruss,’ Flint said, stalling for the last few seconds of time. ‘Your duty is to the Imperium, not to this corrupted clan.’

‘What clan…?’ Flint heard Vahn stammer from behind him. ‘Corrupted…?’

‘The Anhalz Techtriarchs of Vostroya,’ Flint growled. ‘And all their damned progeny.’ With that he made a sweeping gesture that took in the entire floor of the carceri chamber and the thousands of abominations swarming across it. ‘A noble clan I’m sure,’ he continued. ‘But one with more than a few secrets, wouldn’t you say?’

‘All you had to do,’ Gruss snarled, his voice distorted by his armour’s systems. ‘All you had to do was let us deal with it…’

Flint saw what would happen next and he dove suddenly to his right. An instant later a searing ball of plasma screamed by overhead, the leather of his storm coat’s back blistering so intense was the heat. He struck the metal of the platform’s surface right at its edge and for an instant was staring straight down towards a mass of thrashing, mutated limbs as the horde crashed against the 77th’s lines far below.

A las-bolt whined by as Karasinda opened fire on Gruss. Flint rolled back from the edge of the platform and leapt to his feet, drawing his power blade as he did so. Gruss was moving back along the thin arm of the platform towards a mass of weapons control stations, writhing cables and unidentifiable machinery at its end. In just a few seconds the chief warden’s plasma pistol would be recharged and he would unleash another potentially devastating shot. This time, Flint doubted he would miss.

It was now or never. Flint raised his power sword and pressed along the increasingly narrow arm of the control platform, the wind and rain threatening to pitch him into the ocean of mutated blasphemy raging far below. He heard the unmistakable high-pitched whine of the plasma pistol reaching full power. A shadow emerged from behind the mass of machinery at the very end of the arm, and Flint ducked.

At that moment, the driving rain redoubled in force and Flint lost his footing, slamming to the surface of the platform, which by now was little more than a narrow gantry. He hit the metal so hard the air was driven from his lungs. Grasping desperately for purchase he almost lost his grip on his power sword, catching it an instant before it could drop into the chaos of the battle far below.

Vahn pressed after the commissar, edging out onto the narrow arm at the exact moment the commissar fell hard to the surface. In that instant Vahn was sure Flint was dead, but somehow the commissar kept hold. Gruss had fled towards the end of the arm but as the penal trooper dashed forwards with his carbine raised and ready he saw the Claviger-Primaris appear from behind the machinery at the very end of the arm.

His plasma pistol screeching, Gruss sighted on the prone form of the commissar. Vahn snarled with savage battle lust – Gruss hadn’t seen him. Snapping his aim to track the Claviger-Primaris even as his finger closed on the plasma pistol’s trigger, Vahn opened fire.

The las-bolt caught Gruss in the right shoulder and spun him around. The incandescent burst of raw plasma lanced through the rain into the darkness overhead. Gruss staggered backwards, fighting to keep his footing on the narrow arm.

Vahn lined up a second shot, determined to finish this hated enemy who was to him and his fellow penal troopers the symbol of all he had suffered throughout his incarceration in Alpha Penitentia. But his aim was spoiled as Commissar Flint surged to his feet in a blur of trailing leather storm coat.

Vahn cursed as he sidestepped. He hoped to get a better angle but Flint and Gruss were already engaged in deadly combat. Flint’s blade swept in hard but Gruss stepped back deftly despite his wound, kicking out as he did so and almost catching Flint’s knee. Had the attack struck home, Flint would have been forced to the deck but it was a feint. The Claviger-Primaris was attempting to keep Flint at a distance.

‘By the authority vested in me by–’ Flint’s voice boomed, before he was interrupted.

‘You have no authority here!’ Gruss cursed, the pain of his wound evident in his voice. ‘Only Strannik!’

‘Then you add the sin of idolatry to that of treachery,’ Flint cursed, advancing as Gruss staggered backwards with one hand over his wound. ‘The Emperor is our creator, our lord, our father and our judge. I am the instrument of his judgement!’

Flint drew back his power sword, its edge white hot and hissing in the driving rain and swept it around and down in a blinding arc. The Claviger-Primaris appeared to stand transfixed for one frozen moment. Then his body came apart in an explosive welter of blood and gore tumbling the way Flint’s power sword had almost fallen but an instant earlier.

But Flint didn’t pause to savour his victory. Before Gruss’s remains had even struck the ground far below he was advancing once more. Soon, he was closing on the very end of the arm protruding out over the battle.

At the end was a nest of tangled, pulsating conduits and rust-streaked machinery that must once have been the command pulpit for the surface-to-orbit defence battery that had so nearly downed Flint’s drop-ship. It was adorned with the remains of its previous operators and custodians, and in amongst the gristly flesh-and-bone throne was Colonel Strannik.

Flint had known his enemy would exhibit some form of mutation but he could never have anticipated the utter physical blasphemy that confronted him in the pulpit at the end of the platform’s arm. The colonel was a mass of pulsating flesh and distended limbs, his sagging body supported by a mechanical contraption of metal legs and callipers. Folds of stretched flesh were partially clad in the filth-encrusted remnants of a uniform, which Flint recognised as the remains of that of a regimental commander of the Vostroyan Firstborn. It was the same as the uniform worn by Graf Aleksis.

The colonel’s face was a sack of writhing, purple flesh and his cranium was hideously distended as if his skull were struggling to contain the grey matter squirming within. The hideous familial resemblance to the mutants below was horribly plain to see. Flint was assailed by a wave of hate and nausea as he came to a halt, the colonel fixing him with eyes plainly touched by the soul-searing madness of the warp. Flint knew in that instant that the creature before him was some form of terrible patriarch, the sire and the master of the thousands of mutants below. Worse, he was exerting some form of control over them, their screams of anger and bloodlust hideously synchronised with the sickening pulse of his swollen cranium.

One of the colonel’s distended, claw-like hands was hovering over a control rune set into an arm of his blasphemous throne. Fighting waves of madness, Flint focused on the rune and a nearby pict-slate, his mind struggling to interpret its significance through the palpable aura of warp-witchery.

‘Emperor’s man…’ the colonel sneered through horribly swollen lips, his eyes bulging as if inflated by corpse gas. ‘You’re too late…’

Flint’s vision swam as darting, half-seen forms from stygian depths of the Sea of Souls threatened to break through the weakened skin between reality and the warp. Ghostly figures with slavering maws and grasping talons swooped down from above, serpentine bodies wrapping themselves suggestively about the supine body of the colonel. Flint was unsure whether or not the traitor noble could perceive the forms and the damnation they represented. Then, his tortured gaze settled on the shape revolving in the centre of the pict-slate and his blood turned to ice in his veins as he realised what it represented.

‘Yes, Emperor’s man…’ Colonel Strannik drawled, his Vostroyan accent audible even through the bubbling corruption that laced his voice. Projected on the screen was a targeting reticule, and it was centred on the drive section of the Toil of Kossia. ‘Soon, you and your lackeys will be trapped here, with us…’

Flint’s ears filled with the howling of the damned as more ghostly figures rose up from the beyond to dash and dart about the end of the platform. Summoning the last reserves of his faith and his sanity, he saw that Colonel Strannik was entirely unaware of the leering, drooling gargoyles, and that one fact granted him the strength he needed to overcome the otherwise paralysing waves of utter, unfettered insanity and corruption radiating outwards from the mutant patriarch.

The howling of the damned reached a deafening crescendo as the colonel’s finger stabbed downwards towards the rune that would launch the surface-to-orbit missile and destroy the Toil of Kossia, stranding the 77th Vostroyan Firstborn on a world seething with obscenity and damning them all to an ignominious slaughter.

Flint vowed that would not come to pass.

Bracing himself against a psychic wavefront so fierce the ragged tails of his leather storm coat billowed at his back, Flint drew his bolt pistol and with an unprecedented effort of will racked the slide.

Levelling the pistol towards the colonel’s grossly pulsating head, Flint delivered his judgement.

‘Graf Strannik,’ he snarled. ‘By the authority vested in me by the High Lords of the Adeptus Terra, I hereby call you to account for the sins of mutation and warp-craft.’

Flint’s bolt pistol barked once and the colonel’s head exploded in a fountain of sickly gore. Far below, the mouth of every single mutant abomination and every single enslaved rebel convict opened wide and emitted a piercing scream of grief and pain. The horde faltered and the Firstborn redoubled their fire. Then, the real killing started, and the sluice channels far below the complex were turned red with the spilled blood of countless thousands of traitors to the God-Emperor of Mankind.

‘Let Him on Terra be your judge,’ Flint concluded.

Unseen by Commissar Flint or anyone else, a lone figure dressed in the crimson of the Vostroyan Firstborn had taken position just below the control platform, nestling herself in amongst the girders of the tower. With deadly grace and an economy of effort bordering on the preternatural, she levelled her ornate, hand-wrought lasgun and squinted down its master-crafted scope. The targeting reticle settled over the stooped and wizened form of Governor Kherhart as he scuttled for the imagined haven of one of the claviger-wardens’ secret access tunnels. For Kherhart however, just like Strannik and his vile progeny, there would be no escape. He had been entrusted with the rank of Imperial Commander, given power over an entire world, and he had betrayed those who had granted him that station.

Unlike his kinsman Strannik, Kherhart never saw his fate. He believed he could escape right up until the moment his head vanished in a pall of red mist as Karasinda, or rather the agent of the Emperor’s justice who had taken on that name, pulled her trigger and ended his treachery for all time. When the regimental rolls of honour were later compiled, the very existence of a combat medic by that or any other name was strangely absent, those few who had known her assuming she had fallen in that final, glorious battle against the mutant horde of Colonel Strannik.

Epilogue

Last Words

Commissar Flint deactivated the data-slate and turned from the huge, multi-paned viewport of the Toil of Kossia, the world of Furia Penitens hanging in the black void beyond. The commissar having executed the renegade Firstborn Colonel Strannik, Aleksis had finally acquiesced to granting Flint access to his regiment’s archives. Aleksis hadn’t been offered much choice.

The files secreted away in the deepest levels of the archives filled Flint with disgust and made him realise something of the true nature of the Firstborn regiment in which he had been called to serve. Colonel Strannik, he learned, had been hiding the fact that he was a mutant for many years. His attempts to conceal it had led to the disaster of the Battle of Golan Hole, and after that, his mutations could be hidden no longer. When they became fully manifest and his corruption had got out of control his kinsmen had been forced to embark upon a course of action they hoped would hide their clan’s shame. Instead of being handed over to the League of Black Ships along with the psyker cull all worlds were required to gather, Strannik had been granted sanctuary with another of his line, Governor Kherhart, far, he hoped, from prying eyes. He’d established his own private domain of brutality and filth in the lowest reaches of Alpha Penitentia, his rule warranted and guaranteed by his familial link to the installation’s governor.

What happened next would likely remain the subject of conjecture for years to come, or else be sealed away by bodies keen to avoid the unwelcome and unfamiliar glare of scrutiny. The mutant colonel’s sin had spread and over several decades a population of abominations had gestated in the penal generatorium’s lowest levels. Perhaps because the geotherm processes utilised the heat emitted by irradiated minerals far below the surface, the taint of the warp had mingled with that of genetic corruption and birthed the mutant army the 77th had confronted. Flint had no doubt that the agents of the Holy Ordos of the Emperor’s Inquisition, especially those of the warp-hunting Ordo Malleus, would be investigating the matter.

Another question that nagged at Flint, despite the fact that he had more pressing concerns, was the use to which Strannik had intended to put his army, if he had any intention at all. Had the mutant colonel intended to declare the entire world of Furia Penitens his own personal domain? Had he harboured some dark, treacherous desire to take his army off-world? The matter might never be fully uncovered, Flint knew, but he had no doubt that the Inquisition would be seeking the truth as a matter of urgency. He almost pitied any rebels subjected to the Inquisitions’ investigative methods. Almost.

The situation was only uncovered when the Munitorum demanded a Penal Legion be raised from the population of Alpha Penitentia, to be shipped out to the Finial Sector to combat the uprisings afflicting that region of late. Colonel Strannik, it seemed, had been unwilling to surrender his subjects and must have known that the mutation afflicting so many would have been discovered had he done so.

How many rebel convict-workers would be left for the formation of a new Penal Legion was another question, but one Flint cared very little for. He’d be quite happy if every rebel in Alpha Penitentia was purged as a precaution against the spread of genetic deviancy, regardless of the need to reinforce the Finial Sector.

As Flint handed the slate back to Kohlz the hatch to the observation chamber opened inwards and Graf Aleksis stepped through. ‘That’ll be all, dragoon,’ Flint dismissed his aide.

‘Graf Aleksis,’ Flint nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and turning to look out of the lancet-arched viewport towards the planet below. Another stray thought flashed across his consciousness – just how far removed was Graf Aleksis from the abominable Strannik, genetically speaking? Did the graf harbour any latent mutation or psychic potential?

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Flint, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

‘You have read the archives, I take it?’ Aleksis said, taking his place at Flint’s side as he too looked out into the glittering void and the world below. His aristocratic bearing gave him the appearance of power, yet Flint saw the line creasing his brow.

‘I have,’ said Flint. ‘Is there anything you would like to add?’

‘Yes, Commissar Flint. I wish to make something perfectly clear to you in case you are in any doubt. I have made my choice. I have chosen my duty to the Emperor over my duty to my clan.’

‘But?’ Flint pressed, seeing that Aleksis was troubled.

‘But,’ Aleksis continued, ‘there will be a price to pay. For us both.’

‘Then we’re in this together, graf,’ said Commissar Flint as he turned back to the viewport. ‘Whatever price there is to pay, whatever is coming, the 77th Firstborn meets it as one. This regiment is far, far from full combat effectiveness, despite its first victory. Chain of command, morale, discipline – all are in dire need of my attentions. ’

‘Aye, commissar,’ Aleksis answered. ‘The 77th owes you much. It is renewed, redeemed. We stand ready to emulate and to exceed the deeds of our forebears, now the shame of Golan Hole is redressed.’

Let’s hope it is, thought Flint, holding the graf’s gaze for a moment as he considered, then just as quickly rejected, his previous thought regarding the man’s lineage and whether or not he might harbour some hidden genetic corruption.

‘The regiment is as much yours as it is mine.’ Aleksis smiled, adding, ‘Even those ragamuffin penal troopers you insisted on drafting in. I pray we shall all serve together for the glory of Vostroya, and of the Imperium.’

The deck beneath the two men’s feet began to tremble as the Toil of Kossia’s massive plasma generators were stoked steadily up toward full power, unimaginable reserves of energy shunted towards the drives as the vessel prepared for its journey back to the system’s outer jump point. Already, the regiment had received an astropathic communiqué detailing its next deployment. Flint was relieved to note the orders had been delivered via the Departmento Munitorum chain of command, and not the damnable web of intrigue that had resulted in the mess the 77th had just won through.

‘Indeed,’ Flint replied. As the distant roar of the plasma drives steadily grew the final line of one of the Imperium’s most dearly cherished litanies – the Warrior’s Catechism of Worship – came to mind.

‘We ask only to serve…’

Iron Guard

Mark Clapham

I, General Wharris, commend the 114th Mordian Iron Guard for their supreme valour in holding the line at the Siege of Defure. In acknowledgement of the 114th’s unique achievement on this day I make the following commitment, and request that any successor to my command position honour it as I have:

That, should the 114th be anything less than totally annihilated in battle, if even a single Guardsman of the 114th still lives, then the regiment will be permitted to rebuild and recruit, and its surviving men and resources will not be merged with or seconded to any other regiment.

While soldiers of that regiment still stand, the 114th Mordian Iron Guard will also stand, in honour of how they stood today: fearless, unbreakable.

Prologue

Only yesterday, Hool had been told that in a hostile universe, for a boy to reach manhood was a victory in itself. The day you turned eighteen, you could count yourself lucky to have got that far, knowing that so many children of the Imperium would never make it to such an age, having fallen to disease or accident or act of violence.

Eighteen years, they said. He should feel proud. It was an achievement.

Happy birthday, welcome to the world of men.

A day later, and those first eighteen years seemed relatively easy. Reaching eighteen years and one day old – at this point that seemed like it was going to be the real achievement.

Hool ran down a corridor, much like the corridors Hool had crawled, walked and run around his entire life. It echoed with the sound of shouts and swearing from behind him, his pursuers’ voices reaching him when their physical grasp couldn’t.

Hool ran harder, faster. It was a long corridor, and he didn’t know where he was running to, other than away from his pursuers. This wasn’t his lev, the horizontal where he’d been born and raised, the old 199.

That he had strayed from his own lev was the cause of all his current problems, the first mistake that had led him into danger. Celebrating that brief couple of weeks between the rigorous education all Mordian citizens lived through, and the beginning of an adult life of toil, he’d allowed himself to be led astray, ending up on a different lev, 226.

226 and 199. The tensions between these two levels ran deep and old, so deep no one quite knew where they had started. None of the many floors of the hab-pyramid in between those two levs had anything like the same rivalry.

199 and 226. Just numbers. Even by the standards of Mordian gang culture, it was arbitrary warfare. Now Hool was going to die for it, for wandering into an illegal drinking den on the wrong floor of his own damn hab.

Trust his luck to get recognised by two of the handful of 226ers he’d ever met in his entire schooling: Hervl and Rebek, who had been in the same compulsory weapons test as him a month before, down on one of the hab firing ranges.

The two boys from 226 had been cocky, overconfident, determined that their gang savvy and whatever shots they’d fired before would make them masters of a standard lasrifle.

Hool had scored higher than either Hervl or Rebek, who had barely hit the outer rim of the targets. The instructor, a stocky woman in a light grey uniform, had noted Hool’s marks but not given any indication his shots were remarkable. Hool had forgotten the experience the moment he’d left the range – just another bureaucratic ritual you had to go through as a Mordian youth coming of age.

It seemed that Hervl and Rebek remembered what had happened, and were determined to get payback for their humiliation.

The corridor was drab and grey, with only one in three of the lumens working. To Hool it was a dingy blur as he ran, motes of grit coughed out by ancient air processors causing his eyes to tear up. The main guidelines he had to follow as he ran were the markings on either side of him, thick stripes of rich blue paint, edged with thinner lines of red, that ran across every level in the hab.

Where everything else was poorly maintained, these lines of blue paint were fresh and unchipped, regularly repainted. It was a matter of respect that this blue line be marked for every citizen to see, proud and perfect.

It was Mordian blue. A deep, warm shade, an ideal of a dark, open sky that the Mordians themselves could only imagine, growing up within the lightless habs. Mordians prized colour and flair like no other society in the Imperium, a reaction to the dark, enclosed lives they led, and that blue was the most prestigious colour of all.

Hool had never seen outside the hab-pyramid. He’d lived his whole life deep within, his family never rich enough to even visit the edge, where shielded windows ran around the exterior of the hab, and look out into the dark of Mordian’s endless night. Hool had seen picts, but he knew it wasn’t the same.

He had held some hope of getting a transfer out of the hab, of being work-assigned to the Administratum, or even being sent off-world. Great Emperor, even one of the outer manufactorums would have been preferable to slaving away in the depths of the hab. His results from his last tests were good, and were currently chewing their way through a series of cogitators. Within the week his role would be assigned, and he would know how the rest of his adult life would be spent.

Of course, for that to happen he had to survive the day. Reaching the end of the corridor, Hool dropped to his knees, almost tumbling headfirst with his own forward momentum. He was relying on the layout of each lev being the same, and that knowledge didn’t let him down – to his right was a busted-up maintenance hatch, and as on every floor of the hab it wasn’t just unlocked, it was barely fastened.

There were few kids in the hab so timid that they hadn’t crawled through one of these hatches a hundred times before, to climb the pipes in an atrium.

Ignoring the screams of abuse from the juves on his heels, not even daring to look back, Hool lifted the hatch and slithered through the hole beneath.

The bright yellow shirt Hool was wearing, an expensive silken garment that he saved for special occasions and lovingly hand-cleaned with a Mordian’s pride in appearance, snagged on the rim of the hatch, briefly pulling him backwards.

Hool didn’t stop to unhook it, instead forcing himself onwards, letting the fabric tear, pulling himself free and out through the hatch.

On the other side of the wall, Hool dropped a short distance onto a pipe that crossed the great atrium, grabbing one of the thick braces that held the sections of the pipe together. It was easy enough to stabilise himself – the pipe was far wider than he was, the curve so gentle as to be almost flat. He began to scurry on all fours, trying not to look down.

The atria were supposed to be inaccessible to residents of the habs, airwells sunk through the middle of the hab, crisscrossed with pipes, girders and splinted power cables. However, as some of the few open spaces in the habs, their lure had proven irresistible, access hatches constantly being broken open so that Mordians could crawl along the pipes and cables, enjoying the relative space and the free flow of air.

In the early days people had fallen, their screams echoing through every airwell in the hab as they plummeted to their demise, occasionally punctuated by a metallic clang as they bounced off an obstruction in mid-descent.

At some point the Tetrarchy, a government not known for yielding to the public will, had consented to the placement of atrium-wide grilles every ten floors, which had become unofficial, but sanctioned, meeting places. People still climbed the pipes, still fell, still died – but at least now they wouldn’t fall as far, and the screams were relatively brief.

All this was hab history, as well drilled into Hool as any formal lesson.

Halfway across the pipe, he leaned over. One floor down, another pipe crossed the atrium at ninety degrees to the one he was crossing. It was a long drop, but not impossible. If he landed properly, he should be able to avoid falling off, while preventing himself from dropping all the way to the grille at 220.

Six floors to the grille, then out through the big hatch on the other side. Hool would then be enough turns and distance ahead of Hervl and Rebek to get himself lost in the intersection, then find his way back down to his own lev.

All he had to do was find a safe, quick way down through six floors’ worth of criss-crossing pipes, cables and gantries without falling to his death.

A metallic tap rang out behind Hool. He turned around to see Hervl squatting on the same pipe as him, knocking his knuckles against the metal. Having got Hool’s attention, Hervl stood up straight and began to walk across the pipe, slowly but with perfect balance. He was showing off, a smug grimace across his wide, pink face.

Hervl held his arms level at his sides, hands slightly spread. Hool could see the dark weight of a folded knife in Hervl’s right hand, sharply contrasting with his light green jacket, his 226 colours.

No way back. Hool rolled off one pipe, falling towards the one below.

Hool fell straight down, hitting the pipe below shoulder first, rolling with his momentum as he made contact with the hard surface. The shock jolted through his upper body, but he managed to roll over onto his front and get a handhold before he slid off the pipe.

Ignoring the ache from his arm, Hool pulled himself to his feet and ran across the second pipe, hands dangling forwards just in case he slipped and needed to grab anything. It was only a dozen paces before he was level with a thick cable rig, only a slightly bigger drop away than Hool’s own height, relatively level with his position on the pipe. Hundreds of cables were bundled together in the rig, braced with plasteel splints that kept them rigid.

Hool shimmied sideways off the edge of the pipe, until he was hanging by his fingertips, then dropped the rest of the way. He landed well, quickly balancing himself as he found his footing on the rig.

There was a heavy smack above as Hervl dropped onto the second pipe, following Hool’s example. Hool heard a laugh from across the atrium, and saw Rebek shimmying down a series of vertical pipes on the atrium wall, moving down faster than Hool could.

He needed to move quick, or be trapped by their pincer movement. The next few steps down were easy enough: a series of relatively short drops from rig to pipe to rig, with small shuffles back and forth to line up with the next level. Landing on the top of a creaking, thin waste pipe, Hool was halfway there – only three levels to go and he would be at the grille.

His next jump was a difficult one, an awkward leap across a wide gap to a narrow maintenance gantry a level below. With a run-up, it would have been easy, but the narrowness of the pipe, and its angle compared to the gantry, made it more difficult.

Hool froze, intimidated by the jump he had to make, his eyes fixed between where he was and the gantry he needed to reach. Halfway there, but it was still a long way down.

Something very small and very fast hit Hool in the forehead, snapping him out of his haze of indecision and nearly causing him to lose his balance. It was a missile from Rebek. He looked across to see Rebek, hanging from a pipe on the wall, laughing at him. The laughter was echoed from above by Hervl.

Retreat wasn’t an option. Hool steadied himself, ran a few paces along the pipe, then with all his strength jumped forwards and to the right, pushing himself away with his heel. He twisted through the air in an ungainly fashion, falling towards the gantry.

For a second, it seemed like he wouldn’t make it, that he would fall short, and far. He stretched out his fingers, as if that would make any difference.

Hool hit the railing of the gantry with another bruising thump, the lateral bar catching under his armpits, his legs kicking thin air. He felt something give in his ribcage, but scrabbled to grip the railing tightly between his arms and body, rather than slip straight off.

Hool took a second to manage the pain, to take a deep breath, then attempted to swing himself up onto the gantry. His first attempt failed, his foot failing to gain purchase on the base of the gantry, but second time around he managed it. Hool pulled himself upright, rolled over the railing and onto the gantry proper.

Another missile hit him, bouncing off his chest and landing on the gantry. It was a small coin, virtually valueless. Hool felt a brief surge of rage. It was bad enough having coins thrown at him by rich edger bastards when he was a little kid – he wasn’t taking it from 226ers. He was going to shake them off, come back with a gang from his own level, and show them.

With a brief glance over the edge, and ignoring the growing number of bruises that smarted all over his body, Hool leapt off the gantry, dropping to another immediately below. He landed on his feet, dropping to one knee to cushion the impact. He ran across the gantry to where it met the wall, climbed on the left railing, and leapt across to grab a vertical pipe that ran nearly all the way down to the grille.

His grip failed him. Hands slipping off the well-oiled pipe, he fell straight down, landing on the grille with an agonising crunch. Pain seared up his right leg as it crumpled under him, and his right arm twisted out of his shoulder socket. He rolled over onto his front, his face pressing against the cold metal mesh of the grille.

Hool must have passed out, because the next thing he was aware of was being struck across the back of the head, hard. He tried to push himself up with his bad arm, and cried out in agony. Pain caused him to instinctively let himself go, dropping back to the floor, but a kick to the ribs brought him back up again.

As another blow struck him on the back, Hool forced himself up with his good left arm, trying to push himself away from the source of the blows. Through watering eyes, he could see that Hervl was raising a length of thin metal, presumably pulled from the wall of the atrium or torn from one of the gantries, ready to bring it crashing down on Hool. Rebek was standing back, maybe preparing for another kick.

Hool weakly shuffled backwards across the grille, feebly raising his broken arm in his own defence. There was little else he could do.

Happy birthday, welcome to the world of men.

‘Mordians, present!’

The voice was deep and loud, the order bouncing back off the walls of the atrium, like the screams of falling Mordians all those centuries ago.

Those two words hit both Hool and his assailants and triggered an instant reaction, one so deeply instilled through their short lives that it was barely conscious.

Hervl dropped his weapon and spun on his heels, Rebek also turning and stepping next to his friend, so that the 226ers were in perfect line. Hool used his unbroken arm to pull himself onto the knee of his unbroken leg then, gripping the grille with that good hand, managed to pull himself onto one foot.

While his assailants stood stiffly next to him Hool unfolded himself, centimetre by agonising centimetre, until he was standing next to them. He was shaky on one leg, but he stood to attention nonetheless, tear-stung eyes staring forwards.

The man who had given the order walked briskly across the grille to inspect them. He wore a sergeant’s uniform, as well-pressed and cleaned as would be expected, but a little worn around the edges. The blue of his coat was slightly faded, the brass of his epaulettes dented from combat. The front of his coat had the rigidity that indicated he was wearing battle armour underneath, and displayed a proud iron aquila.

The sergeant took off his peaked hat, better to inspect the three young men before him. He was, to Hool’s eyes, middle-aged, with weathered skin and close-cropped hair. A thin scar ran across the top of his head, a white-pink line through the stubble.

His face had a colour that Hool had only seen in picts, the reddish tinge that only those who had travelled off-world possessed. In the habs even Mordians who, like Hool, were born with naturally dark skin had a pallid sheen to them, a side effect of lives spent without natural light.

The sergeant looked each of them up and down, his brown eyes passive and expressionless. When he came to Hool his glance flicked downwards briefly, to the crippled leg Hool was keeping off the ground. When his glance met Hool’s, there was an odd expression, something Hool couldn’t quite read.

‘I am Sergeant Polk of the 114th Iron Guard,’ the sergeant said, producing a small, aged device and raising it to Hervl’s right eye. The device flashed, causing Hervl to flinch. ‘You may have heard of us. The Unbreakables.’

Polk looked at Hervl witheringly, then repeated the process with Rebek and Hool. Hool tried not to react, but found the light left his vision even more blurred than before, coloured spots swimming before him.

‘You boys clearly have some youthful energy to work off,’ said Polk. ‘And this is your lucky day, citizens…’ Polk examined his device, reading off a small pict-screen. ‘…citizens Raif Hervl, Thurt Rebek and Fernand Hool. None of you are assigned reserved occupations, all of you are of fighting age and today the glorious 114th has new orders, and requires a spontaneous raising to fill its ranks.’

Polk looked all three of them straight in the eye, one after another.

‘Congratulations, you’ve just been recruited. I had some doors to knock on, but you’ve saved me three of those.’

‘Report to station six in two cycles’ time,’ Polk shouted back to them as he marched away. Halfway across the atrium, he turned around.

‘Oh, and Hervl, Rebek – get Hool to the nearest infirmary and make sure he’s fixed up. Any of you three turn up dead or go missing before you report for duty, the ones who survive will be fighting in a penal platoon. Front line, no guns.’

Polk’s parting words barely registered with Hool. Cramp had crawled up his good leg, and he was beginning to shake. His broken limbs were numb. As Hervl and Rebek, muttering and swearing to each other, moved to grab him by the shoulders and carry him away, darkness crept into Hool’s peripheral vision, and his leg finally gave way beneath him.

Fernand Hool, newest recruit to the Imperial Guard, fell.

One

Hool fell.

He tumbled through the air in a cloud of splintered wood and plaster dust, landing awkwardly on a hard floor covered with broken junk and trash. He rolled on impact, the knee pads of his uniform absorbing most of the initial impact, allowing his body to roll out the momentum rather than jerk to a halt.

Broken roof tiles and chunks of plaster clattered around Hool, debris from the ceiling that had collapsed beneath him. He lay on his back, letting his vision settle. If he had broken anything, the worst thing to do would be to try and stand without checking.

He tried to blink dust out of his eyes, but it kept falling, so he closed them. Hool very gently stretched the muscles in his arms and legs, and felt no resistance except for a slight ache. Good – nothing broken. He rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his right hand, then held the palm over them at an angle, keeping the rain of dust away.

Hool blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the light within the room he had fallen into. It wasn’t much to take in: a standard workspace, narrow and dimly lit with rows of cogitators on plain desks. Small, high-set windows allowed shafts of orange dusk-light to fall into the centre of the room, providing some faint illumination.

That light was cut off by a shadow falling over Hool. He instinctively reached down for the lasrifle he could feel resting on his chest, its shoulder strap half-stuck under his left elbow. His hand was kicked away and an instruction barked into his face.

‘Hands up!’

Hool felt something cold under his chin, not sharp enough to cut on contact but probably jagged enough to gouge his windpipe open if enough pressure were applied. Whatever it was jabbing into his flesh, it was being held unsteadily, the cold edge shifting against his skin.

He gently lifted his hands level with his head, wishing that he had at least had the chance to push himself up onto his elbows before getting caught.

The dust seemed to have settled, and Hool’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dark. He looked at the man standing over him: stripped to the waste, head shaved, face and upper body covered with a crude tattoo of an inverted aquila, the eagle’s twin heads curving down beneath his ribcage.

A rebel, a usurperist to be precise. Exactly who Hool was expecting, but that was hardly a comfort, especially when this one seemed to be in the grip of some kind of mania: eyes wild, teeth clenched, shaking with some internal tension.

From the angle Hool was looking up from, he couldn’t quite make out the weapon being held under his chin, but previous experience, and the angle of his captor’s arms, suggested a looted lasrifle with a makeshift bayonet welded to the barrel.

Hool gulped involuntarily – a side-effect of breathing in so much dust – and the bayonet gouged into his chin. He tried not to flinch further, and stayed still and calm. For some reason, the rebel hadn’t fired yet, which meant that there was a slim hope of Hool getting out of this alive, provided he didn’t startle his captor. Judging by the man’s slim build, he had probably been some form of administratum drone before falling in with the heretical followers of one of the usurpers, the false Emperors. The usurpers had that effect, their presence turning nobodies into fanatics through the mania of the crowd.

The rebel licked his lips, then spoke.

‘Kell, get in here!’ he shouted, not taking his eyes off Hool. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

Hool was gripped by a chill, not just by the confident tone of voice, but by the presence of another rebel so close. One might not have the nerve to shoot an incumbent man through the head, or jab a twisted piece of metal through his skull – but two would encourage each other. The same group hysteria that had drawn these people into worshipping a false god would have them happily decorating themselves with Hool’s guts in a couple of minutes.

He had to act now, grab the barrel of the lasrifle and thrust it back as hard as he could into the rebel’s face, then hope that the rebel didn’t squeeze the trigger, or at least that he paused long enough to give Hool time to force it to one side.

It wasn’t the best plan, but it was all Hool had. He stretched his fingers gently within his glove, hopefully not enough to be noticeable.

A door somewhere to Hool’s right creaked open, beyond his field of vision, and the rebel glanced in that direction.

Hool took his chance, and made a grab for the gun barrel he couldn’t even see, his arm seeming to move painfully slowly.

As Hool made his move, the rebel looked back at him, a murderous intensity in his eyes.

Hool had the vertiginous feeling of not being quick enough, of a trigger finger faster than his own, of everything coming to an end–

The rebel jerked back as an explosion echoed around the room, his head reduced to a red mist.

Hool didn’t question the source of this miracle, but followed through on his grab, seizing the barrel of the rebel’s gun and forcing it back and upwards, a ragged scrap of metal sweeping perilously close to the tip of Hool’s nose. His other hand reached instinctively for where he knew the butt of the gun must be and clasped it. Before the rebel could even drop to the floor Hool was kicking his knee, pushing him away.

It was a standard lasrifle, and Hool swivelled it around in his grasp, finding the trigger and raising the barrel as he rolled towards the sound of the opening door. His thumb swept the area above the trigger where the safety catch lay, and found it was already off.

The words near miss flashed through Hool’s mind, but he ignored them, raising and aiming the weapon before he even had a clear look at the target. Hool landed on his side, lasrifle aimed.

Another rebel stood in the open doorway, his own gun rising, the beginnings of a shout on his open mouth.

Hool squeezed the trigger on his stolen lasrifle three times in quick succession, three rapid shots hitting his target in the torso. Hool watched the body drop to the floor, and held his lasrifle steady in case of further movement.

The door flapped shut with another creak. Hool paused, taking a deep breath. There was no sign of any further usurperists arriving to avenge their fallen brothers.

Only then did Hool allow himself to look up, towards the hole in the roof he had fallen through, and the only place that the shot that killed the first rebel could have come from.

Sergeant Polk, Hool’s immediate superior, grinned down through the hole. His combat shotgun was poking downwards, the fat barrel still smoking from the short-range shot that had taken the first rebel’s head clean off.

Polk coughed and touched the side of his neck, activating the vox-bead in his collar.

‘Sergeant Essler? Guardsman Hool has found a way into the compound. North-west corner of the roof.’ There was a pause as Polk received a brief reply. ‘Yes, a couple of rebels but they’re dealt with, no problems. We’ll secure and hold.’

Polk gave Hool a look that said and that’s all he needs to know.

Hool nodded gratefully, and hurriedly pulled himself to his feet, dusting himself down. Polk was doing Hool a favour by not reporting Hool’s fall through the roof, and Hool wouldn’t forget that. Hool also suspected that this wasn’t just leniency, but an acknowledgement that mistakes would be made in the heat of the moment, especially by Guardsmen going into a combat situation totally unprepared.

It was no one’s fault. Time was against them, and there was no opportunity to plan or prepare or obtain proper resource. Either they succeeded by nightfall, or… The alternative wasn’t worth even considering.

It had been nearly a year since Hool’s conscription, a year that had taken him from the habs of Mordian to a different hive world: Elisenda.

Elisenda was a beautiful name for an ugly world, an industrial planet of strategic importance, manufacturing supplies that shipped across the Imperium.

Once, it may have lived up to the delicacy of its name, but millennia of heavy industry and over-habitation had wrecked Elisenda’s environment.

Manufactorum complexes had sprawled across the landscape, and as the hab-blocks couldn’t be built fast enough to house the working population, makeshift slum habs grew in the spaces between the industrial sites.

Elisenda had no shortage of habitable land, and so when one factory or foundry became obsolete, the entire site was abandoned and a new factory sprung up on virgin territory, the population shifting to the new centre of activity.

While ever greater manufactories expelled poison into the skies and rivers, the deserted sites were partially claimed by lifeless sands that had once been fertile ground, dunes of dust and filth consuming them until only broken smokestacks piercing the sky indicated that these deserts had ever been inhabited land.

The people of Elisenda laboured on production lines and in furnaces, crawling back to the hovels they had made themselves for a brief rest before the next day of servicing the endless demands for components and materials across the Imperium. As humanity waged war on the alien and the heretic, the demands for supplies never let up, and all other matters were secondary.

The resentments of Elisenda’s population, sweating beneath a smoke-stained sky, were an ideal breeding ground for dissent. When a heretical idea – that the God-Emperor of Mankind was dead, and would be reborn somewhere on Elisenda – began to spread throughout Elisenda’s hierarchies, official and unofficial, no one in the Administratum had sufficient oversight to understand what was happening. The highest echelons of planetary authority had fallen to this peculiar heresy first, in secret, waiting as the local magister-ium and planetary defence force came under their influence.

When various individuals emerged claiming to be the reborn Emperor, they gathered supporters and attempted to seize power from the legitimate authorities and each other, slaughtering loyalists and the followers of rival usurpers alike. While pockets of loyal resistance remained, most had already been corrupted or neutralised.

Only intervention from outside could drive the stain of heresy from Elisenda and restore order so that the supply ships could run once more. Not only was the loss of Elisenda a logistical one, but the absence of the true faith, and the worshipping of unchecked psykers claiming to be the Emperor reborn, made Elisenda a potential breeding ground for Chaos. While some of the false Emperors were mere opportunists with no psychic power, the mad psykers needed to be put down quickly before they grew so powerful that they brought daemons to Elisenda, and the whole system fell to Chaos.

Among the forces dispatched to Elisenda were the 114th Mordian Iron Guard regiment, the so-called Unbreakables, and among their number the newly recruited Guardsman Hool.

Hool, along with the rest of the regiment, had been on Elisenda for the best part of a year.

Less than an hour before he had fallen through the roof into a near-death encounter with two rebels, Polk’s squad had been receiving what passed for a briefing. The slim information provided was rendered even less helpful by the location of the briefing – a moving Chimera, heading towards the target at the maximum speed attainable for a troop carrier.

It was a very bumpy ride as the Chimera negotiated the junk-strewn streets of one of Elisenda’s largest city-slums, the sides of the vehicle throwing up sparks as it clipped the enclosing walls of the narrow alleyways.

Jostled from side to side within the Chimera were a driver, and Polk’s squad. Aside from the sergeant and Hool there were eight other men. Corporal Midj was Polk’s right-hand man, a few years older but lower in rank. Midj wasn’t much of a shot, but he had a reputation for being able to set exactly the right quantity of explosive and the perfect charge for any job.

Hool had heard a rumour that Midj had once, long before joining Polk’s squad, won a bet by blasting the badge from the front of his cap with a spot of high explosive, while wearing the cap, without scorching a hair on his own head. The money Midj won had been enough to make the month of night duties imposed by his sergeant for vandalising his uniform worthwhile.

The rest of the rank were common Guardsmen, like Hool: Dall, a heavy-set man with a carefully waxed moustache who, in spite of his bulk, could run without making a sound; Nauk and Keller, veterans of a number of previous campaigns, who spoke in unintelligible gang-slang learned growing up in a different hive to Hool; Okre, a softly spoken Guardsman recruited from a ravaged agri-world, who maintained his equipment carefully and frequently compared them to the tools he used to till the harsh ground of his lost home world; the hulking Blant, tall and gruff, half his face covered with red burns from an explosion that had destroyed the regiment’s Chimera depot, taking most of the vehicles with it; and finally Treston and Gobu, recruits from the same press-gang as Hool.

The voice of Lieutenant Munez squawked out of the Chimera’s internal vox from every corner of the vehicle but was still intermittently inaudible, drowned out by the grinding of gears and brakes as they took a corner, or some chunk of debris clattered or crunched beneath the hefty treads.

The basics had been explained to them before the Chimera had arrived to take them away from their previous assignment, a raid on one of the makeshift hab-slums that had grown up between the working factories and facilities of Elisenda. It was supposed to be a standard raid, undertaken either just before dawn or after dark. This one was due to take place in a couple of hours, at nightfall.

As their vox-operator had been hastily told, something more important had come up: intelligence suggested that the power complex at city sector Z-20-Q had fallen into rebel hands and that they intended to overload the main generator stacks. If overload occurred, not only would manufactories vital to the Imperium be deprived of power for months, cutting off the production of supplies, but half the continent would be left polluted, possibly uninhabitable for unaugmented humans, for years to come.

Without really wanting to, Hool had picked up a working knowledge of Elisendan beliefs during the campaign, many of which were shared by both usurperists and those still loyal to the Emperor. Due to Elisenda’s ancient history as an agricultural colony, the dusk signified a propitious time for any ritual seeking the favour of the Emperor, as a successful rite during that period would bring a great harvest at the next dawn – even if that harvest were one of bodies and blight, a scourge that poisoned the land.

In line with these beliefs, Munez’s intelligence stated that the rebels intended to detonate the main reactor at nightfall. This left precious few hours to avert a disaster.

Those were the basics; that, and the fact that only two squads, Polk’s and Sergeant Essler’s squad of veterans, a mere twenty men in all, were the nearest to the sector, and should proceed there as soon as possible. How they were supposed to deal with the situation, only Munez could say.

‘Reinforcements are being gathered, and will be on location within the hour,’ squeaked Munez’s voice through the vox.

Hool could feel a major caveat to this supportive statement coming.

‘However, we do not have time to wait for the full force to arrive before taking action,’ Munez continued, leaving another pause for the inevitable grunts of protest from around the Chimera. ‘The defences at the power complex are substantial, and any attempt to break through the main gates with explosives or lascutters could lead to the rebels deciding to detonate early.

‘We have no access to detailed plans of the facility, but there is a north-side administration block adjacent to the Colup slum-hab. Enter the admin block through the adjacent hab, then proceed through the complex to the main dome. Security control will be in a prominent position with direct views of the generatoria and the entry gates.’

‘Gain access to the security data-stacks and unlock the place. Prevent any attempt to detonate. I know this is a challenge, but you are all we have for now. Open those gates, and we will be there to provide support. Until then, I’m afraid you’re on your own. Sergeant Polk, I’m giving Sergeant Essler operational command on this one – convene with him on arrival.’

Munez cut off communications. A short while later the Chimera tore to a halt in a rancid back alley, and Hool and his fellow Guardsmen stepped out of the hot tin box of the Chimera into the even less comfortable muggy heat outside. Essler and his squad were already waiting for them.

They had proceeded on foot through the corridors and stairwells of the slums to the roof of the administration block, where a search had begun to find an access point.

Spreading out across the sweating expanse of chem-sealed recycled panelling they had lost sight of each other, disappearing behind the extractor pipes, air processors, and all the other junk that kept an administration building of this size running.

The ugly metal blocks and tubes reminded Hool of Elisenda’s buildings, the grim functionality of factories and generatoria. Looking across at his fellow Guardsmen searching the rooftop, they had looked like giants walking among hab-blocks, the heat haze lifting off the sun-curdled rooftop a miniature replica of the smog clouds that clogged the sky.

Hool had blinked sweat from his eyelids. His mind was wandering, he knew that. This realisation was too late for him to avoid clumsily stepping on a badly patched section of roof and falling right through it.

After Hool had opened up a route into the building, the rest of the men quickly convened on that position and dropped, with greater dignity and precision, into the room below. They were just twenty men, a mere two squads to deal with an indeterminate number of rebels. Polk’s men were in a secondary position to the veterans, led by Sergeant Essler, known to anyone below the rank of major as ‘Smoker’.

While Polk’s men were line infantry, wearing the traditional Mordian blue, Smoker’s men were veterans, their charcoal jackets indicating their role as raiders and marksmen. Mordians were known for their boldness: wearing bright colours into battle, standing fearless in rigid lines of attack.

But even a Mordian regiment couldn’t entirely neglect the occasional need for stealth and precision, for soldiers who could be unseen until the moment of attack, and disappear before the enemy had time to retaliate.

Smoker and his squad were those men. Until they had been brought together by Munez’s orders, Hool had never really spoken to any of the veterans, and he didn’t know their names. They were quiet men, used to long hours waiting to strike, days spent preparing in silence.

But Hool knew Smoker. Everyone in the regiment knew Smoker. In spite of having a reputation for stealth on the battlefield, in other ways he was very, very hard to miss.

Polk had told Hool the story, but had omitted the details, to avoid the memories as much as anything: of a battlefield many years before, of the medicae dragging young Corporal Essler past on a gurney, the contents of an acid shell eating through his face, of a scream that suddenly died as he lost the ability to make the noise.

Hool had watched Polk lapse into silence, chewing on a thumbnail as he recounted the incident. One of the Adeptus Mechanicus attached to the regiment, Magos Gilham, had assisted the medicaes in saving Essler’s life, using the Cult of Mars’s knowledge of bodily augmentation to replace damaged flesh and bone with mechanical equivalents.

A rebreather sat where his mouth and nose had been, with built-in filters that could screen out poisons and pollutants behind vertical slashes in a surface of polished black metal. Nozzle holes at the side of the mouth allowed Smoker to plug in his food supply, bypassing his airways to run down thin tubes straight to his stomach. His synthesised voice could channel straight into an inbuilt vox, allowing him to communicate long-distance without anyone nearby hearing, should he wish.

Then, connected to his optic nerves, complex picters ran beyond the visible spectrum, with two adjustable lenses that ran on whirring, automated motors, retracting and extending as the user looked closely, or into the distance.

All of these augmentations had, in the end, made Essler into a better soldier, able to enter dangerous environments without recourse to additional rebreathers or goggles, making him a finer marksman than any unaugmented Guardsman.

But they didn’t make him the Essler he had been before. From that day onwards he was Smoker.

Smoker led the way as they progressed through the administration block, moving from room to room, corridor to corridor, Smoker and his men in the lead, Polk’s squad taking the rear.

Smoker’s weapon of choice was the hellgun. As they made their way through the building, Smoker would occasionally raise a hand to pause the men behind him, raise his hellgun and let off a shot – sometimes at a figure down a corridor that he had spotted ahead, at other times seemingly at a blank wall.

In the case of the former, Hool would see a body as the Guard continued on their way. In the case of the mysterious shots to the wall, the high-powered las-shot would tear through the cheap interior walls and disappear, but no doubt there was a body, somewhere out of sight: a rebel unseen by Hool and the rest of the men, but a thermal target vulnerable to a predator that the heretic would never see coming.

Hool had been a Guardsman for less than a year, but he already knew his steady aim was one of his better skills – Smoker’s targeting made Hool look like a kid throwing half a brick.

Once, this must have been another drab building where Administratum bureaucrats spent long shifts working at rows of cogitators, a miserable but unthreatening place. Now it had been unutterably changed by the presence of the heretics: walls had been smashed through, seemingly without logic or practicality. Some rooms were wrecked, daubed with blood and graffiti. Others were left untouched.

They passed a pristine bathroom, and a few doors later an office that had been turned into a crude cesspit. Hool had fought these rebels for the best part of a year, and he still had little understanding of how they thought.

A winding stairwell took them down to ground level, each man covering a different potential point of entry as they descended. No attack came.

Approaching a set of double doors, Smoker stopped the squad with a raised finger, and they dropped back into a waiting position. The sergeant communicated a quick set of instructions to two of his men with a series of hand gestures.

Squads often had their own odd shorthand language, refined between fighting men down the years, but the meaning of these gestures was clear:

Two enemies ahead. Go around. Eliminate quietly.

The two Guardsmen gave their superior a curt nod, and disappeared down a side corridor. When they had gone, Smoker gave the rest of the squad a patting direction, indicating they should drop back to the previous room.

‘Two sentries ahead,’ said Smoker, after the door had closed behind them. His voice was metallic and emotionless, a slight whine of electronic feedback at the end of every sentence. It made the hairs on Hool’s forearm twitch, like a sting of static.

‘Hellick and Katz will deal,’ Smoker continued. Each phrase came out as a harshly modulated burst of words: ‘Sentries guard conduit between here and dome.’ Smoker checked his chronometer. ‘Not much time. Move quickly, find cover in dome. Stay low. I assess situation, then orders.’

He turned to Polk. ‘Sergeant Polk, once we ID security control, move to capture. Stay hidden. If you are exposed, we will provide covering fire, distraction.’

Polk began to protest: ‘But–’

Smoker silenced him with a sharp hand gesture. ‘Yes, my men are good in the shadows, stalking ahead, but we also have the longer range of fire. Better for you to run while we provide cover. Better chance of success. We are experts in stealth, but also experts in causing confusion. Get to security control, open the gates. We will draw enemy fire. Trust me, we will hold their attention.’

Polk gave a brisk, respectful nod.

Hellick entered the room. ‘Sentries down, sir. We have a clear route through to the main dome. Katz is keeping watch.’

Smoker nodded. He turned to the rest of the men. ‘You have your orders. Succeed, or don’t live long enough to know failure.’

With that odd motivational speech, he turned and led the way.

Polk passed close to Hool as they followed.

‘Cheery one, ain’t he?’ Polk whispered.

It was a short run to reach the main dome, and a series of battered equipment banks provided convenient cover once the Guard were in.

Peering around the edge of one of the blocks of equipment, Hool thought that the positioning of this cover was really the only positive aspect of the situation. Cover aside, it was all bad: Hool didn’t need to be a strategist or senior officer to work that out.

At the centre of the dome stood four great generatorium stacks, broad columns of equipment that almost reached the surface of the rockcrete dome. The stacks showed no sign of the huge amounts of energy coursing through them, with the exception of the teeth-rattling background hum that filled the entire dome. Insulated maintenance rigs allowed access to the stacks, which were placed a short distance apart.

In the centre of the dome, equidistant between the generatoria, was the main reactor, a semi-translucent sphere clasped in four great fingers of rockcrete, illuminated by the terrible energies within. Thick knots of cables ran between the reactor and the stacks. Occasionally a stream of untamed power would burst out from the globe’s surface, only to be captured by the nearest stack and disappear. These discharges lit up the entire dome, streaking the vision of anyone unfortunate enough to look straight at the blazing streams of energy.

Hool turned his attention to the maintenance platform that had been rigged between two of the stacks. It had been decorated with drapes adorning the inverted aquila to create some kind of altar piece. A bank of equipment had been installed on the platform, which trailed thin cables to a series of canisters placed around the reactor. If – and it wasn’t a great leap of logic to make – these were explosives, with a detonator at the altar, then the intelligence that had caused Munez to order them here had been right.

It wasn’t the mechanics of the scene that caused Hool’s stomach to knot so much as the players. Three rebels stood on the altar platform, two dressed in ragged white robes while a central man wore far more elaborate garb. Stripped to the waist like most of the rebels they had seen, his tattoos and scars were accompanied by an extraordinary ceremonial rigging, a structure of bone and steel that started at the base of his spine. It was attached to his torso with straps that ran around his chest, then exploded at shoulder height into an ornate head-dress that rose like a banner above him, a grotesque industrial approximation of a wheat sheaf.

One of the false emperors, a usurper who had indoctrinated his followers in a twisted version of their old beliefs in the Emperor as bringer of sun and rain, father of the harvest. Eliminate him, and a whole front in the war on Elisenda would collapse, leaderless.

This false emperor addressed a crowd of followers, over a hundred strong, gathered before the generatorium stacks. His every utterance was greeted with shouts and manic gibbering. Ritual fires were burning, the tinder at their core looking suspiciously like human bones. Were those the remains of the power complex’s non-heretical workers, Pool wondered?

Many of the rebels still wore the rough-cut trousers of workers, and had crafted weapons and ceremonial staffs from industrial tools. A few had lasguns, but not many.

Still, the numbers were the threat: in the long campaign against the Elisendan heretics, Hool had been involved in confrontations of all scales, from small hab-raids to massed battles in courtyards and squares. But on every occasion the numbers had been even or in the Guard’s favour. Untrained and undisciplined, the rebels’ only chance of gaining a strategic advantage was to vastly outnumber the Guardsmen, an advantage they were scrupulously denied.

Now, twenty Mordians faced over a hundred rebels, with little time until their leader detonated the reactor, and the risk that he could do so earlier if the Guard’s presence were detected.

The scale of the conflict ahead would have left him frozen if Polk hadn’t slapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

The squad gathered around Polk for instruction.

‘Our target is on the other side of the dome, about three storeys up, accessible by an open stairwell. The most covered route will be around the back of the stacks, but we won’t stay unseen for long, so we need to move fast. One of us needs to get to that control centre, so don’t let anything slow you down. If one of us falls or gets swamped, leave them behind; don’t pause to provide fire support or stop to help.’

They nodded, and Polk gestured to Smoker that they were ready.

Smoker raised his hellgun. ‘Distraction. One minute. Go.’

Hool ran, keeping as low and discreet as he could. Polk took the lead, dashing between cover as they ran between banks of equipment, avoiding the open as much as possible and, where line of sight between the Guardsmen and the horde of rebels was unavoidable, veering towards the shadows.

The air in the dome was thick with strange fumes and the foul scent of burning flesh, and Hool felt his lungs burn. The traitors had taken up a rhythmic chant that echoed around the dome, which combined with Hool’s own racing heartbeat and the pounding of his boots on the hard floor to form an oppressive drumbeat in his ears.

Polk’s squad were halfway around the curve of the dome when Smoker provided his ‘distraction’. A shot rang out, audible even over the din of the rebels, and was quickly followed by screams of anger. Hool glanced around – he had direct line of sight between two of the stacks, and caught a glimpse of a headless figure falling from the altar platform.

Smoker had taken out the false emperor. A volley of shots rang out, presumably tearing into the other rebels on the platform.

Hool and the rest of the squad kept running. The chanting was now a discordant, angry babble. Hool risked another glance – the rebels were surging in the direction of Smoker and his men with murderous intent.

Polk’s squad were now in sight of the stairway that wound up towards the control chamber: it was a flimsy metal structure with low handrails, which would leave their ascent exposed. But not as exposed as reaching the bottom of the staircase, which required a dash across a completely open, well-lit area with no equipment banks or other detritus to hide behind.

There was no time to consider the dangers, or even to pause. They broke into the open, leaving behind all shadow and shelter. For a few precious seconds they went unnoticed, but halfway to the stairway cries rang out.

Not stopping or slowing, Hool looked for the source of the jeers. He now had a direct view across the dome to the position they had started from, where the main body of rebels had surrounded Smoker’s position. The equipment banks the Guardsmen had used as cover seemed to have been knocked over or destroyed, and all Hool could see was a mass of violent humanity, a mob of traitors.

Hool couldn’t see any sign of Smoker’s squad, but that wasn’t the immediate problem. A few rebels had broken away from the main group, and were shouting for support as they ran to intercept Polk and his men. One had a lasrifle and fired wildly ahead: Hool ducked as he ran, las-shots zipping overhead. Dall was less lucky, catching a glancing shot to the ribs and falling.

Polk shouted orders to Treston and Keller and they peeled away from the rest of the squad, dragging the downed Dall to cover while firing on the approaching rebels. Hool and the others kept running.

Further trouble lay ahead, where the call for assistance had found a response – more heretics were emerging from above, their footsteps clattering on each metal step as they descended.

Polk was nearly at the bottom of the stairs, and turned to his men and shouted.

‘Nauk, Hool – with me. The rest of you – hold this last step. I don’t want anyone following us until this is done.’

Polk didn’t stop to check whether his orders were being followed, taking the first three steps in one leap. Nauk and Hool were right behind him, and Hool looked back to see the others standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a perimeter around the bottom of the stairs, lasrifles raised and firing.

Hool didn’t have the opportunity to see whether those shots hit their targets. Polk was slowing ahead as he turned the first bend in the stairway, dropping to one knee and raising his combat shotgun as the first rebels rounded the next bend on their way down. Hool and Nauk dropped in behind him, shoulder to shoulder, aiming over Polk’s head.

Together, the three Mordians formed a line across the stairway, greeting the descending rebels with a hail of firepower, the rapid las-fire from Hool and Nauk punctuating the slower blasts from Polk’s combat shotgun.

Hool’s rifle jerked back in his grip as he fired, slamming into his shoulder. His first shot caught a rebel square in the torso, leaving a blackened entry wound at the centre of the heretic’s naked chest. The dead rebel jerked backwards with his last spasm of life, reeling into those behind him. One grabbed the corpse to stop it from falling, and surged forwards using the dead rebel as a shield.

‘Cease fire,’ snapped Polk, and as Hool and Nauk lowered their weapons he lunged towards the rebel with the body, sweeping his shotgun round to thrust the butt of the weapon forwards. Polk slammed the butt into the head of the dead rebel so hard that the neck snapped back, the corpse’s skull crashing into the head of the very-much-alive heretic carrying it. The second man, stunned, staggered backwards.

‘At ’em!’ ordered Polk, and Hool and Nauk charged into the fray.

The rebels were mainly wielding tools and pieces of pipe, edges and ends sharpened to make them into better weapons. A tall rebel with long, blood-matted hair was swinging a wrench overarm, down towards Polk’s head. Hool stepped between the rebel and his sergeant, raising his lasrifle to block the wrench’s descent. The impact vibrated down Hool’s arms but he held firm, kicking the renegade in the knee. The man buckled, dropping the wrench as he fell forwards, his scraggy mass of hair falling over his face.

Hool swung his lasrifle around, aimed right at the man’s crown, and pulled the trigger. Polk and Nauk were ahead of him, firing up the next flight of the stairwell. Hool stepped over the bodies as quickly as he could to follow them.

A cry of warning came from below. Hool looked down through the fine grille of the stairs to see rebels below: the men holding the stairwell had been overwhelmed and pushed aside. Okre and Blant, had been at the centre of the stairway and had been driven down rather than aside, trampled to the floor with six or seven rebels surrounding them, arms rising and falling as crude weapons crushed and slashed at the two prone Guardsmen, a trail of gore flitting through the air as each weapon was raised again before descending to deliver another blow.

‘Incoming from below,’ Hool warned, smacking his rifle butt into the face of an incoming heretic as he joined Polk and Nauk. There must have been fewer than a dozen rebels ahead of them, but fighting on the stairs was even worse than fighting on the level sections, a struggle with unsure footing as much as the enemy, and the constant threat of falling over the low railings.

They turned another corner, onto the last flight. Two dozen steps led to a narrow platform straight ahead, to the right of which was the open door to a control chamber. Half a dozen rebels crowded down the steps, thrusting sharpened objects towards the Guardsmen.

Polk and Nauk were engaged with the enemy above, so Hool turned around and leaned over the railing, firing a couple of shots into the rebels running up from below. Bodies dropped in the path of more rebels, disrupting their attack.

Hool hoped it would stall them long enough. His breath was rapid and frantic as he looked up to see Polk and Nauk facing off against the last four rebels between them and security control. It was a tight brawl, with no room for either Guardsman to level their weapon enough to fire. Hool ran up behind, raising his own lasrifle, hoping to get a shot, but his two comrades were blocking his line of sight to any of the remaining rebels.

As Hool watched, Polk received a blow to the side of the head from a rebel’s elbow, causing him to drop to the floor. This enraged Nauk, who thrust forwards with his whole body, ramming himself shoulder-first into the two rebels he was wrestling with. The two heretics lost their footing and tumbled backwards over the railing to their deaths. Nauk stumbled forwards with his own momentum, but fell short of the edge of the platform, landing on his side.

By now Hool had a clear shot of the rebel who had floored Polk, and took it. He began to turn his aim to the final rebel, only to see the heretic bringing a fiercely sharpened spear down into Nauk’s side as the Guardsman tried to stand. Hool shot the rebel in the head but it was too late – the spear gouged into Nauk’s body with a nauseating crunch. The body of Nauk’s attacker fell forwards onto the spear, pushing it in deeper, and Nauk cried out.

Polk and Nauk were both down, but Hool didn’t have time to check whether they were alive or dead. The sound of footsteps from below meant more rebels were nearly on him.

Hool reeled into security control. It was a narrow gallery of a room, equipment decks overlooking the entirety of the dome. The layout of the control panels was simple enough, mainly colour-coded but with simple descriptions etched in white on the black surface above certain buttons. Hool found the lockdown release, a once-shiny lever tarnished from years of constant use.

Hool grabbed the lever and pulled it forwards. An alarm began to blare.

Beneath the siren, Hool could hear a huge roar of collective las-fire, the sound of Mordians pouring in through the open gates and setting about the rabble. The dome echoed with disciplined bursts of fire, the sound of ranked men working together to sweep into a building, cleaning it of heretics.

Hool closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief second of calm before running out to rejoin the fray.

After the energy and human cost of getting the gates to the power complex open, the business of fully securing it took no time at all.

By the time Hool had helped the injured Polk down the stairs, there were no rebels left standing. The action had already moved on, squads dispersing back into the administratum block and across the rest of the complex, determined to hunt down and kill any remaining heretics.

Under the dome, there was nothing but bodies. A couple of Guardsmen walked among the corpses, checking them with a kick, firing the odd point-blank headshot where there was some sign of life or uncertainty.

Okre and Blant were dead, not that Hool needed confirmation. There was satisfaction in seeing the number of dead enemies scattered around them, and the thought that the two Guardsmen had not gone down quietly – but not much. Their bloodied corpses, hacked at repeatedly by the mob, didn’t look to Hool like a glorious death. The others, including the wounded Dall, were battered but alive.

Of Smoker’s squad, who had attracted the full fury of the rebels to give Polk’s men the chance to complete the mission, only Sergeant Essler himself remained alive.

Hool saw Smoker from a distance, shrugging off a medicae as he walked away from a site of carnage, the odd grey jacket visible among a blast pattern of dead rebels.

Smoker flexed his shoulders, and even from a distance Hool could see a thick rip in the back of his jacket, the edge stained with blood where some enemy weapon had torn into the sergeant’s flesh.

Smoker rolled his shoulders again, as if shaking off the wound. He reached one hand into his jacket, produced a lho-stick, and inserted it into the grille of his rebreather.

Smoker lit the lho-stick, and the artificial airflow of his rebreather caused it to flare into life.

Covered in the blood of his enemies, his own men, and even himself, Smoker walked away, a trail of lho-smoke in his wake, hanging in the battlefield air.

Two

It had been a year.

A year since belief in the Emperor’s death, and his rebirth on Elisenda, had caused the planet’s society to collapse into warfare.

A year since the 114th Mordian had been ordered to raise as many Guardsmen as they needed from their home world, and set out to reclaim Elisenda.

A year since Hool had been swept up in Polk’s press-gang.

To Hool, it seemed like half his lifetime. A year ago, he had entered adulthood and not only left childhood behind, but every aspect of his former life. Delirious from the painkiller implant numbing the ache of his broken leg, he had said goodbye to his family and reported for duty.

He had barely stepped outside the hab-block that had been his entire world before he was on a transport ship for Elisenda, leaving a home world that he had never properly known.

Too disorientated to know whether he was experiencing the wrench of separation or the joy of escape, Hool had been thrown into a fierce routine of compressed training: discipline, weapons, hand-to-hand combat, endurance, more discipline.

In spite of having rehabilitation for his injuries alongside the accelerated training programme, Hool had adapted well to the regime of the 114th, to the extent that he felt prepared for what waited on Elisenda.

He was wrong. Although he had travelled far, Hool had still not stepped outside corridors of hardened plasteel, illuminated by artificial light. All the new recruits from Mordian had been instructed to rub a thick paste into their skin the morning they landed on Elisenda. Hool hadn’t understood why, and Polk had smirked at him.

Stepping down the ramp and out onto the dusty surface of Elisenda, Hool had been overloaded with sensations, each less pleasant than the next: unfiltered air in his lungs, loaded with particles and unfamiliar scents; the beating sun, stinging his skin and eyes; the vertiginous, endless space above.

It had taken him the best part of three months to fully adjust to the sky, to be able to look up without suppressing an instinctive, rising fear of the void.

On the ground, Hool had learned fast. The 114th’s orders were to scourge the planet of the rebels, but to do so with minimal damage to the manufactories considered so vital to the Imperium: heavy weaponry was only to be used in non-vital areas such as habs or public spaces. The manufactories themselves were to be reclaimed by a precise elimination of the heretics. Hool had spent the best part of a year fighting the rebels in corridors and underpasses, breaking through walls and storming enginaria.

Steadily, over the months, further territory had been reclaimed. Manufactories were retaken, enginseers sweeping in with armies of servitors to restore damaged equipment and machinery, before new workers were shipped in to begin work.

But with every city block and manufactory brought back under the Emperor’s gaze, another fell as rebel activity flared up elsewhere. It was a fire that seemed impossible to extinguish, suppressed in one spot only to ignite again in the distance, just out of reach.

The tide had turned though, albeit slowly. The taking of the power plant had been the most significant rebel action in weeks. Most of the false emperors were dead. Although the work wasn’t over yet, the Mordians’ campaign on Elisenda did seem to be near completion.

The end was in sight.

For his role in averting the disaster, and for being one of the few survivors from the previous day’s action, Hool was rewarded with a rare privilege – a single day of rest and recovery before reporting back for regular details.

The 114th were based in a series of abandoned hangars and warehouses near one of the main spaceports. Some previous owner of the site had surrounded it with a high fence and watchtowers, making it a relatively secure base for the Guard during the early weeks on Elisenda when it seemed like half the population were launching strikes against them. A burnt-out shell near the edge of the site was the result of an early attack that had destroyed most of the regiment’s Chimeras, killing several enginseers and drivers in the process. Twisted prongs of blackened metal still towered over most of the other buildings, a reminder that their enemies were everywhere.

The barracks were little more than a long, narrow shed with a flat roof and rows of windows at the top of the thin metal walls, most of them broken. A hundred men slept there in basic military cots, fifty lined on each side of the long shed, their few belongings stashed beneath in standard-issue foot lockers.

The 114th being a Mordian regiment, where presentation was everything, highly polished pieces of metal and battered mirrors were propped against the rusty walls so that the Guardsmen could check that their uniforms were immaculate.

On the morning of his rest day, Hool allowed himself to sleep late, the deep, long sleep that arrives in the lull after a period of tension and physical exertion. He woke to find himself alone in the barracks.

At the end of Hool’s cot was propped a piece of rough board, with a crudely scrawled message telling anyone passing that Hool had earned his rest day in battle, and making some graphic suggestions as to what would happen to anyone who woke him. Hool recognised the handwriting as Polk’s.

Hool’s head was fuzzy from oversleeping, but a shower shook most of the torpor from his skull. He dressed quickly in a clean uniform from his locker – the servitors clunked through the barracks at night, picking up dirty, ripped or otherwise battle-scarred uniforms, returning them repaired and pressed a day later – and looked at himself in one of the long mirrors.

A year ago, he had still resembled a boy, but a year at war had changed all that: he was still thin, but had filled out around the shoulders as his muscles toned. The merciless sun had brought out the tone of his skin, and flecks of light in his dark brown, tightly curled hair. The puppy fat had gone from his cheeks, revealing a long, narrow face, and months of near-exhaustion had added lines around his deep brown eyes.

Hool looked closer at his reflection, into those eyes. He saw something there that he had never seen before, something he didn’t entirely like…

He snapped out of the thought and stood back, checking the line of his jacket, squeezing his cap over his close-cropped curls. He looked entirely respectable, as a Mordian in uniform should. Dressed soberly for a solemn task.

Hool removed his cap, and tossed it back on his cot. There was no further reason to delay a job that needed doing.

He walked down the line of cots until he got to Okre’s. Dropping into a squat, he reached under the bed and slid out the foot locker.

Alone in the barracks, Hool began the grim task of sorting through his late comrade’s possessions.

To all outward appearances Major Halvern Geiss was a man in his late thirties. Many presumed from his demeanour and his rank that he was much older, and had maintained his youth via juvenat treatments. To many, his thick red-brown hair and square jawline were a little too good to be true, the signs of an older officer trying to cling on to their youth.

In fact, Geiss was slightly younger than he looked, and the hair and jawline were entirely unenhanced. At thirty-six he was precociously young to be leading a large force of men, effectively only a couple of steps down the regimental pecking order from the colonel himself. He had earned that rank through his own efforts and a gift for tactical thinking.

Geiss was not, however, one to brag about his precocious advancement: if representatives of other regiments or civilian authorities wished to presume he was a two hundred year-old who had plodded up the ranks in a long career, he let them.

Summoned to report to Colonel Ruscin, Geiss arrived at the lavishly appointed palace that the colonel had requisitioned as his command centre, and was nodded through the main gates.

The palace had belonged to a local family who had prospered from the many centuries of successful industry on Elisenda, and had been first up against the wall when rebellion broke out. The decor was arch high-gothic, closer to an Ecclesiarchy cathedral than a private residence, with high arched ceilings and stained-glass windows bearing images of the family’s ancestors performing various great acts of piety.

The decor still bore the scars of the uprising, and the Guard’s retaking: las-fire had scorched the tapestries, windows were smashed and statues decapitated.

When ordered to report to Colonel Ruscin, Geiss presumed it was for a progress report, and as such he carried a sheaf of papers as he walked down a corridor lined with tapestries of the seventeen martyrdoms. Geiss knew what he was going to say to the colonel: a laundry list of the recent territory gained, the outstanding pockets of resistance, and so forth. Geiss also intended to praise the actions of Lieutenant Munez, whose rapid improvisation had averted disaster in the previous day’s power-complex incident.

However, when Geiss entered the colonel’s war room, he realised it was not the meeting he thought it was at all.

The war room had been the palace’s main hall, with gilded mirrors on every wall and a floor of polished, jet-black stone. At least half the mirrors in the war room were cracked or shattered, and it was impossible to look around without catching sight of a fragmented reflection. The floor had been cleared of all previous furnishings and replaced with the ephemera of strategy: maps and battle plans laid out on every surface, vox-relay stations for forwarding reports.

Usually when summoned to the war room, Geiss found Colonel Ruscin poring over regional maps of Elisenda, or architectural plans of specific facilities, but today a fragile-looking star chart had been rolled out.

But it wasn’t the map itself that caught Geiss’s attention so much as the company the colonel was keeping. The first Geiss recognised: Gillick, an ancient woman who represented the interests of the Lord Governor of the subsector. Gillick’s small frame was swamped within the layers of ceremonial furs that came with her office, the furs in turn draped with obscure badges and medals representing a long lifetime of ruthless service.

The other visitor was not someone Geiss recognised individually, but it was impossible to not know what he was. A towering, red-cloaked figure, his hood thrown back to reveal a head that was a mass of brass augmentations – ornate pistons pumped in and out of the sides of his face, and an orange glow was visible behind two dark lenses, as if he had hot coals in place of eyes. He held a metallic staff from which chunks of circuitry hung on wires, and a heavy brass cog lay around his neck, the signs of his faith and his office as a tech-priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Machine Cult of Mars.

All three – the colonel, the official and the tech-priest – were examining the star chart as Geiss approached. Colonel Ruscin, the 114th’s commanding officer, looked up and nodded at Geiss, who gave a sharp salute in reply. Ruscin was silver-haired and lean, wearing his age as a badge of experience.

‘At ease, major,’ Ruscin said. He stood back to politely gesture to his two guests. ‘I am sure you and Senior Administrator Gillick remember each other.’

The old woman gave Geiss a curt nod of acknowledgement, which Geiss returned politely.

‘Lord-Adept Brassfell, this is Major Geiss, one of our most promising officers. Geiss, Lord-Adept Brassfell is here on behalf of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and represents their interests in this sector.’

Brassfell nodded, wisps of steam expelling from vents around his cheeks. When he spoke, it was in a surprisingly human, almost musical voice.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Major Geiss. The Adeptus Mechanicus thank you for your part in reclaiming the great machines of these, our most sacred manufactories, and hope that you will be similarly successful in this new matter.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Geiss, but behind his polite facade his mind was racing.

The Adeptus Mechanicus were responsible for the maintenance of all machines within the Imperium, and there was no shortage of those on Elisenda. Their forge worlds were also dependent on the flow of supplies from worlds like Elisenda for components and the like, but there was something unusual about a tech-priest of Brassfell’s obvious seniority taking a direct interest in what were, after all, matters of procurement.

And what was this ‘new matter’?

That, at least, did not remain a mystery for long.

‘We have received new orders,’ stated Ruscin briskly, tapping a point on the star chart. ‘Belmos VII is a Munitorum world with a single city-factory built around a mining complex that supplies raw minerals to this and many other manufacturing hives. Not very interesting, barren apart from that one city-factory, and the only active world in its system, but a key supply resource, sufficiently significant for the facility there to receive a recent inspection from a senior Munitorum official. An urgent report was received from said official and, well, perhaps it’s best if you see for yourself.’

Ruscin clicked his fingers and a servitor activated the large pict viewer set up near the map table. The image it displayed was of a murky resolution, which looked even worse blown up to such a large size. The fuzzy monochrome image showed a pudgy male face close to the camera, the light so poor that the eyes were invisible, cloaked by shadows beneath the brow.

The sound quality was poor, dominated by white noise and crackles that could be either interference on the recording or distant gunfire, but some words were audible as the man on-screen babbled:

‘Harmless during the day, it’s at night that they–’ The next section of the recording was inaudible beneath a burst of static. ‘Rescue needed urgently, caution advised. You can’t tell in the light.’ At this point the face suddenly became smaller, as if the man had been dragged backwards, away from the screen. He was shouting now. ‘You can’t tell in the daylight–’ His face rushed forwards, filling then obscuring the screen before the image cut out, the screen blank apart from an Imperial reference number in the centre of the screen.

Someone, or something, had killed two birds with one stone, slamming the man’s head through the picter to silence both him and the device. It was an act of very precise ferocity.

There was an uncomfortable silence, which the colonel broke with a cough before providing further explanation:

‘That was transmitted some time ago. The pict may be poor quality, but the Munitorum confirm that the man in the recording is Recorder Gellwood Jenk, a senior auditor,’ said Ruscin. ‘Leaving aside the valuable raw materials supplied by Belmos VII, the Munitorum consider an assault on such a senior official to be entirely unacceptable.’

Geiss stopped himself from raising an eyebrow at the use of the word ‘assault’. He very much doubted that Jenk had survived such an attack.

‘Has there been any further communication from Belmos VII?’ Geiss asked.

Brassfell made a low whistling sound which could have been his equivalent of a cough, a laugh, or something else altogether.

‘The Belmos System is highly unstable, full of turbulent gases and radiation fields,’ said the tech-priest. ‘Even our most advanced and sacred long-range communication systems find it hard to breach the fog of interference, and it is not unknown for Belmos VII to fall out of contact for decades on end, with the exception of hand-delivered messages couriered by the heavy transport ships. The system is a void, and it is, frankly, an Omnissiah-granted miracle that Recorder Jenk’s message was received at all, even in such a partial state.’

‘Unfortunately we are in no position to measure the severity of the situation,’ said Ruscin. ‘Your orders, major, are to take a strike force to Belmos VII and respond accordingly to whatever threat you find. It could be that this is no more than a local uprising that has already been dealt with by the local PDF, in which case the Munitorum has requested the decimation of the non-essential population in response to the attack on their man.’

‘A strike force, sir?’ queried Geiss. ‘Not the entire regiment?’

The colonel didn’t answer, but Gillick did:

‘The 114th’s mission on Elisenda is not yet complete, major,’ said Gillick, an implicit criticism beneath her banally polite tone. ‘The Lord Governor has requested that both matters be attended to, but neither neglected.’

‘Thank you, Mamzel Gillick,’ said the colonel drily. ‘Command has granted the Lord Governor’s request, and as such I will remain here on Elisenda with half our complement to deal with the rest of these fanatics. Ideally, the 114th would move as one, but with two threats within our auspices and no other regiment within range to assist, for now we are required to deal with both fronts at once. However, major, as these heretics are a known quantity while the threat on Belmos VII is not, I am assigning our best assets to your strike force.’

Gillick seemed to be about to protest at this, but the colonel silenced her with a glance.

‘Rest assured, Mamzel Gillick, that we are entirely capable of dealing with the rest of this filth with a few infantry platoons alone.’ Ruscin turned his attention back to Geiss. ‘Major, you will have lieutenants Hossk, Deaz and Munez, and their full platoons at your disposal. The population of Belmos VII is small: just the mining workforce, the local planetary defence force, and representatives of both the Munitorum and the Adeptus Mechanicus. Nothing your force shouldn’t be able to handle. Unfortunately the Munitorum has yet to supply further Chimeras, so you will only have a small number of vehicles for command purposes, but the small size of the Belmos VII city-factory should mean this isn’t a problem.’

‘Thank you, sir, I’m sure the men will appreciate the exercise,’ said Geiss drily.

‘I’m sure they will equally appreciate that Commissar Tordez has decided to accompany your force,’ added Ruscin.

This was less welcome news to Geiss. He would rather the old commissar stayed here on Elisenda, lecturing the men on the threat of heresy. Did Tordez suspect that Geiss wasn’t up to this command, and would crack under pressure? If so he was out of luck. Geiss had no intention of ending this mission – and his career – with a shot from the commissar’s pistol.

Brassfell made his whistling noise again, snapping Geiss out of his distracted chain of thought. ‘I understand that the enginseer assigned to your regiment will also accompany your strike force, major. I would like to brief him before you depart.’

‘Of course,’ said Geiss. There was something very wrong here, a lord of the Adeptus Mechanicus taking an interest in a regimental enginseer. Whatever had happened on Belmos VII, there was clearly a potential advantage for the Adeptus Mechanicus in it. Unfortunately, Geiss was in no position to fathom what that could be.

‘Prepare your men, major. You depart as soon as the navigators can chart a course,’ said Ruscin. He looked between Brassfell and Gillick. ‘If we’re all agreed, then this meeting is over.’

There was general agreement, and Gillick and Brassfell departed. Geiss saluted, and turned to follow them. He was halfway across the room before Ruscin called out to him.

‘One more thing, major,’ said Ruscin. ‘The Imperium will not allow Belmos VII to fall from the Emperor’s sight. If the threat is greater than you can manage, then reinforcements are already being requested from further afield. They’ll take longer to get there, but they’ll get there all right.’

Geiss looked back at Ruscin blankly. Why had the colonel waited until they were alone to tell him?

‘Let’s not get into a position where the 114th require a helping hand, major,’ said Ruscin, smiling darkly. ‘Wrap this up before any of these other buggers make planetfall, or die trying first. Got that?’

Geiss returned the colonel’s grin and saluted again before leaving the room.

A strike force of his own, an unknown and possibly deadly scenario. It was all Geiss could do to stop himself grinning inanely in front of the guards as they saluted him out of the palace.

Polk had been authorised by Munez to find new recruits to replace Okre, Blant and Nauk. Although Polk knew he shouldn’t differentiate between men of the same rank, who had all served their Emperor equally in life and death, it was the loss of Nauk that he felt the keenest. Nauk had been Polk’s age, but had never risen in rank. This was not a bad thing, far from it – men like Nauk, lifetime infantry, were the backbone of the Imperial Guard.

Nauk would be hard to replace. They all would. Good Guardsmen, all.

But replace them he must. Polk already had two existing Guardsmen transferring to his squad, but he needed two more, and these would have to be fresh.

Polk wandered down to the dusty square between the barracks, which had rather grandiosely been assigned as the parade ground. Twenty or so locals were being drilled by a sergeant of the 114th, locals who would be policing and defending Elisenda after the Mordians had left. These men and women, less than two dozen, had held a key outpost on Elisenda against rebels for two months, with scant supplies and no military training. They would all make good members of the local PDF, but Polk was looking for something more, that extra quality that would make them Guard-worthy.

Polk had stood in the shade as the men and women conducted exercises, with regular pauses for the sergeant to berate them for their many failings.

The Imperial Guard had been brought to this world due to the exceptional nature of the crisis and the complete corruption of the local enforcers and military. As soon as the Elisendans could deal with their own problems, the 114th would move on. Many in the regiment were eager to do so.

While they understood, in abstract at least, that clearing this place of heretics was important, and had no problem dealing with the rebels as they would any other enemy, many of the Mordians regarded the campaign on Elisenda as slightly beneath the dignity of a venerable regiment. It was behind the lines, the Imperium’s domestic trouble. Housekeeping. The rebels themselves were mainly deluded civilians – a threat that needed to be put down, but not real warriors, and not a real war.

Instead of crushing these lowlifes, the men of the 114th wanted to be out there on one of the thousands of front lines in the Emperor’s endless war against the enemies of mankind.

Polk had seen a couple of promising candidates emerge during the exercises, potential Guardsmen. He had a good eye for those who might be able to live up to the demands of the 114th, and he thought he could see those qualities out in the yard. Yes, he wouldn’t have any problem replacing his lost men, much to the chagrin of the planetary defence force who would need to find further locals to fuel their own needs. Tough. The Imperial Guard took precedence.

These recruitment exercises made Polk uneasy. While he took great pride in seeing raw recruits become skilled fighting men, of seeing that nascent potential emerge from civilians, he had also seen too many lie dead before that potential could be even remotely fulfilled, many a decade or two younger than Polk.

Polk wasn’t naive about the sacrifices war required, but that didn’t stop the individual losses grinding together in his conscience to form a greater unease. It was the duty of every human being to live and die for the God-Emperor, as required. Where humans died doing an honourable duty, those deaths were not in vain.

Polk just wished that he wasn’t so involved in directing so many people towards those duties, those deaths.

Nonetheless, it was his duty and he didn’t recoil from it. Polk had approached the sergeant and whispered in his ear, then directly approached his two new recruits to give them the ‘good’ news. At that stage he had hoped that the two Elisendans could at least be broken into their duties on home soil.

It wasn’t going to happen. Polk wished he had more time to integrate the new Guardsmen into his squad, but preparations were already under way for the strike force’s departure for Belmos VII. Polk had to use what time he had as best he could.

Back on the same parade ground, Polk watched Hool running through exercises with the four new men in his squad.

One was Rivez, a Guardsman with a good fifteen years’ experience who had been transferred to Polk’s command by Munez as the lieutenant reorganised his troops to compensate for losses and new recruits. Rivez was an asset, and Polk was glad to have him. He was a good-humoured soul – many Guardsmen of his age would baulk at taking the lead from someone of their own rank, of Hool’s age – they would at least push back a little, jostle for status with the younger man. Rivez just went with it, albeit with a certain light-heartedness, going through the motions as they spun their lasrifles and took positions.

Then there was Hervl, one of the other Mordian youths Polk had rounded up at the same time as Hool. Unlike Hool, Hervl had been in a gang, or at least been trying to make a name for himself. Polk hadn’t forgotten Hool and Hervl’s history together, and knew he needed to keep an eye on them. For the moment, they seemed to be studiously formal with each other, Hool issuing instructions and Hervl following them mutely.

The other two were new recruits, Elisendans who had shown promise on the parade ground: Zvindt and Deress. They seemed to be learning fast. Polk just hoped it was fast enough. Both were older than Hool, well into adulthood. They still seemed incredibly young to Polk.

Sergeant Polk was around forty-four years old, although the variables of different planetary calendars and the time distortions caused by space travel made it hard to be entirely sure. Hardly any age at all compared to the legendary Adeptus Astartes with their god-like genetic inheritance, the tech-priests with their radical augmentations or even the senior officers within the Guard itself, those who could afford the juvenat treatments to prolong their lives.

But for a low-ranking Guardsman, thrown out onto the front line in battle after battle, forty-four years was a long time to live. Since he had joined the regiment as a young man he had seen dozens of Guardsmen who lasted less than a decade, sometimes as little as a month. At the Battle of Rivas he had seen an entire regiment, newly raised on one of the outer worlds, not a man over twenty years old, slaughtered in ten minutes by a greenskin attack.

His own regiment, the Unbreakable 114th, had turned over at least four-fifths of its number in his time, maybe more. Most of the men he recognised from his first years with the regiment were senior officers, insulated from the rigours of the front line.

Polk had no such protection. He had only been promoted as far as sergeant, and that was long enough ago that he knew he wasn’t going any further up the chain. He wasn’t an exceptional soldier, but he was a good one. He was competent, but that didn’t explain his survival.

No, Polk had been lucky. For a quarter of a century, that luck had held, and with every battle he fought, Polk felt the odds of his survival getting longer and longer. He didn’t resent that fact. When he joined the Guard, he barely expected to last until the end of the week, the troop ship that had taken him away from Mordian on his first tour threatening to shake itself apart as it exited the atmosphere.

Polk’s time was coming, he was sure of it. It made him especially sensitive to the fate of his squad, these Guardsmen serving under him. Time was short, and he hoped to pass on what little knowledge he had before he went, to give them the skills that would, with any luck, allow them to survive as long as he had.

Maybe it was just because Hool was the only other survivor from Polk’s previous squad, but Polk was starting to pin these hopes mainly on Hool. He thought Hool might make a great soldier, making sergeant or even higher, if he didn’t manage to blow his own lungs out before he got chance. The incident with the roof and the rebels was typical Hool. He followed orders well, he had the clear head that made a natural Guardsman, and he was a devil of a shot, but he had a tendency for spectacular carelessness that sometimes required quick action by those around him to stop an error growing into a disaster.

Still, Hool seemed to always survive, even if by the intervention of his comrades. With the Emperor’s blessing he might live as long as Polk or Smoker.

Smoker. Polk had barely seen Essler since the attack on the power complex. Lieutenant Munez had congratulated all three of the survivors of that strike force on their bravery, speaking with the combination of pride and regret that follows a successful mission with heavy losses.

While Hool had been slightly intimidated by a personal congratulation from the lieutenant, and Polk had taken the compliment at face value without giving it any great thought, Smoker had barely paused in acknowledgement before raising the question of replacing his lost men. Polk and Hool had been dismissed by Munez, leaving the lieutenant and Smoker to discuss staffing issues.

That conversation had taken place while the power complex was still being secured. Smoker’s previous squad had been dead for a matter of hours.

Although all soldiers needed to move on from any grief quickly and cleanly, Smoker’s lack of reaction took pragmatism to disconcerting levels. Maybe it was just the lack of recognisable human features that left Polk with a lingering unease…

No. It was easy enough to blame the augmetics, but there were plenty of men in the regiment who had some form of augmentation. There was something else disconcerting about Smoker, beyond that lack of human features: something in the way he held himself, the way he dealt with his fellow Guardsmen.

If Polk was lucky, then Smoker was almost too lucky, like he had used up all his bad luck in the incident that resulted in his augmentation, and was left untouchable, able to walk away unscratched and unruffled from engagements that left bodies piled to waist height.

As Polk thought about him, Smoker walked past in the distance. He was, as ever, alone, a lit lho-stick in the grille of his rebreather.

Polk watched Smoker disappear between two field-tents, a thin trail of smoke hanging in the still air behind him.

Was it luck or design that kept you alive so long, thought Polk, and if the former, was it your good luck that mattered, or the misfortune of those who stood with you in the heat of battle?

It was an unworthy thought, but, turning his attention back to his current men, who seemed relatively fragile as they prepared for the unknown, it was a thought that Polk couldn’t quite shake.

The night of their departure for Belmos VII, as the enlisted men and servitors were already loading their equipment into the shuttle that would take them up to the Navy vessel Seraphim, Geiss gathered the officers of his strike force to dine with him.

A long field tent next to the barracks did not have the aesthetic standards of the palace requisitioned by Colonel Ruscin, but Geiss had dined in far worse places. The night was hot, as all Elisendan nights were, but there was a breeze in the air that billowed through the tent now and then, carrying with it the jeering and banter of the men as they prepared for departure.

He had spent the day planning and organising, talking tactics with his three lieutenants, poring over what charts, maps and plans were available. They were preparing for the unknown, but preparing nonetheless; strategising for the most common eventualities, as well as preparing fallback positions that would allow them to respond to the unexpected.

It had been a productive series of discussions, and Geiss felt a secret thrill. He should, according to the expectations of hierarchy, be feeling a weight of responsibility at being handed an entire strike force to go into an unknown threat situation without the support of the rest of the regiment or his superiors.

Instead, he felt in his element, increasingly confident in his abilities to lead these men, eager to test those abilities further in the face of whatever would meet them on Belmos VII.

The planning stage was on hold for now. They would have plenty of time during the transit to go into their battle plans and contingencies in further detail.

Now was a time to step away from those plans, for the officers to enjoy the last moment of certainty before they left Elisenda and ventured into the unknown, to discuss the campaign they had lived through and bond as a command squad.

Geiss looked around the table at the officers of his strike force, who were making small talk as they ate. Servitors stood nearby, ready to refill empty glasses or fetch the next course when required. They were unneeded most of the time: these were good officers, too intelligent to drink quickly or heavily immediately before the potential horrors of a journey through the warp. Instead, they were enjoying their food while they could, and the peace while it lasted.

Geiss approved: the quarters on Elisenda were basic, but might be luxury compared to wherever they next decamped.

Of the three lieutenants under Geiss’s command, Lieutenant Hossk was the most conventional Mordian commander, steeped in traditions of order and discipline. Hossk was a solid-looking man with unmemorable features and flat, heavily oiled brown hair. Others might dismiss him as uncharismatic, but Geiss knew that if he ordered Hossk’s troops to hold a line, they would do so to the last.

Hossk wasn’t saying much – he rarely did. As with most of the officers at the table, he was listening to Lieutenant Munez, who was recounting some anecdote from early in his career. Munez spoke fast and thought fast, and there was something about his ruddy complexion, twinkling dark eyes and thinning, greyish hair that seemed more avuncular than commanding, a quality that inspired loyalty.

If Munez was a little too likable compared to the stern ideal of a Mordian officer, he made up for that with his skills as a strategist. His resolution of the situation at the power complex on Elisenda had been typical: a strategic solution rapidly established with the limited resources available. Such gambits were risky, but Munez’s men knew that he took their loyalty and their lives seriously – the orders he gave were complex judgements, and he gave them for good reason.

Lieutenant Deaz, on the other hand, was not a strategic thinker, but compensated with a talent for battlefield improvisation, and a tendency for the shocking gesture. He didn’t look like a daredevil, and was in fact the shortest man at the table and virtually bald, but in a bad situation his strike teams could break an enemy line with fearless aggression, while Deaz himself stayed back and prepared the next assault.

Geiss had deployed the talents of all three men on Elisenda, and in campaigns before that. However, on Belmos VII the unpredictable situation meant they couldn’t rely on the situation on the ground being neatly divisible in such a way as to allow the targeting of a specific officer to the appropriate problem.

The other man at the table sat between Geiss and the three lieutenants, ostensibly listening to Munez’s anecdote, but giving little reaction. Occasionally he seemed to be about to say something, then decided not to bother. Commissar Tordez appeared to be around the same age as Geiss, slim with distinguished cheekbones and thick, jet-black hair that he kept under control with wax and oil.

But this apparent youth was the result of extensive juvenat treatments. Geiss wasn’t entirely sure of Tordez’s real age – the Commissariat was not in the habit of providing information on their commissars to the regiments they were assigned to – but he was fairly sure it was greater than the collective ages of all the other men at the table.

Although Tordez was as fit and healthy as his exterior age, he thought and spoke like an old man, scattering his speech with references to the many campaigns he had fought in. From these allusions, Geiss surmised that Tordez had been commissar to at least half a dozen regiments and had first-hand knowledge of many of the enemies of mankind out in the vast, hostile galaxy.

Of course, a certain amount of this could be deception or exaggeration, and commissars were certainly under no obligation to be truthful with the men they watched over for signs of treachery and weakness – but Geiss didn’t think so. Although Tordez was as aloof and demanding as any commissar that Geiss had met, and he was thankful to have only met a couple, he did not seem prone to deceit.

Neither did Tordez’s constant references to his own career seem like boasting or bravado, but simply evidence of a mind that kept constantly drifting into the past. Tordez was a good commissar, as far as any member of the Guard was willing to acknowledge the existence of such a thing – vigilant, hard when needed, but not wantonly cruel – and Geiss suspected he had been assigned to the 114th as some form of reward for a long career of service with Catachans and penal legions.

Compared to most regiments, Mordians presented little difficulty for a commissar. Discipline was in their blood – minimal correction was required.

Perhaps that was part of the reason for Tordez’s occasional… absence. Perhaps he was just bored by life with the 114th, and sought a return to his glory days with more riotous regiments, administering constant field executions for insubordination.

Munez had reached the end of his anecdote, with a punchline involving an enemy communications tower being seeded with explosives, only for a misalignment of the charges to cause the demolished tower to collapse right on top of the men who planted them. There was a polite ripple of laughter around the table, although Geiss noticed that Tordez’s humour seemed strained, even by his standards.

Lieutenant Deaz was opening his mouth, presumably because his ego required him to try and top Munez’s story, but Geiss tapped the side of his glass to get their attention before another long anecdote began.

The three lieutenants and the commissar turned to him.

‘Gentlemen,’ Geiss addressed them. ‘This last year we have fought well against the heretics, but while they are certainly worthy of death, those rebels may have been spoiled by receiving that death from a regiment of our heritage.’ There was a ripple of support from the three lieutenants at this.

‘Tomorrow we leave this planet,’ Geiss continued. ‘We seek enemies unknown, in circumstances unknown. Whatever strikes against us, we are prepared to remain what we always are.’ He raised his glass, and the other officers did the same. Even Tordez raised his glass slightly in acknowledgement. ‘The Unbreakable 114th!’

The toast was shouted in reply: ‘The Unbreakable 114th!’

Three

The descent through the atmosphere of Belmos VII was rough, the lander taking the strike force down to the surface struggling to compensate. Geiss took a seat on the bridge for the landing, leaving the preparation of the men to his lieutenants. The journey through the warp had gone as well as could be expected, with only a dozen men executed by Tordez in transit, put out of their misery as they succumbed to madness and heretical visions.

Now they were out of the warp, Geiss wanted to get a good look at the planet before he stepped out onto its surface.

Initially, visibility was poor, as they pierced layer after layer of dark, fractious clouds, their charcoal wisps illuminated by outbreaks of lightning in all its forms: rippling sheets as well as grasping, forked tendrils.

Then the shuttle broke through, beneath the cloud cover and into a stormy sky. Visibility was little better, but through the grey murk the surface could gradually be seen – an unprepossessing mass of brown, alternating between the rippling brown of the sea and the dull brown of the muddy, swampy ground. As they curved down towards their destination, a bleak grey outcrop of industrial structures could be seen on the horizon.

Before that unhappy-looking conurbation, their target could be seen – a flat grey expanse of rockcrete surrounded by a perimeter wall and connected to the factory-city by a long causeway, built as a crude landing area where cargo shuttles could land and take off without danger of sinking into the perilous ground beneath.

As they came in close, Geiss pressed the vox-button on the arm of his chair.

‘Geiss here, prepare for landing,’ he ordered. ‘I’m on my way to lead us out.’

The lander was large enough to allow the entire strike force to get into formation before leaving the ship. The main body of the force were on foot, arranged in straight regimental marching lines, rifles held across their chests or arms straight at their sides. The Sentinels flanked the infantry, and the regimental Chimera troop transports were split between the front and back of the group. Major Geiss’s command Chimera was slightly ahead of the others, leading the charge.

The cargo bay doors and ramp were not built for military deployment, and it took an age for the great metal doors to grind upwards, gradually letting in a thin, watery grey light from outside.

Polk’s squad were lined behind Lieutenant Munez’s Chimera, and Hool found himself at the farthest edge of the formation, a Sentinel looming over him. Hool realised with some discomfort that the two-legged war machine was piloted by Rebek, one of his assailants from the day he had been recruited.

Hool, Rebek and Hervl had studiously avoided each other since that day, as much as the confines of their shared service would allow, and there seemed no desire from any of them to repeat, or even discuss, their pre-conscription conflict. Now Hervl was part of Polk’s squad, and on top of that Hool was suddenly disconcerted by the possibility that Rebek could crush him with one ‘accidental’ step of the Sentinel.

‘Men of the 114th,’ barked the major’s voice, amplified by the vox-caster in his Chimera, his every word echoing around the hold. ‘March.’

Geiss’s Chimera began to roll forwards, down the slow incline of the load ramp which stretched from one end of the hold to the other. The rest of the force followed, the Chimeras’ engines growling as they slowly rolled forwards, the Sentinels’ slow, steady footfalls clanking against the floor of the hold, and the infantry marching in unison, each step ringing out as a precise ripple of noise.

Hool’s breathing, and seemingly his very heartbeat, were in time with the rhythm of his marching: left, right; in, out; beat, beat. The rattle of the march subsided as the strike force emerged into the great open expanse of the Belmos VII space docks, the noise dissipating into the barren emptiness, taken away by the wind.

Hool kept his eyes front, but with the discipline of his march so deeply ingrained the rest of his mind was free to take in his surroundings. After the controlled, dark environments of Mordian and shipboard life, and the raging heat and squalor of Elisenda, this was a different world again: an utterly empty expanse of rockcrete, grey and damp, stained with fuel and pitted with burns and scars. Around the edge of the spaceport was a basic rockcrete wall, broken with a single gate.

The men had all been briefed on the basics: this exit led to an artificial rockcrete causeway that connected the spaceport to the city-factory proper. Over the top of the gates, some way in the distance, Hool could see the rough outline of towers, a dark mass in the grey. Detail was obscured by a light mist that hung in the air, and the persistent fall of cold droplets of water.

Hool had heard of this, but never experienced it: rain. As he came to a halt with the rest of the force, the raindrops began to run down his face and drip off the brim of his cap. On Elisenda such a thing would have been a blessing, but the air here was crisp and cold, and the touch of water on Hool’s skin acted as a further conduit for the creeping chill. Hool noticed that his breath was forming a mist with every exhalation, like the smoke from a lho-stick, but thinner and quicker to dissipate in the air.

As he stood stock still in a line of equally still men, the rain and cold seeping into his clothes, exposed to the elements beneath a grey, cloud-filled sky, Hool began to develop the beginnings of a very real dislike for Belmos VII.

At the front of the strike force, Major Geiss sat in his command Chimera, looking over the driver’s shoulder at the bleak landscape ahead.

‘Anything I should know?’ asked Geiss.

‘No signs of unusual energy signals or other unexpected readings,’ said Adept Gilham. By the standards of his brotherhood, Gilham was relatively humanoid, with only two mechadendrites emerging from beneath his red cloak. However, no human flesh was visible on any part of his body: his head had been augmented with a rebreather and complex optic array, while his limbs were covered with a combination of heavy-duty protective leather and metallic plating. Currently a series of thin, luminous cables ran from within the hood of his cloak to connect to a control panel. ‘All normal, major.’

‘All public and official vox-channels clear, no sign of activity,’ added Hillman, Geiss’s chief vox-operator.

Geiss rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand against the thumb, an obsessive gesture he had developed over the years. It was a sign he was making a decision.

‘No indications of anything, but equally none of the normal niceties. There should be some vox-chatter or power trace in a city this size,’ Geiss said, largely to himself. He clicked his fingers. ‘Very well, we proceed as planned. Hillman, relay the order. Apart from the men assigned to guard the shuttle, proceed across the causeway as planned. Standard march, slow but steady.’

Commissar Tordez had elected to stay with the shuttle and monitor morale over the vox. Geiss had just nodded at this announcement, unsure whether this was a positive indication of Tordez’s attitude to his leadership or not.

Geiss leaned forwards, staring out of the Chimera’s narrow, armoured windscreen, trying to catch some sign of what waited ahead.

‘Let’s roll out and see what’s out there,’ Geiss said.

The city-factory loomed ahead at the causeway’s end, the sloping rockcrete walls that marked its perimeter emerging from the muddy ground like a weather-beaten memorial, a battered row of linked tombstones that curved into the distance.

The wall was high, but the buildings within the perimeter towered over it: blunt habs and admin blocks near the edge, and a mass of towers and smokestacks at the centre, most of which seemed to be inactive with only thin wisps of visible smoke or steam. Crooked fingers of lightning flickered around the tops of the tallest as they reached for the heavy clouds above.

Tension built in the Guard ranks as they marched towards the gate of the city-factory. Such a direct approach was high-risk, but almost unavoidable – any other route would be equally exposed, across treacherous ground, and require a scaling of the city walls.

No, even in the case of a direct confrontation or an attack from within the city, breaching those gates remained the easiest way in. The knowledge that this was the best strategy didn’t make it feel any less exposed as they marched towards an unknown enemy.

‘Hillman, give me all vox-channels and external amplification,’ said Geiss, leaning forwards in his chair as his Chimera rolled to a halt just short of the city-factory gates. The gates were built for function rather than defence – twice the height of a Sentinel, they were made up of several overlaid sections of plasteel that retracted into alcoves either side of the wall.

Geiss took the handheld vox-caster passed to him by Hillman, and cleared his throat before depressing the stud on the side and speaking into it:

‘This is Major Geiss of the 114th Mordian Iron Guard regiment. Open the gates in the name of the God-Emperor,’ said Geiss, keeping his voice firm but level. He paused, releasing the stud on the vox-caster but keeping it close to his face, the plastic hot in his palm.

As Geiss’s voice rang out from the Chimera vox, Hool stood to attention, in line with the rest of the men, eyes forward. They watched, and waited, for any sign of movement ahead or above, of the first indication of attack or surrender.

While their orders included the possibility of a retreat to a defensive position in the case of a bombardment from within the city walls, Hool was fully aware that any assault could take out dozens of Guardsmen before they had time to react.

In the case of such an attack, whether it be from snipers or mortars or even some crude deterrent dropped from above, the first few lines of Guardsmen, including Polk’s squad, would surge forwards to aid the withdrawal of those behind, a necessary sacrifice to allow a cohesive counter-attack. It would probably be suicide, but it needed to be done.

Hool felt his palms sweating within his gloves, and restlessly adjusted his grip on his lasrifle, ready to strike if needed.

For the moment, they waited.

Geiss looked across at Hillman, who had a vox-set to his ear. Hillman shook his head – no response. Geiss took a sterner tone when he spoke again:

‘I repeat, we are Imperial Guard, open the gates and allow us access.’

Another pause, while Geiss kept his gaze fixed at the view ahead, at the points from which any attack would come. No response. No sign of movement above or around the gates.

‘Fine,’ said Geiss, switching the vox to his command channel. ‘Munez – send your men in and get that gate open.’

‘Well,’ said Polk under his breath. ‘You open one big door against the odds, and this is what you get. Another bloody door to open.’

‘Remind me never to be good at anything again, sir,’ replied Hool.

They stood back as Rivez fired a grapple launcher at the top of the gates. The hook sailed over the top of the gate, a long, reinforced cord trailing behind it. Rivez hit the switch to slowly draw the grapple back, retracting his end of the cord back into the launcher until the hook found purchase. A wet scraping sound could be heard as the hook dragged its way up the other side of the gate before locking into place.

On the basis of Polk’s success in letting Munez’s troops into the power complex on Elisenda, his squad had been chosen by the lieutenant to get over the wall and let the strike force into the city-factory.

Zvindt and Deress both seemed unfazed by the prospect of scaling the gates, which Polk put down partially to the precarious climbs the Elisendans must have made across the slums and derelict industrial sites of their home world, and partially due to combat inexperience.

Hool seemed more reticent, understandable considering his tendency to fall.

Rivez had fixed one climbing line to his satisfaction, and launched another hook from the grapple, a slight distance to the right. Two men would go up first, each on a separate rope, and hit the top simultaneously. If there was a threat, single file would be suicide.

‘You a good climber, Deress?’ asked Polk.

Deress nodded sharply. He was a broad man in his late twenties, a former factory worker, and though he wasn’t a Mordian he had taken to the regiment’s discipline like a natural.

‘Used to climb the transmitter spire at Inaxa for fun, sir,’ said Deress.

Polk had no idea where that was, but he got the idea. ‘You’re up first with me then, Deress. Hool and Zvindt can hold the ropes steady then follow. Rivez, you’re up last, the rest of you stay down here until we get the door open. This is hardly a ten-man job.’ He turned back to Deress. ‘This isn’t a race, though. You reach the top first, you stop and hold until I’m with you. We go over the top together.’

Deress nodded again: ‘Understood, sir.’

‘Right then,’ said Polk, and in unison he and Deress gripped their respective ropes, and began the climb up the gate.

As sergeant, Polk had considered it his duty to lead from the front, especially with most of the regiment ranked and watching as he climbed the gate. That didn’t make the experience any more comfortable. Pulling himself up, hand over hand, boots carefully finding purchase on the rain-slicked metal surface of the gate, his back twinged at the unnatural angle it was bent into, and a deep ache set into the back of his thighs. The angle of the climb allowed the rain to fall under the peak of his cap and straight into his eyes, and he had to blink water away to see properly.

He was definitely feeling his age. Deress was keeping pace with Polk, probably by slowing himself down and matching his sergeant’s movements.

It was a painful climb, but only a short one. At the top, nodding to Deress to follow his lead, Polk held on to the top of the gate with one hand, twisting the rope securely around that arm, and used his free hand to secure a lower part of the rope to the safety loop on his belt. With both hands now free, Polk hung from the rope, feet placed firmly on the surface of the gate, and hauled up his combat shotgun from where it was hanging on a shoulder strap.

Polk glanced across at Deress, who had his lasrifle similarly raised. Polk placed his left hand on the ledge of the gate, and Deress did the same. Polk took a deep breath, then silently mouthed a countdown to Deress: three, two…

…one. Polk and Deress pulled themselves up in unison, careful not to slip straight off the wet surface. The top of the gate was just wide enough to stand on, and at the top Polk perched on one knee, gun raised as he scanned from side to side, checking the area.

Nothing. No signs of life, never mind sources of attack. That didn’t mean they were entirely safe, but there was certainly no immediate danger.

Polk leaned back over the gate, and whistled for the others to follow.

Within minutes Polk’s men were over the gate, providing cover for each other as they moved quickly to the side, searching for the entry controls.

Hool kept his lasrifle raised, sweeping back and forth for any sign of movement.

It was a large area to keep covered. Immediately behind the gates the rockcrete surface expanded into a wide-open area, the pitted surface covered in tyre-tracks, oil patches and other markings that indicated great numbers of vehicles stopping to load and unload.

This central area led out into three access roads that wound away into the city-factory, disappearing behind the bulky, featureless warehouse buildings that crowded around the gates, ready to send and receive cargo.

Hool looked up at the nearest warehouse. Although mostly blank, the wall had a few isolated windows or airvents, each a potential sniping position.

Even now that they were inside the city-factory, Hool didn’t feel any less exposed.

Someone had located the controls. The twin gates began to grind open, age-old gears dragging the segments back into slots either side of the entry way.

The deep rumble of those gears broke the oppressive silence of the dead city-factory, but didn’t do anything to lift Hool’s sense of unease.

With the entire strike force through the gates of the city-factory, and sentries covering every approach, Major Geiss summoned his lieutenants for a briefing.

Dropping from the Chimera to the rockcrete, Geiss felt a jolt of pain up his right leg as his heel hit the hard surface with his entire body weight behind it. Rolling open a strategic map of the city-factory, he compared it with the three roads ahead.

The central road ran due north to the heart of the city-factory, where the mine’s control centre overhung the central shaft. The road to Geiss’s left ran north-west through the dirty maze of the refineries, and the map indicated that workers’ habs were stacked against the west wall. The road to the right ran north-east to the opposite end of Belmos VII’s social strata, winding through the vehicle depots, administrative areas, and opening out into Emperor’s Square, where more luxurious hab-towers housed the planetary elite.

Comparing the map with the view ahead, Geiss could make out a silvery monolith to the north-east, presumably in Emperor’s Square, while a mass of crane rigs straight ahead seemed to tally with the centre of the mining activity being to the north.

Munez, Hossk and Deaz had gathered at a discreet distance while Geiss was reviewing the map, and he rolled the map and used it as a baton to illustrate his commands as he spoke.

‘No signs of life, and we only have a few hours of daylight left, so we deploy as planned and move quickly. Lieutenant Hossk, move north-west, slow and steady through the refineries. Set lasguns to low-charge only. Apparently these places use large quantities of chamazian in the refinement process, and we don’t want to ignite the whole place. Good wide spread, let’s check as many corners as we can, and if you find anything at all vox me immediately. It’s going to be slow going, so you’d better get started.’

Hossk snapped a salute and walked away. Geiss continued.

‘Lieutenant Munez, you get the easy part. Secure Emperor’s Square. Find and protect any worthies in that tower. Don’t endanger the mission in the process, but if possible we want to keep them intact. The square will be our fall-back position in the case of problems, so make it tight.’

Geiss didn’t wait for Munez to go before turning to Deaz. ‘Lieutenant, you’re with me – we’re going straight to the centre.’

As Geiss had suggested, the progress of Hossk’s platoon was slow. With only one support Chimera and no Sentinels, Hossk’s men moved mostly on foot, and Hossk himself opted to leave his Chimera and walk, laspistol drawn. A vox-bead kept him in contact with Geiss’s command channel. They had dropped out of formal march but moved decisively, marksmen covering every angle of attack, scouts moving ahead of the ranks, holding to cover and ready to give warning of problems ahead.

While the Chimera slowly rolled down the main road, Hossk’s sergeants sent squads out into the buildings on either side, breaking down doors, cutting through fences, spreading out either side of the road to explore the refinery. They were under orders to keep relatively close and maintain pace with the main group – the refinery buildings were elaborate mazes of oily pipework held in place by girders thicker than a Chimera. Even in daylight, they seemed dark and impenetrable, quiet except for the constant sound of water on metal as the rain flowed from one surface to another.

Hossk walked past a loading area stacked with barrels, each covered in warning signs. They contained chamazian, an extraordinarily volatile and flammable chemical used in heavy industrial facilities such as these. On Elisenda, Hossk had seen a group of cornered rebels kill themselves by firing into a barrel of the stuff. Not only had the rebels been obliterated, but the walls of the store building they had retreated to were blown out, three Guardsmen were rushed to the medicae with seventy-seven per cent burns, and patches of flaming, tarrish liquid chamazian burned where they fell for the following three days.

Hossk voxed a reminder to keep las-fire to a minimum.

There was a high, human whistle from ahead, a signal from one of the scouts. It was a cautionary signal but not alert, meaning the scout had discovered something of interest, and that the rest of the group should hold, but that there was no immediate threat.

Hossk raised his laspistol and nodded to one of his most trusted sergeants, Weir. With Weir and his men in support, Hossk ran past the Chimera, the ranks of Guardsmen stepping aside to let them through.

Reaching the scout, Hossk didn’t need to ask what had been found: the scout was kneeling by a dark dried patch underneath an overhanging canopy on the side of one of the refinery buildings. If it had been exposed to the constant rain it would have doubtless washed away, but sheltered where it was the stain was unmistakably that of dried human blood: a great quantity of it as well, pooled on the ground as well as sprayed across a nearby wall. There were signs that a scuffle had spread the blood further, but no clear footprints could be made out.

‘Major Geiss,’ Hossk said into his vox. ‘First sign of disruption located.’

On the other side of the city-factory, Munez’s platoon were making similar discoveries.

The central Administratum building was a statement of power, great gilded columns framing brass doors moulded with images of the achievements of the Imperium, all set in a scrubbed white stone that set the whole building apart from the grubbier blocks around it.

The grandeur of the effect was slightly diluted by the wreckage of the entrance. One of the doors lay stretched across the access road, and the other was buckled inwards.

The marbled floor of the great reception hall was encrusted with blood. Chunks had been knocked out of the walls, statues overturned. The bloodstains streaked off in all directions, but petered out with no signs of any bodies, dead or alive.

Smoker voxed his report to Munez without emotion, looking down at the unholy mess before him. Stained-glass windows over the entrance let a trickle of multi-coloured light down into the hallway, mottling the bloodstains in different shades of green and blue.

After Smoker gave his report, Munez ordered him back to rejoin the body of the platoon. The sergeant shrugged impassively, and gestured for his men to follow as he strolled away from the carnage.

In his command Chimera, Geiss received similar reports from across the city, from the platoon with him as well as those led by Munez and Hossk. There was variation in the signs of struggle – occasionally signs of weapons discharge and varying levels of damage to the surrounding area – but otherwise there was a certain consistency.

Blood had been shed, but no bodies left behind. No sign of the assailants or survivors, but equally no evidence of any attempted clean-up.

Geiss had heard of colonies that had been found devoid of life, with no explanation ever found for the deaths or disappearance of those who had lived there. But those ‘ghost planets’ had been out of Imperial contact for decades, even centuries, not a couple of weeks.

Somewhere in the city-factory, there were answers, Geiss was sure of it.

He would start at the centre. Geiss’s group reached the perimeter of the mine at the heart of the city-factory. A fence surrounded the mine complex, behind which a cluster of towers and cranes could be seen, the mechanisms that took men and materials up and down the central mineshaft.

The perimeter fence was flattened, corrugated metal. Geiss ordered his driver to advance straight through it, with Deaz’s men to follow in a standard attack pattern. The time for timidity was over.

The fence crumpled under the weight of the Chimera, which bounced slightly as its wheels rolled over the obstruction but barely slowed down. The transport pulled up outside the rear of the mining control centre, skidding slightly on the rain-slicked road surface, and Geiss stepped out as Deaz’s vehicle came to a halt behind. Further back, Guardsmen were pouring through the breach, their sergeants ordering them to spread out and secure the facility.

Geiss looked up at the mine’s control centre. From his point of view it was a squat building, only a few storeys high, but Geiss knew that it went much deeper, with many below-ground levels running down the wall of the main pit, culminating in a gallery overlooking the main works.

‘Lieutenant Deaz,’ Geiss said, pointing to the building. ‘Time for your strike teams to show me their worth. I want a secure route to the control gallery within the hour.’

Deaz gave his superior a crooked smile. ‘If there’s a carpet in there I’ll have them roll it all the way down for you, major.’

Deaz turned away, bellowing orders. The first team went in within a couple of minutes, kicking down a door and disappearing within the building, while a second team ran around the side to take a separate entrance.

Another minute or two passed, then there was a low thump from inside the building.

Geiss and Deaz exchanged glances, and Deaz tapped the vox-bead in his collar.

‘Sergeant, talk to me,’ Deaz snapped. ‘What was that?’ He listened, nodding a couple of times, then reported back to Geiss.

‘Someone blockaded the stairwell down to the first below-ground level, sir,’ said Deaz. ‘Team cleared it with an explosive charge, and are now proceeding to–’

Deaz suddenly broke off in mid-sentence, glancing at the ground as another message was relayed into his ear. He looked up at Geiss, clearly surprised.

‘Sir, we’ve found a survivor. A civilian.’

It was only as Major Geiss felt a cold rush of shock that he realised he’d grown to expect everyone on the planet to be dead.

‘Tell the rest of your men to keep moving, but to leave a couple of Guardsmen with the civilian and hold their position. I’m coming down to interview them myself.’

‘Found him asleep, sir,’ said the Guardsman who led Geiss into the oblong store room. The power was out, as it had been across the city, but the thin daylight seeped in through windows overlooking the mine, towering machinery casting cog-shaped shadows across the room.

‘Bit surprising, considering we’d just blown through a barrier two rooms from him,’ continued the Guardsman. He didn’t seem intimidated by Geiss’s rank – Deaz’s men didn’t stand much on ceremony. ‘We had to shake him awake.’

‘He doesn’t look too lively now,’ replied Geiss, looking at the man sitting on a box before him, who seemed to be suppressing a yawn. The civilian hadn’t looked up as Geiss had entered the room, and was instead staring blankly at the floor.

He wasn’t much to look at: short, probably fifty or sixty years old, white-grey hair cut into no particular style, as if hacked down for pure convenience. He either wore a thin beard, or just hadn’t shaved for a while, his lined face covered in a mess of stubble. His watery green eyes stared out from behind cheap vision-enhancers, the right lens cracked. His whole demeanour was crumpled and worn, as was the basic light blue bodyglove he was wearing.

Even in the patchy light, Geiss could see dark stains on the man’s clothes, although he showed no sign of having been injured.

Geiss cleared his throat. No reaction. So he leaned forwards, speaking right into the man’s face.

‘I am Major Halvern Geiss of the 114th Mordian Iron Guard,’ he said firmly. ‘What’s your name?’

The man looked up, a placid confusion in his eyes. He didn’t seem distressed or traumatised, just detached.

‘Your name, citizen,’ repeated Geiss, letting more authority into his voice this time.

The man opened his mouth, as if re-learning how to use it, and after a few seconds of deliberation spoke:

‘Krick,’ he said, his speech slow and quiet. ‘My name is Krick.’

‘Well, that’s a start,’ said Geiss, trying not to sound too exasperated. For the first time he wished he had a psyker on his staff, someone capable of pushing through whatever mental problem Krick was having. Even Tordez would have been useful at this point, or an intelligence man, someone familiar with conducting interrogations.

Geiss was a soldier. Getting information out of bewildered civilians wasn’t his area of expertise.

‘Mr Krick,’ he said sharply, deciding to push the conversation along. ‘I’m going to presume that you work here in some capacity. Am I right?’

Krick nodded slowly.

‘Thank you,’ said Geiss. ‘Now, please concentrate, Mr Krick. I need to know what happened here?’

‘Happened?’ Krick repeated blankly.

‘Yes, what happened?’ Geiss repeated, unused to having to give an instruction more than once. ‘Where are the people, Mr Krick? Why is no one working?’ Geiss realised that bombarding a confused man with more than one question was counterproductive, but he was losing his temper and couldn’t stop himself. ‘What has happened to this place, Mr Krick?’

‘Something,’ said Krick, his expression sharpening a little, as he reached for a distant memory. ‘Something did happen. It was…’

Geiss waited expectantly for Krick to continue.

‘It was loud,’ said Krick eventually. ‘There was noise, and blood, and light, and it was so fast. Then most everyone was gone.’

‘Gone where?’ asked Geiss. Krick’s expression and tone of voice hadn’t changed even as he struggled through his vague recollection of events, but had remained flat throughout.

‘I don’t know,’ said Krick, his gaze returning to the middle distance. ‘They’re just gone.’ He looked up at Geiss. ‘Does it matter?’

Within the hour, Deaz’s men had cleared a route through to the main control gallery. Along the way they had found half a dozen more civilians, a couple wearing similar bodygloves to Krick, a woman in the neatly pressed formal clothing of a Munitorum official, and three miners. All were in a similar state to Krick – bewildered, dirty, but uninjured and apparently not distressed by their experience.

Geiss had them all confined to a recreational area one floor above the main control gallery. He ensured they were given food from Guard rations, and access to washing and toilet facilities.

Attempts to question them gained little more than Geiss had managed to squeeze out of Krick – vague memories of chaos, but a lack of concern for the details. When left to their own devices, all of them found a bench to lie on and went to sleep.

A more focused interrogation might produce better results. Geiss considered calling in Tordez to conduct it, but put the thought aside.

Until the city-factory was thoroughly explored and secure, there was little point in pursuing a potentially fruitless line of enquiry. There was also the question of power. Something had happened to the city-wide power supply. The city-factory was built around the mine, with an on-site generatorium that relayed power to the rest of the city. Deaz’s men were assisting Gilham and his servitors in getting the power online so that at least they’d have light after nightfall.

Night. According to the recording of Gellwood Jenk’s final words, he couldn’t ‘tell in the daylight’. Tell what? Perhaps night would bring answers, but Geiss preferred to have them brought to him first, on his own terms.

Maybe there wouldn’t be any answers. Geiss’s orders were to re-secure the city-factory and get it working again. If there was never any answer to why the place had ground to a halt in the first place, then Geiss would have to live with that.

It didn’t sit easily with him, though. Even as he gave commands and received reports, ostensibly fully in control of the situation, that lack of strategic knowledge itched away at the back of his mind.

While Major Geiss fortified his position, the other platoons continued their missions elsewhere.

It was late afternoon by the time Hossk’s platoon rolled out from the farthest edge of the refineries and towards the main habs. The workers’ hab-blocks had been clustered in a relatively small area of the city-factory, a patch of land between the outer wall and the more productive, industrialised parts of the city.

There were half a dozen towering habs, brown-grey, rotten-tooth towers linked by teetering sky-bridges, awnings and cable rigs. The towers seemed to bend towards each other, sagging under the number of workers crammed into each block. Meagre, black little windows dotted each tower, with the odd flash of colour visible within – gang colours probably, thought Hossk, recollecting a previous campaign where a conflict between hive gangs had resulted in a full-scale uprising, the 114th having been brought in to quell the rebellion.

Belmos VII was one of the least populated worlds Hossk had ever had the displeasure to visit: one small city-factory around the mine on the entire planet, with a small population of workers and administrators. But even here, with a whole empty world, humanity had found a way to cram itself into a squalid, miserable place like this. Hossk had spent time in trenches on swamp worlds he’d rather live in than these habs.

It was while approaching the habs that Hossk heard the first noises. He’d had the command update from Geiss regarding survivors, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. But after a morning travelling through desolate industrial spaces where the only sounds other than those made by the guards were the whistles created by the wind flowing through corridors and pipes and the constant background patter of rainwater, the sound of a distant, muffled human voice came as a shock.

In spite of the bloodstains and evidence of violence, the emptiness they had experienced so far had had a lulling effect on the men. As the first distant voice rang out – whether it was a scream, a cry, or just normal speech, Hossk couldn’t tell – he saw many of his men unconsciously adjusting their grips on their weapons, their shoulders spreading and backs straightening as they tensed themselves for potential trouble.

The workers who lived here had no use for private transport, and the road which ran through the refineries led to the uninhabited sub-levels of the habs, presumably for the purpose of delivery vehicles and maintenance. The workers would rarely come down here, instead trudging up and down the walkways into and out of their habs. Those who lived within an hour of their workstation would keep walking, while others would file into box-like train cars that would rattle them across the city-factory to their place of labour.

Two routes to the habs above were visible as Hossk’s platoon approached. The vehicle route led directly ahead, through a darkened underpass between the bases of the hab-towers, while grimy stairwells led up to connect with the walkways that connected the habs with the rest of the city-factory.

Hossk had a choice – to continue moving into the habs via the underpass, moving as a platoon with the Chimera, or to hold the vehicle back and instead access the habs via the pedestrian levels above.

Going in from below would leave them exposed to whoever may be above, and there was no guarantee of a workable route to get to the upper levels from below the blocks themselves. However, taking the stairwells involved splitting the platoon and potentially leaving individual squads more vulnerable.

Hossk made his decision and called the platoon to a halt. These were habs, hives of potentially discontented humanity. Rolling into an open area with hab-blocks overlooking it was suicide. Any confrontation would need to be on a human scale, face to face. There was little use in maintaining the pretence of an orderly battlefield by marching in lines.

Hossk ordered the Chimera and a couple of squads to return to the edge of the refineries and find a secure position, while his sergeants drew their squads together and began to move towards the stairwells. Hossk took command of one squad, sending their best marksman to take point as they approached the stairwell.

Even in broad daylight it was a gloomy prospect. The stairwell was little more than a tube of rockcrete with weathered steps within, open to the air from waist height. Even with the wind blowing through it and the rain to wash it clean, the stench of human waste hit Hossk’s nostrils, and the steps were coated in damp scraps and rubbish.

Rifles aimed upwards, Hossk’s squad ran up the stairs, covering the angles with every turn, shouts of ‘clear!’ echoing down the stairwell as they checked the route ahead.

Within a couple of minutes they were at the walkway level. The walkway was itself nothing but a channel for directing a flow of humanity from their place of living to their place of work. Although it was covered, the walkway was open to the windows of the nearest hab-block. Hossk’s men stayed low, hugging close to the shoulder-height walls, moving as fast as they could towards the entrance to the main-hab. The doors had been torn out of the wall, leaving an open target for the Guardsmen to run towards.

The first man through made a textbook entrance, dropping low as he reached the doorway and leaning around the corner, lasrifle raised, to find any potential threat.

He did everything right, but it didn’t do him any good. A mass of scrap metal on a chain swung down and slammed into the young Guardsman before he could fire off a shot.

Hossk, who was some distance behind on the walkway, saw it happen, the Guardsman’s body knocked sideways with tremendous force, hitting the hard edge of the door frame with a crunch and falling, broken, to the ground.

Traps. Every army in the galaxy laid mines and tripwires sometimes, but the practice sat badly with Hossk, who believed that war was best fought face to face, a show of discipline and courage as much as force and ingenuity.

To their credit, the men ahead responded to the trap perfectly, holding back outside the door while a corporal extended a polished mirror on a thin rod around the door frame. The corporal hunched low, sliding the mirror underneath the mass of welded scrap that still swung from side to side in the doorframe.

‘Well?’ asked Hossk.

‘Stairs ascending to the right, sir,’ said the corporal, adjusting the rod back and forth to get a good view. ‘Looks like this was rigged on the next landing, manually swung down into Arto. They must have heard or seen us coming, sir.’ He squinted. ‘Some movement on the landing. I think they’re just tucked out of sight behind the wall. It’s dark up there, no way of telling how many. Can’t see any further traps rigged, but that’s not saying much.’

Hossk nodded. Although he couldn’t see around the corner, the room just through the doorway was empty enough, a functional hallway bare of any ornamentation, but free of any traps. Stairs running down were visible at the far side of the room. The only threat was from above.

‘Fair enough, corporal, keep an eye on it.’ He turned to the rest of the men. ‘Right, I need a fast mover with a good overarm throw.’

One of the Guardsmen raised a hand. He looked the right type – young, wiry.

‘Good man,’ Hossk nodded. ‘Sergeant, a smoke grenade.’ He took the proffered munition and passed it straight to the young Guardsman. ‘I want this pitched right up those stairs. Let the corporal here give you a look at what you’re aiming at.’ Hossk turned his attention to the rest of the men. ‘The second that grenade pops, we move in. Suppressing fire up those stairs, secure that hallway, then we move up.’

Hossk turned back to the Guardsman with the smoke grenade. ‘Ready?’

The Guardsman nodded.

‘Good, go.’

The young Guardsman backed down the walkway to give himself a run up, and pulled the pin. He then charged forwards, a thin trail of smoke already seeping out of the grenade, leaping past the hunk of scrap that had killed his fellow Guardsman. As he leapt he tossed the grenade, which spiralled out of Hossk’s field of vision.

‘Now!’ Hossk bellowed, and the rest of the men charged into the hallway, firing to their right. Hossk moved in with the pack, looking up to see a barrage of las-fire disappearing into a cloud of smoke at the top of the stairs.

In the hallway, the Guard took position, lasrifle barrels sweeping the lines of approach.

‘Secure, sir.’ Someone was helping the young Guardsman who had tossed the grenade, while another was checking the Guard who had sprung the trap in the doorway. The corporal checking the body shook his head at Hossk.

Hossk nodded in unhappy acknowledgement, and returned his attention to the top of the stairs.

‘Hold,’ he hissed as smoke began to clear, and the las-fire ceased. Half a dozen men held their position, searching for any target in the clearing smoke.

‘Get me some light,’ Hossk snapped, and lamp-packs flickered to life.

There was the recognisable form of a man at the top of the stairs, collapsed on the floor in a position that no one would choose, face down with an arm bent behind him.

‘Get me the next two landings,’ barked Hossk, sending three Guardsmen racing up the stairs. ‘And vox the other teams. I want to know whether they’ve met similar resistance.’

As his men went to work, Hossk climbed the stairs slowly to where the man who had killed one of his platoon lay. A spluttering cough revealed he was still alive, although the blood he drooled onto the floor indicated he wouldn’t be for long.

Hossk unceremoniously pushed the man onto his back with a boot toe.

The dying man was in a rough condition, unshaven and with tears and dirt all over his bodyglove. His eyes were wild and unfocused, his breathing broken and ragged. The man looked up at Hossk, and between choking gasps managed to squeeze a few words out:

‘Why… in the day?’

‘What day?’ asked Hossk, but the man was dead. He shrugged and walked away. He had little time for the ramblings of rebels and lunatics, especially when they had taken the life of an Imperial Guardsman.

Crude traps and manic citizens. Maybe this was just another tawdry uprising after all.

Hossk tapped the vox-bead at his collar.

‘Get me a channel to Major Geiss,’ he told the vox-operator. There was a pause before Geiss responded.

‘Major,’ Hossk said. ‘We’ve met some resistance.’

Hossk looked between the bodies of the two men: the dead Guardsman and his killer.

‘No, sir,’ Hossk told Geiss. ‘We’ve taken one casualty, but I don’t think the threat is too serious. Looks like just another planet with rebellious locals.’

Four

It was a single shot, but it rang out across Emperor’s Square. The echo made it impossible to tell from where the shot had come. The shot hadn’t found a target.

Munez’s men responded smoothly: those near cover took it, while those in exposed areas dropped to one knee, reducing their size as a target. All around the square, weapons were raised, eyes looking through gun sights, tracking every window and alcove on the buildings around, systematically sweeping their fields of vision to find the source of the shot, or at least to catch the muzzle flare when the next shot came, betraying the position of the shooter.

Until that second shot came – and even those who had found cover could not be sure that the shooter’s line of sight didn’t cut straight past their defensive shelter, that the next shot might not be directed at them – the possibility of finding the shooter’s location was remote. Emperor’s Square was an open area tiled with polished white stone, the centrepiece of which was a gigantic statue of the Emperor Himself, sculpted in the most extravagant high style. Smaller statues, monuments and plaques littered the square, commemorating notable people and events from across the Imperium as well as Belmos VII.

The square was overlooked by lavishly gilded buildings, each of which could house a dozen snipers. The Adeptus Mechanicus had a squat cathedra at one end of the square which was adorned with weatherbeaten statuary and gargoyles, as was the Ecclesiarchy’s temple.

From the perspective of the Guardsmen, blue-coated figures against a pure white background, the next shot could come from any one of those windows or balconies or nooks behind statues. It was an environment bristling with threat.

Across the square, they waited for the next shot to come.

Lieutenant Munez, although safely ensconced within the armoured shell of his Chimera, was no less tense for that relative security. Within seconds of the shot being heard he was on the vox, checking for casualties, demanding confirmation.

He received little satisfaction from the replies: almost everyone was certain the shot was from some kind of las-weapon, not just a similar percussive noise. Munez trusted this judgment – if there was anything soldiers learned over their careers, it was to distinguish the discharge of various weapons from sound alone.

‘If the shooter is located, report back immediately,’ said Munez over the command vox. ‘If they hit one of us and a clear retaliatory shot is available, take it. Otherwise, identify the shooter and hold position. I repeat, hold, do not fire until my mark.’

It was the kind of order that would cause discontent in a less disciplined regiment, and not one Munez took any pleasure in giving, but he trusted the men under his command to follow it within reason.

Although he had a good reputation among the rank-and-file, and considered the welfare of his men more than others of his rank, Munez was still an officer and a strategist, and would not hesitate to risk or sacrifice the lives of ordinary Guardsmen for a strategic need.

Munez was also considerably more of a political animal than anyone above or below him in the chain of command gave him credit for. So far the nature of the crisis on Belmos VII was ambiguous: the major had found some survivors, while Hossk had reported a few rebellious slum dwellers throwing crude traps around. With the situation unclear, Munez wasn’t going to allow his men to fire at every damn shadow they saw, especially if that shadow turned out to be the kind of local bigwig it would be very impolite to kill.

The square itself suggested that any such bigwigs around might be very big indeed.

Emperor’s Square was an exercise in Imperial monumentalism, an urban statement of the importance of Belmos VII’s resources to the might of the Imperium, or at least the inflated self-importance of the administrative and industrial elite of the planet. Away from the dirt and industry of the rest of the city-factory, and the squalid conditions of the workers’ habs, the city’s elite could promenade around the marbled square, drifting from boutique to salon, attended by servitor courtiers, underlings and indentured labourers, a life of luxury for those who ran and bankrolled the dirty, important but highly profitable work of the mines.

At one end of the square the main hab-tower pierced the sky, deliberately placed clear of any buildings remotely as tall. A vast gold aquila spread its wings across the facade, catching the late afternoon light, and statues of long-forgotten, but no doubt wealthy, men and women occupied key positions on ledges and in alcoves. The more functional buildings crammed either side of the tower looked burned-out and battle-scarred, but the main hab-tower was still disconcertingly immaculate.

While the Imperial Guard command structure was theoretically completely separate from the machinations of the Imperium’s great civil institutions, influence could always be brought. There was military authority, and then there was practicality.

In practical terms, Munez didn’t want to be responsible for one of his men mistakenly shooting the spouse or heir of someone who lived in this kind of luxury. That kind of error would do the career of a low-born lieutenant no good at all.

When the second shot rang out, the Guard were ready for it, instincts tracking the source of the noise, many pairs of highly trained eyes searching for the shooter.

The second shot came nearest to hitting Hool, but that wasn’t very near. A las-beam flashed, leaving a sizzling patch on the wet pavement a few metres away from him.

Hool tracked the trajectory of the shot up to the fifth floor of the elite hab. He saw the slightest hint of movement at a narrow window.

‘Got it, sir,’ shouted Hool. ‘Fifth floor, third window from the left.’

Munez was out of his Chimera, and beckoned the two soldiers across to him as Polk and Hool ran, heads low, towards him. He wasn’t surprised it was these two – Polk and the gangly youth – who had identified the shooter’s location. Munez wasn’t a hugely superstitious man, but he had seen how some squads or soldiers could have runs of good or bad luck.

He was too good an officer to let jinxes influence his decisions, but equally didn’t push against these streaks when it suited him to work with the flow of fortune. A little of the Emperor’s touch didn’t do a mission any harm.

The two Guardsmen snapped neatly to attention. They were both typical of their type. The Guard was full of men like Polk, men who rose to the rank of corporal or sergeant and stayed there, the benefit of their experience permeating the ranks. Solid men, reliable.

The young Guardsman was also of a type: one of the billions of infantry across the galaxy who were recruited, given a gun and pointed in the direction of humanity’s enemies. Most would die within a couple of years, their first mistakes their last. In spite of his recent run of luck, it was too early to tell whether this young man would be one of the fortunate few who lived longer. Fate would show its hand soon enough.

‘At ease,’ Munez said, then rolled straight into his questions.

‘How far wide of any target was this shot, Guardsman?’

‘A few metres, sir.’

‘And the shot came from the fifth floor, with a clear line of sight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the blast mark from the shot, did it chip the stone?

‘Sir…?’

‘Did it take a chunk out of the ground, did it leave a crater, however small?’

The Guardsman thought about this for a few seconds before answering:

‘No, sir. Just a black burn mark, a bit of smoke and steam.’

Munez nodded. ‘Very good.’ He turned to Polk. ‘Sergeant, no sniper would have failed to hit a target with both of those shots, and they’d certainly have known better than to try and take the shot with a short-range lasgun that only scorches its target at that range. Our shooter is probably a jumpy local, in that place likely some Administratum high-up. The major wants us to avoid trashing the precious fixtures and fittings of this wretched planet, and as far as I’m concerned that includes the local gentry.

‘Gather the rest of your squad, and go in via the building on the left there. The top floor should be directly adjacent to the fifth floor of that hab-tower. Blast your way through the adjoining wall. Some gentle suppressing fire will provide a distraction from down here, so they shouldn’t hear you coming until it’s too late.

‘If there’s serious resistance, don’t hesitate to take them down, but if possible I want our shooter bagged alive. Try not to kill them, but don’t feel you need to be gentle. I want whoever is up there talkative. If we can get the major some answers while we’re here, all the better.’

On the other side of the city-factory, Lieutenant Hossk had no such reservations. Hossk ordered his men to shoot to kill at the first sign of resistance, no hesitation. His Guardsmen swept through the habs, kicking in doors and searching communal areas.

As the men moved through the hab-slums the occasional barrage of las-fire was heard, always followed very shortly by a vox-report telling of some slum-dweller who had burst out wielding a crude weapon or making some other threatening movement. They provided little challenge to trained Guardsmen, and their bodies were left where they fell. Further reports were voxed in of crude traps of the kind Hossk had seen earlier. These were dismantled with little effort, and the afternoon wore on without further Guard casualties.

Hossk eventually returned to his Chimera at the edge of the underpass, content to allow his sergeants to lead the securing of the habs. They didn’t need his direct command to mop up this hive scum. This was grunt work, simple stuff.

At this rate, Hossk thought, they’d have Belmos VII pacified by nightfall. It was barely worth them being there.

It was the most luxurious building Hool had ever been in, even after some previous conflict had torn through, trashing the fittings, shooting holes in the walls and burning furnishings. Even after all that, it was still an elegant place, the glamour more disconcerting to Hool than the evidence of past violence.

Hool and Rivez took point, covering each other at every turn and corner, while Polk and the rest of the squad followed. They had been supplied with extra explosives for blasting their way through into the next building, and these were in the care of Midj and Hervl in the heavy packs they nervously carried on their backs, divided into pouches of heavy and light explosives.

Without the charges fitted, sealed from the atmosphere and sheathed in thick protective material, most explosives were theoretically inert, with a freak shot required to cause any kind of unintended reaction. Even so, Hool still wouldn’t have liked to be one of the men who carried such a quantity close to their person.

Midj’s knowledge of explosives was well-known while Hervl had also, by various accounts, proven to be a highly able man with explosives. Hool tried to take the odd complimentary story he had heard about Hervl in his stride – anything before the Guard was a different life, after all – but he couldn’t shake the memory of that metal spur about to be brought down into his face, of the other young man’s venomous, taunting eyes as he attempted to end Hool’s life.

Hool had been in far more life-threatening situations many, many times since being conscripted to the 114th, but Hervl and Rebek had made the first attempt on his life, and they had done it gleefully, enjoying his fear as they hunted him down like an animal.

Even though regimental loyalty and the needs of the mission overrode all other issues on the battlefield, part of Hool couldn’t, wouldn’t forget. Since Hervl had joined Polk’s squad his presence was an itch in his back, an awareness that someone who had intended him great harm was walking a few steps behind him.

Hool wanted to turn around and shoot Hervl right through the throat. Not a clean kill, but one where Hervl would die slowly, bleeding out on the dirty floor. Part of Hool wanted to see Hervl suffer.

Instead, Hool choked down his rage and concentrated on his surroundings, keeping an eye open for any sign of movement as he and Rivez led the way. On the ground floor they had passed through a grand foyer panelled with a black-green wood polished to a near-reflective shine, then through into some kind of boutique, where elaborately sculpted items of indeterminate purpose, crafted from gleaming metal and set with glittering jewels, were displayed in ornate cases set on velvet-draped plinths. Hool didn’t know what any of the stuff was for, but he knew it was expensive.

They moved quickly and quietly, Hool stepping around patches of scattered, broken glass from smashed cases. It looked accidental, a side effect of some other disturbance, or just plain vandalism, but a scattering of fragile, noisy fragments could equally be a crude alarm set by someone hidden nearby.

At the back of the room, a gilded, winding staircase led up, with filigreed banisters and polished marble steps. Hool looked up – it seemed to run right to the top of the building.

The first few steps were covered in dried blood, a wide streak that disappeared into the deep red of the carpet laid at the bottom.

Hool ignored it and looked back to Polk, who gestured for them to continue up. Hool and Rivez took the stairs carefully, as the 360-degree openness of the stairway required wide arcs of cover. They took the stairs in step with each other, almost back to back.

They passed through the next three floors of the building without incident, Hool taking in rooms full of decadent splendour: a restaurant where the tables had been overturned and once-extravagant feasts rotted on the floor; the tiled entranceway to an elaborate bathhouse, echoing with a mordant, slow drip from somewhere within; a floor where embroidered, ceiling-to-floor tapestries depicted scenes of the kind that Guardsmen traded a week’s lho-sticks for, the tapestries separating alcoves where presumably such scenes were reenacted; and finally a gambling floor where card tables had been smashed to pieces and the lurid, multicoloured lights on the walls were just burnt-out tangles of dead glass tubing.

On the fifth floor, they worked their way through the ruined gaming spaces, with chips worth fortunes scattered on the floor, and through a door into the working areas of the building.

Beyond that door, the luxuries of the front of the house ended, replaced with drab utility: grimy kitchens, drab store rooms, racks of stained servants’ uniforms. In a small side room the staff had set up a card game of their own, the battered cards and tiny piles of small-denomination coins a parody of the high-stakes games being played a short distance away.

When they reached the wall adjoining the hab-block, Midj tapped the surface a couple of times. Satisfied, he found a broken-off chair leg and smacked it into the plaster, dragging it away in lumps. He then gouged the rest off with his gloved fingers, revealing a stone patch underneath.

‘Thought so,’ Midj said to Polk. ‘This place was built right up against the exterior wall. No air between, not even a proper outer wall on this side. This–’

Midj tapped the stone wall beneath the plaster.

‘–is the outer wall of the hab.’ He shook his head. ‘The flashier these places look on the surface, the cheaper they are when you peel that away.’

‘Makes our lives easier though,’ said Polk. ‘Blow it.’

Midj and Hervl worked quickly, the older man instructing the younger on where to set the charges, and how much to use. The other guards retreated to a safe distance.

‘No point in being stealthy once that lot goes off,’ said Polk. ‘So let’s go in fast, make a lot of noise, and hit them hard.’

When the wall exploded, Polk led the charge himself. Midj had, as usual, set exactly the right quantity of explosives, and the wall exploded outwards, neatly blasted away into a shower of bricks and plaster. As it did so, dust blew out in a wave, and Polk felt the familiar rush that came from charging into the unknown, running into the cloud of thick, white brickdust, holding his breath and blinking quickly to clear the debris from his eyes.

As he emerged from the dust, Polk took in the scene: a wide room, long windows to the right. A handful of men, one crouched at a window, holding a gun with the barrel resting on a window ledge. The sniper.

Polk raised his combat shotgun, keeping the sniper covered, and bellowed at them to drop their weapons and raise their hands. Polk wasn’t aware of the detail of what he was saying, just a stream of the worst expletives he knew.

The men in the room did as they were told, the sniper recoiling from his own gun as if it were threatening him. No one else appeared to be armed. Hands stretched up to the ceiling, blind panic in the eyes.

Civilians, as Munez had predicted. Scared, untrained civilians in expensive clothes, meekly surrendering to the force of will of the Guardsmen flooding into their home.

Civilians who had shot at the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, Polk remembered. He grabbed the sniper by the collar and threw him roughly to the floor, then kicked him over onto his back.

‘Why did you fire at us?’ bellowed Polk, jamming the fat barrel of his shotgun into the sniper’s solar plexus. A shot at this close range would probably blast the man’s heart through the floor. ‘Why?’

‘We thought you were them,’ babbled the sniper. ‘We didn’t know you were you!’

‘Who?’ demanded Polk. ‘Who did you think we were?’

‘Them,’ said the sniper, as if desperate to form the words but finding it hard to describe. ‘The others, the ones who changed.’

‘Changed? What changed? How did they change?’

The sniper was hyperventilating, scrabbling for the words, his eyes wide and pupils dilated in panic. ‘It’s hard to explain. They become… more.’ He paused to take a couple of ragged breaths. ‘It happens at night, we only see them in the dark.’

At that, the man looked away from Polk, his eyes suddenly drawn to the window.

Keeping the combat shotgun firmly pressed to his captive’s chest, Polk followed his gaze.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set over Emperor’s Square.

Night was falling.

Five

The day was drawing to a close by the time Gilham, assisted by his servitors and a group of Deaz’s men, restored power to the city, reactivating the power plant at one edge of the mining compound. The adept voxed Geiss to tell him the news.

Geiss, sat in the main gallery of the mine, already knew. The lumens in the ceiling had flickered and then ignited into life, flooding the control room with light, obscuring the smaller, flickering coloured glows sparking on the control panels that ran around the room. The slow background hum of technology began to rise, and Geiss realised how quiet it had been before, an industrial facility with nothing but human noise as a background.

Geiss thanked Gilham and ordered him back to base. He then ordered his vox-operator to connect him to one of the sentries out at the periphery of the complex. The surprised sentry, unused to being addressed by a senior officer, reported that lights were slowly coming on across the city-factory.

‘Good job, sir,’ said the sentry jovially. ‘It’s starting to get dark out here.’

Geiss doled out an officerly platitude and cut the line. He walked over to the gallery windows that looked out over the mine, at the tangle of ramps and elevators that plunged into the pit below.

The answer would be down there – how could it not be? A team would need to descend into the mine sooner rather than later and, with power restored, Gilham would no doubt have those elevators up and working in no time. It would be possible to send a squad down there tonight, but leaning forwards to look up at the slivers of darkening sky visible between the hulking mining equipment, Geiss wondered whether it would be better to leave that until the next day. An expeditionary force would perform better if well rested. Perhaps he should let the men make camp for the night, and leave the next stage of the operation until the daylight.

The problem was one of uncertainty. Geiss still didn’t know what he was dealing with. Hossk and Munez had both reported minor resistance, possibly rebels of some kind, but no force so efficient and comprehensive as to cause the disappearance of almost everyone in an entire city-factory in a couple of weeks. One sniper and a few traps did not wipe out an entire population. Something else was at work here on Belmos VII, or at least had been.

Even if it was now gone, it must have left traces, some explanation Geiss could present to his superiors. He needed answers, or at least an indication of what questions to start asking. Even if he waited until the next day, any force he sent down that mine would be blundering into the dark with no idea of what they were facing.

It wasn’t good enough. He needed more to go on, and he only had one line of enquiry, even if it had so far proven frustrating and fruitless: he needed to re-interrogate Krick and the other civilians. If more forceful techniques were required to sharpen their memories, then he would just have to use them.

The lights were beginning to crawl up the two hab-slums as the power was restored to the city-factory, but in the underpass beneath those towers the gloom thickened with the end of the day. As his men secured the towers above, Hossk had rolled his Chimera closer, without entering the potential hot zone between the two.

A light rain had begun to fall, the droplets of water glowing in the Chimera’s headlights. As the sun faded, the temperature outside the Chimera dropped, and the men looked restless, pacing around, patrolling more frequently just to keep warm.

‘Halt!’ shouted one near the base of the towers, and Hossk, who had been sitting just inside his Chimera, dropped to the ground, reaching for his laspistol.

‘We have civilians!’ shouted the patrolling Guardsman. Walking away from the Chimera and towards the Guardsman’s voice, Hossk found his eyes began to adjust to the thickening gloom. He could make out the shape of a Guardsman, lasrifle semi-raised, and further away a group of figures, haloed by light from one of the hab-towers’ atria.

‘Tell them to hold,’ shouted Hossk. Accompanied by half a dozen Guardsmen, he walked briskly into the shadows.

‘At ease,’ Hossk told the Guardsman as he walked up alongside him, then turned to the group of civilians. There were eight of them, and even with the light from the airwell above, it was hard to make out much detail in the gloom. Three men, five women, all wearing neutral workclothes, all relatively tall. Their body language was unthreatening, relaxed, completely different to the twitchy aggression of the rabid hab-scum that Hossk’s men had been dealing with in the blocks above. Although Hossk couldn’t make out every detail of their faces, he could see the whites of their eyes in the darkness.

‘Where did you come from?’ Hossk asked.

‘We sleep through the day,’ one of the women said. ‘It’s only safe for us after dark.’

‘We’ll put an end to that,’ said Hossk. ‘There won’t be any no-go areas or curfews now this city is under Guard control. We’re reclaiming the habs from the rebels now.’

‘The rebels?’ said one of the men, his head tilting upwards to look at the habs. As he did so, distant gunfire could be heard above. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call them that. They have been a problem.’

There was a ripple of laughter through the group. For civilians in fear of their lives, living somewhere beneath the hab-blocks, they didn’t seem too concerned to Hossk.

‘We’re so glad you soldiers are here,’ said the woman who had previously spoken. ‘We were running out of food.’

Geiss had voxed Gilham while on his way to the recreation area where the civilians were being kept under guard, ordering the adept to meet him there as soon as possible. While all the Adeptus Mechanicus were bodily augmented in one way or another, Adept Gilham had an intense interest in mechanically adapting the human body that bordered on a hobby, if an adept could be considered to have such a thing.

Gilham knew more about the functioning of the human form, and its capacity for augmentation, than many medicae, and his eagerness to put this knowledge into practice occasionally came in useful, although the adept treated working on human bodies as a purely mechanical problem. He had seen Gilham perform elaborate battlefield augmentations on crippled men, cleaving through flesh and bone with inhuman precision, but without restraint or, often, anaesthetic. Those men had been sent back to the front as if nothing untoward had happened, but Geiss could tell they were changed, and not just physically; Gilham had saved their lives, but taken away part of their humanity.

Geiss was certain that Gilham’s knowledge could be turned to his current purpose, that the adept would find a way to induce compliance in these civilians.

Before Gilham got there, Geiss intended to have one final attempt to get a straight answer without coercion. He entered the room, the guards parting to let him through, expecting it to be a struggle to get the civilians awake, never mind talking.

Instead, he found Krick and the others on their feet, pacing the room.

Geiss didn’t let his shaken expectations show, instead marching straight towards the shorter man.

‘Mr Krick,’ he said briskly. ‘I see you’re more awake than before. I hope this means you’re willing to be more talkative.’

Krick stopped his pacing and snapped his head around to examine Geiss. His watery eyes seemed sharper, more intelligent than they had before. The whites of Krick’s eyes were unmarked by a single burst bloodvessel or other sign of exhaustion, almost glowing. And there was… something else, some extra edge in Krick’s gaze that Geiss couldn’t quite identify.

‘Of course… Major Geiss,’ said Krick, as if remembering something from long ago. ‘I apologise for being uncooperative earlier, I assure you it was not intentional. I’m afraid that none of us are at our best in the daytime any more. Please, sit down, I will happily answer any of your questions.’

Geiss shook his head, instead pacing around Krick, facing him directly. He couldn’t remember whether Krick had been standing at any point in their earlier interview, but he could swear the old man was taller than he had been. Obviously an illusion of better posture – the old man had been slumped during the day, barely sitting up straight. Now he was straight-backed, alert.

They all were. Geiss registered that all the other civilians – the miners in their workclothes, the bodygloved administrators – were standing straight and still, watching Krick and Geiss’s conversation intently.

No, not quite. They were all watching Geiss. Not making eye contact, but looking straight at him.

Geiss ignored them. He was a major in the Imperial Guard, one of the Unbreakable 114th. He wasn’t a man to be intimidated by a handful of civilians.

Nonetheless, he found his hand instinctively going to the pommel of his chainsword, the other brushing the top of his holstered laspistol. Both were exactly where he expected.

‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what you do here, Mr Krick?’ Geiss asked. Start with an innocuous question and build from there, Geiss had once been told.

‘I’m an auditor,’ replied Krick, speaking quickly. His voice had lost any aged croak, and he spoke youthfully and fluently. ‘This facility mines several key minerals, but the amounts of each are inconsistent dependent on the seams being worked at any one time. I monitor the varying outputs of each, and depending on the balance I propose alterations to the mining schedule to try and ensure our relative quotas of each substance are met.’

‘Fascinating,’ lied Geiss. ‘And how has the situation been recently?’

‘Well, the mine has been out of action for a week or so, as I’m sure you’re aware,’ said Krick, rocking back on his heels, making an expansive, look at all this gesture that didn’t quite conceal that he was rolling his shoulders under his clothes.

Krick smiled at Geiss, taking off his spectacles to look at the major, folding them away and sliding them into an outer pocket.

‘I say a week or so,’ added Krick. ‘It could be less time, or maybe more. The days are a blur to us now. And the nights, the nights have distractions of their own, Major Geiss.’

‘Really?’ said Geiss. He chose his next question carefully, and was surprised to find himself not asking what had happened to the rest of the city-factory, or how whatever had happened had started. Geiss realised he had a more pressing question, considering his current circumstances.

‘Why were you sealed in here, Mr Krick?’ Geiss asked.

Krick spread his arms widely again. He smiled, revealing sharp, perfectly white teeth.

‘Isn’t that obvious, Major Geiss?’ said Krick. He leaned forwards, and whispered, ‘To stop us from getting out.’

Geiss grasped the handle of his chain-blade, but Krick was fast, incredibly fast, bringing one palm around in a wide slap. The old man caught the major on the shoulder with a blow that flung Geiss sideways. The blow had the force of a wrecking ball, and Geiss was taken off his feet, hitting the wall a couple of metres away. His hand was knocked away from the chain-blade, the blow to his shoulder numbing that arm.

Geiss hit the wall as best he could, landing on his feet, his other hand reaching for his laspistol. As he drew the gun he took in the scene around him – he would get no help from the two guards on the door, who were only now raising their lasrifles as the other civilians charged across the room, heads low, moving at unbelievable speed.

Not that Geiss had any time to worry about his men. Krick was striding towards him, and Geiss suddenly realised what that hard-to-identify look in the old man’s gaze had been.

It had been predatory, the way a hawk looks at a rodent.

Geiss was no one’s prey. He lifted the laspistol, aimed at the centre of Krick’s forehead and fired. Geiss was a good shot, and took aim confidently in one smooth motion. The kickback jolted his arm as the shot crossed the short gap between Geiss and Krick…

…where it missed. Either Krick saw some ‘tell’ in Geiss’s movements and was capable of moving out of the way before the shot was taken, or he was even more inhumanly fast than Geiss thought. Krick had bent his upper body back and to the side, the shot burning a hole in the other wall of the windowless room.

The effort of dodging the shot had at least stopped Krick in his tracks, buying Geiss a few seconds.

Geiss knew how to take a lesson in humility when one was given to him. Headshots were difficult, even at short range, and most Guardsmen were ordered not to try and take them unless they were exceptionally good shots and there was a sound reason to do so.

His lesson learnt, Geiss dropped the laspistol lower, aiming for Krick’s chest as he snapped back into a standing position, Krick’s forward motion pushing him, step by step, closer to Geiss.

Geiss fired five times in close succession. The first shot was aimed directly at Krick’s solar plexus, the second to the right, the third to the left, the fourth back and up slightly, the last down a little: a cluster formation, as practised on the firing range.

The rapid fire shook Geiss’s arm, even with his other hand gripping the wrist for support, but the fire pattern did the job. Krick weaved past the first shot, the second went wide, but in dodging that Krick walked into the third, which tore through his left shoulder, causing the old man to reel back with a cry of agony, a cry that had barely begun as the fourth shot caught him high in the chest, cutting off his breath and flipping him over.

Krick collapsed backwards, smashing through a utility table and hitting the floor with a graceless thud.

Geiss didn’t know whether the last shot had hit and he didn’t care. His bloodlust up, he let the laspistol drop to his side, hanging from the looped gold cord tied to his belt, and reached for his chainsword again.

The chainsword thrummed hungrily to life as Geiss stepped over to where Krick lay. The major swung the chainsword back with both hands, and then brought it down in an arc which would plunge the blade right into Krick’s heart.

The chainsword was blocked before it could reach its target. Although Krick’s left arm was limp by his side, crippled by the shot to his shoulder, and blood was gushing out of the chest wound made by the other shot, his right arm was still good – the old man had a metal chair leg in his right hand, and was holding it rigid to block the chainsword’s descent.

Geiss grimaced and pushed down. To block the chainsword one-handed was an amazing feat of strength, but ultimately futile: the chainsword was already digging through the obstruction, chips of soft metal rolling off the blade. Geiss would need to be careful not to fall onto his own blade when the table leg gave way and the chainsword plunged down. He adjusted his footing to compensate.

Geiss’s eyes locked with Krick’s as they struggled. Even coughing up blood from the chest wound, gore crawling out of the corner of his mouth, he seemed younger than earlier that day. His hair was darker, his skin smoother, and the whites of his eyes were now so clear and bright as to seem incandescent, his pupils reduced to shadows.

Krick’s mouth crawled into a bloody grin, a gurgling laugh taunting Geiss.

The chainsword broke through the table leg and swept down towards Krick, but yet again Geiss was denied – as the major leaned forwards to deliver the killing blow, one of Krick’s feet shot forwards, beneath the reach of the blade, catching Geiss low in the torso and smacking into his hip. The blow sent Geiss reeling, but he kept hold of his chainsword, not letting it go for a second.

Down on one knee, about to lift the chainsword for another go, Geiss turned to see a grinning Krick on his feet, swinging a broken half of table-leg towards Geiss’s face. It was a ragged, nasty chunk of cheap metal, but it would do the job, and with Geiss’s merely human reflexes, he didn’t stand a chance.

Before the crude weapon could reach Geiss, its wielder was knocked off his feet, an ornate pneumatic hammer piledriving into the side of his head, snapping his neck to one side.

It could have been a killing blow, but Geiss wasn’t taking any chances. He brought the chainsword around in an arc and caught Krick in the waist, between the hard bone of the ribs and hips. With only the vertebrae to block its path the chainsword tore right through the man, cutting him neatly in half. A vile stench filled the room as Krick’s guts spilled out onto the floor, a rank smell of hot bile.

The two halves of Krick’s body fell to the floor, lifeless. One dead eye stared out of a skull caved in by the hammer blow. Geiss thought he saw a hint of that unnatural whiteness shimmering in the eyeball, but then it faded, the light dying as surely as Krick.

Geiss looked up at the hammer’s owner. Gilham had already returned the weapon/tool to wherever he kept it in his voluminous red robes, one of his mechadendrites snaking it beneath the folds of scarlet cloth. The adept’s hood was thrown back, his head a copper-coloured helmet of dark metal, his rebreather and optics giving his face a fierce, skull-like aspect.

‘Major Geiss,’ said Gilham, offering his superior officer a hand. ‘I apologise for not arriving sooner.’

‘You’re forgiven,’ said Geiss, gratefully taking Gilham’s hand. Through the rough leather work glove he could feel an unnatural strength pulling him to his feet, the result of countless augmentations beneath those red robes. ‘Just in time will do for me.’

‘Sadly, I was not in time to help the others,’ Gilham said. His voice was a deep rumbling bass sound, coming from vox-casters built into his face.

Geiss looked past Gilham to the doorway and swore. The other civilians had torn through the Guardsmen in their eagerness to escape, near-decapitating one man while punching straight through the other’s chest. The two young guards had barely moved from their station before dying, their bodies lying on either side of the doorframe.

‘You know augmentations, have you ever seen anything like…?’ Geiss began the question then cut himself off, silencing any response from Gilham with a raised hand. ‘Forget I asked, we don’t have time.’

Geiss tapped his vox-bead: ‘This is Major Geiss to all stations, we have six hostiles loose in the mining complex. Hostiles resemble human civilians, but have greatly enhanced speed and strength. They’re fast enough to dodge fire from a single man, so keep in formation and hit them with wide volleys. I want patrols on that perimeter fence now – these things must not get away. Geiss out.’

Geiss silenced the vox before anyone could reply. He needed to take a minute to get his breath back and restore his composure before he followed up to ensure his orders were carried out. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting his pulse settle. A shaken officer was a bad leader.

He opened his eyes to see Gilham standing exactly where he had been before. The adept seemed to have little sense of time, and virtually no capacity for impatience.

‘Right,’ said Geiss. ‘Let’s catch these bastards.’ He led the way out of the room, Gilham sweeping silently into step behind him.

‘Thank the Emperor there aren’t more of them,’ Geiss added under his breath.

‘What do you mean it happens at night?’ Polk said. The barrel of the sergeant’s gun was digging down into the sniper’s chest, and even from across the room Hool could see that it would take the slightest movement or surprise for Polk to jerk his finger back on the trigger, a point-blank shot that would kill the sniper instantly.

Hool shouldn’t have been concerned as to whether Polk fired or not, especially as he had been targeted by the sniper, albeit badly. Hool had seen men die for far less than firing on the Guard, but he felt a strange reservation nonetheless: there was something in the sniper’s youth, his lack of training and blind panic that made him uneasy, as if he were looking at himself, having taken a different path in life.

The sniper was blustering in reply to Polk, seemingly unable to form a coherent response, and Hool was about to suggest his sergeant go easy on the man, but he was pre-empted by the man who entered the room.

He walked in slowly, non-aggressively, making sure his footsteps were clearly heard, and he kept his hands raised and open so that the Guardsmen covering him as he entered could see he was unarmed. He was shorter than most of the Guard, bulky but not fat, with slicked-back hair and a grey-green uniform with gold trim that seemed to have suffered a lot of recent tears and scrapes. His wide brown eyes had an expression of desperate calm.

‘I can answer all your questions,’ he said. ‘Please let Plymton go. He shouldn’t have shot at you – it was a mistake.’

‘A mistake?’ echoed Polk incredulously, not moving the barrel of his combat shotgun. Hool and Zvindt had the newcomer covered.

The newcomer winced, realising ‘mistake’ was an unfortunately mild term if you were the ones who had been shot at.

‘A mistake, a serious error, a crime,’ the man said. ‘Call it what you like but please listen to me: the people Plymton mistook you for will be here soon, and we need to warn your men in the square.’

Polk placed his boot on the sniper’s chest and swung his gun around to point at the newcomer’s face.

‘You’ve seen how we deal with “people”. What makes you think these will be any more of a problem than you have been?’ snapped Polk.

‘Because they were exposed,’ said the man. ‘And no, I don’t know to what exactly, but it changed them. They used to be miners but now they’re killers, faster and stronger than anything I’ve ever seen, and while your force out there may be armed, they are not expecting what’s coming, trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ said Polk. ‘I don’t even know who you are, and you’re expecting me to report some rambling story about murderous miners to my lieutenant on your word?’

‘My name is Calway,’ said the man. ‘I was head of security at this tower, and I’ve been helping the people in this building to stay alive through night after night of attacks from people who used to be friends and family, so please, please let me help you too. Warn your lieutenant.’

Polk finally nodded, and lowered his gun slightly. ‘Fine.’ He cocked the barrel towards the other civilians, and stepped off the sniper’s chest. ‘All of you, in the corner. I’m voxing this in to Lieutenant Munez.’

‘Sergeant Polk on the vox, sir,’ said the vox-operator.

‘Luck holding up, then,’ said Munez under his breath, before accepting the vox. ‘Sergeant Polk, you have the sniper?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Polk, his voice distant over the vox. ‘Few other civilians as well, sir. Turns out they thought we were someone else and, well, they want me to warn you about them.’

‘Them, sergeant?’

‘Mine workers, mainly, exposed to something. Made them killers. As far as I can tell, they come out at night. This lot are scared witless.’

Munez chuckled. ‘Sounds like a bit of local terror to me, probably rebellious workers. Tell the men in their big tower to put down their guns and let us deal with this. Night’s falling, we’ll rally round and deal with this soon enough.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Polk sounded dubious.

‘Don’t tell me you think there’s something in this, sergeant?’

Polk seemed about to answer, when Munez heard a shout from outside the Chimera. Someone had been sighted.

Hossk owed his life to the boredom of his men. Those not on specific duties had gradually drifted towards the conversation between Hossk and the civilians beneath the hab-towers. As boring as it might be, it was the best show on offer.

So when one of the women moved forwards and grabbed Hossk by the throat, there were plenty of witnesses.

Hossk didn’t see what happened next – he was too busy choking as an iron grip tightened around his neck, looking down into the face of a woman who must have been little more than a girl, young enough to be Hossk’s own daughter. As she squeezed his windpipe his vision began to blur, lack of oxygen starving his brain, and the last thing he saw was a pitiless, white-hot gaze looking up at him as she shook him like a doll, two bright points staring at him as everything else faded into shadow.

The men acted with the exemplary discipline that Hossk would expect. When their lieutenant was attacked they dropped from a loose gathering into tight formation, rifles raised and searching for a target. The moment they had a clear shot past Hossk’s dangling body, they fired as one, half a dozen las-shots streaking through the air, most hitting their target.

The las-fire didn’t kill her, but it did make her drop Hossk. He hit the ground hard, knocking the last stale air out of his lungs, then raggedly inhaled. The sound of las-fire filled his ears, and he felt strong arms pulling him to his feet and dragging him backwards.

Someone was shouting for backup.

They were stumbling back out from the underpass, back towards the Chimera, a tight knot of half a dozen men around Hossk maintaining suppressing fire. Hossk’s legs felt weak beneath him and his vision was still swimming, a side-effect of his brief oxygen deprivation. He shook his head, trying to shake some sense into himself. Twisting his arm around the grip of one of the men hurrying him along, Hossk pressed the vox-bead on his collar.

Nothing. It must have been crushed in the stranglehold.

Hossk looked back to where he had been attacked. There was no one in the light from the atrium, and as the sun had now set the rest of the underpass was in near-total darkness.

Something moved to his left, terrifyingly fast, and one of his men was gone, a truncated scream and a hideous crack in the darkness indicating his fate.

Then again from the right – something pulled another Guardsman into the darkness, with barely a shout of protest.

Seconds later a burst of las-fire emerged from the dark, bringing down a couple more men. One of the guards surrounding Hossk fell on to him, knocking the lieutenant off his feet, dead weight threatening to pin him to the ground.

Hossk pushed the dead man off him and drew his own pistol. The last surviving Guardsmen were sweeping the darkness of the underpass with torches, searching for any sign of their attackers.

Nothing, not even the body of the Guardsman who had been pulled away.

Of the two Guardsmen felled by las-fire, the one who had fallen across Hossk was dead, a dirty burnmark scorching through his blue coat. The other was still alive, but had gone into shock – a high-intensity blast had cut right through his midriff, and he was bleeding out, a dark stain slowly spreading down his clothes, his breath hurried and broken. Hossk tried to get his attention, nudging the man’s shoulder with his boot, but his pupils were dilated and flickering.

Whatever the Guardsman was seeing, it wasn’t anything in the real world.

‘Get him up,’ Hossk ordered one of the two standing survivors. ‘Leave the body, we’ll come back for it.’

Hossk began to back slowly away, matching pace with the Guardsman carrying the injured man. Hossk swept a lamp-pack back and forth through the dark to their left, as the Guardsman to the right did the same in the other direction.

Something heavy was thrown out of the dark, hitting the other armed Guardsman in the face. He was knocked backwards, barrelling into the trooper carrying the wounded man, who in turn was pushed towards Hossk. The flailing Guardsman’s lamp-pack swung up towards the rockcrete underside of the tower above, illuminating a mess of pipes and scaffold, while whatever missile had struck him skidded across the ground and back into the dark.

Hossk fired in the direction he thought the missile must have come from, laying down a suppressing barrage of las-fire over the heads of the fallen Guardsmen.

Hossk stopped firing, and was about to berate the floored men to get back on their feet when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. In one fluid movement, Hossk was thrown off his feet and cast several metres away from the rest of the group. He tried to land as well as he could, but cracked the side of his head against the ground as he rolled three, four times before coming to a halt flat on his back.

The blow to the head had left Hossk nauseated, waves of disorientation spreading from his head injury and into his limbs. He knew that adrenaline was keeping him conscious and holding back the pain, which he could feel welling within him. Hossk couldn’t feel his legs, or at least couldn’t get them to move properly, so he used his elbows to roll himself in the direction from which he had been thrown, to try and get a better view of what was going on.

He looked back to where his men, who had defended him and tried to get him to safety, had last been. The lamp-packs pointed in several directions, but all had been dropped. His vision was swimming, blurred around the edges, but he could see tall figures moving between the low lights, and Hossk heard involuntary cries from the men on the ground, and the breaking of glass as each light was smashed but one.

Hossk tried to pull himself to his feet, but every movement caused his head to swim, the pain building and threatening to cause him to black out. He lay on the wet rockcrete and watched as the last lamp was picked up and pointed in his direction, then began to move leisurely towards him.

A distant light provided some brief illumination and Hossk could see the female civilian who had spoken earlier walking towards him.

‘Now, where were we?’ she asked, lifting the torch so that it pointed straight into Hossk’s eyes, the intense light both blinding him and aggravating the pain in his skull.

Then the light became even stronger, accompanied by a roar of engines. Hossk saw the woman disappear beneath the tracks of his Chimera as it thundered past, and felt a cold spray as those tracks threw up filthy water. The Chimera skidded in a wide arc and Guardsmen moved out, surrounding Hossk and lifting him up. They were asking him how he was, making concerned noises, but for some reason Hossk couldn’t make out their exact words.

The pain, momentarily suppressed by Hossk’s fight-or-flight instinct as he was under attack, hit him like a tidal wave now that the crisis was over and he was safe again. He tried to hang on, to keep his senses sharp, but failed.

Hossk lost consciousness as they carried him into the Chimera.

They were first spotted on the rooftops around Emperor’s Square – humanoid figures, silhouetted against the clear night sky. Shouts came in from west, east and south of movement high above, of heads seen above parapets, of barely visible figures darting between the statuary and ornamentation.

Munez didn’t get a chance to give the order to shoot or not – none of the men had a bead on these targets long enough to take a shot. They were shadows, distinct enough to not be mistaken for a trick of the fading light, but too fast, too fleeting, to be targeted.

Then, as the night deepened they were seen in the windows, or moving across balconies. Munez, stepping away from the searchlight of his Chimera so he could adjust his vision to the dark, thought he saw one himself, a long-legged figure jumping from one balcony to another, only to disappear into the next window.

Maybe Polk’s civilian was on to something after all.

Sergeant Essler was down on one knee, an elbow resting on his raised knee to steady his hellgun as he swept it left and right, up and down, one artificial eye pressed to the sights. Low squeaks were coming from the vox-caster in his mask.

Munez realised that Essler was counting.

‘How many?’ Munez asked.

Smoker didn’t take his eye away from the sights. ‘Visibility poor, hard to tell. May be double counting. Raw sightings? Seventeen in the last three minutes.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, eighteen.’

‘Spread the word,’ Munez told Essler. ‘If there’s a shot to be taken, take it. We are the 114th, the Unbreakables, and we will not be played with.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Essler, standing up without entirely lowering his gun, moving away to spread the order, his gaze still sweeping the buildings around the square.

A vox-operator ran over to Munez, a hand over one ear.

‘Message from the major, sir,’ said the vox-operator. ‘There’s been some kind of attack in the mining complex. Civilians, but somehow augmented with strength and speed. Major Geiss is locking down the mining complex to try and keep them contained.’

‘How many?’ asked Munez.

‘Four or five, sir.’

‘Four or five?’ Munez repeated. He caught sight of something moving at the edge of the square, ducking between shadows to stay out of firing range. In the distance, he could hear whistling: not a melody, but single high-pitched whistles ringing out from different sides of the square, a signal spreading between the people in the shadows.

Munez turned back to the vox-operator. ‘Vox Major Geiss immediately, priority channel, in my name. Tell him containment is no longer an issue. They’re everywhere.’

Six

Emperor’s Square was surrounded by ornamental lampposts, wrought metal poles like twisted limbs gripping high-powered lumen globes that, theoretically, would cast pools of light creating an elegant ambience for the high-class citizens of Belmos VII after dark.

At least, that was Munez’s guess. Now, they were just more shapes looming in the darkness. They had all been broken, creating pools of deep shadow around the edge of the square. Some light trickled out of the windows of surrounding buildings, but very little. The fall of night turned the square into a maze of overlapping shadows, the outlines of statues and street furniture becoming indistinct and sinister. The temperature had dropped and collars were turned up against the icy wetness in the air.

‘Form a perimeter,’ Munez ordered. ‘You get a shot, take it. Don’t fall back or move unless ordered. Let’s keep this line tight.’

The men did as they were told, dropping back to form a fifty- metre-wide circle with his command Chimera at the centre. Lamp packs created a wider area of light, the beam interlocking as each Guardsman covered an area ahead, with no angle left uncovered.

When they came, it was in force. Munez turned at the sound of shots from the west, and saw half a dozen of his men concentrating their las-fire into a crowd of men and women running across the square directly towards them. There had to be at least fifty, with more visible behind, running out of doorways and jumping from windows one or two floors up.

Las-fire tore into the front line of unarmed civilians, burning through their flesh and killing many, but the tumble of broken, twisted bodies did nothing to impede the mass of civilians surging forwards. Munez saw one or two roll with the shots as they hit them, tumbling out of the way of the mass of the crowd, while others were either thrown aside or trodden underfoot.

In spite of casualties, the civilians closed the space between them and the Guard perimeter in a matter of seconds from being first sighted.

One woman broke the line of the civilians, seemingly dancing between beams of las-fire as she ran. She was slight, with long red hair, unremarkable apart from her running speed – probably little more than a teenager.

She broke the line by running straight into a rifleman of middle years, a big man as much due to muscle as fat. When the young girl hit him he was knocked to the ground, the girl on top of him, her fists pounding down into his face, a rough, animalistic cry tearing out of her mouth.

The men on either side didn’t let their comrade’s plight break their discipline, continuing to fire into the crowd as, seconds later, they too were knocked over. One was thrown, tossed aside several metres, knocking over more Guardsmen, while another was hit in the side of the face so hard his neck snapped, his head hanging at an unnatural angle as his body fell to the ground.

The line was broken.

For Hervl, joining the Guard had given him a purpose. While he didn’t regret any of his previous life, up to and including hunting down Hool and trying to beat the hell out of him, that life now seemed distant, colourless. He could no longer remember why he had done any of the things he had as a boy growing up in the Mordian hives – the petty crimes, the fights, the deals – only that it had all seemed important at the time.

It didn’t any more. The 114th had given Hervl something he lacked in the chaos of gang life – clear objectives, and a way of fulfilling them. Having spent so much of his youth looking up to the gangers with their illicit guns, hoping to one day fire one of them, Hervl had rapidly discovered that he wasn’t any kind of shot. In active service on Elisenda, he had successfully shot an enemy with his lasrifle perhaps three times.

Explosives were another matter. Hervl had demonstrated the nerve, patience, steady hand and, to his own surprise, precision to handle and deploy explosives in the field. When the las-fire was flying, Hervl managed to maintain focus on the job at hand, setting complex charges and laying explosives that wouldn’t bear mishandling.

Hervl could live with the danger – it was the long, dull periods in between he liked less. In the short time since he and Midj had blasted a way into the tower for Polk and his squad, Hervl had zoned out as the sergeant had shouting matches with a couple of locals, talked into his vox for a bit, then continued his discussion with the older local.

They were still at it. Polk was calm now, while the local was getting increasingly heated. Hervl wasn’t really bothering to follow the conversation. Sooner or later someone would ask him to blow something up, and then he would make an effort to pay attention.

As if on cue, the local suddenly looked past where Hervl was standing. Hervl lazily followed the man’s gaze.

There was nothing to see, just the hole that Midj and Hervl had blown in the wall.

‘Ah,’ said the local. ‘That’s how you got in. I heard the explosion but didn’t realise you’d made quite that big a hole.’ He seemed nervous, aware that his encounter with the Guard hadn’t been going too well so far, and that he might not be in a position to push his luck. ‘You may want to consider closing that up.’

‘Close that up?’ replied Polk. ‘Calway, it was only by coming in that way that we took your boy here down without killing him or his mates. We could easily have just launched a mortar from the ground and blown the lot of them to pieces, so don’t push your bloody luck by expecting us to redecorate.’

‘Sergeant Polk,’ said Calway, visibly suppressing his temper, ‘all of you. While there’s an easy point of access to this building not only are we in danger, but the hundred or so innocents who have managed to stay safe here will also be under threat.’

‘Threat?’ asked Polk. ‘You haven’t even explained what your bloody threat is supposed to–’

He was cut off in mid-sentence by the sound of ferocious las-fire from outside.

‘Our lads are under attack,’ reported Hool, who was closest to the window. ‘Hard to tell who by, but they don’t seem to be armed. They’re tearing into us, though.’

Polk and Calway’s eyes locked briefly, then Polk turned to Midj and Hervl.

‘You two, think you can seal that hole?’

Midj was already ahead of the conversation and had already scoped out the options: ‘If we knock out this supporting beam, we should have a controlled collapse. I wouldn’t want to be in the room above, though.’

‘With your permission, sergeant, I’ll send someone up to clear it,’ said Calway. Polk nodded, and Calway sent the sniper and his friends off to clear the room above.

Midj slapped Hervl on the arm, and they started setting charges on the supporting beam that braced one end of the room. As Hervl began to lay thin strips of explosive putty, the conversation in the room receded to a dim background hum that Hervl was only faintly aware of.

‘How many of you can handle yourselves?’ Polk was asking.

‘Excluding the children and elderly, only about forty men and women,’ said Calway. ‘Our main problem is weapons. We never got near the armouries before the PDF – and our access – was wiped out, so we’ve scavenged what we can, but most of these people have never fired a lasgun for practice, never mind in anger.’

‘It’s getting bad out there,’ shouted Hool. Hervl concentrated on his work, and resisted any urge to wonder what Hool had seen.

‘We need to give them support, maybe even open this place up as a defensive position,’ said Polk. ‘Calway, what kind of–’

‘Incoming!’ snapped Deress, and Hervl felt the air around him warm as las-fire flew past him.

He glanced down the corridor of the building they had come from, and saw two men running towards him, hands outstretched like talons.

‘Midj, Hervl, down!’ bellowed Polk, and Hervl dropped to the floor, getting a face full of dust from the wall he’d helped destroy earlier, a fat chunk of plaster gouging a scrape in his cheek.

‘Concentrate fire!’ ordered Polk, and the las-fire intensified.

Hervl felt a string of sharp pains in the back of his neck, of fingernails pressing into his skin, before another barrage of las-fire streaked overhead and the pressure was suddenly removed.

Someone pulled him to the side, rolling him onto his back. Hervl instinctively closed his hand into a fist, but looked up to see Midj, face covered with dust and splattered with blood, looking down on him.

‘Let’s get this done,’ said the older man, grabbing Hervl around the forearm and pulling him to his feet.

The entirety of Polk’s squad were advancing in tight formation, firing past Hervl and Midj, who were off to one side of the hole in the wall. Hervl glanced through the hole – the bodies of a couple of civilians were sprawled close to where they stood, one twisted backwards, sharpened fingernails reaching out towards nothing.

Another one came running forwards at unbelievable speed, dropping into a roll to duck under the first wave of las-fire, then dodging out of sight into another room.

‘Hold fire,’ shouted Midj, and when he was sure the Mordians had stopped he dashed across the gap to the other side.

The feral civilian took the opportunity to take a run at them, and Midj had barely got across when Polk’s men launched another assault. The civilian almost got through the gap before being struck in the right leg, the wound from the las-fire causing him to crumple to one knee. Several shots to the chest finished him off.

‘Three-second charge,’ shouted Midj, who was setting a timer into a clump of explosive on his side of the gap. Hervl nodded acknowledgement, scrabbling to remove a similar charge from one of the pouches on his belt. He reached up to press the charge into the nearest end of a strip of explosive material running across the support beam – he and Midj had not had time to set a continuous load, but the chain reaction between the different spots of explosive should be enough.

‘Fall back,’ Midj shouted to Polk.

‘Hool, stay with me,’ Polk said. ‘Everyone else out.’ Hervl looked back to see the two Guardsmen maintaining their fire as the civilians, and the rest of Polk’s squad, cleared the room. They alternated fire, each shooting while the other’s lasrifle had a few seconds to cool, trying to maintain continuous fire with only two men.

‘Give us a sign, Midj,’ said Polk.

‘Three seconds, sergeant,’ said Midj, as he and Hervl both took hold of the charge switches. ‘Starting… now!’

Hervl and Midj both clicked the detonators and turned on their heels, running around Polk and Hool, who were still providing covering fire.

Getting into the tower had been quick and clean, a simple demolition of a partition wall. Sealing that breach would be messier.

Hervl and Midj virtually crashed into each other in the doorway as they rushed out into a wood-panelled corridor. Hervl looked back as Polk and Hool followed them, and looked past to see half a dozen civilians on their tails, virtually through into the tower–

The charges went off, and the blast threw Hool in Hervl’s direction, knocking them both over. The air was slammed out of Hervl’s lungs as Hool fell on top of him, and he felt a rib crack as he hit the floor, pain crunching through his side.

A tide of dust and smoke swept through the room they had just left, billowing through the open door and out into the corridor, a choking mass of debris that blinded them all.

Someone slammed the door shut, and the dust began to settle. Polk was on his feet already, as were the men who had got out well before the explosion.

Hool sprung back upright, and Hervl involuntarily cried out from his broken rib.

Hool looked down at him, a look of concern and guilt sweeping over his boyish features. Then that expression stiffened, Hool’s jaw tightening, as he remembered who he was looking at, and how they had met.

Some things couldn’t be forgotten easily, thought Hervl, suppressing the wave of nausea caused by the intense pain in his side. He didn’t feel any guilt over nearly killing Hool – that had been then, and although he couldn’t relate to what he had done, there was little point regretting it – but neither did he expect any sympathy.

‘Just a rib,’ grunted Hervl, pushing himself into a sitting position against the wall, while digging for a pack of battlefield pain meds in his webbing. He popped three of the meds into his palm, and swallowed them dry, harder than usual with a throat coated with brickdust. Eventually they went down, and a warm, numb feeling began to alleviate the pain in his side.

‘You should get a medicae to look at that properly,’ said Hool dispassionately, and Hervl just grunted again.

Polk had his hand on the door handle, his squad ready to re-enter the room they had just left. The sergeant mimed a countdown, then threw the door open, charging in first with his combat shotgun raised.

There was no need. Even from back in the corridor it was clear the explosion had collapsed the ceiling as planned, a drift of rubble closing the hole through which they had entered the building. No one was getting in that way now.

‘Good work,’ snapped Polk, eyes darting between Midj and Hervl before Polk turned his attention to Calway.

‘Now your back door’s closed again,’ said Polk. ‘Let’s see if we can get your front door open. I think the lieutenant may need it.’

Hossk regained consciousness suddenly, painkillers and stimulants flooding his system. The medicae treating him stepped back smoothly as Hossk jerked forwards in the command seat of his Chimera, taking a deep intake of breath.

‘You’ve been out for less than ten minutes,’ said the medicae, who had served under Hossk for many years and knew exactly what the lieutenant would want to know. ‘Your head took quite a jolt and you’re seriously concussed. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but I would strongly advise against attempting movement. Medically, I would advise that you leave this seat as little as possible.’

Hossk just nodded – he didn’t quite have the will yet to speak. He gestured to his vox-operator for a field update.

‘Major Geiss voxed a report of a group of citizens loose in the mining complex, amped up with enhanced strength and speed,’ said the vox-operator. ‘Does that tally with the lot who attacked you, sir?’

Hossk nodded. He took a deep breath through his nose, suppressing the queasy sensation from the meds flowing through his system, and forced his mouth open. He spoke in a low hiss, a few pained words at a time:

‘The towers?’ he asked.

‘No reports as yet,’ replied the operator.

Hossk nodded a little too aggressively, and the tide of nausea welled up again. He closed his eyes, trying to ride the discomfort. He needed to be clear in his thinking, to provide leadership.

‘Send out a general order,’ he rasped. ‘All squads to find the closest securable position they can until further notice. If there are other squads nearby, join forces for greater numbers. Hostiles are extremely fast, extremely strong. Hit them with everything you have on first sight.’

Hossk rolled back in his seat, his head lolling back.

‘Sir?’ the vox-operator asked. ‘Is that the full message?’

‘No, no,’ added Hossk, not opening his eyes. ‘Hostiles seem to only come out at night. We need to keep them back through the night. Tell them to form a line and hold it, the Mordian way. Give the order.’

Hossk heard his message being relayed, but only the first few words, as he sank into a shallow, drug-fuelled unconsciousness.

Out in Emperor’s Square, Munez’s men were under constant attack. Where their defensive line had broken, the attackers pressed the advantage. Only three men went down in the first breach, but more followed as the civilians pushed past the line and then outwards, assaulting the Guardsmen either side of the breach.

Shouting for backup, Munez stepped forwards to defend the breach and seal the gap in the line.

The red-headed girl who had first breached the line dragged a Guardsman back with one hand, pulling the rifle out of his grasp with her free hand and tossing it away without a thought. The Guardsman fell flat on his back, unarmed, and his assailant pounced on him, clawed hands raining blows down on his face and upper body. In spite of the formal appearance of their blue uniforms, each jacket had a layer of flak armour sewn into it, protecting the chest area, but that didn’t stop human fingers clawing at an exposed neck.

Munez shot her with his laspistol. He had a clear shot but the pistol was better at a closer range, and the shot hit her high in the chest, too high for the lungs or heart. It was nonetheless a shot that should have left her crippled, at least temporarily.

Instead she sprung from her present victim and ran for Munez. Unfazed, he took another shot, this time for the head, taking advantage of the close range as his target closed the gap between them. The shot went wide, but the las-beam cut close enough to her face as it streaked past to burn the side of her head, an ugly red welt flaring up on her cheek and a strip of hair disappearing in a burst of smouldering black ashes.

She didn’t stop, but screamed in rage as she closed the last couple of metres between her and Munez, swinging her arm into his hand, knocking the pistol aside.

Then she was on him, straddling his lower torso and slashing at his face with her fingernails, tearing out chunks of skin then moving down, ripping through the fabric of his jacket, exposing a layer of armour beneath. Behind the hands tearing at him Munez could just see the glowing whites of her eyes, staring down at him with savage intensity.

Munez tried to swing his arms back up to strike his attacker, but she slapped them aside with near-wrist-breaking force. Her clawed hands began to tug at the layers of armour, threatening to rip the stitching apart. If she could pull away even a strip of armour, clawing fingers would soon be digging into the flesh over his ribcage.

She was going to tear his heart out.

With a burst of strength, Munez brought his knee up hard while pushing back onto his shoulders, throwing the girl off him, over his head. He rolled back onto his front, the rough stone scraping his cheek, and reached for the only other weapon he had, a short blade kept at his belt.

It was an old blade, reputed to have been worn and used by generations of Mordians in the 114th. It had once been a bayonet, but was now fitted with a more ornate handle. Munez carefully kept the blade sharp and polished, but had never used it in anger. He didn’t know whether it would just snap on impact.

Now he would find out. As Munez dragged himself to his knees, the knife in one hand, the girl had already landed on her back and flipped onto all fours, poised to strike again.

As she lunged for Munez he brought the knife up, dangerously close to his own face but pointing outwards. As the girl rammed into him, hands squeezing his shoulders and pushing him back, he thrust the blade forwards, letting his assailant’s own speed and strength push her into the path of the weapon, her body weight pressing her down on to the blade’s tip.

There was a moment of resistance before the blade sank into her neck, the sharpened point meeting tauter skin and stronger tendons than in any normal human, but the girl’s own inhuman strength pushed the knife in. The girl’s ferocious gaze held in her pale green eyes as she continued to struggle with Munez for a few seconds, staring uncomprehendingly as her grip involuntarily loosened, and her legs gave way beneath her.

Munez pushed her away, pulling his knife free from the girl’s neck, a further gush of blood spilling as the blade withdrew. He looked up to see three more civilians running towards him in wide strides, almost bent over on all fours as they pounced.

His pistol still lost somewhere on the ground, Munez raised his little knife as best he could.

A volley of concentrated las-fire came from Munez’s right, slicing through the air in front of him, forming a cage of las-beams around the three civilians for a split-second so that their every evasive move walked them into another shot. One, an overweight man, caught a shot in the stomach and reeled backwards, more shots to the chest bringing him down. An old woman with long, silver hair sprung over one las-shot only to receive a shot to the head on her descent. The third jerked back and forth as las-fire tore into him in five places across his body, still twitching as he hit the ground, lifeless.

Smoker and his squad held their fire as the bodies dropped, gun barrels steaming. They had formed a rigid cluster of fire, half the men on their knees and half standing.

‘Lieutenant,’ acknowledged Smoker, picking something from the ground and tossing it to Munez.

Munez caught his own pistol from the air. Smoker and his men were already opening fire on their next set of targets.

‘Well,’ said Polk, slightly breathless from running down five flights of stairs. ‘That doesn’t look good.’

The reception foyer of the hab-tower on Emperor’s Square was completely blockaded, the doors welded shut with crisscrossing metal bars.

‘We don’t go out on foot,’ Calway explained. ‘We use a separate exit.’

Polk paused by the blockaded doors. Through the gaps in the bars, Polk could see out in the square, where a tight group of his own regiment were firing their guns at wave after wave of enemies – a battle he couldn’t get to. Polk wanted to be out there, contributing to the fight, not locked in.

‘How is this even an obstruction, if they are so strong?’ Polk asked Calway. ‘Surely they can just ram it down?’

Calway shook his head. ‘They don’t seem to think like that. Give them a barrier they can overturn or jump over in one go, and they’ll do it; anything which requires any more focus and they’ll get frustrated and try and find another route in.’ Calway tapped his temple with a finger. ‘Something in their animal brains. They’re intelligent in a fight, but so eager to chase down their prey they can’t make themselves pay the attention necessary to think laterally. Intelligent, in some cases more so than before this all started, but no ability to concentrate on a task.’

‘Sounds like the opposite of Hervl,’ said Midj, to a grunt of protest from the younger Guardsman, who was still nursing his broken rib, and had taken twice the time to get down the stairs as anyone else because of it.

‘What are these things?’ asked Polk.

It was a rhetorical question, but Calway tried to answer it anyway:

‘They were us, or at least people like us,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to them, it changed them absolutely. Sometimes instantly, in other cases it took a while for the change to take effect. But eventually they all succumbed.’

‘Great,’ said Polk, stepping back from the shutters. ‘Enough chat. Calway – I want to get out there.’

‘Follow me,’ said Calway. ‘I want to show you something that might help.’

The career of Infantryman Muumisk divided neatly into two halves: the decade before he was shot in the head, and the decade since. While he had been lucky to survive such a serious head injury, the medicaes had discovered long-term side effects: Muumisk’s sense of balance had been badly compromised. He could not run, or target a weapon: if he moved his head too much while walking, he became nauseated and, after only a minute, would pass out.

It was an injury that the medicaes could not resolve with their injections and pills, and nor could Gilham with his experimental augmetics. At only thirty-three years old, Muumisk was suddenly deprived of his entire life and the capacity to serve the regiment he had come to think of as a family, a brotherhood.

After that, he had been assigned to various non-combat duties: weapons maintenance, assisting the regimental quartermaster, and ensuring the servitors assigned the even more mundane tasks did not break down while laundering uniforms or cleaning floors.

Muumisk had been transferred from one rage-inducingly tedious assignment to another, each task steadily chipping away at his morale, for years. While always maintaining discipline and never warranting censure in the exercising of these menial duties, Muumisk’s low-level resentment created friction in every role he was given, resulting in him being moved on to the next one. And the next one.

No role stuck for long until Commissar Tordez was attached to the 114th, without a Commissariat-assigned second. By some accounts, Tordez did not consider the 114th a suitably robust environment for a trainee commissar to learn their work, and so had refused to bring one with him. According to other, more cynical voices, he had ejected his original assistant from an airlock while travelling to Mordian to join the 114th, presumably for some minor infraction.

Either way, Tordez had required an adjutant. Muumisk was duly appointed, perhaps in the expectation that he, too, would earn the ire of the commissar and find himself introduced to an oxygen-free environment en route to the next sphere of battle.

But Muumisk had risen to the challenge, shadowing the old commissar ever since, following his orders exactly, acting as his mouthpiece and agent throughout the regiment. Tordez’s demanding discipline, and the tension with Muumisk’s fellow Guardsmen that his role created, pulled Muumisk from his post-injury depression. It gave him purpose, and structure, and added a bracing tension to his day-to-day life he had missed since ceasing active service.

The first day on Belmos VII had been atypical but uneventful. With Tordez left in command of the troops left to guard the shuttle, what could have been a long day of card games punctuated by intermittent patrols was instead a succession of exercises and inspections.

Not that Tordez had been exceptionally active himself: following the departure of the main body of the strike force across the causeway and into the city-factory, Tordez had issued a set of brisk orders to the men, setting a cycle of patrols, drills and rest breaks hour-by-hour that would cover the rest of the day.

His orders given, Tordez had instructed Muumisk to bring a folding camp chair from the supplies. Muumisk had done so, setting the chair up at the bottom of the ramp that led to the Seraphim’s storage bay, with a small field table alongside it on which he left a flask of hot caffeine.

Tordez had then spent most of the day sitting silently, long leather coat buttoned up, watching the orders he had been given fulfilled to the letter. Between errands, Muumisk had stood by Tordez’s side, watching the infantry patrol and march back and forth across the wide-open rockcrete of the spaceport.

Alongside the foot soldiers the towering, two-legged Sentinels patrolled in wider arcs, clomping around in circles, each hefty metal step echoing across the empty space, gears grinding and squealing as their knee joints bent. Each Sentinel’s heavy gun swept back and forth as they walked, but there were no targets for the human pilots to take aim at. The pilots themselves seemed distant up there, the thin drizzle of rain in the air blurring the space between them and the men on the ground.

So went most of the day. Muumisk was long used to Tordez’s company, the way that the commissar’s stillness gave no clue as to whether he was keenly observing the routines before him, or just staring into space, absorbed in his own thoughts and memories. Occasionally, Tordez would seem so still and unblinking, his breathing so low and steady, that anyone else might presume that he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

Muumisk knew better, and was no longer surprised when Tordez would suddenly make a precise observation or issue a specific order, proving that he had been entirely cogent all along.

As the end of the day approached, Tordez had the men set up tripod-mounted lumens around the ship, with a trail of them crossing the spaceport to the beginning of the causeway.

As night fell, the lights began to blink on, the wet rockcrete glistening beneath. Night brought a deeper chill to the air, and Tordez got to his feet, rubbing his gloved hands together. He passed Muumisk a vox-bead.

‘Check the sentries, then join me in the hold,’ he said, his words slow and deliberate. ‘The major has encountered some hostility.’ It was typical of Tordez not to mention a development like this until it suited him. ‘I’ll order the servitors to prepare something hot.’

As Tordez disappeared up the ramp, Muumisk walked between the two rows of lights, where a small sentry outpost had been established to look out over the causeway. Muumisk walked carefully and deliberately, eyes straight ahead, the way the medicaes had taught him to move without losing his fragile balance.

As he approached the sentry point, Muumisk saw that the Sentinel had lowered its cockpit down, legs folded up, and the sentries were gathered around talking to the pilot. There was a whiff of lho-sticks in the air, and Muumisk presumed that, being out of the commissar’s sight, the men had been smoking and playing cards. Exactly as Muumisk would expect on a long boring sentry duty, and he had to suppress a smile at memories of similar pastimes, back before his injury.

‘Anything out there?’ Muumisk asked as they turned to greet him, pretending that they hadn’t seen him approach. He noted that Sergeant Frittsch, who was supposed to be in charge of this motley lot, was nowhere to be seen.

‘Nothing, Muum,’ said one of the infantrymen. Although Muumisk had some secondhand cachet from assisting the commissar, the men of his own rank always made sure to talk to him casually, a constant reminder that he was still just a common Guardsman. If it was meant to irritate Muumisk, it failed – he found the reminder that he was still a soldier comforting.

‘Then what’s that?’ he asked.

Out on the causeway, figures were running, shadows in the moonlit night. There seemed to be more than a dozen, spread out across the causeway but all bounding directly towards the sentry position.

As the Sentinel pilot cranked the walker back up to its full height and the sentries scurried to deploy themselves across the entry to the spaceport, Muumisk activated the vox-bead.

‘Commissar Tordez,’ Muumisk said. ‘We have incoming.’

Seven

Krick’s fellow civilians didn’t make it difficult for Geiss and Gilham to follow them – the trail of bodies and dirty, bloody footprints between each scene of slaughter formed a path that was, if anything, too easy to follow.

‘They really don’t care if we find them,’ said the major after the third time they found one of his men splayed across the corridor floor, casually ripped apart. ‘They might as well be leaving a deliberate trail.’

Gilham found this an odd statement: his augmented vision stretched well beyond the human range, so to him any recently occupied room was crisscrossed with heat signatures, floating traces of exhaled breath, residues from hand and footprints and the like, trailing off in all directions with no clear path.

The adept temporarily cycled through infrared, ultraviolet and all the other modes of vision of which he was capable, and looked at the grey murk that his optical implants showed him. There didn’t seem to be anything special apart from the body.

Then, remembering the human eye registered colour, Gilham re-adjusted his optical sensors accordingly, taking away layer after layer of information. The last to go was infrared, and a light thermal trace could be seen stretching from hot pools around the dead Guardsmen to fainter, cooling smears stretching down the corridor. Then he reduced his sight to optical only, and the bright red stains on the floor, pittering away down the corridor ahead, bloomed in his visual cortex, clearer and more vivid than anything else in view.

It was too much, too stark. Gilham restored the full range of his senses, subsuming that bloodstain beneath overlay after overlay of other environmental data.

‘I see what you mean,’ he told Geiss. ‘They don’t care whether we follow.’

‘Perhaps with good reason,’ replied Geiss. ‘You killed one of them easily enough, but only because he was preoccupied with me. Maybe in normal circumstances they wouldn’t consider the two of us to be threats.’

Gilham didn’t reply. While he was entirely capable of combat, he was no strategist. Warfare was an extension of mathematics to him, each shot from his pistol or swing of his hammer a matter of calculating the physics, of the trajectory between weapon and target. Those combat decisions he could make.

Strategic decisions, when to attack and when to withdraw, what numbers to deploy – these were matters of judgement for an officer like Geiss.

‘Let’s level the playing field,’ Geiss said, hitting his vox-bead. ‘This is Major Geiss to all Guard within the facility, you are to move to the following points and regroup…’

The runners on the causeway were approaching the sentry position at the spaceport with great speed. Muumisk could make out more of them further away, and wondered exactly how many there might be. A hundred? More?

‘Halt!’ shouted Sergeant Frittsch, using a vox-caster to boost his voice. He had come running out of the dark at the sound of a disturbance, and Muumisk suspected he had been asleep in a quiet spot. ‘Halt right there.’

‘They don’t look armed,’ Frittsch said, and shrugged. Muumisk spotted the corner of the sergeant’s eye twitching oddly. Was he intoxicated? ‘Might be locals running from something. Let’s slow them down a little with warning shots.’

One of the sentries fired over the heads of the approaching figures. The las-fire lit up the causeway, and Muumisk could see that the runners were human, dressed in a mixture of shabby workclothes and civilian outfits.

‘They’re not taking the hint, are they?’ said Frittsch. He seemed distracted, unconcerned. ‘Take down the first couple. Settings low, let’s give them at least a chance of survival.’

More shots cut through the rapidly decreasing space between the sentry post and the lead runners.

The group of runners parted around the las-fire, ducking and rolling to evade both shots.

The sentries exchanged looks, unsure how to react, or even if they had actually seen what they thought they had seen.

‘What are you waiting for?’ shouted Tordez. ‘Open fire!’

Muumisk turned to see the commissar marching towards the sentry post, two infantry squads marching in step behind him. Further across the spaceport, the other Sentinel was also approaching.

The sentries still seemed frozen in indecision.

Tordez drew his own pistol, aimed it straight at Frittsch’s head. The commissar’s grip on the pistol was rock-steady, the aim not wavering as he circled the sergeant to end up level with him at the edge of the spaceport.

‘Was that order unclear?’ snapped Tordez, addressing the wider body of men. The barrel of his pistol was virtually touching Frittsch’s forehead. ‘These people have ignored an order to halt, they deserve no more warnings or mercies. Take aim and open fire!’

Tordez swung the pistol away from the sergeant’s head, down the causeway, and fired at the first runner. The figure dodged the shot with inhuman reflexes, but was caught by a shot fired by one of the sentries, and fell to the ground. The runners behind him just jumped over the wounded man, continuing the charge.

They met a steady blaze of las-fire. The sentries had followed Tordez’s lead, forming a line and firing ahead. Muumisk stepped out of the way as the men who had followed Tordez moved forwards, forming ranks and adding further fire.

Tordez swung his pistol around to place the end of the barrel once more against Frittsch’s forehead. The man hadn’t moved in the seconds since Tordez had taken the gun away, and sweat trailed down his temple. The twitch in his eye was getting worse.

‘As for you, sergeant, I have been watching you closely for some time. I knew you were a weak link.’ Tordez’s grip on his gun didn’t waver.

‘But I–’

Frittsch didn’t get to finish his sentence. Tordez pulled the trigger, shooting him in the head. The body dropped to the wet rockcrete. Tordez holstered his pistol and turned to the rest of the men. ‘Ignore this dead failure and concentrate your fire,’ he ordered, shouting over the constant rattle of las-fire. ‘I want an alternating pattern, cover the man next to you as they switch powercells, keep on the pressure. Let Sergeant Frittsch be a lesson to you: never blunt your hostility with mercy or hesitation, do not pollute your senses with anything that might soften your view of the enemy. You are a weapon of the Emperor; to hold your fire when fire is needed is an insult to Him.’

Muumisk looked down the causeway. Bodies were scattered across the full length of the causeway, some within a short distance of the firing squad. None had broken the line. The men seemed possessed by Tordez’s words, or at least the threat of his pistol, and fought on with an aggression Muumisk would have thought unthinkable in the men he had seen slumping at their duty earlier.

Still, the runners kept coming. Illuminated by the las-fire, Muumisk could see the tautness of their bodies, the fierce look of determination as they charged forwards, trying to find a break in the welcome Tordez had organised.

‘Sentinels,’ said Tordez, standing rigid with his arms behind his back, the very picture of a leader refusing to countenance that the line of men between him and the enemy could ever break. ‘Lay down suppressing fire. Repetitive bursts, midway down the causeway. Break up this rabble.’

There were a couple of muffled, but enthusiastic, responses from the cockpits of the two Sentinels, which stood at either end of the line of infantrymen. Then both opened fire, their multi-lasers firing over the heads of the infantrymen, rapid bursts of las-fire streaking into the distance and hitting the rockcrete of the causeway like comets, consuming everything in their path.

Muumisk couldn’t see what was happening that far back, but the runners ahead of the target of the Sentinels’ assault began to thin out, the horde behind them broken and scattered. Their charge lost its momentum, their numbers were less, and they were more easily picked off by the riflemen as they approached.

‘Sentinels, again!’ barked Tordez, and another fiery barrage hammered down the causeway.

Those few runners in sight began to turn, retreating from the wall of las-fire, only to run back into the assault from the Sentinels’ multi-lasers.

‘Keep up the pressure,’ ordered Tordez. ‘Drive them back.’

Soon, there were no living figures visible on the causeway.

‘Cease fire,’ ordered Tordez, and the monstrous noise ended, apart from the quick breath of the men and the mechanical whine of the Sentinels’ multi-lasers as they cooled down.

The sudden silence felt odd in Muumisk’s ears, like a cold breeze after a heatwave.

Bodies littered the causeway, smoke rising from las-burns. Further along, the entire surface of the causeway glowed from the heat of the Sentinels’ multi-lasers.

There was no sign of any further assault.

‘That is how men of the Imperial Guard respond to an incursion,’ snapped Tordez. ‘An unbreakable line, uncompromising resistance. No mercy, no quarter given until the enemy is routed. You may have believed that Frittsch’s slack leadership was a boon, but it was a burden that cursed you all. The only freedom worth anything is the freedom that allows you to serve better.’

All eyes were on the commissar, every man standing rigidly to attention. For the commissar’s part, his unflinching gaze swept over all of them.

‘I leave this line for you all to hold,’ Tordez said, beginning to walk back towards the shuttle.

‘Commissar Tordez,’ asked one young Guardsman. ‘Who were they?’

Tordez paused, looking back down the causeway at the scattered bodies.

‘I’m sure we will find out in the morning. For now, it doesn’t matter.’

Then he turned on his heels and walked away, Muumisk following close behind.

‘What is it?’ Polk asked, looking up at the looming vehicle before him. He was standing in an anonymous loading bay at the back of the hab-tower.

‘It’s a cleaning vehicle, been in use since the original construction of the city-factory,’ said Calway. ‘It was used to keep the square in a respectable state, while now…’

Calway trailed off.

‘Now, you’ve converted it again,’ said Polk, before turning to his squad. ‘Dall, get over here. Think you can drive this thing?’

Hossk was roused from a drug-induced slumber by the urgency in the voice blasting out of the vox-console in his Chimera. His head swam as he sat up too fast, and he pressed his right hand to his forehead, breathing deeply and steadily until his balance settled. When he took his hand away, his palm was slick with sweat.

‘Report,’ he said evenly.

‘Contact across the towers,’ said the vox-operator, failing to keep the surprise that Hossk was even awake out of his voice. ‘Variable levels of resistance. We have a secure perimeter around this Chimera, but some of the more scattered squads are having difficulties.’

‘What was that last vox about?’ Hossk asked. The urgency of the message had stayed with him, even though his semi-conscious state prevented him from recalling any details.

‘Sergeant Weir, sir,’ replied the vox-operator. ‘Got himself into a bit of a situation in Hab C, besieged in the seventh-floor refectory with considerable opposition.’

Weir was one of Hossk’s best men. If he felt the situation was serious, it was. Hossk would hate to lose him.

A medicae was leaning into Hossk’s field of vision, pointing a small torch into his eyes. Hossk batted him away.

‘How far are we from C?’ he shouted to the driver, taking the fact that he barely winced at his own raised voice as a good sign for his recovery.

‘A couple of minutes,’ said the driver. ‘Four or five on foot.’

Hossk turned to the medicae. ‘I want to be on my feet for the next couple of hours, damn the long-term consequences. Give me what I need to do that.’

‘Get a squad together,’ he told the nearest corporal. ‘We’re going to give Weir his backup.’

Geiss had ordered every man on the lower floors of the mining complex to retreat to the gallery, where Geiss and Gilham were forming a hunting party, and anyone above that level to withdraw to ground level and assist Deaz in preventing any of the rogue civilians from escaping.

While waiting to gather as many men as he could, Geiss received an update from his vox-operator at ground level. All parts of his strike force were under attack by these ferocious civilians. Hossk’s men were fighting them in the corridors and walkways of the workers’ habs. Munez was surrounded in Emperor’s Square. The most significant report was from Tordez, who had routed an attempt to take the spaceport.

Geiss voxed through to the commissar directly and requested a full report. Tordez went through the events on the causeway once, then again, filling in details as Geiss asked questions about the battle. Geiss thanked Tordez and cut the line, then tried to vox Munez to get corroboration on some of the details of the ongoing battle in Emperor’s Square. All he received was a screech of feedback which caused him to tear the vox-bead out of his ear.

He sat the vox-bead on the control desk in front of him, and rubbed his temple thoughtfully, trying to work the echo of white noise out of his mind.

In the open, Hossk and Munez had run into trouble with these civilians, as far as Geiss could tell from the reports he had received. Tordez, however, had managed to rout the enemy utterly on the causeway.

Geiss chewed his bottom lip. It wasn’t much to go on, and he really needed more information, but there was a hint of a pattern forming, of an enemy that was ruthlessly effective in an open combat situation, but with little capability of learning or strategising ahead. If that were the case, and Geiss was aware that he was dealing in nothing but hypotheticals, then these civilians, whatever had happened to them, could be dealt with. It was a matter of containment, of driving them into a position where their agility and ferocity were of limited use.

It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The problem was getting the fish into the barrel in the first place.

Eight Guardsmen had made it alive to the gallery, and were watching the doors, ready for any attack. Eight Guardsmen, plus Gilham and Geiss himself.

Geiss was in command of an entire strike force, but for now he had only ten men at his disposal, including himself.

It would have to do.

‘This is what we are going to do,’ he told the men. ‘We sweep each floor, shoulder to shoulder, every corridor, every room. First sight of a target, we hit them with everything – not precision firing, but a wall of pain, covering as much space as we can. Leave them no room to escape.

‘Let’s clean this place out.’

Just as Munez began to think that the tide of battle had turned in his favour, the enemy started to fire back with the Guard’s own weapons.

He had seen several men being dragged away by the civilians in the course of the battle, disappearing into the shadows. Munez had also seen the enemy use their enhanced strength to toss the bodies of both Guard and enemy casualties across the square. He hadn’t had time to worry about what the enemy were doing to the dead, as he was too busy rallying the living.

At a glance, two-thirds of Munez’s platoon were still on their feet, forming a tight circle around his command Chimera. The remaining third had either disappeared into the darkness or were lying dead or wounded in the square.

The ebb and flow of battle had begun to find a primitive rhythm, with the civilians either rushing to physically attack the Guard, or holding back at the edges of the square and bombarding them with crude projectiles before charging again. There was no finesse to these attacks, but there was speed and, in the case of the projectiles, accuracy.

Munez’s men had developed a routine of shielding their heads when the projectiles came, then having their weapons levelled as quickly as possible when the rain of bricks and other debris ceased and the rush-attacks began again. Supported by powerful bursts from the Chimera’s multi-laser, they had kept their attackers at bay, increasing the number of dead civilians scattered across Emperor’s Square.

Then the first las-fire came from the edge of the square, aimed at the Guard. The civilians had clearly stripped the corpses of Munez’s men, and turned the looted weapons to their own uses.

Initially, this turn of events favoured the Guard. Most of the shots from the civilians went wide, as the wielders of the lasrifles knew how to pull a trigger, but not how to aim properly. Although a few lucky shots found targets, these victories for the enemy were balanced out by the fact that they now provided a much easier target for the Guard, who instinctively aimed for the source of the las-fire and returned fire.

For a few moments, it seemed like picking up arms would destroy the enemy offensive, as Smoker and his squad picked off the sources of the enemy fire, but the enemy seemed to withdraw out of range, into the darkness around the square, moving too fast for the Chimera’s searchlight to keep a bead on them, bursts of las-fire coming from random directions.

‘I’m getting sick of this,’ Munez muttered under his breath. There was a loose pattern to the movement of the enemy. They were orbiting the Chimera at a distance, unleashing haphazard bursts of fire towards the centre of the square. That pattern could be used against them, no matter how fast they moved.

Munez grabbed two Guardsmen and gave a hurried series of orders. Just as he’d finished speaking, a cry came from within the Chimera.

‘Overheated, sir,’ came the shout. ‘Going to take a couple of minutes to cool down.’

Munez looked to the top of the Chimera, where the multi-laser was glowing in the dark, the barrels red-hot. The smell of oil filled the air.

Before the enemy could take advantage of this brief respite, the Guardsmen Munez had given orders to started to follow them, throwing grenades into the darkness of the square. They threw them in an even and wide spread, covering as much ground as they could. Munez’s idea was to create a trap of multiple explosions – these civilians were fast, but it would do them no good if they dodged one explosion and ran straight into another.

As each grenade went off, the explosion cast a brief, fiery light on a small area of the square, showing the enemy in motion. The first showed a scatter of civilians, moving with inhuman speed to dodge the blast. The second and third blasts caught a few, smoking bodies propelled through the air, killed as they tried to escape.

There was a sound of howling indignation from around the square, and Munez thought he almost had a rout after five or six grenades. He couldn’t move quickly enough to see every explosion – if he could, then they’d be easier to avoid and that would defy the point of the exercise – but he was looking in the right direction when one grenade fell in the same spot that the Chimera’s searchlight happened to fall upon.

It happened so fast Munez barely had time to react. The searchlight cast a glare upon a small group of civilians advancing on the Chimera, unarmed but with their arms clawing forwards. They recoiled briefly from the light, and the thrown grenade hit the slabs at their feet, shining in reflected light as it bounced on impact.

At this point one of the civilians plucked it out of the air with inhuman speed and, without hesitation or anything other than animal instinct, threw it overarm the way it had come.

It was as the grenade was in mid-air, sailing towards the open door of Munez’s command Chimera, that Munez realised what was about to happen.

‘Fire in the hole!’ screamed Munez, breaking into a run to get away from his own command vehicle. He didn’t look to see whether anyone followed his order, as he was too busy hunching forwards as he ran, closing his eyes and pulling his arms over his head.

The blast threw Munez off his feet, a rush of hot air rolling over his covered head, scorching the hairs from the exposed patches of wrist between his gloves and sleeves as he fell forwards. He tumbled as the force of the blast pushed him forwards, a wave of pressure driving straight into his back. He hit the stone tiles of the square with his right forearm and let the momentum carry him head over heels, rolling sideways a few times before the motion worked itself out and he came to a halt on his hands and knees.

Munez dragged himself to his feet. He drew his pistol from where he had hastily tucked it in his armpit, and looked back at the wreckage of the Chimera. The vehicle was a blackened frame burning red-hot against the night sky. The familiar, temporary deafness that followed an explosion rendered the scene silent, the flames mutely licking the sky. The silhouettes of Guardsmen staggered around the wreckage in disarray.

The strength of the fire illuminated most of the square for the first time since nightfall. Munez tightened his grip on his pistol as tall, predatory figures began to move in on the scattered Guardsmen, confident of easy prey.

Hossk didn’t know quite what the medicae had injected into his system, but it had taken away the crippling pain and nausea of his concussion, leaving a lightness in its place. He took the stairs three at a time as he led some of the 114th’s toughest close-quarters fighters into Hab C.

One of the civilians leapt out at Hossk on the third-floor landing, and Hossk shot him through the chest with his laspistol, not even pausing for breath as the civilian’s body slammed back into the graffiti-covered rockcrete wall. Hossk was already halfway up the next flight of stairs before the body slid to the floor.

He was dimly aware that his current heightened state would come with a physical cost later. The medicae had warned him as much. Hossk didn’t care. What mattered was victory now. Hossk may have been wrong about the situation on Belmos VII being a simple workers’ uprising, but the fact remained that these were unarmed savages they were fighting, and no Mordian should fall to such lowlife. Hossk was determined to beat them back into whichever hole they had crawled out from.

The refectory was a large, low-slung space on the seventh floor, with long, closely spaced tables where the workers would be served their morning rations. Every surface seemed to be carved out of the same bland material, a scratched and stained light blue plascrete. Only every third light was functioning, and the room was divided into pools of light and dark.

As Hossk barrelled into the room, he could hardly miss the position of Weir’s squad, even though they were not directly visible – a horde of rabid workers were converging on one end of the refectory, wielding and throwing furniture and tools.

The squad fanned out as they entered the room, forming a tight line, guns raised. They had the advantage of surprise, and with Weir’s men still maintaining fire, the civilians found themselves trapped in a pincer movement between two groups of Guardsmen.

As the last few fell, Hossk found himself shoulder to shoulder with Weir. As one of the last workers lunged at Hossk the lieutenant dodged and grabbed him by the collar, swinging him face first into the bayonet attached to Weir’s raised hellgun. Weir shook the body free from the bayonet, and gave Hossk a loose salute.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Weir. ‘Much appreciated.’

Hossk returned the salute, and pointed towards the pile of upturned tables.

‘Don’t know why I bothered, sergeant,’ he said. ‘You seemed quite cosy in there.’

Weir took the comment with good humour, responding with equal levity in spite of his bloody and torn uniform.

‘Wasn’t by choice, sir,’ Weir replied mock-apologetically. ‘We were doing fine until we were overwhelmed by a second wave charging in.’

Their light conversation was interrupted by the noise of a considerable number of feet stamping on a nearby stairwell, a rising roar of unfocussed anger: the unmistakable sound of an approaching mob.

‘A wave like that?’ Hossk asked, before turning to the rest of the men. ‘Out, now!’ he shouted, and both squads ran for one of the refectory’s exits, heading in the opposite direction to the unseen, approaching crowd.

As he shoulder-slammed the door open, Hossk briefly wondered exactly how long the meds he was dosed with would last for, and whether he would survive to feel the ill effects when they wore off.

‘Major Geiss, we found something.’

Geiss’s squad were sweeping the lowest level of the mining complex’s control centre, moving as a pack to check each room. It was a tense, tedious business, but as they were moving towards the building’s single stairwell, and all sub-corridors ran off a single main corridor that covered the length of the control centre, a systematic sweep left no room for error. The enemy would either run into them, or be driven out.

Most rooms were dull, functional places, drab spaces lined with cogitator consoles and banks of monitoring equipment. Only the signs of struggle and splashes of dried blood indicated anything awry.

Geiss had been called to a narrow storeroom tucked away at the back of the control centre. Behind stacks of anonymous boxes, a home of sorts had been made – sleeping materials were arranged on the floor. It was a rank, airless space, with a foul stench in the air. The floor and walls were streaked with unpleasant stains.

And, in the far corner, there was a pile of discarded items. It was quite a large pile, and the Guardsman who called Geiss over prodded it with the end of his lasrifle, not wanting to touch.

Geiss dropped down into a squat. The store room was lit by a solitary, flickering light, so Geiss used his own torch to get a closer look.

It was a pile of junk and scraps, mostly metal or other synthetic materials, most recognisable as personal items – chronometers, passcards, vox-beads, crushed pairs of corrective lenses, even whole artificial eyes, wires trailing from where they would have connected to the optic nerve.

Geiss gingerly picked a squat piece of tubing with grilles at both ends from the pile. It was an artificial rebreather of the kind fitted into the throat in an emergency, a basic surgical augmetic that, if fitted quickly, could rectify a potentially fatal injury.

This one was brass, and was covered in scratches and bent at the edges.

‘Guardsman,’ said Geiss. ‘Does this look chewed to you?’

The Guardsman didn’t reply. He was a hardened soldier, his face crisscrossed with scars, a man who had seen countless battlefields on a dozen worlds. But this made him uncomfortable.

‘I need you to assist in covering that corridor,’ ordered Geiss, cocking his head towards the door. ‘And ask Adept Gilham to come to me while you’re out there.’

When Gilham saw the pile, and closely examined a couple of items, he took the same view as Geiss:

‘Teethmarks, definitely,’ he said. ‘Human, but slightly oversized. There’s also sign of digestive corrosion.’

‘The indigestible parts of a human meal,’ said Geiss. The idea was distasteful, but unavoidable.

Gilham nodded. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Leave it for now,’ said Geiss. ‘Tomorrow, I want this pile sifted for any further clues. Right now, I want these cannibals dead.’

Pursued through the stairwells and corridors of Hab C, Hossk and his men searched for a fortifiable position to make a stand against the mob on their heels. There was little shelter to find: the corridors were too open to fortify, and the tiny living quarters were dead-ends where the Guardsmen would be cornered and slaughtered.

In the daylight hours, the lower levels of Hab C had been gutted on Hossk’s orders, the doors of the hab’s tiny living spaces kicked in, the residents slaughtered. Hossk’s men had been thorough in their sweep, and the bleak living spaces of the hab were rendered bleaker by the scorch marks and blood on the walls.

Occasionally they would glance back to see a tidal wave of workers pursuing them, eyes aglow in the semi-lit spaces of the hab, malevolent spots of light in a washed-out environment.

Hossk’s men made their stand on the stairwell between floors ten and eleven, not due to some strategic insight on the part of their lieutenant, but due to the barricade that blocked the way to the next floor. Sheets of battered metal had been welded wall-to-wall, stopping the Guardsmen in their tracks.

There was no way back, but Hossk didn’t panic. It was a less-than-ideal position to face off against their pursuers, a windowless dead-end with no possible route of escape, but it had some merits: there was only one way in, and the enemy would need to approach from below.

Hossk didn’t need to issue any commands to Weir or the others. They spread across the width of the stairwell, some ducking low, others aiming over their heads. The civilians would be met with a relentless wall of firepower as they rounded the corner.

In the echoing rockcrete space of the stairwell the noise of the approaching horde reverberated as they got closer, shrieks and howls merging into one voice, one shout of uncontrolled aggression. The Guardsmen kept their weapons steady, directed towards the killzone at the turn of the landing, the corner around which the first of the enemy would come.

With the horde only seconds away, Hossk heard a violent metallic scrape behind him, and a voice speaking close to his ear.

‘Who are you?’

One eye still on the stairwell, Hossk turned to see a panel opened in the barrier behind him and eyes peering out.

‘Lieutenant Hossk of the 114th Mordian Iron Guard,’ Hossk replied. ‘And if this thing opens I demand you open it at once.’ He slammed the butt of his laspistol against the barrier for emphasis.

‘You killed my men,’ said the man behind the barrier. ‘You have been killing our people all day, shooting up the habs.’ His voice was rough, uneducated, thick with some unrecognisable local accent.

‘My men walked into your traps,’ replied Hossk. ‘Imperial Guardsmen, servants of the Emperor, killed by traps set by you. Whole populations have been scourged for less. Now you can try and correct that sin or you can leave us out here, but don’t expect any greater mercy from the next force that is sent here.’

There was a brief pause, and the barrier opened up, folding in ways Hossk wouldn’t have thought possible. Standing further up the stairs were a number of men and women in workers’ overalls. The man who had spoken through the barrier was a huge, broad man with tight black hair and a scar on his bottom lip, holding some kind of industrial nail gun.

‘They’re coming,’ said the man. ‘Make room.’

The workers took position next to the Guardsmen. Hossk noticed that these workers didn’t have the glow in the eyes that the others did – they were calm, determined.

Then the horde of civilians turned the corner of the stairwell, and there was nothing to be done but fight. The civilians came in their dozens, clawing over each other to get to the uninfected workers and Guardsmen, a seemingly endless wave of human bodies reaching out with clawed hands and bared teeth, seething up the stairs.

Hossk’s men, and the workers beside them, met this torrent with gunfire and converted tools, battering back the stream of feral humanity. Bodies slumped across the steps as the civilians fell, some reaching up towards the Guard even in death, others thrown backwards, leaving them broken against the far wall.

The sound of gunfire was deafening in the confined space of the stairwell, smoke from hot gun barrels and scorched exit wounds fogging the air.

In the haze, some of the civilians got lucky. One of Weir’s men was grabbed by the collar and dragged down the stairs and away, the tide of savage civilians closing the gap before anyone could rescue him. Another pounced upon one of the workers, and managed to tear a deep wound into her chest before being smashed back with a wrench.

But eventually, the tide turned, and Guardsmen and workers alike could retreat behind the barrier as it closed once more, the rush of enemies defeated.

The man who had spoken to Hossk through the barrier turned to him now, apparently sizing him up.

‘I am Stellin,’ said the tall worker. ‘This corner of Hab C is one of the few safe places on the entirety of Belmos VII. If there are any more survivors, we haven’t seen them.’

‘Hurry up,’ shouted Polk. ‘The lieutenant needs backup, now.’

The loading bay had opened out into a narrow alley that wound its way from the back of the hab-tower to Emperor’s Square. The vehicle they were in had bounced up the ramp with surprising speed, but the alley was too narrow to drive fast, and it was taking time to negotiate its twists and turns.

‘This is the best we can do, sergeant,’ Dall told Polk, shouting back from the driver’s cabin.

The entire squad was packed into an articulated vehicle running on a dozen wheels, with a narrow interior in which a crew could control mounted spray cannons placed around the side. This unlikely vehicle, previously used for blast-cleaning the monolithic exteriors of Emperor’s Square, had been upgraded with crude armour plating and spikes along the sides, so that any attacker who got past the high-pressure streams would be unable to scale the vehicle. The cannon themselves had been modified to produce a blast of water powerful enough to knock anyone off their feet, and filled with a mixture of water and corrosive chemicals to scar and blind the enemy.

Polk had started to think of it as ‘the Cleaner’.

He turned to Hool and the others as they moved into position. Each water cannon required two operators, one to aim and one to control the jet. Calway was running up and down the length of the Cleaner, explaining which button did what. He didn’t seem happy to be tagging along for this expedition.

‘You lot get ready,’ Polk said as the Cleaner rounded a corner. ‘We’re nearly in the square.’

Geiss’s group progressed unimpeded through the lower two levels of the control centre. Geiss kept his vox-link to Deaz open, so that he would know if any of the feral civilians, these cannibals as he now thought of them, reached the ground and made a break for freedom.

Nothing. All was clear from Deaz’s perspective.

On the third floor up, just as the room-by-room sweep was becoming routine, Geiss’s group was attacked. It was at a point where doors either side of the main corridor opened up into siderooms, almost immediately before a sub-corridor cut across.

Four angles to attack from, and the cannibals came from two of them. As one Guardsman covered the door to the left, another pushed open the door to the right, while the rest of the group covered the corridors in all directions. This was how they had swept through the other floors – the first Guardsman would enter that room, they would sweep it, then do the room opposite.

This time, the door had barely opened a crack when a hand shot out from within, grabbing the barrel of the lasrifle and dragging the hapless Guardsman inside.

At the same time, the portal on the opposite side of the corridor was kicked open, hard, slamming into the Guardsman who was keeping it covered. The feeble interior door that shattered into pieces, spraying debris everywhere as it was torn off its hinges by the blow.

The rest of the Mordians didn’t need an order. They reacted, splitting into two groups and charging both rooms. Geiss was marginally to the left, so he stepped over the downed Guardsman and through the broken door with three of his men, two crouching low to allow Geiss and another man to fire over their heads.

The woman who had kicked the door off its hinges had dropped back a short distance from the doorway, and all four men fired on her at once. She tried to duck, to make herself less of a target, but she couldn’t get low enough to avoid the wide bursts of las-fire which burned through her upper body. She slumped to the floor face down, limbs bent and twitching.

Geiss levelled his laspistol, determined to put a shot through her forehead just to be sure.

Before he could fire he was pushed sideways as another civilian rammed into the group with a table, roaring abuse. All four men were pushed into the wall, virtually falling over each other.

Geiss had his back to the flat surface of the table. He jammed the pistol under his arm, placing the barrel against the table, and fired straight into it.

Thankfully, the table wasn’t made of anything las-resistant, and the shots tore through flimsy wood-substitute. The pressure from the other side of the table gave way and Geiss pushed it aside, wincing from where the discharge from his bolt pistol had burned through his coat and shirt, scorching the skin beneath.

The table fell to the ground. It was a long workbench; the room they had charged into was a lab of some kind.

A middle-aged man, face twisted with anger and hatred, had staggered back, smouldering burn marks on his chest.

Before the rest of the men could even take a shot, Geiss had dropped his pistol and put both hands on the pommel of his chainsword, powering it up as he took three steps forwards, thrusting it into the the remains of the man’s chest. The chainsword tore through flesh and bone, digging deep into the man’s ribcage, blood spraying from the wound.

Geiss looked the once-human creature in the eyes as he pressed the blow home, driving the chainsword right through his body. The savagery that had illuminated his eyes only seconds before had faded to a numb surprise, then nothing.

‘What are you waiting for?’ shouted Geiss to the three Guardsmen, who had only just got to their feet. ‘Support the others.’

They ran out into the corridor, and once Geiss had levered the corpse from the blade of his chainsword, he followed. His entire upper body was rattling with the exertion of having forced the vibrating, roaring blade through layers of enhanced flesh and bone, his muscles aching from the effort.

In the next room he found Gilham and the rest of the Guardsmen. One was dead, but so were three more of the cannibals.

Six down, including Krick. Everyone they had secured in the rec room. That should have been all of them, but Geiss wanted to be sure.

He switched his vox to transmit. ‘Deaz, this is Geiss. Send your teams in from above. Room-to-room sweep, kill anything that moves. I think we’ve got them all, but I’m damned if I’m calling this place clear until I’m absolutely certain.’

Munez had been bitten by animals in the past. A trained warhound on Brecasta had taken a bite out of his thigh, a gushing wound that would have finished him through blood loss if it hadn’t been for a quick-thinking medicae; camped out on the jungle world of Stont, he had been woken by the agonising sting of a small carnivorous lizard sinking fangs into his ear, the punctures from which had taken weeks to heal over.

However, he had never been bitten by a human being before today. He had seen the occasional bar fight between the lower ranks end in biting, but those were usually quick, vicious bites, a desperate last feral strike against another man.

This bite was not like those. Munez and some of his men had regrouped, and were defending themselves as best they could against the attacking civilians.

It was futile. A few shots had found a mark, but nothing that even slowed down their attackers. The group of Guardsmen were swamped by the civilians, who pushed the group apart, pushing them over, throwing them aside, breaking them up so that they were easier prey.

Munez had raised his right arm defensively as one man moved in to strike him, only to find those hands not punching or slapping his arm away, but instead gripping his forearm by the elbow and wrist. The gripping fingers were as strong and unyielding as clamps in a workshop, tightening around his flesh like metal bands.

Then Munez’s attacker bit, sinking his teeth into the lieutenant’s forearm, tearing through the thick cloth of his Mordian-blue jacket and the thinner cloth of his undershirt, pressing down into the meat and muscle of his forearm.

As waves of agony sparked up his arm, the pain of torn flesh overriding the numbness from the grip constricting the arm, Munez tried to shake free. Both he and his attacker were still standing, and the lieutenant threw his own body weight backwards, trying to use gravity against his attacker. His pistol was on the ground, dropped during the fight, and if he could topple them over, Munez might be able to reach the weapon.

Instead of releasing their grip, the biting teeth shifted, digging in deeper, hungrily gnawing at Munez’s arm. His attacker’s feet didn’t shift from their stance, rooted as solidly as any statue as the lieutenant tried to pull him over.

Munez drew his knife with his left hand, and desperately tried to stab the man in the head or arms. An elbow jabbed up to deflect the lieutenant’s strike, knocking the knife free. It fell to the ground, uselessly out of reach.

In the fire from the burning Chimera, Munez could see the dark stain spreading across the arm of his coat, dripping down the pale workclothes of his attacker. Munez began to feel the first dizzying tug of blood loss, the agony in his arm fading as all physical sensation became distant. He brought his left fist down on one of the arms gripping his: it was a futile gesture, but he wanted the pain in his bruised knuckles to keep him sharp, to stop the disorientation which threatened to overwhelm him.

Munez was snapped back to full consciousness by las-fire breaking out all around him. The jaws clamped around his arm let go as three las-rounds were pumped into the body of his attacker. The lieutenant found the man collapsing forwards, eyes rolling back in his skull and mouth loosely drooling into the bite wound as he breathed his last. Munez scrabbled to pull the dead man’s fingers loose from his forearm, and pushed the body away.

He found himself being pulled up and almost dragged away by two Guardsmen he didn’t recognise. Weren’t they in Polk’s squad? Weren’t they supposed to be in the tower? And why were they manhandling a senior officer? That was a shooting offence.

‘Clear!’ one of them shouted.

Munez jumped at the noise. He realised foggily that something was wrong. He had spent his entire adult life in warzones, and now he was jumping at a shout. He noticed absently that he was near some kind of vehicle, an elongated, heavy-wheeled thing that had jets of water firing from the sides. The lieutenant was vaguely aware of screams in the distance.

Was that good? Were the screams from his side? Who were his side?

Munez was lifted into the back of the vehicle, which began to move. He found his eyes closing, heavily.

Polk watched Gobu and Treston bring Lieutenant Munez on board the Cleaner. Powerful blasts of corrosive liquid were driving back the savage civilians, and helping to turn the tide in Emperor’s Square. The troops were beginning to rally, although the Cleaner had stopped firing to allow Gobu and Treston to extract Munez from a mob of assailants.

As the rest of the men resumed firing, swivelling the water cannons to spray as wide an area as possible, Polk turned to Munez. The lieutenant had his eyes closed, and the two Guardsmen who had brought him on board seemed baffled as to what to do next.

‘Out of my way,’ said Polk, batting them aside. He pulled off one of his gloves and lifted Munez’s face by the chin.

‘Lieutenant Munez?’ Polk said, trying to bring his superior round. ‘Lieutenant?’

The lieutenant’s mouth began to move, a trickle of drool in the corner, but his eyes stayed closed and he made no coherent response.

‘Sir?’ Munez said. ‘Don’t try and speak, we’ll try and find a medicae and–’

‘Has he been bitten?’

The question came from Calway. Polk turned, his temper rising. This wasn’t a matter for a civilian, no matter how useful.

‘Sorry, but I need to know,’ said Calway, pushing forwards past the Guardsmen surrounding Munez.

Polk quickly inspected Munez. It didn’t take long to find the wound on his arm, the teeth marks in the flesh.

‘I’m sorry, sergeant,’ said Calway. ‘Their bite is venomous. There’s nothing we can do for him.’

Polk didn’t want to believe it, but he knew Calway was right. Munez’s breathing was slowing, faint. He would be dead very soon.

But there were men in the square who were still alive. As Munez lost his grip on life, Polk was on his feet, issuing orders to his men, to drive back the enemy, and to secure a route to safety for the remains of their platoon. Polk was damned if any more good men were going to die while he could stop it.

Eight

The old man was lost, bewildered. The mid-morning sun was unusually bright, and he raised a gnarled hand to his forehead, shading his eyes as he looked around.

He didn’t recognise anything, but then again, very little pulled at his memory these days. Every now and then he would have a brief surge of recollection, an image of someone he once knew, a sensation of familiarity. These moments quickly faded into the general fog of his days: the search for somewhere to rest and shelter. His waking hours were sparse, as far as he could recall, and ended when he found some dark, dry place where he could lie down to sleep, hoping that the uncomfortable fullness in his stomach would fade by the next day.

It never did. Each morning he found himself burdened by the same stretched pains in his stomach muscles, the same weight pressing down on his lower organs, straining his hips and knees.

As for the nights, he didn’t remember those at all.

He would never have been tall, but in his later years the old man had become stooped, his back bent by a life of industrial work, the same life that had left long-healed scars across his hands.

He struck a forlorn figure on this sunny morning, not that he knew it. Shuffling across polished stone, dimly aware of the buildings he was painfully walking towards, only knowing that he wanted to be inside, preferably away from windows and doors.

Somewhere dark, somewhere quiet. Then he could rest.

The morning sun glinted on something in the old man’s peripheral vision. He turned, looking up to see what gleamed so brightly.

It was a statue, a golden statue leafed with silver detail, of a god-like figure, armoured and robed.

No, not god-like, the old man corrected himself, some deeply taught knowledge reasserting itself through the fog of his broken mind, learning imposed many years ago through rote and ritual. Not god-like, but a god.

The God-Emperor. That was who the statue was of, the God-Emperor.

He was in Emperor’s Square, and this was the statue of the Emperor, looking down benevolently on the Ecclesiarchy.

Pleased with this sudden rush of memory, of having retrieved this knowledge and achieved some measure of clarity, the old man smiled, holding this awareness at the forefront of his mind, like a trophy.

The thought, the memory, the feeling of pride – all were suddenly, rudely ended when a las-round struck the old man squarely in the head, burning straight through his skull and brain.

He collapsed, smoke pouring from neat holes on either side of his head, the innocent smile still stretched across his wrinkled features.

Hool watched the old man fall through the sight of his own rifle, but the shot wasn’t his. At the next window, Smoker reset his hellgun in one smooth, cranking motion, resting the barrel back on the sill, already on the lookout for his next target.

As one of the better shots among the men who had survived the previous night’s battle in Emperor’s Square, Hool had been seconded to Smoker on the fourth floor of the luxury hab-tower. Theoretically, Hool was to provide supporting fire, taking out other targets when Smoker was already in mid-shot.

In practice, Sergeant Essler did not leave any scraps for Hool to pick up. In the hour they had been sitting at those windows, aiming down into the full breadth of the square, Hool had not needed to take a single shot. Something moved, Smoker was on it, taking multiple shots in sequence if necessary. Hool just watched the bodies drop.

Smoker didn’t speak much, or encourage anyone else to. The only noise between shots and recharges was the mechanical, constant hum of Smoker’s augmented breathing.

The order to eliminate any and all civilians on sight was given by Major Geiss in the early hours, following a vox-conference with his surviving lieutenants and, in the absence of the late Lieutenant Munez, Smoker. The presumption was that any non-Guard human had to be presumed to be suffering from whatever contagion, heresy or disorder had turned the other citizens into ravenous killers during the hours of night, and that containment was not a reasonable option considering the small size of the strike force and the already troubling level of casualties.

Any civilian, no matter how harmless-looking during the day, had the potential to be a serious threat by nightfall. They were time bombs, to be defused by fatal means before they had chance to go off.

The only exceptions to this order were civilians who had been witnessed by a member of the Iron Guard during the night, and could be vouched for as unafflicted.

Reports indicated that, aside from Calway’s people, there were only a few more confirmed ‘clean’ civilians – a group in the workers’ habs who, in spite of having gone near-mad themselves through the pressures of fighting off their friends and colleagues, had come to the assistance of Hossk’s men.

Other than those few, everyone was a target. Hool did not question the order, and understood the reasoning behind it, but the acts themselves did not sit well. He felt unease, a queasiness, at the sight of unarmed civilians gunned down in the street. He was relieved that Smoker was so mercilessly taking each shot without giving Hool any opportunity to participate.

Smoker fired again, and Hool flinched.

‘Guardsman Hool,’ said Smoker, not looking up from the sights of his hellgun. ‘Did I startle you?’

‘Sorry, sergeant,’ replied Hool, as crisply as he could. ‘I didn’t see the target before you fired.’

‘Attention wandering, huh?’ said Smoker, the ‘huh’ a metallic grunt. ‘I apologise if I have hogged the targets, Guardsman, leaving your mind room to wander. Perhaps you would like to take the next few shots, while I merely provide backup?’

Smoker had taken his hands off his hellgun now, and was sat back on one of the antique chairs they had requisitioned. He looked directly at Hool, and obviously registered Hool’s reticence, his rebreather rattling with a low chuckle.

‘I thought not,’ said Smoker, returning his attention to his gunsight. ‘You see shooting targets who are not an obvious threat as dishonourable, yes? Certainly compared to last night’s manoeuvres, defending your comrades against overwhelming odds in the square?’

Hool didn’t say anything. Smoker didn’t look up from his gunsight as he continued:

‘You are young, Guardsman Hool, and I can see that Sergeant Polk is teaching you well in terms of fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow Guardsmen, defending yourselves and each other. That will get you far.

‘But only so far, Hool. There are limits to defence, and even to controlled, restrained offence. Sometimes a merciless attack is required. Any of these people–’ Smoker tapped a finger against the window his hellgun was slotted under, indicating the dead in the square. ‘–would tear you limb from limb in their heightened state. There is a risk that they might not, but is that an acceptable risk? Is your sense of honour worth your life, or worse?’

Hool remained silent.

‘You do not have an answer,’ said Smoker. ‘I didn’t expect one. Think on this: the life expectancy of a new recruit to the Imperial Guard is fifteen hours. You are already well on your way to surviving fifteen months, but so far the enemies you have faced have been weak. The enemies of man are many and strong, while you are human, vulnerable. The ideals that have kept you alive so far may not help you survive the battles to come.’

Smoker turned to Hool again, fixing him with his blank, camera gaze.

‘Your duty is to fight to your last breath to attain victory, Hool,’ said Smoker. ‘To do this, you may have to forego the luxury of sustaining the lives of those around you. Survival. Victory. Nothing else.’

Smoker returned to his target practice, his speech over.

A silence fell on the room once more. Although Smoker didn’t seem concerned by Hool’s lack of response, Hool was very glad when a vox-operator entered with a message for Smoker – Major Geiss wished to speak to him immediately.

Gilham was doing ten things at once. This wasn’t an exaggeration or hyperbole – there was no one to boast to, and Gilham was hardly inclined to self-promotion – but a simple matter of fact.

While resolving the power situation the previous day, Gilham had noted the signs indicating an Adeptus Mechanicus laboratorium within the mining complex. Now, the presence of that lab had proven useful.

The lab was a place for the ritualised assembly of machinery in a sterile, controlled environment. Tech-priests could officiate over the rituals from a sealed observation pulpit overlooking a room of polished slabs, where the work could be carried out either by servants, servitors or via the robotic arms that were cranked around the ceiling on a series of automated winches and pulleys. Each set of arms was fully equipped with cutting tools and optics, and bristled with blades and probes of various kinds.

Gilham sat in the observation pulpit, his back turned to the reinforced window looking out over the lab, one of his mechadendrites connecting his consciousness to the control console. For the purposes of this work, he was the laboratory, looking down on every slab at once, manipulating every mechanical probe and tool as if they were his own limbs.

To all intents and purposes, they were.

On three of the slabs lay the bodies of Krick and two of the other civilians killed in the control centre, and on two other slabs were spread the detritus from their ‘lair’, as Geiss had referred to it. Gilham was simultaneously autopsying the three corpses and sorting through the fragments, while another set of automated limbs crisscrossed the room, taking samples back and forth to a bank of equipment at one side of the lab for testing.

It was not conventional work for an adept, but Gilham had requested that he examine the bodies rather than the medicaes. There was something about the idea of these civilians with their enhanced capabilities, of augmentation without surgery, that fascinated him. Of course, any alteration to the human body caused by drug or disease could never match the elegance of welding machinery to human flesh, but nevertheless Gilham wished to identify the exact cause.

Gilham directed a buzzsaw to cut through the front of Krick’s ribcage, then used long, finger-like probes to open up the chest cavity. What he saw through the optics intrigued him – the lungs were curiously discoloured and swollen.

‘Fascinating,’ said Gilham to himself, speaking in his native binaric. He extended a long syringe attachment, and prodded into one of Krick’s lungs. The syringe withdrew a measure of tarrish, red-purple gloop from within the lung, which stickily lapped the inside of a glass vial.

As a robotic arm carried the vial across to the other side of the lab for testing, Gilham shifted the core of his attention back to the chewed scraps from the lair. Major Geiss had received fractured reports of similar hoards found elsewhere around the city-factory, piles of discarded augmetics and other indigestible personal items. It suggested that the altered civilians and workers had chewed their way through much of the population, and possibly each other.

A scattering of items from the pile attracted Gilham’s attention as he sorted them. One was a sub-dermal tag implanted in Munitorum auditors. Gilham accessed the data in the tag, which identified its wearer as Recorder Gellwood Jenk, resolving one of Major Geiss’s mission objectives, albeit unhappily.

Gilham discarded the tag. It was not his concern.

Also in the pile were remains of some sophisticated augmetics, of the kind reserved for the Adeptus Mechanicus themselves. It seemed that the adepts of this sacred laboratory had not fared any better than the common workers.

Among the augmetics was a datacore. Gilham set it aside for further examination.

The first barrage of test results on the liquid extracted from Krick’s lungs were available: the sample wasn’t any natural product of a human body, even taking into account the possibility of a lung infection. It seemed to have some form of independent existence outside the host lungs.

Gilham’s human fingers began to drum the arm of his chair unconsciously, furtively, as his mind began to try and put the pieces together.

Major Geiss wanted to debrief Calway personally, to interrogate him about everything that had happened in the city-factory prior to the arrival of the 114th. Smoker was assigned to assemble a team to escort Calway to the mining complex, and ensure nothing untoward happened to him. While the change in civilians occurred at night, Geiss didn’t want Calway shot dead by accident before he could talk to the man.

So Smoker, along with both his and Polk’s squads, were crammed into the Cleaner as the narrow vehicle rolled through the wrecked streets, its fat wheels allowing it to grind its way over most obstacles.

Geiss had devised a simple identification system for known ‘clean’ civilians – a strip of Mordian-blue fabric, tied around the right arm. After the previous night’s losses, strips of cloth were in plentiful supply, to be taken from the coats of fallen Guardsmen.

With a characteristic lack of sentimentality, Smoker had gone first, entering the room where the retrieved bodies of the fallen Guard had been laid out, removing Lieutenant Munez’s coat, and tearing off a long strip of fabric and handing it to Calway.

Hool had tensed as Smoker began to tear the bloodied jacket into strips, but found as the fabric was rended, a strange relief washed over him.

Munez was dead, but his men kept fighting, using what they needed without sentimentality and remorse. They would rebuild and go on.

As they sat in the Cleaner, Hool occasionally glanced across at Smoker, wondering how much of that gesture came from the sergeant’s ice-cold pragmatism, and whether or not he had, in his way, torn Munez’s jacket apart to help Munez’s men to survive, to move on.

Was he trying to help them?

Hossk didn’t realise he was even falling asleep until he woke up. Watery morning light roused him from a dreamless sleep. He was sat at a crude utility table, and the cramps in his back and neck matched the thudding pain in the side of his head. At some point he must have sat down, and a combination of fading adrenaline and the drugs in his system wearing off had conspired to cast him into unconsciousness.

It must have happened fast, as he had no memory of entering the room he was now sat in, a functional kitchen area lined with conspicuously empty shelves. Supplies were running low.

Hossk did remember the hour or so after he passed the barrier into the corner of Hab C fortified by Stellin and the other workers. He had been grudgingly impressed by the way that the mine workers had created a sanctuary against what remained of the rest of the population, and had established a relatively orderly community even under such a pressurised and grief-stricken situation.

Although non-combatants, the rigours and dangers of a life down the mines had left these workers with a strong sense of discipline and honour, qualities Hossk admired above all else, and they had applied these qualities to setting up and running a besieged community.

While most survivors lived behind the barricades, some had insisted on staying in their own rooms on other floors of the hab, and Stellin’s people had maintained a network of supply runs and defensive points throughout the hab, setting up the traps Hossk’s men had walked into the previous day. There was a limit to how far even the boldest patrols would go – the ground and sub-levels were where the enemy slept, and even in the safe daylight hours few people would risk venturing into the dark.

Beyond the mechanics of maintaining such a community, what struck Hossk was the low number of survivors – fewer than fifty people in the entire hab. Even if other such communities were scattered across the city-factory, out of contact with each other, that amounted to only a few hundred people at most.

The mathematics were alarming. Between the killers and their victims, the population of Belmos VII had been reduced by over ninety per cent in a matter of weeks. Whatever the cause of the murderous behaviour that had engulfed the population, if it could be spread to one of the busier hive worlds, one where billions lived in close proximity, the results could be even more catastrophic.

As Hossk was piecing together what he had learned, one hand rubbing his aching neck, Weir entered the room.

‘How long have I been out?’ Hossk asked. His mouth was dry, and the words came out with more of a croak than he intended.

‘Only a few hours, sir,’ Weir replied. ‘Didn’t see any sense in disturbing you, nothing much happening out here.’

‘Reports from the other squads?’ Hossk asked.

‘Most voxed in,’ said Weir. ‘Serious casualties, but most managed to find a defensible position for the night.’

Hossk nodded, then regretted the motion as his head swam. He closed his eyes, and focussed on the situation rather than the pain. Casualties, forces scattered.

‘Vox all squads, tell them to reconvene at the base of Hab B,’ said Hossk. ‘Tell Stellin to get his forces together to do the same.’

‘Got a plan, sir?’ Weir asked.

‘Something like that,’ said Hossk. ‘If these people sleep in the day, then that’s when they’re vulnerable.’ He opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the light, and looked Weir straight in the eye. ‘So all we need to do is find the most likely sleeping places, and torch them.’

Geiss’s interview with the man Calway proved disappointing.

Calway himself impressed Geiss, by civilian standards. Although he had no military experience, the man seemed to have rallied his people in the face of an entirely unexpected situation, and with no backup since the fall of the PDF. Calway’s report of the events he had witnessed, and of what he had been told by others, was concise and focussed on the significant details – all entirely laudable qualities that Geiss appreciated in a man, enlisted or not.

Calway’s description of the attributes, limitations and behaviour of those who had changed confirmed some of Geiss’s observations, while adding some further details. The strength and speed were self-evident, and that they ate their prey came as no surprise after recent discoveries, but that their bite was poisonous did.

Geiss was most interested in the limits of these people’s intelligence – while far from stupid, and capable of conversation and rational thinking in their enhanced night-time state, their ferociously violent mindset seemed to override any ability for medium-term planning. A useful weakness to know.

However, Calway’s testimony lacked the crucial details Geiss required to complete his mission. Neither Calway, nor anyone he had spoken to, had any idea of the source of the problem. Everything had been normal until night fell one day, at which point a large proportion of the population had turned on their fellow workers and citizens. Calway and his fellow survivors had been defending themselves against nocturnal attacks ever since. There were no clues to the source of the changes, or how they might be stopped.

Geiss was certain the source was in the mine: where else could it come from on an empty dirtball like this? But the mine was huge, and Geiss had no idea what he was looking for – a virus to be purged with fire, a pollutant that could be cleansed?

He needed more information.

Gilham arrived towards the end of Geiss’s interrogation of Calway, and sought an audience with the major at the first convenient opportunity. Geiss took the adept to one side.

‘Tell me you have something useful,’ said Geiss.

If Gilham took offence at Geiss’s tone, he didn’t show it.

‘Perhaps,’ Gilham replied, showing Geiss the datacore.

Geiss gave Gilham a questioning look.

‘This is an Adeptus Mechanicus datacore, probably augmetically attached to a servant tasked with official observation,’ Gilham explained. ‘I retrieved it from the hoard of chewed objects we discovered.’

‘Have you accessed the data?’ Geiss asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Gilham. ‘I wished to consult you first. The core is designed to allow the user to access their own recorded observations, and then replay or transmit them to another means of recording. It is not designed to be accessed by a third party. I can attempt to do so, but I will need to do so carefully to avoid corrupting the memories with my own consciousness.’

‘Meaning?’ Geiss asked.

‘Meaning I will need to shut down all other thought functions while I access the core, and allow the personality imprint to override my own. I will be unavailable for any other duties until I have completed this task. There is also some risk.’

‘Risk?’

‘That the host personality should override mine entirely, or that my own personality is corrupted into madness. You may wish to post guards on me while I do this.’

‘How great a risk?’

Gilham calculated the odds. ‘Approximately zero point seven per cent.’

Geiss took a breath. He didn’t want to lose the adept, but then he was running low on options. ‘I’m happy with those odds if you are.’

‘Very well,’ said Gilham. ‘Shall I start?’ One of his slimmer mechadendrites slid out, a probe hanging over the datacore, waiting to connect.

Geiss raised his hand for Gilham to wait, and called over a couple of guards. As Geiss explained the situation, Gilham cleared the furniture from a corner of the gallery, then sat on the floor. He placed the datacore on the floor in front of him.

‘Major Geiss, can I begin?’

The major nodded. The Guardsmen on either side of him shifted their lasrifles, ready for whatever Gilham might do next.

Gilham made the connection.

Nine

Remember everything. Heinrik had to remember everything. It was his job, no his duty. That the man who had assigned him that duty, his lord and master, was rocking back and forwards on the floor, and would soon become a threat to Heinrik, did not relieve him of that duty.

In honour of the Machine-God, Heinrik opened up his augmetics, allowing the data to flow.

He needed to record, to recount what had happened, the demise of Belmos VII, the fall of his lifelong home, before he died.

But, as he faced his own death and that of his home planet, as the sound of screams and tearing machinery rattled down every corridor, as his master gurgled and giggled, Heinrik found his focus shifting not to the present, not to the last days, but to the day he had learned what death meant, then deeper still, going back into memories that had been augmented not by technology but by the changing effect of Heinrik’s own repeated remembrances, as his adult mind had turned each childhood recollection over and over, holding them close but also rewriting them with his adult awareness.

As they were brought forth one last time, Heinrik’s thoughts of those early, hard-to-recall days were burnt to the record, sealed in the datacore, inaccuracies and dreams included.

Heinrik’s parents died on the ninety-seventh day of the flood. He was six years old.

That was the day he first understood the finality of death, the meaning of change, when his childhood world was overturned. But that was not how it had started.

It started with the rains.

The rainy season started earlier that year, the rains more ferocious than any Heinrik had known in his short life to date.

Heinrik and his parents lived high in the workers’ habs, their small home facing out over the rest of the city-factory. The day the rains started, Heinrik looked out to find he could no longer see the city-factory spreading out below, but instead an endless grey murk stretched out, blurred by the splatters of water hitting the window.

For the first few days, it was a novelty, and even holding his thin pillow over his head to try and block out the sound of water impacting glass held a strange excitement for Heinrik.

After two weeks of the relentless rains hammering against the windows, the sky blackened so that day was indistinguishable from night, even Heinrik knew something was wrong.

Heinrik’s parents worked for someone called the Munitorum, somewhere down the mine. Every morning Heinrik’s mother walked him down the stairwell and across a walkway to the other hab-tower, where he would spend all day in a long, narrow room where children sat at lines of rickety desks, as a voice from the front of the room slowly intoned each lesson. They learnt to write and read, and of the glory of the God-Emperor.

As they learned each lesson through constant, numbing repetition they were supervised by the servitors, the half-metal dead-men, who walked up and down each line, lashing out at any child who moved when they shouldn’t. The servitors were dull, stupid creatures, and would frequently misinterpret a child’s actions, thrashing one who had done nothing wrong or delivering a more severe beating than was required.

One morning, a month after the floods began, Heinrik looked through a barred opening on the walkway, down into the underpass, the well beneath the two hab-towers. Even with the rains, the walkway was low enough that Heinrik should have been able to see through the gloom to catch sight of people moving below.

On this day, there was nothing but a surface of water at the base of the tower.

‘The underpass has been flooded,’ Heinrik’s mother said, as she tugged his arm, ushering him across the walkway. ‘Special walls have been put up around the underpass, and the water is being kept there to stop the refineries from flooding, because the refineries are very important.’

Heinrik asked about the people who lived in the underpass, the people that children like Heinrik were sternly warned against becoming, the people who lived down there because even the habs would not have them.

His mother didn’t answer, and instead tugged his arm again, dragging him away.

The floods continued in the weeks that followed. Heinrik was increasingly aware that his parents were somehow involved in the attempts to deal with the rain, although he understood little of their talk of defensive barriers and drainage.

What Heinrik did understand was the tension written in his parents’ faces, as they collected him late from the servitors, later even than the children who found that they were not picked up by their parents, but instead by grey-uniformed officials.

The older children whispered about those men and women in their grey uniforms, that they came for the children whose parents had died in the flood, and took the children away.

Where, they didn’t know.

The person who came for Heinrik in place of his mother wasn’t one of the grey-uniforms, but a tall, red-robed woman carrying a wrought-iron staff from which intricately patterned brass-on-green charms jangled. Beneath the hood of her robe, a mass of clockwork replaced her face, and beneath the robes came the noise of shifting, chittering mechanisms. She spoke with the servitors, then crossed the room to speak with Heinrik.

With every step, the staff hit the floor with a dull thunk, and the charms tinkled against the shaft of the staff. As the woman stood over Heinrik, her head covered by a red hood, he could see that the hand that held the staff was skeletal, an open machine that weeped oil from the knuckles.

Heinrik knew why the woman was here for him. He was too upset to be afraid, and too afraid to feel the fear.

Instead he felt a welling tension within him as the woman leaned down to place her other hand, this one entirely human, on his shoulder and tell him what he already knew. As he was led away he felt the tension building, threatening to well over.

He didn’t know whether what was rising inside him would come out as tears or laughter.

The woman, Adept Tilfur, was elegantly thin, a twisted stick of a being wrapped in red fabric, but her master was the opposite, a bloated spider of a man, metallic tentacles and limbs spreading out from beneath his robes, a mass of other augmentations writhing beneath the fabric.

Now, ushered into this being’s presence, Heinrik finally felt something, a terrified awe and fascination that numbed the darker emotions he had felt since Tilfur told him of his parents’ deaths. As Heinrik was ushered into his presence, High Tech-Priest Mankell, Chief Adept of Belmos VII, was lighting candles in the Mechanicus cathedral on Emperor’s Square.

The ever-present sound of rain on the stained-glass windows echoed around the arched chamber as Mankell glided across the floor, wielding half a dozen long, burning sticks, touching the flames against candles in ornate holders.

A child of workers, Heinrik had never left the hab-towers. The square, the cathedral, the great altar of a brass cog before which Mankell stood, all of these sights reinforced the importance of the Chief Adept.

‘This is the boy, Chief Adept,’ Tilfur said, nudging Heinrik’s shoulder. He stumbled forwards, his feet dragging on the deep carpet that ran towards the altar, bisecting a hundred rows of benches.

Mankell shifted his mass towards Heinrik, not turning as a single entity but shuffling his many mechanical parts towards the boy. The Adeptus Mechanicus were the opposite of the servitors, those dead men with grey, cold skin, recognisable features and mechanically amended limbs. Where servitors were machines with human faces, the Adeptus Mechanicus were living beings that lived as machinery. Mankell’s face was an elaborate mechanism that only crudely corresponded to a face at all, an elaborate mechanism that took in Heinrik with a cluster of compound optics, each shining in the reflected candelight as Mankell leaned in close.

‘Heinrik,’ said Mankell, his voice echoing around the vast space of the cathedral. ‘Adept Tilfur has told you about your parents?’

Heinrik nodded.

‘Your parents are dead. They died in the flood while serving the Imperium and the Munitorum,’ said Mankell. ‘Now it is your duty to serve. The Munitorum has no use for you, but the Adeptus Mechanicus may.’

Mankell leaned in close to Heinrik. His oily exhalations felt like hot smoke, leaving an acrid scent in the air.

‘This is how it must be,’ said Mankell. ‘But how will you serve the Adeptus Mechanicus? You are too slight to become a servitor.’

Heinrik shuddered at the prospect.

Mankell peered at Heinrik curiously. ‘You recoil? Do you think I honour orphans with an audience every day? Most would be left to die alone in the hab slums.’ He paused, examining Heinrik. ‘You are more fortunate, Heinrik. I have a use for you. You will be blessed to serve me.’

Heinrik did not feel fortunate, or blessed, at all.

And so began the second, longer phase of Heinrik’s short life. He lived, and he served, in the manner the Chief Adept required of him. It was his task to observe, to recall details, to record.

Heinrik did this first with data-slates, but as he grew older, and reached the age where his growth slowed down enough to make long-term bodily augmentation possible, he underwent the procedures to make him a living chronicler of events around him. New optical arrays were implanted in his skull, the relays and datacores weighing down his shoulders.

Clothed in dark, rough robes, he silently followed Mankell around, observing most of his work, recording what the Chief Adept considered most significant.

Mankell considered much of what he did significant. Heinrik might have, in another life, have been in a position to understand the disparity between Mankell’s impression of his own significance and the reality, but Heinrik’s servitude was so intensely ingrained from a youth within the Chief Adept’s household that he had no perspective at all.

Mankell was the centre of his existence, his importance too central to question. It was Heinrik’s duty to record this greatness.

The request for Mankell to visit Galton, the Munitorum’s chief official on Belmos VII, was not taken well. Mankell considered any meeting not initiated by himself as an imposition. As his bearers carried him through the city streets, he complained loudly in binaric of his treatment.

Heinrik had been to Galton’s office many times before, observing and recording Mankell’s many important visits as the Adeptus Mechanicus’s highest representative on a Munitorum world, but this time was different. The lavish furnishings of the office were in disarray, the surfaces were covered in plans and picts, and Galton himself was not the formal figure Heinrik had seen before: his brocaded jacket was open, a crumpled shirtfront visible beneath. Heinrik, ever observant, caught sight of a caffeine stain on the shirt.

‘We have made a discovery,’ Galton told Mankell in hushed, urgent tones, his eyes darting nervously towards Heinrik.

Heinrik was used to this kind of reticence from others, for many people did not wish to be observed and recorded. However, Galton was not usually one of them.

‘A discovery,’ echoed Mankell, drawing Galton’s full attention back to him.

‘B379,’ said Galton. ‘The workers were following a weak seam, and broke through to an existing tunnel system. It’s very old, and seems to have been artificially carved from the rock. I thought, from our previous discussions, that you might be interested.’

Mankell had been hostile as he entered the room, resentful of the implied summons, but his mood had now shifted. He was examining the picts taken in the mines with interest.

‘You were very wise to summon me,’ said Mankell, mechadendrites shifting excitedly beneath his robes. ‘Potentially heretical knowledge and technology needs to be… dealt with responsibly. We would not want to incite panic among the workers. It takes a refined mind of the kind possessed by you or I to appreciate the significance of a discovery like this.’

Heinrik knew well that Mankell did not consider Galton an equal mind at all.

‘Thank you,’ said Galton, bowing slightly.

‘Of course, it would be unhelpful at this stage for any discovery to be subject to outside interference from minds less attuned to the sensitivities of the situation, you understand…’ Mankell trailed off.

‘Recorder Jenk is, I believe, auditing activity in the refineries for most of today,’ said Galton. ‘Would you like to access the site now, without interference?’

‘Immediately,’ replied Mankell. ‘If there is lost technology down there, we need to ensure it is dealt with correctly.’

‘Destroyed?’ asked Galton.

‘Of course,’ said Mankell. Only Heinrik’s heightened senses detected Mankell’s hesitation. Formally, all lost technology was potentially heretical and had to be scourged. Unofficially, the Adeptus Mechanicus were always seeking lost knowledge. Finding some could repair Mankell’s standing and secure him a more prestigious position.

‘Access to the area has been restricted,’ said Galton. ‘But I will grant entry to whomsoever you wish to send down to inspect the site.’

‘I will take a team down there myself,’ said Mankell.

‘Very well,’ said Galton. ‘In that case I will accompany you.’

‘Of course,’ replied Mankell smoothly.

Heinrik had watched exchanges between these two before, the endless politicking as each man politely but firmly asserted their influence. If one was interested in the discovery in the mine, the other would shadow him, determined to not lose traction.

‘We will proceed at once,’ said Mankell.

As Galton prepared himself, Mankell turned to Heinrik:

‘Boy, I need you to make arrangements while I am away…’

Heinrik was not present for Mankell’s descent to the discovery at B379, instead ferrying secure messages from Mankell to members of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

As Heinrik returned from delivering his last message, he found the streets unusually bustling. The stoop caused by his augmetics made Heinrik shorter than most people, and he was jostled by the hectic, angry crowds. He caught murmurs of conversation between various workers, that the mine had been partially evacuated mid-shift, only for the workers to be called back within the hour and then required to work through their breaks to make up time.

Heinrik returned to find that Mankell had returned. He bowed his head before his master, and reported that the messages had been delivered.

‘Very good, very good,’ said Mankell, one of his many augmetics grinding beneath his robes. Then his vox-caster unleashed a burst of static, then another.

‘My lord?’ asked Heinrik. Mankell could communicate on many levels beyond those that Heinrik could comprehend. Perhaps this was one of them.

‘It is nothing,’ said Mankell, the words slightly distorted. ‘There was a… gas leakage in the mine. It thickened the air, but caused no lasting harm. Some particles must still be in my respiratory system. No matter, the filters will self-correct.’

Mankell dismissed Heinrik to go about his duties.

‘As a senior auditor, I am used to having to make great efforts to discover evidence of incompetence, corruption of dereliction of duty,’ said Recorder Gellwood Jenk. ‘Most facilities I visit are at least competent enough to organise a cover-up and put their best face forwards, at least for the duration of my audit.’

Jenk had the floor, and he knew it. A room full of Belmos VII’s most illustrious citizens, and none dared speak in the long pause as Jenk sipped amasec from a wide, round glass. He sloshed the liquid from side to side before speaking again.

Still silence. Heinrik, stood a respectable distance behind Mankell, observed.

‘So,’ continued Jenk, at his own pace. ‘When a major work outage occurs during the course of a short audit, I have to seriously question the competence of the local authorities, and how unstoppably ruinous that incompetence may be.’

Jenk was a wide man, his manner of dress austere but his girth and the precision fold of his ostensibly basic tunic indicative of extreme wealth. He sat at one end of a long, lacquered table in the main conference chamber of the mine’s control centre. The late afternoon sun caught the bowl of Jenk’s glass, the glare periodically blinding Heinrik’s optics as Jenk rolled the glass in his hand.

After an uneasy silence, Galton coughed and then spoke.

‘That you are aware of this minor stoppage should be an indication of our transparency, Recorder Jenk,’ said Galton. He spoke tentatively, prepared to reverse any statement should it receive an unfavourable response. He coughed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Heinrik’s keen senses noted the sheen of sweat on Galton’s face and the lack of focus when he tried to catch Jenk’s eye.

‘We have no systemic failures to hide, and the matter was resolved quickly with no delays to workload,’ said Galton, before holding a silk handkerchief over his face and trying to stifle a loud coughing fit, unsuccessfully.

Jenk raised a sneering eyebrow, then turned to Mankell.

‘Perhaps, Chief Adept, you can provide me with some detail regarding this “matter” that caused the temporary evacuation of a large section of the mine? I understand that you were there, along with the Governor.’

‘Need I remind you, recorder, that the Adeptus Mechanicus are not a resource of the Munitorum,’ said Mankell. ‘We are not subject to your authority.’

‘Of course,’ said Jenk, smiling thinly. ‘I merely ask for the benefit of your knowledge of the technologies used in this planet’s industries, and as a respected scientific witness.’

‘Very well,’ said Mankell. ‘It was a gas leak, caused by the breach of an enclosed pocket in the lower levels of the mine. A pressurised leakage that spread quickly, but which dispersed without any damage. A common risk in deep mining.’

Jenk smiled wider.

‘A common risk, a common risk, of course,’ said Jenk, leaning forwards across the table, tracing circles on the varnished surface with his little finger. ‘A common risk, just another day in the mine. So tell me, anyone, exactly what was so important about this ordinary drilling day that it required the most senior representative of the Machine Cult of Mars to descend into the dirt to witness it?’

Jenk sat back, letting the question lie there. Heinrik could see Mankell’s patience thinning, the tension expressed through the shifts of his mechadendrites.

Galton, on the other hand, seemed oblivious. As the daylight faded outside, and servitors began to raise the lights in the room, he was almost doubled up in his chair, a forlorn figure.

The meeting broke up unsatisfactorily. Jenk had not received the answers he wished from either Mankell or Galton, and so stormed off, flanked by his personal bodyguards, to consult whatever records he considered necessary. Galton himself did not respond as Mankell, the other officials and their various attendants withdrew.

Heinrik followed Mankell as he withdrew through the levels of the control centre. They were stopped on their way out.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the guard, bowing to Mankell. ‘There’s been a disturbance. Some of the workers who had their shift extended are rioting at the gate. The way should be clear soon.’

The sound of gunfire echoed in the distance.

Mankell bowed theatrically. ‘Please inform us when this matter has been resolved. We will be in the main gallery.’

They descended back into the depths of the control centre. As they turned a corner, there was the sound of gunfire. A bloodied Jenk ran across their path, one of his bodyguards at his heels, firing back down the corridor.

Mankell looked down at Heinrik.

‘Perhaps we should find a secure place for the time being,’ he said drily.

Mankell took seconds to override the security cogitator in the small monitor room he had barricaded himself and Heinrik into. From there, he could observe feeds from across the mine complex, and monitor vox-chatter. He hunched over the cogitator, his back to Heinrik, mechadendrites slipping out from beneath his robe to adjust controls and manipulate settings.

‘Observe,’ Mankell commanded, not turning around to face Heinrik. ‘This must be recorded.’

‘Yes, Chief Adept,’ said Heinrik.

‘Disturbances have broken out across the city, beginning sharply after nightfall,’ Mankell dictated. ‘Reports have become significantly less coherent after the initial attacks, but cross-referencing the more precise statements lodged with work schedules indicates a one-to-one correlation between the perpetrators and those either on duty, or otherwise present, during this morning’s gas leak.’

Heinrik stood silently, taking in Mankell’s testimony.

‘This facility works on a rotation of three shifts, and ninety-seven per cent of the population of this city-factory are indentured mine workers. In effect, a third of the population were exposed to the gas.’

Mankell turned to face Heinrik. His optics tightened, examining Heinrik on a microscopic level.

‘This is an unfortunate accident, and we must hope that any violent effect is not universal, or is at least short-term. I myself was exposed, but do not yet feel any ill effects. We shall wait for the current crisis to pass.’

A short while later, Mankell began to feel ill effects. The crisis had not yet passed, the vox-chatter Mankell had been monitoring becoming ever more hectic.

Twice someone outside had tried to batter through the door, screaming obscenities and thrashing against it. Mankell had braced himself against the door, blocking it.

Heinrik had stood and observed, as he was told. Now, his task was renewed, with new purpose.

‘It seems that my presumption of immunity was exaggerated,’ said Mankell, sliding down the door to rest on the floor. As his body slumped, his mechadendrites began to dance, throwing the ceremonial robes away and waving back and forth playfully.

‘My augmentations seem to have slowed the process, that is all,’ said Mankell. ‘But the changes of the flesh cannot be denied. I can feel my organic components changing. You must observe it, Heinrik! This is your last duty, to record the change, to witness what happens to me.’

Heinrik watched. Physically, he did not move, but even as Mankell rambled on, Heinrik found his attention wandering. He knew death was coming, but that didn’t bring a sense of urgency to the moment, instead it sent his mind darting into the past, even as he stood, fulfilling his duty.

Heinrik remembered looking down from the walkway, seeing the floodwaters below, and being aware that the people who lived down below had been swept away. That first taste of finality, of things gone never to be returned.

‘I feel a hunger,’ ranted Mankell, his movements increasingly frenetic. ‘A desire to tear and rend and devour. It disgusts me, that after a life of trying to transcend organic weakness I should succumb to it. I hate that I, I should fall to this.’

Heinrik remembered the day Tilfur brought news of his parents’ death, of the wrought staff she carried with the cog sign atop, the jangle of the circuit-charms dangling from the shaft. The news she brought, the absolute change.

The waters lapping below. His mother’s hand drawing him away.

‘I am Chief Adept Mankell,’ snarled Mankell. ‘I am augmented man, perfected man, vessel of the Machine-God. I will not be broken by this contagion of the flesh, this filthy, feral condition. I will overcome it.’

Even as he spoke, Mankell was edging across the floor towards Heinrik.

Heinrik stood and watched as Mankell approached. Observing, remembering.

Heinrik looked down into the waters of the flooded underpass, his mother’s hand pulling him away. The dark, deep waters, washing lives away.

‘Observe, boy, observe as I resist, as I fight off this urge.’

Mankell’s mechadendrites arched as he approached, the tip of each angling towards Heinrik, a dozen metallic snakeheads with Heinrik in their sights.

Heinrik watched Tilfur crossing the room, bringing death, her staff tapping the floor. The waters had taken his parents, the dark tide taking them too.

Mankell lunged forwards, pouncing upon Heinrik with fearsome, augmented speed, the mechadendrites piercing Heinrik’s body in a dozen places. Tiny, fierce embers of pain, drowned out by the dark tide that rose within Heinrik, consuming his observations, his memories, the jumble of present and past breaking up within his flickering, fading consciousness.

The waters below. The staff, tapping the floor.

The tide rising. Heinrik sinking.

Heinrik died.

Heinrik was dead.

Dead.

No, alive, aware.

Heinrik, alive?

No, Heinrik was dead. Poor Heinrik, dead and devoured, his memories locked in a box, memories of his last moments and of his parents and of the slow, grey waters below.

It was Gilham who was alive.

He was Gilham and he was alive and–

Ten

‘B379,’ said Major Geiss, one gloved finger tapping the location on a map of the mine. He had gathered Lieutenant Deaz, Sergeant Essler and Gilham in the Gallery, which had been converted into a temporary war room, maps and charts laid out on a table in the centre of the room.

‘It all began there, with a breakthrough into some kind of existing tunnel system,’ Geiss continued. ‘Some time after the wall was breached, some form of gas was released. Unfortunately we still have no idea what the original source of the gas was, but we can presume that it is somewhere past B379, in the newly opened area. We can guess from the interest shown by various parties that ancient technology, perhaps alien or even heretical, was involved.’

Geiss glanced across the table to Gilham as he spoke. The adept’s journey through this Heinrik’s memories had, externally, taken only a few minutes and left no visible ill effects after Gilham snapped back to consciousness, but Geiss had seen psykers break down through their connection to the minds of others, and was watching for any sign that Gilham’s sanity had been damaged. Tech-adepts were not front-line warriors, but their augmentations gave them physical strength that made them dangerous, and Geiss could do without one cracking up behind his lines.

‘That is a reasonable supposition,’ said Gilham.

Geiss continued to watch Gilham closely. Lord Brassfell had sought to brief Gilham before the strike force left Elisenda. The Adeptus Mechanicus’s internal politics were, strictly speaking, none of Geiss’s business, but if there was a potential conflict between Geiss’s leadership and the Adeptus Mechanicus’s intentions, Geiss’s next order would draw it out.

‘I want the source of this infection located and destroyed,’ Geiss said, leaving no pause for rebuttal. ‘Whatever interest the authorities on this planet may have had in… whatever is down there… are overridden by the threat it causes to Belmos VII’s contribution to the Imperium.’

Gilham held Geiss’s gaze, then slowly nodded, almost bowing before the major.

‘I assure you, major, I have been given no instruction or guidance to undermine the objectives of this mission,’ said Gilham, taking Geiss aback with his frankness. ‘Our primary objective here is to restore supplies to our forge world. Any secondary interests are irrelevant if they compromise the supply lines.’

Geiss returned the nod. He hadn’t expected Gilham to address the potential of Adeptus Mechanicus intrigue so directly, and there was something about the adept that made Geiss want to trust him, in spite of the absence of normal human expressions and body language that Geiss would usually rely on to assess a man’s character.

‘Sergeant Essler,’ Geiss said. ‘I am field-promoting you to lieutenant immediately. By all accounts you demonstrated great initiative last night, and your augmentations make you the best man to lead a platoon in what will be uncertain conditions. Lieutenant Deaz will provide his best men, and Adept Gilham will accompany you to help identify whatever is the source of this gas. Find it, and destroy it by whatever means necessary.’

Essler snapped to attention, giving a brisk and respectful salute.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Essler said, holding the salute. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said Geiss, looking between both Essler and Gilham. ‘I want every man in your platoon with their rebreathers on before they descend into that mine, but if there’s gas down there, there’s no guarantee those men will be protected. You two have the best chance of filtering the gas, but this Mankell was fully augmented, and he couldn’t resist.’

Geiss checked the clock. ‘You have eight hours until nightfall. Access to the mine has been re-opened, and the elevators are operational. Assemble your men and deploy as soon as you can.’

When Smoker and Gilham had left the room to make their preparations, Geiss addressed Deaz.

‘Once they’re down in the mine, I want an equivalent force stationed at the mine entrance for if they return. If they arrive before nightfall and appear normal, quarantine them in the warehouses. If they show any suspicious signs, do not hesitate to terminate them. If they’re not back before nightfall, we seal them in until daytime.’

‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ said Deaz. If he had any distaste for his assignment, he didn’t show it.

Deaz was almost at the door when Geiss stopped him.

‘I’m trusting your men to show good judgement in this, lieutenant,’ Geiss cautioned. ‘Don’t fire in haste, but if they need to fire – don’t hesitate. These men may be comrades-in-arms, and they deserve a chance to prove themselves, but if they become a threat…’

‘I understand entirely, sir,’ said Deaz. He saluted and left.

Geiss stared blankly at the maps before him. He had sent men into one danger, then ordered their possible deaths before they had even set out. It was all necessary, but it didn’t make giving the orders any more pleasant.

Infected or not, this planet threatened to make monsters of them all.

Polk wasn’t surprised to discover that Smoker had been promoted following Munez’s death, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Munez hadn’t been perfect – he was an officer, and even the good ones gambled with the lives of common Guardsmen for reasons that were little comfort to the men who died because of those orders – but he hadn’t been cruel or careerist, at least from Polk’s lowly perspective. All officers were bastards, more or less, but Munez was less of a bastard than most.

Even if his charm had all been a front to keep the men happy, Munez’s personality had kept morale up, and Emperor knows there had been times when the men had needed it.

Polk was hard pushed to see Smoker doing the same. Essler was a good soldier, even a good leader of sorts. But Polk still couldn’t shake the suspicion that Smoker’s decisions meant survival for Smoker and death for those around him.

Not that Polk’s opinion mattered. He would serve ‘Lieutenant’ Essler as he had every lieutenant before him, regardless of how skilled or sadistic or useless.

Follow your command, till you die or they do. That was the Mordian way. Discipline above all.

One aspect of the Mordian way that was rapidly falling by the wayside was their uniform. In preparation for their descent into the mine, Polk and the rest of Smoker’s platoon – forty or so men, mainly cleaved from Deaz’s platoon – were amending their traditional blue coats with layers of protective clothing. Tape was being applied to cuffs and boot-tops, sealing off gaps for contamination, while protective black cowls were to be worn around rebreather masks. Caps were then perched back on top of heads masked by grilles and wide protective lenses.

By the time the platoon was suited up, they would all look like Smoker, struck in their officer’s image.

Polk pulled on his own cowl, the thick protective fabric covering his whole head except for an oval gap for his face. Then he slid on the rebreather. Looking out through the lenses of the mask, his ears covered by the cowl, he felt detached from everything around him – a dangerous illusion for a soldier to be under.

‘Test, test, test.’ Smoker’s voice rang in Polk’s skull as if the newly minted lieutenant was barking directly into his ear. In a manner of speaking he was, every man in the platoon issued with vox-beads.

‘How is this?’ said Smoker at a more reasonable level, obviously prompted by the reaction of someone in his eye-range. ‘Good. Men, complete your preparations. In five minutes, we descend.’

Although they were all dressed the same, masked by their rebreathers, Hool could pick out familiar figures easily enough as the platoon marched into the crew elevator that would lower them into the depths of the mine. Even if he hadn’t been following the man in formation, Hool would have recognised Polk standing in front of him. There was a certain poise to the way he held his combat shotgun, disciplined but comfortable in his role, the posture learned through decades of military life.

Smoker’s platoon took up a small section of the elevator, which was nothing more than a large metal platform edged with a low railing. On shift handovers, the entire elevator would be crammed with up to two hundred and fifty workers, jammed in either on their way to or from their workshift.

Smoker had rapidly briefed his new platoon over the vox as they marched to the elevator. It would descend to the bottom of the shaft, horizontally level with the target area. From there they would need to proceed through a series of tunnels to a location identified as B379, an area of exploratory mining.

It was in this area that the mine workings had broken through into some other, as yet unidentified, underground structure. From that point, it was anyone’s guess what lay ahead.

The ground shifted beneath Hool’s feet alarmingly. The lights above flickered as the elevator powered up, then the platform began to descend. The sound of great machinery grinding was loud even through the layers of material over Hool’s ears, a deep bass rumbling that complemented the rattle of the elevator beneath his feet.

‘We have seven hours and ten minutes until nightfall,’ said Smoker, his voxed voice cutting right through the background noise. ‘The countdown begins. Let’s make it quick.’

Calway found himself press-ganged into the Imperial Guard and temporarily promoted within the space of a minute. He would have doubted this was conventional military advancement anyway, and Lieutenant Deaz made absolutely clear to him how fragile his new-found rank was.

‘We need you to lead your people, Calway, and to them you’ll be a corporal,’ Deaz had said. ‘But to my men, even the lowliest infantryman, you’ll still be a common Guardsman – understood?’

Calway had nodded, making his best effort to stand to attention, something he had never needed to do before.

His recruitment surprised Calway, and he found it hard to mentally process that he was suddenly part of a military machine, a hierarchy, the discipline now required of him. It was a change to his life that he would never have sought or expected, and would have alarmed him a few short weeks ago. He had never wanted to pick up a gun, see combat, be put in a situation where the lives of others were in his hands, and where his life was constantly at risk.

In his old life, the prospect of becoming a Guardsman, submitting to military discipline and risking his life on the orders of others would have appalled him. But that life had gone before the Guard arrived on Belmos VII; he would never get it back regardless of whether Major Geiss and his men resolved the crisis and restored order.

Calway’s previous existence had been destroyed, his certainties overthrown, and he had been surviving and adapting as best he could. Becoming a Guardsman, putting on a uniform, were just the next changes along. If joining the 114th allowed him to help save his home planet, even if he then had to leave with the regiment, that was fine by him. Better than fighting defensively night after night, waiting for the slip-up that let the monsters in to kill him.

His first orders, as assigned by Deaz, were to find a uniform and report to his sergeant, who would then lead a squad back to Calway’s hab-tower, where the Guard planned to make one of their stands when night fell again. Calway would recruit and lead the best of his own people as part of the regiment, replacing those who had fallen.

But first, there was the matter of uniform. New equipment was not easily available, so Deaz had ordered Calway to retrieve a suitable uniform from the bodies of Guardsmen killed in the night. The bodies had been laid out in a makeshift mortuary in one of the storage buildings in the mine complex, lined up on the floor and covered with whatever sheets or tarpaulins came to hand.

Clean boots in the right size were easy enough to find, as were a belt, a cap, and other accessories. Calway pulled those off the bodies as gently as he could, piling them to one side.

Jacket and trousers were harder to find, especially in good condition.

Calway walked between the bodies, looking under the sheets and mentally measuring each man up, comparing them to himself.

He quickly moved along from those corpses with clothes that had been badly stained or torn, which was most of them: if it was even possible to ‘die well’, then these men certainly hadn’t. Most had received severe injuries that had damaged their uniforms beyond repair, dying in pain and indignity, torn apart with bare hands, their lifeblood leaking out from gouged wounds.

Hours after their deaths, their clothes were black with dried blood.

Eventually Calway found a dead man of approximately his height and weight, whose death had not too badly stained his uniform: his neck had been snapped, and even laid out his head lolled back at an unnatural angle. There had been no open wound, though, and his uniform was pristine apart from a scattering of dust.

Calway rolled the sheet back, then carefully began to take off the man’s boots and belt. Squatting over the corpse, Calway rolled the trousers down over his legs, unhooking them from the feet.

Then came the difficult bit: the body had stiffened with rigor mortis, and this man had clearly been heavy in life. Kneeling on the dusty floor, Calway unbuttoned the dead man’s clothes, then rolled the body onto one side, shuffling the jacket off one rigid arm. He then rolled the body towards him, the corpse resting against Calway’s knees, and rolled the second sleeve off its arm.

Finally, Calway rolled the body off him, laying it out as respectfully as he could. Thankfully the man had been wearing a couple of layers of thermal padding under his uniform, which left Calway feeling a little better about wearing it fresh-off-the-corpse, and also preserved the dead man’s dignity, as much as that was possible.

Calway covered the body with the cream tarp that had been used as a shroud. It was all he could do. Last night this man had died doing his duty, and Calway had been called to take his place. Calway wondered how long it would be before he, too, was lying dead on some cold stretch of floor, his uniform and weapons to be stripped and passed to the next new recruit.

Calway picked up the pieces of his new uniform, and left the storehouse. His new life awaited him, however short it might be.

Hossk too had donned a rebreather, although as a precaution against more mundane gases. As he led a party of his troops and Stellin’s workers into the sewers beneath the habs, both Mordians and miners alike wore rebreathers.

Stellin had explained that his own rebreather had served him through an entire career down the mines, a necessary precaution that had its filters changed regularly. He maintained it with a loving delicacy that Hossk associated with firearms, each component obsessively checked and cleaned.

For those who did not have their own rebreathers, a store room was raided.

Once down in the sewers, Hossk was very glad of the precaution. The sewers were adapted from an existing cave system, vast natural tunnels beneath the city that had been pierced with pipes from above then retrofitted with access gantries and lighting rigs. Although the walkways they walked along were high above the filth that flowed below, the air was thick with a dense miasma floating up from the vile flow.

One of Stellin’s fellow workers, a man called Ganch, had suggested the sewers as a possible hiding place for the infected during the daylight hours. Unlike most of the surviving workers, Ganch wasn’t a miner but a serf, apparently assigned to work the sewers due to some previous crime. He was a wiry man with a slight stoop, which seemed entirely gratuitous to Hossk as the vaulted ceiling of the sewer was higher than most of those above ground.

Ganch led the way as they walked in single file. The walkway rattled beneath their feet, the spindly supporting beams disappearing into the murky liquid below. Hossk didn’t like to think of what would happen if one of the legs gave way.

‘I’m surprised there’s so much… stuff down here,’ Hossk said, looking down warily. ‘I would have thought there wasn’t much… you know, going in any more.’

‘Only flows out when the levels rise,’ said Ganch, without turning around. ‘Fills up like a reservoir, only spills out when there’s enough crap and piss, or the rains come down and sluice it all out. Otherwise, it just sits here, steaming.’

‘Charming,’ replied Hossk, wishing he had never started this conversation. ‘And where does “it” go to, when it overflows?’

‘Out into the sea near the spaceport,’ said Ganch. ‘When they built this city-factory, there was no expense spent: crap into a hole, let the rains wash it out to sea. Any of your men at the spaceport?’

‘A small force with the ship,’ said Hossk.

‘Hope they don’t try swimming out there,’ said Ganch. ‘Or fishing.’

Hossk wouldn’t have minded seeing Tordez do either, but the image was too bizarre for him to even contemplate.

‘Here we go,’ said Ganch. ‘Sewer control, warm and dark.’

The structure they approached resembled a vast, rusty wheel hanging from the ceiling of the cavern, a circular structure of corroded metal. Hundreds of pipes fed into the top of sewer control, and a tangled trunk of piping stretched down from its centre. The walkway on which they stood led to a small doorway in the side of the wheel.

‘No point us charging in full force through that bottleneck,’ said Hossk. ‘Ganch, lead the way. Weir, follow me. Everyone else hang back. If we’re not out in five minutes, follow us in, sooner if it sounds like we need it.’

Ganch opened the door, which swung inwards with a rusty squeak, and he, Hossk and Weir stepped into the dark of sewer control. Hossk’s finger stroked the trigger of his laspistol as he aimed it into the gloom.

The interior of sewer control was incredibly hot, and Hossk felt himself sweating into his coat within seconds of entering. As his eyes adjusted, Hossk could see that the room was dimly lit by the glow of control panels and displays around the room: the interior walls of the wheel were covered with pressure gauges and other meters, and the central hub was a cylindrical mass of control banks.

It wasn’t the equipment that drew Hossk’s eye, but what lay between – the rough grated floor of the room was covered in a mass of sleeping human bodies. They lay sprawled with barely a gap between them, barely stirring beyond the steady breathing of a deep, dreamless sleep.

Weir seemed inclined to back straight out of the room again, an instinct for which Hossk hardly blamed him, but Hossk gave a hand gesture to indicate they should hold their position. Hossk stepped forwards, and gave the nearest sleeper a nudge with the toe of his boot. The woman rolled onto her back with Hossk’s kick, but didn’t rouse, her mouth hanging open as a rasping snore emerged.

‘Dead to the world,’ said Hossk, turning to his nervous companions.

Ganch removed his rebreather and rubbed his greasy hair.

‘The air is good in here,’ said Ganch, in response to Hossk and Weir’s stares.

While Weir kept his rebreather on, Hossk took the opportunity to remove his mask. His skin felt irritable and hot where the seal of the rebreather had dug into his neck and the side of his face. Taking a breath, he disagreed with Ganch’s assessment of the air as ‘good’: there was a kitchen stench of rotting meat which made Hossk nearly gag, no doubt the exhalations of the sleepers.

‘How many do you make this?’ Hossk asked Weir, looking over the room. ‘A hundred? More?’ The curve of the room made it hard to estimate exact numbers, but it was a wide room and the sleepers were packed in tight.

Weir shrugged, but Ganch answered:

‘Closer to two hundred,’ said the wiry man. ‘Probably around one hundred and seventy-five.’

Hossk stared at him.

‘So?’ said Ganch defensively. ‘Just because I work down here doesn’t mean I’m not good with numbers.’

‘How many other places like this are there?’ asked Hossk, moving the conversation on.

‘None this big,’ said Ganch. ‘But there are numerous substations and store rooms under the entire city.’

Hossk looked around at the sleepers. In their slumber they seemed harmless, and Hossk could almost have mistaken them for innocents hiding down here, were it not for the dark stains on their clothing, and that foul stench of digesting human flesh.

‘Let’s return to the others,’ Hossk said, replacing his rebreather.

They returned to the walkway outside, Ganch resealing the door behind them.

‘Prepare several incendiary charges,’ Hossk told his best explosives man.

‘This is a sewer – methane everywhere,’ protested Ganch. ‘Fire down here will spread through the entire system. We’ll be burned alive.’

‘Then we’ll put long timers on the charges to give ourselves time to get out,’ snapped Hossk. ‘I want this entire system purged.’

‘Not purged, wrecked,’ said Ganch, one filthy hand grabbing Hossk’s jacket. ‘The explosion will destroy the system, entire city’s infrastructure and water supply.’

‘Lieutenant, is this necessary?’ asked Stellin. ‘If we cut off the water supply to the city we won’t–’

Hossk pulled Ganch’s hand away from his jacket, twisting the wrist so the little man moaned with pain, recoiling. Hossk’s other hand had raised his pistol, silencing Stellin mid-sentence.

‘Do I have to have both of you shot?’ hissed Hossk, his voice muffled through the rebreather. ‘You need to understand: this city is finished. All there is left to do is destroy the threat, whatever the damage. The Munitorum wants the mine reopened, they’ll raze this place to the ground and build another one where it stood. The place will be as good as new, eventually, and none of the workers who live here will know you lot were here before them.’

Hossk holstered his gun, and removed a small white packet from his belt, waving it in front of the two civilians’ faces.

‘As for water, we have plenty of field purification tablets,’ he said, his tone mollifying slightly. ‘We boil and purify the rain. Emperor knows, there’s enough of that to go around.’

Stellin and Ganch said nothing, the latter still holding his bruised wrist.

‘Are we done? Good,’ said Hossk, turning back to his own men. ‘Set the charges.’

The elevator platform gave no warning when it was about to stop – it just stopped, pitching slightly to one side as it settled on the uneven surface at the bottom of a shaft carved through solid layers of rock. The platform was lit by tiny lights built into the cage of the elevator, so Smoker’s platoon hadn’t registered the change from the dark, imposing walls of rock to the total dark of a cavern as the elevator emerged into empty space before making contact with the floor.

Smoker gave the order for scouts to find and activate the nearest light source. Within a couple of minutes the loud putter of a crude generator was followed by a steady glow emerging from lights strung around the cavern, strings of bulbs that ran down the tunnels spreading off in all directions.

Still on the platform, waiting for orders with the other men, Hool looked around.

It was a man-made cavern. The exploratory tunnels that fanned out from this central space were perfectly round. Hool didn’t know much about mining – he was perfectly aware he knew very little about anything, bar the inside of a hab and the life of a young Guardsman – but he guessed the initial boreholes were made with some kind of automated machinery.

It was in Hool’s nature to ask questions, but he had realised pretty quickly after his recruitment by Polk that an inquisitive nature wasn’t considered a good quality for an infantryman to have. He’d learned to clam up, saving his most pressing questions for when he was off-duty.

If he got the chance to talk to one of the miners, he’d want to know why the hell they bothered. To Hool, it looked like a lot of effort to make a big damn hole.

As the lights reached full power they illuminated stacks of equipment around the cavern, and a thin layer of detritus on the floor.

‘Move out,’ said Smoker over the vox. ‘Guard up.’

Polk’s squad were on the left of the group as they moved off the elevator platform and out onto the cavern floor. At close range, the scattering of objects across the floor revealed themselves to be more sinister than just industrial waste – Hool saw scraps of bloodied fabric, shattered pieces of glass and what looked like bone fragments.

Hool raised his lasrifle, training it around the curved wall of the cavern. He felt a rush of satisfaction to see that, among the equipment stored in the cavern, there sat a large piece of machinery with tracks, a driver’s cabin and a drill-bit nose exactly the size of the tunnels.

Sitting down, in charge of powerful machinery, drilling a hole. In a saner life, it was what Hool might have wished for himself.

There was a movement behind the drilling machine, a dark shape shifting in the shadow of the machinery. Sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, Hool tapped Polk on the arm, and pointed two fingers at the machine.

Polk primed his shotgun as he spoke into the open vox-channel: ‘We have movement, ten o’clock.’

The entire group began to shift their attention in the direction Polk had indicated.

‘Steady,’ snapped Smoker. ‘Keep all angles covered. Polk, your squad, take the lead. The rest of you, hold back. No overkill. It’s still the day – even the infected will be dormant.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Polk, stepping forwards. With his shotgun semi-raised, he activated the external vox-caster on his rebreather.

‘You there,’ Polk addressed the shadows. ‘Step into the light.’

The darkness coalesced into a bundle of dark robes as something huge shifted into the light. It walked on a dozen metallic legs, trailing mechadendrites behind it. Its once-red robes were black with filth, and ripped in places to reveal patches of pallid, scarred flesh, the last remnants of a once-organic human being. Once-polished augmentations were dulled and scratched, pistons creaking lazily in and out of its body.

‘Chief Adept?’ said Gilham, pushing through the Guardsmen to approach the creature. Polk stepped by to let him pass.

‘You know this… person?’ said Polk.

Hool shared Polk’s disbelief. The hulking creature had fewer humanoid parts than a servitor, and seemed both monstrous and pathetic as it staggered into view. Most of the watching Guardsmen had instinctively lowered their guns – this thing looked more like a broken piece of equipment, a mining tool with human components, than any kind of threat, never mind a thinking entity.

‘Only by way of someone else’s memories,’ said the adept, a phrase that meant less than nothing to Hool. ‘This is Chief Adept Mankell of the Adeptus Mechanicus, my priesthood’s most senior member here.’

There was an odd tone to Gilham’s voice. Something melancholy. An unusual depth of feeling to hear through the synthesised vox-caster.

‘Is he infected?’ asked Smoker. No traces of sympathy there.

Gilham seemed reluctant to answer. He didn’t have to.

‘The infection, as you call it, only takes hold at night,’ said Mankell. His voice was discordant and industrial, redolent of stuck gears and wheezing machinery. ‘Even down here, we feel the transition.’

Mankell pointed upwards. ‘I feel it every night, the transition of the moon. Its gravity tugs at the poison in my chest, exciting it, encouraging its spread to every fibre of my being.’

As he spoke, the Chief Adept stretched his many limbs to indicate the spread of the infection, the torn cloak hanging off him in tattered strips.

‘I am the only one who ever remembers it happening. The others, they forget, in the day,’ said Mankell, retracting his limbs again.

‘Others?’ asked Smoker. ‘There are other infected down here?’

Mankell tilted his head towards Smoker, who had steadily approached the Chief Adept.

‘Your face seems familiar,’ said Mankell, examining Smoker’s augmented head at close range. Then his head snapped back to where it had started. ‘Others? There were others. I killed them in the day. We ran together at night, but began to consume each other. They were never any threat to me, even at the height of their carnivorous fervour. But I killed them anyway. It seemed kinder, to kill them while they slept, lost in their own ignorance.’

‘But you were not lost, Chief Adept?’ said Gilham. ‘You have held on to yourself.’

‘Oh, I am lost,’ replied Mankell. ‘The infection may only rise at night, but the madness never leaves me.’

Gilham seemed about to respond to Mankell’s words when the Chief Adept thrashed out a mechadendrite, a tentacle-like metallic protuberance that whipped forwards like a loose cable, hitting Gilham in the chest. The adept was thrown clean off his feet, and Polk and Hool had to throw themselves out of the way as Gilham flew in their direction.

Hool rolled onto one knee, lasrifle up and pointing at Mankell.

‘Take him!’ shouted Smoker, just before he was knocked over by another of Mankell’s limbs, an articulated, spiny leg that thrashed out and kicked the lieutenant in the face. Smoker’s cap was flicked off and he reeled backwards, a silvery scratch gouged out of the polished black metal of his face.

Hool didn’t need to be told twice, and was already firing. Single bursts of las-fire seemed to have limited effect on the giant tech-priest, as most of his body was effectively armour, but as further las-fire cracked over Hool’s head, he concentrated on targeting the areas where he had seen pale human flesh.

Whether it was Hool who managed to target a vulnerable spot on Mankell, or one of the other Guardsmen, it was impossible to tell, but a shot found a sensitive area, because the Chief Adept reared up on his many legs, bellowing in pain and rage.

‘Press the advantage,’ hissed Smoker across the vox. Hool glanced across the cavern to see the lieutenant crawling on all fours, gradually dragging himself up after Mankell’s knockout blow.

Hool looked back to Mankell just in time to throw himself out of the way as the Chief Adept charged forwards, barrelling into the body of Guardsmen. Those who were furthest away, and had the quickest reactions, managed to spread out beyond the reach of the Chief Adept, running out of his grasp while firing in Mankell’s direction with lasrifles, shotguns and the odd meltagun. The smaller gunfire seemed to just bounce off Mankell, while he ducked and dodged around the heavier firepower.

Those directly in the Chief Adept’s path were trampled, slammed into the floor with a dozen spidery metal legs, or slapped across the cavern by his mechadendrites. Hool saw one man lay broken and motionless, blood spouting from where one of Mankell’s legs had pierced his chest, stepping straight through him like his ribcage was nothing but wet earth. Others were flung aside great distances, tossed like dolls and hitting cavern walls with a bone-crunching impact, their bodies rolling down to the floor and disappearing out of sight.

Those Guardsmen still standing maintained the pressure, circling Mankell and repeatedly firing at him as he lashed out at anyone within reach, knocking them down or aside. A Guardsman with a flamer managed to catch the Chief Adept with a super-heated blast, and although Mankell managed to knock the Guardsman aside the tattered remains of Mankell’s robes were left aflame. This conflagration only seemed to enrage Mankell further and his metallic howling echoed around the cavern.

Temporarily encircled by the Moridans, Mankell broke away again, smashing through the line and charging towards the far end of the cavern, where he jumped up onto a stack of mining equipment and storage crates. He then proceeded to drive back his attackers by throwing boxes across the cavern, six at a time, his mechadendrites reaching out, grasping anything nearby and flinging them across the cavern. Some of the boxes hit Guardsmen, while others hit the cavern floor and shattered, sending tools and component parts ricocheting around the cavern, filling the air with sharp metal items.

Before the Guardsmen could respond to this, Mankell was off again, grabbing the lighting rigging that ran around the cavern wall and running along it. His weight was far too much for the rigging to hold, and as he ran the cables came free from the wall and the lights fell to the floor, but Mankell’s scurrying momentum was such that he managed to get halfway around the cavern this way before jumping across to the elevator platform, swinging off one of the support cables, and jumping across to where Hool had first spotted him hiding behind the drilling machinery.

Hool was still frantically firing, tracking Mankell as fast as he could and trying to cluster shots in the tech-priest’s upper body. It was like trying to take down a tank with a laspistol – Mankell was a mess of burning machinery, but one with no clear weak spot. He just kept going, lashing out at anyone within range.

Mankell had begun to pull apart the operator’s cabin of the drilling machine, stripping away barbed lengths of twisted metal to throw at any Guardsman who stayed still long enough to be a target. Hool saw Polk tumble backwards as he threw himself out of the way of a nasty-looking chunk of shrapnel. Hool heard the sergeant curse as he landed flat on his back, and began to scrabble back to his feet.

Mankell turned his attention to Hool, who was still maintaining fire. The Chief Adept began to tear off the entire hood of the drilling machine, a sheet of ragged metal with serrated edges where the pins holding it in place were torn out.

Hool’s lasrifle began to fail. In the heat of the firefight he had been firing too fast, and the shots dampened to a weak splutter as the rifle’s powercell began to overheat. The stream of las-fire from the weapon spluttered and died, leaving Hool repeatedly pulling back the trigger to no avail.

Mankell pulled at the sheet of metal, trying to flick it across at Hool. It was stuck, the front edge jammed beneath the rounded edge of the drillhead, the lip of which held it firmly in place. Mankell screeched and added a couple more mechadendrites to his effort, tugging at the metal to try and pull it free. The back of the drilling machine was almost skeletal now, Mankell’s mechadendrites having torn away the metal shielding to reveal the inner workings. The Guard circled in closer as Mankell wrestled with the wrecked machinery, maintaining a barrage of las-fire. It didn’t seem to distract the Chief Adept from his task.

Hool looked down at his lasrifle, swearing to himself. The powercell built into the body of the rifle was steaming, overheated to the point of meltdown.

‘Back,’ Hool snapped into the vox. ‘Everyone, get back.’

Then Hool was running forwards, squeezing down on the trigger of the lasrifle. Nothing emerged from the barrel of the weapon, but Hool could feel an intense heat under his arm as the powercell overloaded.

Mankell tugged the metal cowl off the drilling machine, a sheet of razor-edged plasteel that he could wield like an axe, cutting through every layer of protection worn by the Guardsmen attacking him.

Hool threw his overheating lasrifle past Mankell, towards the exposed guts of the drilling machine. He knew very little about mining, or machinery, or any of these technical matters – but he knew that a power core contained behind a thick layer of protective plasteel probably shouldn’t have an overloading powercell thrown into it.

As Mankell swung the sharpened sheet of plasteel at Hool, the Guardsman fell forwards, beneath the sweep of Mankell’s reach, closing his eyes and pressing his arms over his head, his elbows down to absorb the impact as he hit the ground.

Hool landed just as the powercell of his weapon overloaded, detonating the power core and onboard fuel cells of the drilling machine. A discharge of fiery energy rolled over his head as it consumed Mankell. The noise was horrific, a deafening blast that shook the walls of the cavern.

Hool’s elbows and knees took the impact as he hit the cavern floor. He felt multiple stabs of pain through his limbs, but he kept his head down.

He stayed down for a few seconds, until the heat that he felt on his back subsided. Then he pushed himself up onto his knees.

One side of the cavern was a blackened mess, a smouldering mass of twisted machinery. The giant drill-bit remained intact, albeit scorched and tipped over to one side, but the machine that had driven it through the solid rock had been torn to pieces.

Unbelievably, at the heart of the wreckage, something still twitched. Its limbs had been blasted off, every vestigial scrap of human flesh had been burned from its mechanical skeleton, but still the bulky torso and head of Chief Adept Mankell jerked and thrashed in the wreckage, its body fused with parts of the drilling machine in the heat of the explosion.

As Hool slowly got to his feet, shaking his head to shift the ringing in his ears, Sergeant Polk walked past him, combat shotgun raised.

Polk levelled the shotgun at Mankell’s head, and pulled the trigger at point-blank range. While shotguns had proven ineffectual at a distance, at close range the blast annihilated the Chief Adept’s head, burning skull fragments spraying through the air in a black dust of scorched particles.

Hool looked around. The cavern was chaos. Stunned, injured and dead Guardsmen lay scattered across the entire chamber. Those still standing looked shell-shocked and twitchy.

Smoker’s voice broke the stunned silence.

‘Tend to the injured, confirm the dead,’ said Lieutenant Essler over the vox. Hool looked across to see Smoker adjusting his cap, as if the last few minutes were a minor inconvenience.

‘Ten minutes, then we move out,’ said Smoker. ‘Remember this, we have yet to even approach our main objective. Our day has barely begun.’

Above ground, Hossk checked his chronometer. The incendiaries should have gone off already. He was about to chastise someone for this error when the ground shook, and a nearby drain cover flipped high into the air.

The disc of thick metal flew upwards on a column of smoke and steam, Guardsmen running out of the way as it clattered to the ground nearby. Nearby vents and gutters were steaming, and Hossk could hear the muffled crump of secondary explosives in the distance.

Hossk had already voxed Major Geiss and the other officers to warn them about the forthcoming explosion, and to stay well away from any drains. While Geiss had not commended Hossk as such, he hadn’t made any suggestion that Hossk’s solution was the wrong one.

To others, what Hossk had done might be considered an extreme, even reckless solution that endangered civilians.

As far as Hossk was concerned, he had provided a simple solution to a simple problem, and if any uninfected civilians had been harmed, that was acceptable collateral damages.

What mattered was that a threat had been found and eliminated. No matter the cost to innocents, the Mordians were safer than they had been. Their mission was one step closer to being accomplished.

Eleven

They were first seen out at sea.

Rather than allowing the men to relax after a tense night, Tordez had ordered regular, looping patrols in addition to the sentry posts established at key points on the spaceport. The men were on alternating shifts between sentry duty, perimeter patrols and brief rest breaks.

If the men had complaints about the relentless duties, and the brevity of the time left to catch up with sleep or food, they didn’t voice them.

The patrols worked their way around the top of the continuous wall that circled the spaceport. Like the rest of the facility there were no niceties, just functional rockcrete, and up on the wall there was only a waist-high barrier to protect the men from the elements. The sections of wall facing out to sea were constantly battered by waves breaking against them, spray blasting over the top, leaving the patrols soaked to the skin by the time they went off duty, doomed to waste precious downtime drying out their uniforms.

It was one such patrol that spotted them: shadows flitting over the turbulent sea, visible as much from the way their anti-gravity fields cut white-foam wakes through the surface as for their outlines, barely visible in the mist that hung over the water.

They were dark shapes in the fog, moving incredibly fast, disappearing in and out of view.

Below ground, Smoker’s platoon counted the cost of their confrontation with the deranged Chief Adept Mankell.

Four men dead, three injured including the unfortunate Hervl, who now had a broken arm to go with his broken rib.

Hervl was aware he was the lucky one. The other injuries were serious. One trooper was conscious and burbling in agony from three shattered limbs, while the other couldn’t be roused at all, comatose after hitting the cavern wall head-first.

Hervl, at least, was well enough to self-medicate. He’d shot pain meds into his broken arm and crudely splinted it up himself.

The platoon took a moment to lay out the dead, as a medicae tended to the seriously injured. It was a solemn moment, only broken by the wailing of the man who was awake.

Smoker, having decided they had honoured the dead enough, turned to his medicae for a report.

‘Guardsman Hervl needs no further treatment as you can see, but these two need urgent assistance,’ said Avrim, the medicae. He nodded towards the elevator platform. ‘Could we send them to the surface, sir? Hervl could accompany them so that we don’t spare an uninjured man.’

Smoker shook his head. ‘We need that platform accessible for a quick withdrawal, and I have duties for Guardsman Hervl down here. It goes up with all of us or not at all. Make these men comfortable.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Avrim, turning his attention back to his patient. He applied a pain shot to the neck of the incoherent man.

‘Hervl,’ said Smoker, beckoning him out of earshot of the others. ‘Can you still set charges?’

Hervl nodded. ‘I’ve still got some use of my hand. Provided I have enough time, I can set anything you like.’

‘Time isn’t a problem,’ said Smoker. ‘Stay with the injured men. When we have gone, set charges on the elevator. I want you to be ready to destroy all access to the surface if you have to.’

‘Why would I have to?’ asked Hervl. Even in a room full of men wearing blank rebreathers and speaking through their vox-links, Smoker seemed inscrutable.

‘If anything comes through those tunnels that isn’t us, able and sane, blow the platform,’ said Smoker.

Hervl started to protest, an impulsive reaction at what was pure suicide. Smoker cut him off before he could begin.

‘Guardsman Hervl, I assure you that the major will have plans in place should we return to the surface infected,’ said Smoker, speaking faster and in more detail than Hervl had ever heard. ‘He will have to, for the safety of the rest of the regiment, and to ensure the completion of this mission. But I will not allow my platoon to put other Mordians in the position of having to fire on us. If we will die down here, it will be by our own hand. Do you understand, Hervl?’

Smoker mimed pressing a detonator with his thumb.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hervl.

‘Good,’ said Smoker. ‘This is between us, understand.’

Then he turned back to the rest of the platoon and started throwing out orders over the open vox:

‘We move out now,’ snapped Smoker. ‘Hervl, stay with the injured. Avrim, leave them with Hervl. Hool, have you retrieved a lasrifle? Good, don’t lose this one…’

Above, at the spaceport, the patrol voxed in a report of the shapes seen out at sea. Wary of the fate that had befallen Sergeant Frittsch, the patrol were already firing out to sea at the slightest movement and a nearby sentry point was doing the same, autocannon firing into the gloom. It was hard to tell if they were hitting anything at all, but at least the aggression of their response would not be found wanting by the commissar.

Tordez himself spent most of his time in the shuttle, which sat squatly where it had landed, a windowless hunk of ugly metal that would have seemed inert were it not for the low hum of its powercells.

The vox was received by Muumisk, Commissar Tordez’s assistant, who was manning a vox-relay on the shuttle. Tordez himself was out checking on the status of the sentries at the entrance to the causeway, but had heard the echo of autocannon fire from high up on the wall.

Muumisk voxed Tordez, and passed on the details of the sighting, such as there were, and the request for further instruction.

Tordez listened to Muumisk’s report while standing by the sentry point, his back to the causeway. The rain was blowing in from the opening in the wall, and running down the back of Tordez’s long leather coat. He had the collar up and his cap down, keeping himself relatively insulated from the weather, as opposed to the miserable-looking Guardsmen before him – only the trooper tucked away in the Sentinel’s cockpit looked protected from the downpour.

The men couldn’t hear Muumisk speaking over the vox. To them, Tordez had just frozen in mid-sentence to stare into the middle distance. This suited Tordez. It didn’t pay for the men to understand his every action. A good soldier was predictable, reliable. A good commissar was often the opposite, an enigma who could not be second-guessed by the men who might require his discipline.

Although seemingly calm, Tordez’s mind was racing, comparing Muumisk’s secondhand description to memories of battles from the recent and distant past. Tordez had been a commissar for countless decades, and there was little he hadn’t seen on the battlefield. But such a long life created a deep well of memories; to try and explore them for a single salient image or moment was to sink deeper and deeper, further away from the surface of the present, not knowing when he would find what he needed.

A couple of possibilities seemed most likely to Tordez. He opened his mouth to vox a few questions to Muumisk, questions which would narrow down the possibilities.

Before he spoke, the shuttle exploded.

He didn’t see where the missiles came from, or who or what launched them. There was a brief moment where lines of fire and smoke streaked the sodden sky, all intersecting where the shuttle sat at the centre of the spaceport. Where each missile hit, an explosion, a gout of flame and erupting energy ruptured the hull, tearing inwards into the ship’s fabric while spilling outwards, unimpeded, into the surrounding air. These smaller explosions reached out to each other with tendrils of destruction as the hull cracked and tore and–

The entire shuttle exploded, the collective damage of the smaller explosions bringing about the destruction of the whole. A wall of flame spread downwards and out, blackening the nearest parts of the perimeter wall, incinerating any unfortunate Guardsmen or crew in its wake. Debris was thrown up and outwards with tremendous force.

Tordez was outside the immediate bloom of the explosion, but not the reach of the shockwave or rush of debris. He was hit by the hot rush of air, the jolt through the rockcrete beneath his feet. A stray chunk of hull smashed through one leg of the nearby Sentinel, causing it to topple over, the infantry sentries scattering as the cockpit smashed into the rockcrete surface.

After the explosion came silence, the temporary deafness after the blast, the white-hot after-image streaked into the vision.

Around Tordez, around all of those who still stood on that spaceport, the rain still fell in the silence, accompanied by a different shower, a gentle fall of charred black fragments tumbling back to the ground.

The tunnel leading to B379 was on a low incline, descending steadily from the main cavern to even further beneath ground level. As Smoker led the way, his platoon passed frequent evidence of exploratory digging, varying from shallow, manual scrapes in the wall to smaller tunnels leading off to who-knew-where. Some of these tunnels were lit by the same chains of bulbs that illuminated most of the mine workings, while others had been totally abandoned.

As he passed these darkened tunnels, Hool directed his torch into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, but he didn’t find anything but the shadows cast by abandoned equipment and the beams bracing the less-stable tunnels.

The tunnel wasn’t entirely straight, and Hool felt increasingly distant from the open cavern they had left behind, the hard stone pressing in from all directions, the light both uncomfortably dim and harsh to the eyes. Time seemed to stretch below ground, and when Smoker voxed for the platoon to halt, Hool could have been walking for an hour.

‘We’re here,’ voxed Smoker.

From his position towards the back of the group, Hool couldn’t see where the hell they were supposed to be, beyond another stretch of identical tunnel.

‘On my mark, we breach and secure the immediate area,’ said Smoker. His harshly artificial voice sounded disturbingly intimate in the confines of Hool’s cowled, rebreather-covered head. ‘I want flares in every corner. Light it up.’

There was a brief pause. Then Smoker gave the order:

‘With me. Now.’

Hool was just one man among many, following the flow. He followed Polk’s back as they turned the curve of the tunnel, and then they were passing through a breach in the wall, stepping up on to a higher level.

Then they were through. Flares were being thrown out in all directions, lighting the space beyond with a fierce, flickering red light, and all around the Guard were spreading out, securing the area. Hool dropped into position with the rest of Polk’s squad, fanning out into a great open space.

It was a vast area entirely unlike the tunnels of the mine. Whereas the tunnels were curved, here the floors and walls were harshly flat, and in place of the rough grey stone that the mines had been hewn from, this cavern was built from polished black stone. The light from the flares showed flickering traces of elaborate patterns carved into every surface.

Hool looked back. The hole they had walked through to get into the cavern had broken straight through a solid wall. Otherwise, the room seemed featureless, as far as the flarelight showed it, empty of furnishings or decoration. The light of the flare didn’t reach high enough to show a ceiling, so Hool had no idea how high up the chamber went.

What he did have, from taking in this blank, jet-black space, was a sensation of unyielding harshness, of a brutal architecture that made the High Gothic melodrama of the Ecclesiarchy seem relatively soft and friendly. There was something in the barbed loops of the designs carved into the walls, and the hard black stone, which made Hool feel uncomfortable.

It didn’t feel like a place that people would build. It didn’t feel human.

‘Sir, we have a door,’ said a voice over the vox.

‘Very well,’ replied Smoker. ‘Let’s go.’

Since detonating the sewers, Hossk had not rested, instead directing his men via vox as they explored every dark corner of the hab-towers, searching for further infected to eliminate in their dormant daytime state.

Hossk would have burned the habs to the ground if he’d had his way, doused the lower floors with chamazian and retreated to a safe distance as the inferno consumed any survivors. Unfortunately, such action required Geiss’s agreement, and Geiss had vetoed the proposal, considering the destruction of the sewer system infrastructure damage enough for one day.

They were there to save Belmos VII, not destroy it, at least according to Geiss. Hossk couldn’t see the conflict – as far as he was concerned the existing colony was done. Raze the city-factory and build a new mine later. It was the easiest way.

While coordinating the teams led by Weir and the other sergeants, Hossk paced irritably around the base of operations he had set up near the hab-towers, on the border of the refineries. Once the hab-hives were clear, he would send men back into the refinery. Such a place had far too many dark corners to hide the enemy.

He looked across at the hab-towers in utter contempt, just as a series of floating blurs swept overhead, indistinct shapes cutting through the wet air and heading straight for the base of the hab-towers.

Hossk could do little but watch as the indistinct vehicles fired into the side of the first couple of hab-towers, then disappeared between the buildings, out of Hossk’s vision.

Although he no longer had line of sight, Hossk could still hear explosions in the distance.

Torches sweeping the darkness, Smoker’s platoon moved out of the chamber, through a sharply curved archway and out into what seemed to be another dark, empty space. Some of the torchbeams caught further flat, dark walls at various junctures, but it was hard to make out the extent of the space they were in.

‘Someone pass me a flaregun,’ said Smoker. ‘Then you can see what I see.’

Hool had forgotten the extent of Smoker’s augmented senses. With the rest of the Guardsmen blinkered by the goggles of their rebreather masks, Smoker must have had an even greater advantage over the rest of them in terms of sight.

Smoker fired a flaregun. Rather than firing it out, he launched the flare directly upwards.

The red ball of flame shot up, and up… and up.

And as it rose, it cast light.

At its peak, before it began to fall again, the flare showed the curve of a domed ceiling, one which curved into the distance ahead of the Guard’s position, and was well beyond the reach of a flare – by the looks of it, they were at the near-edge of a vast domed structure.

And beneath the dome was a small city. In the red glare, Hool could see that they were standing in a street between buildings, including the one they had broken into. Some were towers so tall they doubled as support columns, reaching to the domed ceiling, while others were lower-slung buildings, about five or six storeys in human terms. All were built from the same jet-black stone, their outer surface punctuated by sharp ridges and jagged ornamental spikes.

It was an entire alien city, deserted, kilometres beneath the ground of Belmos VII, an ancient city in a domed artificial cavern buried so deep that it had taken centuries for a deep-core mining operation to stumble upon it by mistake.

As the flare fell to the ground its light became too much, and Hool dropped his eyes to the floor beneath their feet.

It was then that he saw the lines of red and gold embedded in the black polished stone beneath their feet. They curved off to the left and right, parallel with the walls of the chamber, two lines, one within another.

Hool pointed his lamp down an alleyway slightly ahead. Further lines could be seen cutting across the path between buildings, disappearing beneath the walls.

Concentric circles covered the entire chamber. Hool wondered whether these were purely decorative, and if not – what lay within the innermost circle?

Calway had barely returned to Emperor’s Square when the first strike came. He had entered the lobby of the main hab-tower with a number of Deaz’s men, ready to induct the best of his own people into the Guard and begin the process of fortification, when a tremendous explosion came from the square, blowing out the few windows that had survived previous assaults.

Looking out onto the square from the shelter of the lobby, Calway could see the wreckage but not the cause: the statue of the Emperor at the centre of the square had been blasted to rubble, and the smaller statues around it had been similarly flattened. Chunks of metal and stone were strewn across the entire square, while nearby buildings had smoking, broken facades from where hot wreckage had blasted into them.

If this wasn’t distraction enough, the conscript Plymton came running down the stairs to find Calway, stumbling and nearly falling down the last few steps in his eagerness to reach him.

The urgency with which Plymton approached suddenly stalled as the boy saw Calway’s Guard uniform, and didn’t seem to know what to say.

‘Spit it out,’ snapped Calway. ‘This better be important.’

‘We’re losing people, Mr Calway,’ said Plymton.

‘Has the tower been hit?’ Calway asked.

‘No, not losing people like that,’ said Plymton. ‘They’re disappearing from inside the building. There’s shouts and then they’re gone. Desap thought he saw a shadow drag away McGurty, but they just vanished.’

Calway blinked at Plymton a couple of times. The boy wasn’t the brightest spark, but he was no liar or fantasist.

What the hell was going on?

The reports came in from around the city-factory, from Hossk and Calway and others, but at the centre, where Major Geiss received these voxed reports, all was quiet.

Looking out over the mine from the main gallery, Geiss saw no sign of activity at all – he had watched the lift with Smoker’s platoon descend beneath the ground, the great chains grinding through the towering, skeletal machinery that plunged deep beneath.

Since then, not a movement, just the sound of orders being barked to Guardsmen, of preparations being made for the assault that the night would bring.

Then the reports came in. Explosions. Disappearances.

Anyone exposed, out on the streets, was in danger of attack from above.

Anyone indoors was in danger of being snatched by… who knew what.

No one had yet seen their attackers. It wasn’t consistent with the capabilities or attack patterns of the altered, infected, whatever humans. The reports didn’t fit with anything that had happened on Belmos VII so far.

It was at the exact point where Major Geiss thought things couldn’t get any worse that Tordez’s voice broke through onto the command vox-channel.

Tordez and the survivors from the spaceport, of whom there were less than a dozen, were running down the causeway towards the city-factory gates. They were under no illusions that they were successfully escaping trouble – over the city walls, fires and smoke could be seen pluming from the city-factory’s towers as they fell under attack – but knew that there was no point remaining at the spaceport.

At best, there would be nothing left for the Guard there, and they would achieve nothing.

At worst, the attackers who had destroyed the shuttle would come back to finish any stragglers.

So they ran, Tordez in the lead, towards the city-factory. So far, there was no sign of pursuit as they ran down the thick strip of rockcrete, but that didn’t encourage them to slow down.

As he ran, Tordez repeatedly tried the vox command channel. With the relay on the shuttle destroyed, his range was limited, and they were halfway across the causeway when he got a weak, broken signal. He didn’t hesitate to communicate his message, as clearly as he could:

‘Tordez to Major Geiss, Tordez to Major Geiss,’ said the commissar through shallow, ragged breaths. ‘Shuttle destroyed, repeat the shuttle has been destroyed by unknown attackers. Withdrawing to city-factory now.’

Tordez took a couple of deep breaths before speaking again. The vox was silent.

‘Major Geiss, please confirm message received,’ Tordez said.

‘Message received, commissar,’ said Geiss. His voice sounded weak and distant. That could have been the strength of the vox-signal, but Tordez wasn’t so sure.

Some would say that Geiss was right to take the news as a blow. Geiss’s strike force were under attack from forces unknown, their numbers dwindling by the hour. They had many hours of the day to go, at which point the night would bring fresh attacks from their known, but equally dangerous, foes.

It was a doomed situation, getting ever worse. Stronger officers than Geiss would have cracked by now, fallen to despair.

Tordez, for his part, was just getting interested. He had seen hundreds of battles in his time, to the extent that they blurred into each other. But the current situation had novelty.

Running from a flaming wreck towards a warzone, from one devastating threat to another, Commissar Tordez was almost beginning to enjoy himself.

The air was full of light.

As Smoker’s platoon moved through the streets of the underground city, they steadily realised that the torches they carried were becoming increasingly unnecessary, in spite of a thickening mist in the air. There was a light being cast, but the source was hard to identify.

It was Gilham who made the connection.

‘The light is in the air,’ he told Smoker. ‘There’s a steady flow of particulates in the air, and they’re emitting a low level of light.’

‘Flow?’ said Smoker. ‘Where from?’

Gilham pointed towards the centre of the chamber. The buildings were getting lower as they moved closer to the centre, and as the platoon switched off their torches, an eerie glow could be seen haloing the buildings. It wasn’t a white light, but one of indeterminate, shifting colour.

Hool waved a gloved hand in front of his face. Even through his rebreather lenses, he could see a trail of light behind his hand as the particles were disturbed.

‘There’s the source of our infection, I’ll bet,’ said Polk as he watched Hool playing with thin air. ‘Not something you’d want to breathe in.’

‘The carrier, perhaps, sergeant,’ said Gilham. Hool and Polk hadn’t realised they were on open vox-channel still. ‘But not the source. That, I expect, lies ahead.’

‘Let’s find it, then,’ said Smoker impatiently.

As they moved closer to the centre, the thickening mist was accompanied by a noise. At first, Hool thought it was his own breath echoing within his rebreather, or one of the other men breathing into the open vox-channel. Slowly, he realised the noise was muffled, but steadily rising, a rhythmic noise in the cavern itself, stirring the air back and forth, the glowing particulates in the mist pulling away and then pushing back.

A tide rolling in and out. Hadn’t Mankell mentioned something about the moon and the tides?

The thought was curtailed as they turned the final corner, and saw what was at the centre of the city underground, the heart of the cavern. The source itself.

At the centre of the chamber, where the buildings and structures stopped, the concentric circles on the floor began to tighten, each a short distance above the outer circle, forming a raised dais in the centre of the cavern. On this central raised platform sat the source, towering over the tiny Guardsmen below, sprawling out in all directions.

It was a mass, of some sort. A shifting, pulsing, breathing thing, parts of which seemed metallic or glass, others seemed meaty and fleshy, flushed with the red of mammalian tissue, while other parts seemed to have the thick, inert green-brown matter of a plant or tree. It had gills that hissed out the glowing mist; pulsing, beating protuberances, transparent tubes and flat surfaces. It was rooted, tendrilled and huge, huge beyond the size of not only any living thing that Hool had seen, but anything he could imagine.

The Guardsmen of Smoker’s platoon spread out around the bottom step that led to the dais, guns half-raised, not sure what to do. There was a wide enough area for them to move out into, so they fanned out, transfixed, looking up at the thing.

Was it a creature, a machine, or some heretic or alien’s demented idea of a god?

Hool tore his eyes off the thing, and saw that even Smoker and Gilham seemed stunned into silence.

It was Polk who broke the silence with the pertinent question of the moment.

‘How do we kill that?’

The shuttle destroyed. Diminishing troop numbers. Invisible enemies firing death from above, stealing people in the shadows. A noose tightening around the city-factory, encircling the mine at the heart of the city but not yet squeezing in.

Major Geiss needed to stop, to focus. He was, so far, not under attack. The action was elsewhere, but his command centre was quiet. He needed to use this advantage, to take stock.

There had been no sign of activity outside the city-factory when the Seraphim entered Belmos VII’s orbit, and any enemy landing since then would have been detected by the ship. This raised a disturbing possibility.

The vox-caster in the gallery was sufficiently powerful to reach the Seraphim. Geiss ordered the vox-operator to contact the ship. There was no response. It was possible that atmospheric interference was disrupting communications, but equally that the Seraphim had already been destroyed without anyone on the world below even noticing.

No ship, no escape. That seemed to be the scenario, and there was no use speculating any further. Geiss needed to take charge. To lead his men from afar.

This is what he had trained for. This was what he had wanted, the chance to prove his leadership abilities.

An unseen enemy, an unpredictable scenario. It was in such circumstances that great leaders emerged. If he was to become the man he wanted to be, Geiss had to seize this moment.

He closed his eyes, raising the vox-caster to his lips, his thumb hovering over the stud that, when pressed, would transmit his voice to his troops across the city-factory. His lips were dry. He ran his tongue over them, breathing deeply.

He thought back to the plans of the city-factory he had first looked at when planning this operation, then in his mind he overlaid this flat, stable image with the reality of the planet as he had found it, and then added onto that the various details of the emerging situation: abductions in the hab-towers, the burning shuttle.

He opened his eyes, pressed down the vox-stud and spoke quickly:

‘This is Major Geiss to all men of the 114th. I want everyone off the streets, now. Those of you already indoors, gather together, provide cover for those retreating from the streets, join into as large a group as you can, move from building to building. Cover the windows, cover the dark corners. Observe, report, and if you get a clear shot, destroy. I want heavy weapons in key spots looking for these fliers, and I want teams turning over the interiors until they find these lurkers.

‘Whoever is attacking, they have the element of surprise, they want us in chaos, but we will not let them break our line. We are unbreakable, and we will meet their cowardly attacks with an unflinching gaze and iron discipline. It is they who will fail, they who will reveal themselves and they who will be eliminated.

‘You are men of the 114th Mordian Iron Guard, the Unbreakable Regiment. No enemy has broken us yet, and no enemy ever will, not any day and certainly not today. Geiss out.’

Geiss released the vox-stud. The strategy was sound. He had faith in his men to carry out his orders, to regroup and strike back.

He hoped it would be enough.

Tordez heard Geiss’s message over the command vox, and approved. It was a sound strategy, and the men needed to hold their nerve.

The great gates of the city-factory were still open, and as Tordez reached the end of the causeway he ran straight through, a dozen men on his heels. He skidded to a halt on the wet rockcrete, and began to bark orders at the men before they were even through the gates.

‘Find the locking mechanism, I want these gates closed. You, get to the nearest sentry point, watch the spaceport. If anything lands on that pad I want to know about it.’

He tossed out a few more orders, all to the end of securing the city-factory gates and keeping the spaceport under guard. The men ran off in various directions to fulfil these orders, some still wheezing from the sprint across the causeway, all of them determined to do whatever was needed of them.

Tordez needed that determination from them now. He didn’t believe that destroying the lander was just a shock tactic, or a way of cutting off the Guard’s route off Belmos VII. No, Tordez was certain that the spaceport was needed, that it had been cleared to allow another vehicle to land.

Tordez remembered another world and enemies in the dark. A population in chains, a desperate attempt to prevent those souls being lost. An attempt which had failed, the enemy vanishing in shadows, their captives damned, spirited away, the cruel laughter of their inhuman captors ringing in the ears of the defeated Imperial forces.

Tordez would be damned himself before he let that happen again here.

The clouds broke above the centre of the city-factory.

In the main gallery of the mining complex, Major Geiss stopped his pacing, distracted by the sudden bright shafts of sunlight over the mine. He looked out of the windows, up through the crisscrossing scaffolding of the mining machinery, but all he could see was the glare of a rarely-seen sun.

Major Geiss hoped this was a good portent, that it signalled a change in the fortunes of his strike force. Then, in that moment, his thoughts were on the success of the mission, of the survival of his men.

What Geiss couldn’t see from down below was the vast shape that had scattered the clouds, a ship like none mankind had ever constructed. It was a city in the sky, barbed with bristling towers and spires, its form twisting into cruel spikes, its surfaces black and unyielding. It would have been a graceful vehicle if its creators had minds less encumbered with unremitting cruelty.

On the bridge of the vessel, under high-vaulted ceilings, the ship’s commander sat on a throne of twisted silver, one tapered forefinger rubbing the corner of his thin, cruel mouth, while his other hand lolled idly over the arm of his throne, swishing through the air in a gesture of studied, long-practiced boredom.

‘Archon,’ said a masked and robed figure standing a respectful distance behind the throne. ‘The charge is ready.’

‘Will this work, Zekov?’ asked the creature on the throne. His voice was musical, but discordant.

‘This is the area of least obstruction, archon,’ said Zekov, flexing his knuckles within gauntlets covered in blunt barbs. ‘A single charge should clear a descent lateral to the Lung. From there we–’

The noble dismissed Zekov’s elaborations with a careless flick of his wrist. His underling’s explanations irritated his tender senses.

‘I am fully aware of the strategy,’ said the archon. ‘Did I not devise it myself? Dispatch the charge. Let us be done with this.’

Zekov nodded respectfully, even though he was out of his archon’s line of sight, and relayed the orders.

‘Charge fired,’ said one technician.

A single shot was fired from the alien ship, a ball of light that rolled from the underside of the vessel, hurtling straight down, gravity carrying it to a precise spot at the centre of the mining complex.

White-hot tendrils tore through everything in its path, disintegrating all around it. It landed directly on the main mineshaft, spiralling as it fell, a wake of destruction spinning outwards.

The structures built over the mineshaft just disappeared, as did the buildings surrounding the mine. Major Geiss, stood in the main gallery, was consumed in an instant, blasted to atoms, his thoughts still consumed with the threats to his men, unaware that he himself was even under threat. He and everyone in the control centre died, instantly and cleanly. Where the blast radius stopped, it stopped, with no outward shockwave, buildings that crossed the edge sliced clean through, the outer sections intact.

Lieutenant Deaz and the majority of his men were out of range of the blast. They could do nothing but shield their eyes as the sphere of energy tore down through the centre of the complex.

The ball of energy didn’t stop at ground level, but kept descending, following the path of mineshaft B371 but creating a wider, smoother hole, consuming all human constructions in its path as it dug, deep down into the solid rock of Belmos VII.

On the bridge of the alien ship, a report was whispered into the ear of Zekov, who tilted a withered head surrounded by bony protuberances as he listened. He whispered further instructions, then stepped back towards the throne, his extended spine flexing as he silently shifted across the floor.

‘My archon,’ said Zekov. ‘The charge was successful. We are moving to the landing site now.’

‘Very well,’ said the archon, stirring from his throne and getting to his feet. ‘Have my armour prepared, and ready my Raider for planetfall.’

At these words, servants withdrew into the darkness of the ship.

Archon Kulkavar, scourge of a thousand worlds, the damnation of a billion human souls, let a cruel smile pass across his thin lips.

‘Let us seize this treasure from the mon-keigh, so ignorant of the glory hidden beneath their feet,’ he said to Zekov, his haemonculus. ‘Then we will unleash its power on their Imperium, and see the worlds of man stripped of their souls for our pleasure.’

Twelve

As Smoker had instructed, Hervl was setting a series of small explosive charges on the elevator. It was painful, slow work with only one fully working arm, with Hervl fumbling to connect remote-controlled detonators to each charge, then stick the charge where it was required. As he went about setting charges on weak spots in the chains supporting the elevator platform, Hervl’s work was initially accompanied by the background noise of an injured Guardsman wailing in his delirium.

Eventually the noise ceased. Hervl didn’t stop to check why the Guardsman had gone quiet. There was nothing he could do for the man.

When the last charge, which Hervl had fixed to the elevator’s main control panel, was set, he walked back to the front of the platform and sat down, staring at the tunnel down which the rest of the platoon had marched. The platform was almost exactly thick enough for Hervl’s legs to dangle comfortably a little distance off the cavern floor, so he sat there with the remote detonator in his hand, the trigger covered by a safety cap. All it would take would be to flick back the cap and press a button, and the elevator would be scuttled, detached from the chains that lifted it and its control panel wrecked.

Hervl hoped it wasn’t going to be necessary. He wasn’t a man to think about things much, but he knew he didn’t want to doom himself in the depths of the mine. He would rather the decision were taken out of his hands.

His wish was granted. Hervl had the barest awareness of a light from above, and a crackling in the air tickling his scalp, before the ball of energy ploughed down into the cavern, consuming everything in one last burst before dissipating. Hervl, the injured Guardsmen, the body of Mankell and every-thing else in the cavern disintegrated as the infernal sphere burnt itself out.

Then there was silence in the expanded cavern, only broken by the trickle of debris tumbling down the vertical, open shaft that the dark eldar weapon had gouged through the dirt of Belmos VII.

On the surface, Lieutenant Deaz and a handful of his men approached the edge of the crater. The mining complex was in ruins. With a hole blasted through the machinery that had clustered over the mineshaft, the sections of those structures that had survived the blast were left unstable, twisting and rocking. Many had already collapsed. Where the blast had sliced through buildings and structures, the sutured edges were white-hot, and the rim of the crater glowed with lava even in the daylight. The air was filled with steam as a thin drizzle of rain made contact with the burning ruins, evaporating instantly.

Deaz felt a vertiginous swirl as he looked down into the endless hole before him. He shook the feeling out of his head and tried the command vox-channel, but it was consumed with interference. Reporting Geiss’s death to the other officers would have to wait. Deaz had better luck with the local vox for his platoon, getting a static-filled, but usable, signal.

‘All survivors to the main compound gates,’ shouted Deaz over the vox-static. ‘We’re withdrawing to Emperor’s Square.’

Geiss was gone, but his strategy still held. They would make a stand in Emperor’s Square.

As for Smoker and his platoon, hopefully they would destroy whatever had caused this mess in the first place. Either way, there was no need for Deaz and his men to wait for their return.

There was no way back to the surface for that platoon now. Infected or not, those men would die down there, and there was nothing Deaz could do to either help or hinder them.

Tordez swore. It was a rare indulgence of externalised emotion for the impassive commissar, and he nearly swore again in self-disgust.

From the walls of the city-factory, Tordez had direct line of sight to the spaceport. He had produced a pair of field binoculars from one of the many inner pockets of his regulation leather coat, and even with a thin fall of rain obscuring the view he could see what was going on out there.

He had thought that the black, twisted shape of the craft that landed in the scoured patch left by the destruction of the shuttle was of a familiar aesthetic sense, but had hoped that he might be wrong. When a landing ramp lowered and the first honour guard of slim, chitinously armoured figures marched out, all doubt was dismissed.

Dark eldar. It was confirmation of their presence that had produced a rare curse from the old commissar, who had encountered these creatures before. A branch of the eldar race, they combined the heightened senses of their species with the cruelty and malice of Chaos. Pirates, sadists and slavers, they sought the souls of others to prolong their lives and defer their own damnation.

Most of the enemies of man would only kill you once. The dark eldar were not so kind, consuming their captives’ souls, a destruction that went beyond the mere death of mortal flesh.

The vox was nothing but static, presumably a result of the flash Tordez had seen as the dark eldar ship flew over the centre of the city-factory. All he could do was watch the enemy, and hope for some sign of their intent, some clue as to their objectives and how they might be defeated.

Kulkavar stepped out onto the surface of Belmos VII in his full armour. Curved black shoulder pads edged with gold jutted out, tapering to wicked points. A half-cloak of deep blue covered his right side, while at the opposite hip hung a great barbed blade. His right hand, his sword hand, was covered in the same chitinous black armour as the rest of his body, articulated at every knuckle so as to not impede his sword grip. The armour was so deeply polished it had a deep blue glow.

On his left hand Kulkavar wore a ceremonial hellglaive, a powered glove with bladed fingers that would tear apart any opponent who dared step within range of the dark eldar noble. A thick cable slunk from Kulkavar’s left elbow to a powercell in the back of his armour, tucked beneath the half-cloak.

It was part of Kulkavar’s personal vanity, the aura of fearlessness he sought to create, that he went into battle bare-faced, with a maskless helmet that tapered to a red plume and which was held in place by gilded cheek guards that joined at the neck.

Kulkavar turned his face to the sky. A billion drops of moisture fell above him, and he took in every one. Each drop that touched his face was an unwelcome sensation, scraping his heightened eldar senses as if each drop were sharpened, but he suffered the sensation, and that suffering gave him a dark pleasure.

A billion raindrops falling, one for every human soul that the Lung would bring him.

A billion? A conservative estimate. A billion would be the beginning.

The haemonculus Zekov followed Kulkavar at a respectful distance, as he always did. Zekov was waiting for his archon to dismiss the honour guard who had lined the spaceport to greet their kabal leader, three dozen dark eldar warriors in their seamless black armour, weapons respectfully raised.

Kulkavar hadn’t noticed their presence until Zekov’s reticence drew his attention to them. Their gesture of respect and submission broke his moment of self-contemplation. Kulkavar waved them away dismissively, and they broke ranks and began preparations for the attack.

Zekov finally stepped into his master’s presence. His armour was tighter and less ornate than Kulkavar’s, part battle gear and part protective coverall, the bloodstained workclothes of a master torturer. Beneath his clothing he was thin, almost skeletal, and over his face he wore a sculpted deathmask, the mouth contorted in torment.

‘Zekov, what progress?’ Kulkavar asked.

‘The advance landing party have had great success, my archon,’ Zekov reported. ‘The Raiders have driven most of the humans into hiding, while the soulsnatchers have already gathered many slaves. The Lung’s effects appear to have reduced the human population considerably, so it should take little time to gather the survivors and acquire the Lung itself.’

‘Very good,’ said Kulkavar, his tone indicating that Zekov’s performance in this respect was, at best, adequate. ‘You have the Ear?’

‘Of course,’ said Zekov, bowing slightly as he produced a small wooden box from his robes. The gnarled limbs that emerged from his spine flexed with tension as he held the box.

Kulkavar looked down at the box. It was crude, chipped at the edges and lacking elegance, but its significance…

‘My glory rests in your hands,’ Kulkavar told Zekov. ‘Take Veldrax’s warriors, and bring me the Lung. I will oversee the subjugation of these vermin personally.’

‘Very well, my archon,’ said Zekov, bowing again.

While the two dark eldar had discussed their battle plans, further ordnance and troops had been deployed onto the scorched rockcrete of the spaceport.

A Raider transport hovered bulkily nearby, the sybarite Veldrax and his black and red-armoured troops already on board. Veldrax himself stood at the prow of the anti-grav vehicle, a gold streak on his helmet indicating his status, his dark lance resting on the vehicle’s railing. Veldrax saluted Kulkavar as Zekov boarded the Raider, and then the vehicle rose, hovering for a few seconds before moving away in a blur of motion, its anti-grav engines utterly silent.

With Zekov and Veldrax dispatched on their mission, and his own command Raider nearly prepared for departure, Lord Kulkavar looked into the grey sky once more, and idly wondered whether they had been pursued to Belmos VII.

No matter. Kulkavar’s objective was in his sights. Any obstructions would be swept aside without mercy, and made to suffer for their impertinence in the process.

Gilham wasn’t surprised when, in spite of the best efforts to amplify vox range, Smoker’s vox-operator had no success in making contact with the surface. Gilham’s augmented vision had allowed him to watch his own connection to Major Geiss’s command channel fade and cut out as they descended through the many levels of the mine.

Following the confrontation with Chief Adept Mankell, it had not occurred to Gilham to check any vox-channels beyond the limited loop of Smoker’s platoon. He had been absorbed in his own thoughts, disturbed that psychosis had taken possession of such a senior member of his own priesthood.

On Elisenda, Lord Brassfell had requested in private audience that Gilham act as courier for any confidential communication Mankell wished to transfer to his superiors within the Adeptus Mechanicus. Gilham had no idea what such communication might have been, but felt a bitter regret that he would not be able to fulfil Lord Brassfell’s request. Instead, he would bear bad news.

These concerns had blunted Gilham’s ability to observe his surroundings, as had the sight of the alien city and the… thing at its centre. If he had paid more attention, stretched his abilities to observe his environment on multiple spectra and frequencies, he might have noticed it earlier, rather than having to be told by an unaugmented vox-operator.

‘There’s a signal cancelling out any long-range communications, sir,’ the vox-operator told Lieutenant Essler, after much effort to connect to Major Geiss on the surface.

And once he had mentioned it, Gilham could not fail to hear it – it was everywhere, undetectable by human hearing, but a broad-range signal of incredible power, an unidentifiable alien pattern transmitted in a loop. He could not decipher the message it transmitted – some form of encryption far beyond Gilham’s understanding had been applied – but its brevity suggested something simple.

A beacon, calling out into space, requesting help or announcing its position.

‘Can you not hear it, Lieutenant Essler?’ Gilham asked.

Essler looked at Gilham but didn’t reply.

‘Your augmentations should allow you to tune in to the signal,’ said Gilham, still speaking on the audible vox-spectrum. ‘Here, I will connect you.’

It was a simple matter for Gilham to relay the alien signal to the augmented sensory array built into Lieutenant Essler’s skull, the implants that Gilham had placed there himself when he augmented the injured Essler, saving his life.

Gilham was surprised when Essler not only rejected the relayed transmission, but strode towards Gilham, pushing aside Guardsmen standing between them.

‘Do not get into my head, adept,’ said Essler, his synthetic voice rippling with distortion and feedback. The lieutenant shook his head as if trying to shake something off his scalp. Essler looked straight at Gilham. ‘I am not like you. I did not choose… this.’ He waved his free hand around his head in an expansive gesture.

There had been limited contact between Gilham and Essler since the adept had saved the Guardsman’s life all those years ago. This was not a matter of evasion, at least not on Gilham’s part, it was simply that their roles within the regiment rarely came into contact. Gilham had barely considered the augmentations he had made to Essler that day, but when he did it was with a certain pride – they were complex augmentations, and Gilham had relished their intricacy, and he had done all this while saving a man’s life.

It was only now, watching Lieutenant Essler turn on his heel and redirect his ire towards the Guardsmen who were failing to provide a solution to the destruction of the alien artefact before them, that Gilham realised that the augmentation of the flesh, the sacred enhancements of blessed machinery elevating the weak human body, might not be considered such a gift by those outside the priesthood.

Following Geiss’s last orders, Calway had brought together as many of his people as he could, along with the Guardsmen in the hab-tower, and gathered them on the fifth floor. The slim, well-lit apartments of that floor were eminently defensible, providing the enemy did not mimic Polk’s squad and come crashing through the walls from an adjacent building.

If they did, Calway’s people would at least hear them coming, and whoever these attackers were, a loud assault did not seem like their style. Instead, they attacked from the shadows, silently taking people away. The only sign of their presence was an absence – a paradox that Calway found unnerving, especially after weeks dealing with an enemy that attacked with feral, direct force.

A rough headcount suggested that perhaps three dozen people had gone missing during the day. The people in the hab-tower had become used to counting each other in and out at the start and end of the day, and Calway saw no reason to doubt these numbers as they were reported to him. They had also become used to living in smaller and smaller sections of the great hab-tower as their numbers dwindled, and so there was no shortage of unused rooms where the enemy might be lying in wait or dumping the bodies of their victims.

That’s if there were bodies to be buried. If the infected citizens had mutated or evolved in some way, allowing them to operate in the daylight hours and with greater intelligence, then they might just be picking off uninfected citizens one-by-one and consuming them whole. Another thought to make Calway unhappy.

Calway was soon called over to a window by Plymton, where he found out that his presumptions and guesses were all wrong, but the truth made him no happier.

At first, Calway wasn’t sure what he was looking at. From this elevation, all he could see was a line of his own people shuffling out into the square, although they did not seem to be coming from any door to the tower. Looking closer, he could see that they were connected with some kind of chain, a black thread linking each man or woman to the next, neck-to-neck. They looked dejected, heads bowed, the odd limb twitching as if the owner were recovering from some unknown trauma.

Then Calway saw their captors. They had hidden in the shadows before, but were now out in the open. The rain had thickened to a steady shower, obscuring the details, but Calway could make out lithe, inhumanly thin figures wearing black body armour. They had tapered helmets and curved weaponry, rifles of a kind Calway had never seen and twisted blades.

Their movements, the way they walked, made Calway feel ill: while strangely graceful, these creatures moved differently from humans, their body language entirely alien. Their camouflage removed, they looked fearlessly out across the square, aloof to even the possibility that any humans might threaten them.

‘Shall I take the shot, sir?’ asked Plymton, who had taken his old sniping position by the window. The lad had taken to referring to Calway as ‘sir’ since he discovered Calway had been inducted into the Guard, even though Calway hadn’t made any move towards recruiting Plymton into the ranks.

‘Hold your fire,’ said Calway sharply, remembering the last time Plymton had fired on an unknown enemy. ‘We don’t even know what these things are.’

It wasn’t long before Calway found out. He was trying vainly to vox Major Geiss and report the sighting when Tordez answered instead.

‘Take cover!’ Tordez shouted, running down the staircase leading to the city-factory walls three steps at a time. ‘Back from the gate, take cover. Prepare to fire on my command!’

As he reached ground level, the men were already scurrying into position behind refuelling posts, a squat guard station and the other functional structures that clustered around the city-factory’s main gates. Tordez had shouted the order the moment he saw the dark eldar anti-grav vehicles rolling out onto the spaceport – an assault couldn’t be long in coming. He had seen those things move before, and knew they were fast.

Tordez took position behind the staircase, pointing his pistol at the gates, his gun-arm resting on the wet metal step. Ice-cold rainwater began to seep through the gap between his sleeve and glove, chilling his skin, but Tordez ignored it. He was banking on his presumption that the dark eldar, having flagrantly landed their ship in the most obvious place, would make no attempt to breach the city-factory’s walls from an unexpected angle, but would take the direct route across the causeway and through the gates.

In this, Tordez was entirely correct. The gates exploded in a plume of dark matter, colourless energy tearing through the metal and twisting the shredded remains back on themselves, a hot shower of fragments blowing back into the city-factory.

Tordez briefly ducked his head down, protecting his eyes and face from the blast, then quickly raised his gaze again, hand tightening on his pistol, waiting for the attack.

Instead, the dark eldar vehicle that swept through the ruins of the gate tore past, heading straight down the central access road to the heart of the city-factory. If the crew even noticed Tordez and the other Mordians gathered around the gates, they did not stop to open fire or take any interest at all.

The vehicle moved so quickly that it was out of range before any of them could think of squeezing a trigger.

Through the gap between the metal steps, Tordez could see the men breathing sighs of relief, unclenching from their firing positions. Tordez remained concerned. The dark eldar were greedy, cruel enemies who descended on the nearest prey without mercy. For them to act with such purpose was very bad news.

The position at the gates was lost – there was no point in trying to hold it further. Tordez ordered the men to follow him, and began the quick-march retreat into the heart of the city-factory, keeping off the main access roads and staying in the shadows as they headed into the darkness of the refinery and Hossk’s last known position. They only had a few hours left until nightfall, and the Guard needed to regroup as best they could before facing both enemies at once.

While trying to vox any available officer, Tordez found himself talking to Calway. Tordez didn’t recall the name, but then it wasn’t his business to know every man in the regiment.

‘Put me through to the most senior officer you can find, man,’ Tordez ordered the moment he realised that he was speaking to a newly seconded civilian. He had no patience for wet recruits now.

‘Sir, with all due respect the most senior man here was Sergeant Allend, and he has been taken captive by the enemy,’ said Calway.

‘Never mind,’ snapped Tordez. ‘Why are you on this vox-channel, Calway?’

Calway explained what he was looking at.

‘Those things are eldar,’ said Tordez. ‘Xenos of the most corrupt kind, and they have support transports heading into the city-factory now. You must not let them take those slaves away, Calway.’

‘Sir?’

‘Free the slaves, Calway, or ensure that they are not taken alive,’ said Tordez. ‘You must not let the souls of the Emperor’s servants fall to the xenos filth, even if you have to obliterate their bodies to do so. Do you understand?’

Thirteen

The Raider carrying Veldrax’s squad and Zekov swept through the streets of the human city unimpeded. Suspended on an anti-gravity field, the Raider moved with equal speed over flat roads and scattered rubble. A gunner sat behind the dark lance mounted at the vehicle’s prow.

Zekov gripped the railing, crouching slightly so as to not break the aerodynamics of the Raider as it moved directly towards the centre of the human city-factory. A handful of blue-jacketed humans leapt out of the way as the Raider reached the perimeter of the mining complex at the heart of the city, but the warriors on board ignored them – others would scoop up these valuable souls. The eldar on board the Raider had another objective.

As the Raider approached the crater surrounding the open hole the dark eldar had burned through the existing mine-workings, the pilot shouted for all on board to hold tight.

Zekov braced himself against the inside of the Raider’s armoured carapace. The pilot was the finest in Lord Kulkavar’s kabal, entirely capable of the feat of anti-gravity steering he was about to engage in, but that did not mean it would be an easy ride.

As the Raider reached the lip of the crater, the pilot killed the forward anti-grav thrusters, causing the rear of the vehicle to suddenly elevate at a forty degree angle. By raising the back of the vehicle well above the level of the front, the pilot ensured that it fell nose-first into the abyss.

The Raider fell straight down, the relentless grip of gravity aiding its descent. As it fell, the Raider drifted close to the sheer rock wall of the shaft, at which point the pilot briefly fired the anti-grav thrusters, causing the Raider to spin away before it made contact. Before it could hit the opposite side of the well, the thrusters fired again.

The friction between the anti-gravity fields and the wall slowed the descent of the Raider as it fell, turning a fatal descent into a controlled ricochet. It was a skilful demonstration of piloting, but not a comfortable ride. Zekov felt like he was being pulled apart, spiralling forces tugging him in many directions at once. The haemonculus and Veldrax’s warriors clung to whatever they could to prevent themselves being thrown out of the Raider by the gravitational whirlwind.

Zekov had calibrated the charge that drilled this shaft himself, and it was precisely calculated to burn itself out at the level required. As the Raider reached the bottom of the shaft the pilot performed another series of quick-fire anti-grav bursts that flipped the Raider the right way up, then slowed their descent to the floor of the cavern below into a gentle drift.

The gravity reversal required to turn a near-freefall into a graceful descent was so severe that it caused an upwards wave of excess anti-gravity force, lifting the dark eldar on board the Raider from the deck. Zekov felt a shuddering wave of lightness tremor up through his body as they came to a halt.

The pilot cut the engines, and the Raider landed fully. Normal gravity re-asserted itself.

They had landed in an artificial cavern, littered with debris. A number of tunnels, far too narrow for the Raider to traverse, branched out in all directions.

Veldrax’s warriors had been trained to make planetfall in slim drop-ships from which they were expected to emerge fighting, far rougher descents than they had just experienced. They marched off the Raider the moment it hit the dirt, awaiting the haemonculus’s instruction.

Zekov stepped down onto the cavern floor. Warmth drifted up through his thick boots, afterglow from the dissipation of the charge. The haemonculus opened the wooden box that Lord Kulkavar had presented him with. He lifted it close to his face, not just looking under the lid, but listening.

After a few seconds, he snapped the box shut and pointed to a tunnel.

Veldrax nodded, and the warriors moved out.

At the dark eldar’s intended destination, Smoker’s platoon had found that while their objective was easy to locate, destroying it was another matter.

The… thing at the centre of the alien city was remarkably hard to damage. Las-fire didn’t scratch it. The mist hanging in the air dampened explosives, so that large detonations inflicted minimal damage. Direct physical assaults on the living machine, either from melee weapons or shots from a lasrifle, resulted in injuries which rapidly healed up – a thick yellow fluid pumped out of the wounds, rapidly drying and hardening. By the time that crust was smashed away, having hardened to a rock-like consistency within seconds, the damage underneath had been entirely repaired.

Hool had both watched and participated in the attempts to damage this thing. In line with its hybrid appearance, it seemed to have the unthinking solidity of a machine and the survival instinct of a living thing.

After all the Mordians’ attempts, its bulk loomed over them, pulsing, undamaged, an ethereal light shimmering across its surfaces.

Most of the Guardsmen were left to patrol the perimeter of the central platform while Smoker argued with Gilham and his sergeants. Hool took a position not far from where they were ‘debating’ the options, where he could watch one of the ‘alleyways’ leading between the ‘buildings’ of the underground city – although, as most of those buildings didn’t have any visible doors, they could have been sculptures or machinery for all Hool knew.

Even through the muffling effect of the protective headwear the Guardsmen were wearing, Hool could hear Gilham and Smoker’s part of the conversation, as they were using their external vox-casters rather than a private vox-channel. That Smoker seemed to be raising the tempo of the conversation in his frustration just made it easier to follow.

Hool could understand the lieutenant’s frustration. They were the Unbreakable Regiment, renowned for standing resolute in the face of an onslaught. Here, they found themselves thrown against a seemingly immovable object, something they couldn’t shoot or blow up. Hool found himself strangely reassured by the argument, partially because it demonstrated that Smoker had some feelings left, that he was capable of doing something as human as losing his temper. It reassured Hool that the lieutenant wasn’t entirely a machine.

The argument, and the uncomfortable need to not react while superiors let their tempers get the better of them, also provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of the thing they had come to destroy. Its presence unnerved Hool. He had spent a year under alien skies, walking alien soil, but always in the presence of human artefacts, of buildings and machinery constructed by humans for their own use. Even if the specifics of the Elisendan factories or the Belmos VII towers were novel to a Mordian hab-rat, the scale of these places was comprehensible to Hool.

This thing, this living machine, was of another order of strangeness altogether. Its shape, scale and substance didn’t fit with anything in Hool’s experience. Its sheer alienness made his skin crawl, and he tried not to look at it.

So he looked away, concentrating on his duties, maintaining line of sight down the ‘alleyway’ facing him. No one expected them to be disturbed – since the Guard faced off against Mankell they hadn’t seen any signs of life, just the odd scrap of debris from the recent human intrusion into the alien city – but the duty in itself was a welcome distraction for Hool, a useful focus for his attention.

It was this level of concentration that allowed him to see it: a flicker of movement in the distance, a shadow darting between one of the alien ‘buildings’ and another, a brief disruption of the misty air across the alley.

It was a brief flurry of motion, but Hool caught it. He dropped into the cover of the nearest building, leaning around the corner with his lasrifle aimed down the alley.

Others might have doubted their eyes, but Hool knew he had seen something. Not taking his eyes away from where he had last seen movement, he tapped his vox.

‘Movement sighted,’ Hool hissed.

It was Polk who responded first, running to the other side of the alley and taking a mirror position to Hool.

‘Where?’ Polk asked, cocking his combat shotgun.

‘About one hundred metres,’ said Hool. ‘It crossed the alley. Not entirely visible.’

Smoker broke in over the vox, transmitting to the entire platoon:

‘Possible incoming from the mine,’ said Smoker. ‘Form a perimeter, keep your eyes open.’

In Hool’s peripheral vision he could see Guardsmen dropping into position around the edge of the platform, facing out into the alien city, looking down the alleys and byways, searching for signs of movement.

‘Got something…’ said a voice over the vox. ‘But it’s gone again, sir. Whatever it is, it’s fast.’

Hool caught another glimpse of movement ahead, closer this time. As it broke through the thicker mist closer to the centre of the city, Hool could make out an outline: a figure too tall and too thin to be human, a spindly, almost insectoid figure reeling with athletic grace through the mist before disappearing behind another building. He felt a rising bile, the same unease he felt while looking at the machine thing on the platform, a revulsion against the unclean, the alien.

‘Sighted again,’ Hool snapped into the vox. ‘Humanoid, but I don’t think it’s human.’

‘Fire at will,’ said Smoker.

When the slim figure broke cover again, Hool opened fire with his recently acquired lasrifle. Although it was the same standard manufacture as his previous lasrifle, there were subtle differences in the firing: the previous owner, now deceased, preferred a looser, well-oiled trigger, which made for quicker, but less precise, bursts of las-fire. Hool’s first shots went wide and the lasrifle bucked uncomfortably in his grip. His target spiralled behind a wall on Hool’s side of the alleyway with precise, graceful movements.

The shots at least lit up the alleyway, and gave Polk a clear view of the intruder: from Polk’s position on the other side of the alleyway he had a clearer line of sight to where the intruder was hidden. As Hool hastily adjusted his grip on the new lasrifle, Polk fired a couple of blasts from his combat shotgun in the direction of the intruder. The shotgun fire echoed like thunder in the empty streets of the underground city, then there was a moment of silence.

‘Did you hit it?’ asked Hool.

‘I’m not sure…’ said Polk, peering down the alleyway, a haze of gunsmoke further reducing visibility.

If there was any doubt as to the alien creature’s intent, it was dispelled by the returned gunfire from its hiding position. There was a sharp crack from down the alley, as the air was sliced by a projectile cutting through the space between the creature and its human assailants.

Polk was mostly in cover, but not quite. Hool watched in horror from the other side of the alleyway as Polk reeled back, collapsing to the ground in a motionless pile.

‘My warriors have encountered humans,’ said Veldrax. He stated this without alarm, but as a matter of general interest.

‘Hardly unexpected,’ replied Zekov. He didn’t look up from the contents of his wooden box. ‘Who else would have disturbed the Lung and activated its signal beacon?’

‘They are surrounding the Lung itself and presenting armed resistance,’ added Veldrax. The sybarite and the haemonculus were standing close to the perimeter of the underground city, letting Veldrax’s warriors scout ahead.

‘Destroy them,’ said Zekov. Then he thought again, and snapped the wooden box shut. ‘No heavy weapons,’ he added. ‘We cannot afford to damage the Lung. Contain the humans, kill them if you can, but do not risk the Lung. Soon, we will be able to eliminate them at leisure.’

While Veldrax relayed the order, Zekov turned his attention back to his box, opening it to hear the whispering from the object within. It was calling out to its kindred technology, whispering on many different levels: audible, technological, psychic. Zekov listened closely to the communication, letting it guide him. As he did so, a map of the city formed on the surface of his mind, with a number of positions illuminated as markings of variable strength: there was the burning, resonant presence of the Lung at the centre of the city, and the smaller presence of the thing in the box.

Then there was a third presence, dormant, but ready to be woken.

It was closer to the centre of the city, a few streets from the Lung itself. Nodding for Veldrax to follow him, Zekov ran into the depths of the city.

Hool was about to dash across the mouth of the alleyway to check Polk, when his superior stirred, hands idly reaching upwards from where he lay.

Hool had exchanged fire with the shooter a couple more times since Polk went down, neither hitting the other. The enemy’s ammunition seemed to be brittle rods of a crystalline material that shattered when they hit a solid surface, spraying razor-sharp fragments.

Two days ago, Hool thought he was getting to grips with life in the Guard. Now, he realised he knew nothing. Rebels and traitors were only the beginning of the threats to mankind.

Hool was about to make a run to help Polk up, when he got a sharply ordered word over the vox.

‘Stay where you are, don’t break cover,’ said Smoker in clipped tones. Hool looked across to see the lieutenant running across to Polk’s position.

Another crystal shard narrowly missed Hool’s position. He fired another burst from his lasrifle, but the alien had disappeared into cover again. Hool could hear gunfire from across the chamber, and a scatter of reports over the vox – the enemy were approaching from all sides, sneaking between the buildings, edging towards the centre of the city and the alien machine-thing.

Hool looked across to see Smoker examine Polk’s head and upper body.

‘Glancing blow to shoulder, some shrapnel. Flak took most of the impact, jacket shredded but not reached skin. Knocked over, hit head,’ said Smoker, cocking his head. ‘Avrim, man down, possible concussion. Be careful with shrapnel, could be poisoned.’

As the medicae came running, head low to try and dodge enemy fire, Smoker raised his hellgun, while still concealed from the enemy’s view by the wall he was flat against.

‘Hool, draw his fire,’ said Smoker.

Hool nodded, and as Avrim leant over the fallen Polk, Hool made a more ostentatious assault on the enemy position, stepping out into the alleyway and launching a wide volley of las-fire down the alley. When he stopped firing, he lingered out of cover for a couple of seconds.

Tempted by the open target, an armoured figure leaned around the corner of the building, a slim, squared-off rifle with a wickedly sharp blade beneath the barrel carried in both hands. The creature’s armour was polished black with dashes of red, the curved helmet topped by a plume of long red hair. It had the bladed rifle raised, pointed directly at Hool’s head.

Three shots from Smoker’s hellgun caught the thing square in the chest and it reeled back, gracelessly keeling face first into the ground.

‘Hool, with me,’ ordered Smoker, and before Hool knew quite what he was doing he was running behind Lieutenant Essler, who was dashing for the fallen enemy’s position. Hool swept his lasrifle around all the possible lines of attack as Smoker dropped to his knees and started tugging at the dead creature’s helmet.

‘Know your enemy,’ muttered Smoker through the vox, and Hool was unsure whether that was advice or just Smoker thinking aloud.

Hool moved his lasrifle back and forth. They were on a crossroads between buildings, with three directions to cover: left, ahead, right. Behind them, the alley led back where they had just been, to where Avrim was trying to revive Polk.

Smoker made an unintelligible synthetic hiss and Hool couldn’t help but glance down to see what had raised this reaction. What he saw was the dead creature’s head, exposed with the helmet removed.

It had the same basic features as a human: eyes, nose, mouth, even hair in the normal place, but the proportions were wrong, the head too long, the mouth too thin. Even in death the dark, glassy eyes disconcerted Hool with the depth of their gaze. In contrast to that darkness the skin was papery white, deathly and fragile.

‘Xenos,’ said Smoker. ‘Eldar.’

‘You’ve fought these before?’ asked Hool.

Smoker shook his head. ‘No, but have heard–’

He broke off to pull his hellgun to his shoulder and fire past Hool. Hool looked down the side-alley to see a couple more eldar dropping into cover, raising their rifles.

‘Back,’ said Smoker, pushing Hool in the direction of the platform, encouraging him back towards their earlier position. Hool didn’t need further encouragement to get away from the dead eldar and its uncanny stare.

Zekov tried to ignore the repetitive crack of splinter fire as he searched for an entrance to the tower. It was a slim, black column of a building that overlaid ring thirteen, only a short distance from the central platform and the Lung. Veldrax’s warriors were steadily advancing on the humans’ positions around the Lung, while also driving back any humans who ventured away from the platform. At the periphery of Zekov’s vision he could see two warriors firing at enemies outside his line of sight.

In spite of the thunderous report of gunfire being exchanged, Zekov’s mind was clear, almost meditative, as his fingers traced the carvings on the sheer black wall before him. He found a square section that moved slightly under his touch, and pushed it firmly inwards. There was a click, and a large section of wall slid almost soundlessly into the floor, revealing a darkened stairwell.

‘Stay here,’ Zekov told Veldrax. ‘Do not step outside concentric twenty,’ he said, indicating the gold rings that ran around the floor of the cavern. Zekov indulged himself with a cruel thought. ‘However, if you can drive the humans beyond that point, do so.’

With that instruction, Zekov left Veldrax below and climbed the stairwell in the tower. The walls began to emit a gentle glow as Zekov ascended the narrow steps, and the haemonculus could feel a growing agitation from the wooden box. The steps were steep and bare, carved from the same black stone as the rest of the tower, each step protruding from a central column that ran up through the entire tower.

The chamber at the top of the tower was square and unfurnished, and dominated by the mechanism emerging from the centre of the floor, a mechanism that extended its tendrils down through the tower’s central column and into the ground below. It didn’t have any visible controls, but instead splayed out into a series of jagged spurs of machinery linked by blade-sharp wires that crisscrossed the room.

Zekov opened the wooden box, and the wires sang, the outcrops of machinery flexing hungrily. Zekov gently removed the ovoid object from the box.

They called it the Ear because of its capacity to hear its maker’s other creations from the farthest distances. It was an egg-shaped device seemingly made of panels of polished crystal, held together with seams of brass and tipped at each end with polished wood. The Ear was far heavier than it initially appeared, and seemed to shift its shape and colour imperceptibly.

Zekov had – on the occasions when Lord Kulkavar let it out of his possession – studied the Ear intently, but still knew little of its purposes, or how it worked. He had, however, seen it squirm, bulging and twisting in a way no device of inert matter ever should. With Kulkavar’s acquisition of the Lung, Zekov hoped to study the two together, to learn more about both of them.

For now, Zekov needed the Ear for another purpose, to bring the Lung out into the open. Careful not to touch the wires, which vibrated with excitement, he reached between them to hold the Ear at the centre of the mechanism, then carefully lowered it. The spurs of machinery closed inwards, gripping the Ear in a precise embrace.

Zekov let the Ear go, allowing the mechanism to hold it in place. The room was coming to life, the parts of the machine slowly beginning to rotate, the wires cutting across each other in an ever-shifting mesh.

It was ready for instruction.

‘Rise,’ said Zekov.

A shimmer of activity passed through the mechanism, and vibrated down the central column of the tower, the floor shaking beneath Zekov’s feet.

In the distance, he could hear great gears begin to grind.

To Hool’s relief, Polk was conscious, slightly wired even due to whatever Avrim had injected into the sergeant to bring him round.

‘I’m all right,’ protested Polk, his voice muffled and breathless through the vox. ‘Knocked the wind out of me, tap on the head, nothing serious.’ He flexed his arm in its socket experimentally. ‘Bloody hurts though.’

Hool imagined it did. The shot from the eldar weapon had hit Polk in the shoulder, breaking against the overlap between the seam of the body armour he wore under his coat and the reinforced pack-strap. That accidental armour had prevented the shot seriously wounding Polk, but the impact had been enough to flip him backwards. The slug, or whatever it was, from the eldar rifle had shattered on impact, and fragments of crystal had torn through his coat in a wide radius, thankfully without breaking the skin.

‘Wish I could take a proper look,’ Avrim told Smoker, flicking his finger between Polk’s face and his own to indicate the rebreather masks they were all, Smoker aside, wearing. ‘But it seems you were right. Concussion, bruising. He’ll be fine.’

There was a cry over the vox as another man went down. Smoker nodded and Avrim ran off to deal with the latest injury.

‘Back to work, sergeant,’ said Smoker. The lieutenant had been crouched down next to Polk, who was sat up against a wall, and was halfway into a standing position when the ground shook beneath him, causing Smoker to hastily adjust his footing.

Hool, who was down on one knee, was thrown to the side and had to extend a gloved hand to steady himself. As his palm pressed against the stone floor, he could feel a steady vibration transfer through his wrist and up his arm. The jolt twisted his wrist in an uncomfortable direction and he jerked his hand away, shaking his hand straight.

‘What now?’ said Smoker, voicing Hool’s unspoken question. Even boosted by the vox, effectively transmitted straight into their ears, his voice was muted beneath a growing rumble that accompanied the vibration.

Hool got to his feet, carefully to compensate for the constant juddering, and looked around, trying to find any visible source. He could see a rain of displaced powder falling from the cavern ceiling above, but no evidence of heavy machinery, beyond the thing on the platform nearby, and that seemed to be exactly the same as it had been since they got there, with no sign of increased activity.

Then Hool felt his feet moving apart. He looked down and saw that his booted feet were on both sides of one of the gold lines that circled the platform, the concentric rings that worked their way through the city.

Either side of the line, the floor was rotating in different directions. It was a slow movement, but the two sections were definitely moving against each other.

‘Sir,’ shouted Hool, pointing downwards. Smoker followed his gaze. ‘The ground is moving.’

Polk suddenly rolled forwards, away from the wall that Avrim had propped him up against. He scrambled to his feet, staring up at the building he had been leaning on. A shower of black dust was falling down the side of the structure, which was visibly shaking even compared to the shifting floor.

‘It’s retracting into the ground,’ said Polk, his voice dizzy with disbelief. ‘It just started pulling downwards.’

Hool looked down to the base of the building, which did indeed seem to be retracting into the floor, a deposit of black dust building around its base as the rock surface retracted.

‘No,’ said Smoker. ‘I don’t think it’s sinking.’

His head was tilted upwards. Now it was Hool’s turn to follow the other man’s gaze.

Above them, the curved ceiling of the cavern was getting closer, but also shifting, moving outwards, a space opening in the centre of what had seemed an entirely solid body of rock only minutes before.

The platform at the centre of the city was beginning to move upwards, and the rock above was beginning to part to allow it access.

Hool shook his head. ‘No, it can’t possibly… We’re too far…’

Before Hool could even complete that sentence, a tiny pinprick of light glittered unfathomably high above them.

Daylight.

As the chamber began to change, Veldrax led his dark eldar warriors on the offensive.

As the platform rose, slowly taking the Lung to the planet’s surface, the outer areas of the underground city would collapse, the rest of the cavern falling in on itself as the central section was removed. Veldrax was determined to drive as many of the humans as he could past concentric twenty, the outer limit of the safe area, where they would be crushed to death.

Kulkavar would have his prize, and the humans would be buried.

The humans were in disarray: unlike Veldrax’s warriors, they had no doubt been unaware that the city, once a bustling laboratory complex, had such an elaborate capacity for self-destruction.

Now was the time for the warriors to press this advantage. As the central section of the chamber rose above the buildings, those buildings began to crumble, their ancient stone structures falling to pieces. The rational lines of the underground complex were transforming into something else, a rubble-strewn maze of scattered ruins.

Veldrax’s warriors moved through this landscape in a pincer movement, intending to drive the humans away from the Lung, back into the depths of the city. Most of the humans would die by splinter fire, while those who did not would be ground to paste.

Either outcome would satisfy Veldrax.

Betrayed by the very ground beneath their feet, Smoker’s platoon had drifted into disarray. As the stone floor shifted around them, it had levelled out at the centre: the raised platform which bore the alien machine, and the stepped levels coming down from it, had flattened out to become part of the far larger platform that was rising towards the surface. With the terrain around them changing, the Guard were left reeling from every new change, running from the shadow of a collapsing building, staring at the opening far above.

They had forgotten they were among enemies.

It was Polk who brought them back to their senses, although initially he was more severely disorientated than any of them. A broad patch across his shoulder ached from where he had been shot by the eldar. The back of his head smarted from where it had hit the stone floor, and his senses were dulled by the shot Avrim had injected into Polk to bring him round. His tongue felt fat and heavy in his mouth, the air within his rebreather mask stale and nauseous.

The last thing he needed in such a state was for the entire environment around him to shake and shift. Staring up made Polk feel sicker still, so instead he bowed his head, closing his eyes and letting the rumble of shifting stone fade to a distant rattle, allowing his body to shift in time with the vibrations rather than fight against the motion.

Deep breaths, focus, let the nausea settle. Polk focussed on an imaginary point of calm, a bright, white glow. It was a training exercise he’d been taught many years before. Imagine the endless dark, and the light at the centre, like the darkness of the universe, with the Emperor’s light on Terra shining out to guide mankind.

Polk was not a deeply religious man, but the thought gave him comfort. Centred, he opened his eyes, looking straight ahead.

The first thing he saw was the shadow of an eldar warrior creeping out from behind a large block of jet-black stone.

‘Incoming!’ shouted Polk into the vox, raising his shotgun and letting loose a blast in the direction of the eldar. The creature ducked back out of sight as one corner of its cover was blown away in a shower of fragments.

Rivez and Zvindt were the first to react to Polk’s call. They had been separated from Polk and Hool as the platoon spread out in a cordon around the alien machine, but now they came running from the opposite direction as Polk approached the stone block, lasrifles raised, moving in on the same target.

Before they could close in on what Polk hoped was a cornered eldar, a separate attack came from behind Rivez and Zvindt: two eldar warriors emerging from a ruined building, their rifles blazing. Polk could see a couple of unprepared Guardsmen falling to the floor, long splinter rounds piercing their bodies.

Before Rivez and Zvindt could turn around, the older man was shot in the back. Polk could do nothing but watch as a crystalline shard emerged from Rivez’s chest.

Zvindt, quicker and younger than Rivez, turned faster, his lasrifle firing, but the eldar who had shot Rivez at near point-blank range ducked lithely under Zvindt’s shots, a long leg spinning out to kick Zvindt in the guts. The kick made contact and Zvindt staggered backwards, but by now Polk had the eldar in his sights. He was about fire his combat shotgun when a hand on his shoulder suddenly pulled him backwards.

More toxic crystals narrowly missed Polk’s head as he was jerked backwards. Hool, who had dragged Polk out of the line of eldar fire, leaned past him to let off a couple of shots of suppressing fire, his lasrifle shaking and firing wild as Hool lifted it with one hand, the butt tucked under his right arm to keep it steady. The las-fire went as wild as would be expected, but it was enough to keep the eldar back for a couple of seconds. They were emerging from the cover where Polk had just spotted them, firing on any Guard in sight.

The air was thick with las- and splinter-fire as Polk gently shrugged off Hool’s grip and stepped into line next to him, firing on the eldar who had killed Rivez and was on the verge of plunging the curved bayonet on the end of his splinter rifle into Zvindt’s throat, the young Guardsman having been backed against a wall by the eldar warrior, his las- rifle knocked to the ground. Polk’s shotgun blast caught the black-armoured eldar sideways, tearing apart the armour on his right arm and causing the alien to reel away from Zvindt.

Zvindt dropped to the ground and swept up his lasrifle, but the injured eldar had already disappeared into the shadow and another was stepping out, firing at Zvindt. The shots went wide, but only gave Zvindt enough time to retreat to Polk and Hool’s position.

Polk, Hool and Zvindt rejoined the rest of the squad as they hurriedly backed away from the incoming eldar, who were intermittently emerging from the broken buildings and rubble to fire on them. They were being driven away from the alien machine, back into the crumbling remains of the alien city.

As his warriors drove the humans away from the Lung, Veldrax moved back to where he had last seen Zekov. Lord Kulkavar would be displeased if Veldrax failed to protect the haemonculus, more so if he didn’t protect the little wooden box in Zekov’s care.

The entrance to the tower was gone, disappeared beneath the rising floor. Veldrax circled what little remained of the slowly disappearing tower – perhaps two storeys at most remained above the stone floor – but could not find any other door or window.

Veldrax was considering how to explain this when the building crumbled away. It did not collapse into chunks of masonry and stone as the others had, but melted into black dust, as if consumed by some inner force.

Zekov stepped out of the building as it disappeared around him, the box in his hands. Veldrax glimpsed a hint of something behind the haemonculus as he walked through the disappearing walls, a flurry of liquid machinery, but it was gone.

‘The humans are being driven back,’ said Veldrax. ‘The Lung will soon be ours.’

‘Then the archon will be pleased,’ said Zekov.

Fourteen

He fell from the sky without fear.

First there was the starship. It was a small, sleek vessel of white-gold, and it broke the atmosphere of Belmos VII, hiding within thick cloud cover as it flew over the city-factory, avoiding detection by the dark eldar forces below.

The small ship’s target was the opening a short distance from the city-factory’s walls. On the ship’s bridge, the opening ground had created a flurry of readings, as the Lung’s distress signal and strange energies became ever more visible as the layers of rock and dirt between it and the surface of the planet parted.

In the ship’s landing bay, a single occupant strapped himself into a silver landing capsule. It was a customised device based on salvaged parts, and he hadn’t steered such a vehicle before.

However, he was confident he could pilot it successfully, as he was confident in most things. As the bay doors opened, the capsule’s occupant flicked a series of runes, and a hololith displayed the terrain below in rough lines of red and green, a crude visualisation of the surface outside the windowless, featureless capsule.

The target area was displayed as a flashing blob, shifting lines indicating the relative position of capsule to target.

When the lines came together to point directly down, the capsule was launched from the ship, a release mechanism propelling the capsule straight out of the bay doors.

The ship itself hit its thrusters as soon as the capsule had dropped far enough to not be incinerated by the blast. Within seconds it had escaped the atmosphere of Belmos VII, retracting to a secure position on the dark side of the planet’s moons to await further instructions.

The capsule fell. Below, ancient machinery was clearing the capsule’s path, creating an open shaft down which it could fall directly to its target landing zone.

Before it could land, the capsule’s occupant needed to avoid being smashed to pieces against the walls of the shaft, or flying wide and burying himself in the muddy ground of Belmos VII.

Thrusters around the edge of the capsule allowed for subtle adjustments in its course. The occupant grasped twin joysticks, rubbing the switches which would activate the thrusters. On the battered pict-screen before him, the shaft below was a target in the centre of the display, a target that shifted as the capsule was buffeted around by the winds of Belmos VII’s turbulent atmosphere.

At the corner of the screen, the numbers indicating the distance between capsule and target got smaller and smaller as the rocky ground approached, gravity pulling the capsule inexorably downwards. While the thrusters allowed some adjustment of its descent, the capsule had no capacity for directed flight. There would be no second chances, no opportunity to bank away and take another pass.

The pilot gritted his teeth as he steered the capsule towards its target, a relatively tiny hole in a vast expanse of hard, rocky ground.

Smoker had regrouped his platoon, but they were being steadily worn down, driven back by the eldar assault. There was no opportunity to go back and help any injured or isolated Guardsmen: the eldar had pushed Smoker and his men away from the alien machine and back into the semi-collapsed ruins of the alien city.

They were moving in the opposite direction to the side of the city they had entered, into a graveyard of broken buildings and rubble, and Smoker’s men took what cover they could, emerging to exchange fire with the relentlessly advancing eldar. Under Smoker’s constant commands they had formed a tight group, trying to hold the line, to step back no further.

Beneath their feet, the floor continued to steadily rise.

Hool was at the forefront of the action, ducked behind a jagged tooth of polished stone. Peering around the corner, he had a clear view of the area surrounding the alien machine. The mists had cleared a little since the ground started shifting, and Hool could see across to the ruins all around the perimeter of that open central area.

The eldar seemed to be everywhere – sniping from the top of a high wall in the distance, or firing close-range shots as they spiralled from one piece of cover to another. They were fast and agile, hard to target. It was near impossible to tell how many there were, but Hool was sure he had seen the same dented eldar helmet appear from different directions a short time apart. It was far too easy to imagine that they were moving swiftly behind cover, firing from different vantage points to exaggerate their numbers.

Hool found himself almost wishing he was fighting the feral humans from the previous night. They were fast and deadly, but at least they were direct.

A shard of crystal struck close to Hool’s head, shattering as it hit the edge of his cover. He rolled out of harm’s way as fragments ricocheted off the black rock surface, and made a low run for a narrow wall behind which Polk was sheltered. Hool threw himself over the wall as heavier fire smashed chunks out of it, landing in a crouch on the other side.

Steadily, the eldar were driving them back. Crystalline shards impacted all around the surviving Guard, who could barely emerge to take a single shot as their cover was gradually eroded and compromised.

Hool realised that, without some kind of game-changing bit of luck, they were finished.

Within seconds of Hool having that thought, before the horror of that realisation had curdled in his stomach, the silver sphere fell from above.

It was a dance.

In spite of the grip that She Who Thirsts had on his soul, and the souls of all his warriors, Veldrax still had the sensitivities of an eldar. He could see the beauty in the way his warriors weaved between positions, keeping a pressure of constant fire on the humans, emerging from new angles which gave them line of sight on the savages even as they sheltered behind diminishing cover. The warriors weaved a complex pattern through the ruined streets as they moved, like the steps of some elaborate formal dance, moving around each other’s positions without colliding.

It was a dance, a beautiful dance of death, and its grace was utterly disrupted by the silver ball that fell from the sky.

The pilot of the capsule had no time to breathe a sigh of relief as his vehicle dropped precisely into the opening shaft. The forces that were carving a path between the cavern deep below and the surface of the planet were still at work, widening the breadth of the passage and holding back countless tonnes of displaced dirt and rock that threatened to fall back in and bury whatever was at the bottom of the pit.

If the capsule hit the sides, those forcefields would rip it to shreds, compressing the slivers into the walls of the shaft itself.

As the capsule fell down the pit, the pilot gently tapped the thrusters nudging the capsule from side to side, constantly recalibrating its trajectory to avoid any contact. All the while the countdown to the bottom of the pit shrank, the distance being reduced both by the capsule’s rapid descent and the slow rise of the area at the bottom of the pit.

The numbers spiralled downwards from two hundred to one hundred to fifty…

He hit a release, just as the capsule emerged from the shaft into the cavern below, and felt the entire capsule jerk back as chutes were ejected, slowing the momentum of the capsule in its final descent. The capsule began to spin, spiralling as a rapid descent turned into a slower tailspin.

The capsule’s pilot braced himself for impact.

The silver ball dropped into the cavern directly above the Lung, but as silver chutes burst out of the capsule and slowed its descent it curved off course, spiralling down towards the eldar position.

Veldrax cursed, shouting an order to his warriors. Zekov was already running, his frail-looking limbs and twisted body moving with surprising speed. The eldar had been keeping out of sight by moving back and forth behind a long, low stretch of largely undamaged building.

When the silver capsule hit the floor of the cavern it did so at an angle, bouncing slightly and rolling straight into that building, smashing through the wall and sending chunks of black stone flying.

Veldrax and his warriors cautiously withdrew from their attacks on the humans, hastily finding deeper cover as the silver capsule settled in the rubble. Veldrax found Zekov at his shoulder, the haemonculus staring straight at the silver ball.

‘That is not our technology,’ said Zekov.

The impact of the silver capsule was felt across the cavern, even over the background vibration of the rising floor. Hool had watched its crash with horror and fascination, unsure as to whether its arrival was good or bad news.

‘Cover that thing,’ said Smoker over the vox. The lieutenant, at least, was not optimistic.

The occupant of the capsule monitored the life readings in the immediate area with interest, noting the relative positions of the eldar and human groups.

This would require some quick manoeuvring.

The capsule steamed from the heat of atmospheric entry, and crackled with energy from the dents where its internal mechanisms had been damaged on impact. The chutes that had helped its descent had fallen around it, giving the ruined buildings a surreal appearance of elegant sophistication, covered in shining fabrics.

Two dark eldar warriors approached the capsule, keeping themselves largely to cover behind broken walls, but keeping their splinter rifles aimed directly at the capsule. Cautious, stealthy. Nothing would sneak past them.

When the capsule opened, it was not a subtle attempt to evade detection. A square hatch, its outer lines camouflaged in the filigreed surface of the capsule, burst outwards with a colossal outrush of white vapour.

The occupant of the capsule wasn’t far behind it. In his pure white robes he seemed to coalesce from the gas rather than simply emerge from it, a tall human male whose floor-length vestments were complemented by several finely crafted, highly polished pieces of golden armour plate: a breastplate, shoulder-pads, greaves and gauntlets. The last of these provided support for his lower arms as he wielded a pair of ornate bolt pistols. His head was covered by a clear-fronted brass rebreather helmet with vent-grilles at the sides of the neck.

His pistols were aimed before he even emerged from the smoke, and spat fire at the two dark eldar warriors before they had time to react. The left-hand bolt pistol fired its payload straight into a dark eldar’s head, where the bolt exploded within the alien’s skull, scattering fragments of brain matter and shards of armour plate. The bolt pistol in his right hand fired a bolt straight into the other dark eldar’s chest, causing him to fall backwards, blood from a cavernous wound trailing through the air as the corpse hit the ground.

Further dark eldar warriors opened fire from safer positions, but the man was already moving, striding backwards while returning fire, circling the crash site of his capsule and heading towards the Mordian position. Eldar fire peppered the ground around him but he weaved from side to side as he moved, providing an unpredictable target.

Continuing to exchange fire with the dark eldar, he broke into a run.

Hool had never seen anything like the man in gold and white. He moved with the lethal purpose of a killer, and clearly knew how to handle a weapon, but he didn’t look or act like a soldier. There was a looseness to his actions that showed no sign of military discipline, of weapon drills and correct postures.

‘Hold your fire,’ ordered Smoker as the newcomer ran towards their lines.

As the man approached, Hool got a better look at him. His chest plate was engraved with an ornate cross over the body of an aquila, the wings of which spread towards his arms. The clear-faced helmet revealed a narrow hollow-cheeked face, tanned and weathered skin contrasting with ice-blue eyes and short silvery hair. His gaze was impassive, his small mouth set in a near-pout of displeasure.

He holstered one bolt pistol, and while still firing on the eldar position with the other weapon, he used his free hand to produce an amulet from his robes, which he held high for the men to see. The same design displayed on his breastplate was embedded in the amulet in jewels and fine metals, clear enough to be visible from several metres away.

‘I am Inquisitor Felip Velasco of the Ordo Xenos,’ the man declaimed, sweeping the amulet from side to side so that all could see it. ‘The Imperium is gravely threatened, and you will all follow my orders to avert this threat.’

Fifteen

––– From the Inquisitorial record of Felip Velasco of the Ordo Xenos. –––

It was as approbator to Inquisitor Montiyf that I first heard, or to be more precise read the name Dalson Graath. It would be many years before I truly understood its significance.

As Montiyf’s acolyte I engaged in all aspects of inquisitorial duties, but my role as part of Montiyf’s retinue was that of translator and linguist, due to an affinity for both written and spoken languages. In between more active engagements I was tasked with translating alien texts, documents and so forth, scouring them for intelligence that might provide a strategic advantage.

The threat we pursued lurked on the fringes of the Pious Worlds, a string of tiny planets orbiting a cold star. The worlds were so named because of the piety of the communities who inhabited them, who led lives of meditation and deprivation, hard work and prayer beneath a thankless, dim sun.

The people of the Pious Worlds used the only resource of any value available to them to create items for trade – the hard, rock-like wood from the scattered trees that managed to survive on these worlds, a pallid, almost translucent substance of great, albeit bleak, beauty.

The wood could only be carved with slivers of rock chipped from the walls of their primitive dwellings, and they spent their days shivering in their caves within the stunted mountain ranges that scarred the Pious Worlds, carving idols of the Emperor and other items of devotion, their gnarled hands scarred from years of gouging cold stone into unyielding wood.

These carvings were then exported off-world to penitents across the Imperium, fetching high prices on distant worlds, very little of which trickled back to the poverty-stricken sculptors, who sold them in bulk for tiny sums to continue their subsistence.

I found their gestures of faith rather feeble. The God- Emperor in His majesty is a fact of the universe, and I very much doubted these crude tokens were of interest to Him, nor the ostentatious humility of their creation. To serve the Emperor of Man is a noble thing, but to do so in symbolic gestures and ritual, rather than through defending the Imperium against its aggressors, seemed to me to be entirely without value.

If the Emperor looked upon these people at all, He did so in agreement with my position, as He did nothing to prevent the dark eldar raids that plagued the Pious Worlds. They struck repeatedly across the system, enslaving whole populations and leaving already barren worlds devoid of human life.

Although the people themselves were of little significance, that xenos could harvest souls from the Imperium repeatedly and with impunity was an offence that could not stand, and so Inquisitor Montiyf sought to cleanse the threat. Montiyf had devoted much of his career to the defeat of the dark eldar, the Chaotically tainted cousins of the effete eldar. Raiders, slavers and pirates, they use their ability to traverse another plane of existence called the webway to take whatever they want in savage raids, usually human slaves or some resource that their spacefaring, parasitic existence fell short of.

The strikes on the Pious Worlds followed the common dark eldar pattern, in that there was no pattern: attacks were without reason, and their mastery of the webway allowed the dark eldar to strike worlds at different ends of the system in close succession. They left no trail to follow, just destruction: corpses shredded by crystalline shards, stone hermitages scorched and devastated by dark-matter weapons.

We picked through the carnage they left behind, scouring the ruins for clues as to our enemy’s intent, anything that might allow us to intercept them. On most worlds we found little of use, just the lines of scuffed footprints where slaves had been led away, as well as the aftereffects of the aliens’ destruction.

But on some of the Pious Worlds we found evidence of something else, some other activity preoccupying the dark eldar forces beyond the gathering and sacrifice of souls, signs of unusual action, of digging and excavations outside the human settlements they ravaged. On one world we found that they had located ruins in their search. They had carved into the side of a hill with powerful weaponry, revealing a tomb-like series of chambers beneath. Opened up to the sky, these ruins were slowly filling with snow drifts as I searched from room to room.

It was largely fruitless: if there had been anything of value, the dark eldar had stripped it away. But in one room, hidden in a corner, I found writing on the walls, scratched into the stone and written in the eldar’s own language. My grip on the poetic complexities of the eldar tongue is limited, its huge alphabet and complex metaphors tough for the human mind to master, but I could recognise the prefixes used to indicate a proper name, and could break a name into syllables.

One name recurred throughout that scrawled text: Dalson Graath.

It was many years until I would see the name Dalson Graath again.

When I did, it was under very changed circumstances. Having risen to become an inquisitor in my own right, I had left the company of my mentor Montiyf and had begun to build a retinue of my own.

It is the privilege of an inquisitor not simply to wield great power but to also have considerable leeway in the manner in which those powers are exercised. Montiyf was the kind of inquisitor who acted almost as a general, imposing his authority to ensure he always had an army at his back. Other inquisitors worked alone, operating within the shadows and concealing their identities, only emerging to task others with the execution of their enemies before vanishing once more into the dark.

These approaches were shaped by the unique skills and abilities each inquisitor brought to their work, whether the blunt instruments of force and intimidation or the subtler insights of the psykers.

I took a different path, one based on deductive reasoning and an intuitive ability to see patterns in the actions of humanity’s enemies, to seek out and eliminate xenos threats that no one else was aware of, or even capable of gaining the awareness of. While I did not adopt either austerity or anonymity, I stripped away much of the ritual and pomp of my office, instead forming a close retinue around me, able specialists who would be able to provide technical advice and knowledge.

It was with this small group that I travelled the fringe worlds of the Imperium, seeking out the patterns that would reveal a coalescing xenos threat, determined to head such threats off before they could manifest. It was out there, among the rogues and borderline heretics, that I heard another name, whispered among both turncoats low enough to have dealings with the dark eldar, and the few broken individuals who escaped their slavery.

Kulkavar.

The dark eldar were petty and cruel, raiders and slavers who, from the perspective of beleaguered humanity, acted as a merciless swarm without notable individuals. Kulkavar, however, had somehow gained a reputation above and beyond that, a reputation for sweeping ambitions that threatened humanity beyond the disconnected raids on human settlements.

Lord Kulkavar – an archon, in their terminology – wished to improve his position within the aristocracy of the dark eldar, and to do this he required the only currency that counted within that hierarchy: the souls of living creatures, to be offered to the darkness to assuage their own unholy thirst. The Imperium provided a ready supply, but one that was inconsistently obtained due to the scattershot nature of the dark eldar’s raiding tactics.

Kulkavar wanted more, to somehow reap human souls on an industrial scale. How, I did not know, only that any such plan would constitute a terrible threat to the Imperium, and that it was my duty as an inquisitor to prevent it. In fact, I considered myself the only possible candidate to save humanity. No one else was looking for the clues that I was – they were too blind or too afraid. It was my calling to look fearlessly where others would or could not.

Through intelligence gathered I began to gain an insight into Kulkavar’s actions, and to some extent could anticipate his raiding parties. It was in pursuit of one of Kulkavar’s raidships that I and my retinue gave chase through treacherous systems, where the siren fields disrupted navigation and wrecked starships on graveyard moons.

It was on one such moon that one of Kulkavar’s raidships crashed, torn in half, leaving the two ends of the ship just two more promontories on the rocky surface. All hands and slaves were lost in the crash, and human and eldar bodies drifted idly past as we slowly crossed the moon’s surface, every step an exertion in our heavy life-support suits.

On board the ship Zandt, a tech-priest tasked to my retinue, instructed servitors to strip out all the communications equipment. As he did so, I could hear Zandt chanting over the open vox, prayers and exorcisms to prevent contagion from contact with heretical xenos machinery.

Zandt is a genius, of sorts, with a natural aptitude for understanding and retrofitting obscure machinery. I first encountered him on a distant forge world, ruled by an odd sub-sect of the Adeptus Mechanicus. His brothers found his talents disturbing, and would surely have executed him for heresy years ago were it not for his very vocal, sincere piety, which often borders on fervour. Needless to say the temple were glad to honour my request to transfer Zandt to my retinue, and happy to free him of his other obligations.

While Zandt was an invaluable asset, his constant prayers often wore on my nerves. I reduced the volume on my helmet-vox, his entreaties to the Machine-God reduced to a low background hum.

While the salvaged equipment would allow me to monitor Kulkavar’s communications in the years that followed, albeit erratically, it was another discovery on board that wreck that provided a deeper insight into the dark eldar lord’s plans. In a dank onboard laboratory were papers of varying age, some carefully preserved, others scribbled across and annotated.

They were notes relating to the activities of one Dalson Graath.

The notes were fragmented, written not just in the eldar language but often in code, some of which the previous owner of the papers had only semi-translated. However, from those, and similarly fragmented discoveries since, I managed to piece together most of the story.

And ‘story’ seemed the best word to describe what was written in these pages, not so much a historical account or series of facts as a narrative assembled from myth and hearsay.

Some facts were established: that Dalson Graath had been a haemonculus, one of the dark eldar’s scientist-torturers some thousands of years ago. The accounts were unclear as to which kabal or lord Graath served, and whether he broke away from dark eldar society through choice or by being cast out, but Graath’s work had taken him far away from Commorragh, the dark eldar’s nightmare city in the webway.

Graath’s outcast status appeared to have driven him from remote world to remote world, using the webway to establish underground laboratories where he continued his work – his exile did not seem to hamper the resources at his disposal, and there were largely incomprehensible notes in the margins of several documents suggesting that Graath worked under continued patronage as part of some obscure power struggle between the dark eldar lords of the time.

But it was the nature of Graath’s work that made even I, Inquisitor Felip Velasco, who had stood at the side of Montiyf as he destroyed the Carnage Shard, question whether I was reading anything more than a fable.

While most of the haemonculi created weapons of pain for the battlefield or torture chamber, Graath’s experiments were on a far grander scale, colossal devices melding alien technologies to subject whole populations to pain, subjugation, and finally the stripping of their very souls for consumption by the dark eldar.

The most notorious of these had become known as the Organs of Torment, and I was shocked to realise that I had heard of some of these before, or at least heard of their effects.

There was the Weeping Heart, whose beat could echo through the stars and cause the inhabitants of a dozen worlds to keel over and die, convulsing in despair.

There was the Blinding Eye, which converted a moon into a machine of enslavement, stripping the will of everyone on the planet below as they passed within its umbra.

Then there was the organ known simply as the Lung, the steady breath of which could drive a human population mad, prone to destabilising savagery during the night, but leaving them meek and malleable during the day.

None of these devices were ever mass-produced or duplicated, as far as I could tell. But their potential even as individual objects was terrifying enough. Whether Graath had been driven out of dark eldar society or left out of choice, it seemed that he had finally been purged for good, his work lost.

Lost, that is, until Kulkavar began to seek out those works, desperate to acquire these mythical devices to fulfil his own ambitions.

Since then I have devoted my not inconsiderable intelligence and abilities to preventing Kulkavar from acquiring the Organs of Torment or any of Graath’s artefacts.

The equipment salvaged from the crashed dark eldar ship has allowed my retinue to monitor Kulkavar’s communications, and while the dark eldar’s access to the webway makes them hard to track, we have kept only a few steps behind them, and have intercepted Kulkavar’s forces on a dozen different worlds.

While I have fought and killed Kulkavar’s agents and warriors countless times, the dark eldar lord himself has never been present, and remains beyond my reach. He acts and I respond, my actions foiling his plans.

I cannot imagine that the distance between us will remain forever. Soon we must meet on the field of battle.

To date, the only functioning artefact that Kulkavar has managed to retrieve is the one called the Ear. Alas, while harmless within itself, the Ear is said to link to the other Organs, and provide a path to their discovery. My work becomes ever harder.

We have detected considerable activity on Kulkavar’s communication channels relating to the Ear lately, and while the cogitators work to translate these messages, it seems almost certain that a discovery has been made.

Of what, we cannot yet tell, but we will pursue every trail and clue, strive to prevent Lord Kulkavar’s ambitions and hopefully, very soon, wipe him from this universe for good.

––– Entry ends –––

Sixteen

Hool had heard of the Inquisition before. He had first been told about them as a child, stories of the Emperor’s inquisitors, seeking out and punishing weakness and heresy across the Imperium, able to see the lies and evil in men’s hearts and to burn the wicked with their very touch. Described like that, they were a children’s story, something to scare you into behaving, mentioned in the same breath as the undercrabs who lived beneath the Mordian hab-pyramids, and the night snatchers who took unruly infants and cast them out of the hab windows, leaving them to fall to their doom on the cold ground below.

Hool had grown up to realise that the undercrabs and the night snatchers were just stories and the inquisitors were real, even if they weren’t the creatures of his childish imagination.

However, years later the inquisitors were still bracketed together in Hool’s mind with those other fables.

Which made the presence of Inquisitor Velasco disconcerting for Hool, especially considering he seemed closer to the kind of inquisitor that Hool might have imagined as a child than anything a cynical Guardsman could conceive of.

Both the conscious, adult part of Hool’s mind and the latent, childish part were united in one sentiment: they were glad that Inquisitor Felip Velasco was on their side.

‘Now!’ ordered the inquisitor, using an external vox-caster to bellow his commands through the air rather than accessing the Guard’s vox-channel. ‘Hit them with everything.’

He shouted the words with his back to a thin slice of wall, having spun through open space firing his twin pistols at the dark eldar position, a fearless gambit to draw their fire and bring them out of cover. It had worked. Splinter fire was ricocheting off this meagre cover as the inquisitor reloaded his pistols, ready for the next pause in enemy fire, at which point he would doubtless fling himself into danger once more.

Hool had never seen anything like it. In his year of combat he had seen men take risks with their lives to secure an objective, even to rescue or protect fellow Guardsmen, but those were still disciplined manoeuvres undertaken as part of a wider army, moving between the stances and postures drilled into every man of the 114th. Even when engaged in seemingly reckless actions, a Guardsman of Hool’s regiment did so correctly, the way he was trained.

Confirming Hool’s initial impression, Inquisitor Velasco had no such restraint, running into danger with little more than his reflexes to get him out of trouble. Unbelievably, this was his plan, which he had snapped out to the Mordians in brief sentences. He would make himself a target, drawing the dark eldar out of cover so that the Mordians could get a better aim. With the dark eldar under pressure, the inquisitor and the Guardsmen would drive them back, putting them on the defensive.

Velasco had taken control of Smoker’s platoon in minutes, issuing a flurry of orders that included concepts Hool had never even heard before. The inquisitor was clearly aware of the alien device, which he referred to as ‘the Lung’, and specified that these were ‘dark’ eldar, whatever that meant. As well as wielding the authority of the Inquisition, Velasco seemed to have a clearer idea of what was going on, and Smoker seemed almost happy about the usurping of his command by this newcomer.

It was a good call. Velasco’s plan, mad as it was, was proving effective. Whereas before Velasco’s intervention the Mordians were being driven away from the centre of the city, their position was already stronger, while the dark eldar were being driven back, scurrying for cover. Three or four of their number lay dead, or had retreated visibly wounded. The men of the 114th advanced to find better cover for themselves, and as they advanced the air became thicker with bolt-rounds and las-fire than with enemy splinter shots.

Hool glanced sideways to where Polk was firing off a couple of blasts from his combat shotgun before ducking behind a wall. As Polk reloaded, he looked up and caught Hool’s eye, and a look was exchanged between them, a shared excitement that the tide was turning, and that these dark eldar could be defeated.

‘Hold fire,’ hissed Velasco, somehow audible over the din of gunfire. It took a few seconds, but the men of the 114th ceased fire.

Silence. There was no movement or fire from the dark eldar.

‘Did we get them all?’ asked a voice Hool didn’t immediately recognise.

Smoker made a scratchy, electronic coughing sound over the vox.

‘No chance,’ said Smoker bluntly. ‘Just regrouping, waiting.’

‘Very good, lieutenant,’ said Velasco, with a hint of surprise. He didn’t give out compliments often, it seemed. ‘We’re not their objective, the Lung is.’ Velasco tipped his head in the direction of the alien device that loomed over everything else in the chamber. ‘When this platform reaches ground level, reinforcements will be waiting. They will secure the platform and prepare the Lung for transportation off-world. Fortunately, this will take some time – time enough for us to stop them. There are more of your regiment here?’

Smoker nodded. ‘In the city-factory. Strike force.’

Velasco consulted a data-slate. ‘When we reach ground level we’ll be one kilometre from the city-factory. We need to withdraw, gather your strike force, and destroy that thing before the dark eldar can get it off-world.’

The inquisitor and the lieutenant continued to discuss the route to the city-factory, but Hool’s mind was elsewhere. When the dark eldar had attacked, they had seemed to emerge from the underground city. It hadn’t occurred to Hool that they might be on the surface as well.

If the dark eldar were loose on the surface, possibly in greater numbers than below ground, then everything might have changed. What would they find when they returned to the surface?

Looking across Emperor’s Square from the shadows of a burnt-out restaurant, Calway realised that there had been far more survivors in the city-factory than he had realised. While Calway had barely encountered a single sane survivor prior to the Guard’s arrival, the dark eldar had somehow dug into the city’s depths and found tens, if not hundreds of battered and dirty humans. The eldar were gathering these slaves in the square, chaining them in lines in an ostentatious display of superiority. Initially there had just been a few people, dragged out of the buildings at the edge of the square, but since then more and more had been brought.

Eldar warriors arrived in the square either on their floating vehicles or on foot, always dragging hapless citizens in their wake. It was impossible to tell during daylight how many of those were infected, but even if they were Calway couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them in this broken state, any resistance thrashed out of them with gauntlets and whips, the blows from which caused the unfortunate victim’s entire body to arc and convulse.

The slaves were all kept facing the opposite end of the square, where an elaborately decorated eldar vehicle had just landed, disgorging a lavishly robed figure, clearly the leader of this force. He strode the paved surface of the square, haughtily surveying the humans broken in his honour.

The spectacle sickened Calway, the sight of his home, a great square built in honour of the God-Emperor of Man, defiled so that some filthy xenos could lord it over tormented humans.

In the last hour, the rain had stopped and the interference on the vox had died down. Calway had been in constant communication with Lieutenant Deaz as well as the frankly terrifying Commissar Tordez, and a plan had been hatched.

Two plans, in fact. As the minutes ticked down to the beginning of the first, Calway prayed to the Emperor, whose statue lay broken in the square below, that the second plan wouldn’t be necessary.

Around the edge of the square, within the buildings that faced into it, Deaz’s men were on the move. Broken into small units, they moved quickly and, as much as possible, quietly, accessing buildings through the rear, then stealthily moving within the buildings themselves, staying as far from the windows and exterior doors as possible.

As the eldar displayed their slaves in the square, the men of the 114th were silently encircling them. It was an ancient approach to urban warfare – never step outside, burrow through the buildings. Plasterwork was rammed through as cleanly as possible, while heavier walls were taken down with discreet explosive charges. Marksmen moved to higher floors, ready to take a vantage point when the signal was given, while the rest of the men stayed at ground level, holding back for the same cue to move into position.

Once in place, they waited in the dark.

Kulkavar looked out across a sea of downtrodden human faces. His warriors had done well, sniffing out vulnerable souls across the city-factory, gathering them for their master. Their spirits broken by the merciless application of agonisers, the revolting animals hunched and slumped on the stone-clad ground.

The sun had emerged, a rare break in the persistent gloom of this planet’s atmosphere, to cast a light on Kulkavar’s achievement. Its heat displeased him, the change in temperature disturbing his pale eldar skin. He longed for Commorragh’s icy darkness, the obsidian corridors that echoed with the screams of the tormented.

This handful of humans were a mere precursor to the souls he would gather with the Lung and, in due course as Zekov’s knowledge of the works of Graath expanded, Lungs. Whole systems subjugated, billions of souls reaped in the name of Kulkavar.

Then, Kulkavar would return to Commorragh in triumph, and his rivals would fear him as these pathetic primates did.

Though he did not let any sign of his discomfort break his outer grace, impatience for news from Zekov grated, Kulkavar’s exquisitely attuned sense of time passing making each second that went by without news of the Lung’s retrieval a torment.

Kulkavar forced himself to savour the sensation, the tension of unfulfilled desire, rare for an eldar born to rule, to have his every whim seen to. Satisfaction would come soon; only the practicalities of retrieving the Lung delayed it.

He decided to enjoy the wait. After all, there was little else to do with the human population already crushed. This far from the Imperium’s heaving hive and forge worlds, there was no one, no thing, that could stop Kulkavar from fulfilling his destiny.

Closing his heavily lidded eyes, sliding his thin tongue across the roof of his mouth, Kulkavar could almost taste the victories to come, and the manifold miseries he would inflict on humankind.

A short distance from Emperor’s Square, Lieutenant Deaz and a small group of his men sheltered beneath an underpass, watching the skies for any sign of dark eldar attack. So far they had seen the occasional vehicle flick past in the distance, darting between the towers and industrial chimneys of the city-factory, but none had come close to Deaz’s position.

It was one thing to conceal a small group of men, and indeed for many such groups to secrete themselves around the square. It was quite another to not draw attention to the vehicle which came to a halt beneath the underpass. It was the vehicle Sergeant Polk had christened ‘the Cleaner’. As the loader came to a halt, the driver leaned out of the door and gave the lieutenant a brisk salute.

‘No problems?’ asked Deaz.

‘Handles better than it looks, sir,’ replied the driver. ‘Handles like a beast, but it’s simple enough to drive, even this heavily loaded.’

Deaz nodded. ‘How long do you reckon it’ll take to roll the rest of the way?’

The driver shrugged. ‘Three minutes should do it.’

Deaz sucked in air between his teeth. Three minutes was longer than he’d hoped for. With any luck it wouldn’t be necessary, but if it was, they needed a hell of a distraction to ensure the dark eldar didn’t take the Cleaner out before it was in position.

‘Three minutes it is,’ said Deaz. ‘Get rolling now and I’ll give the order. When you’re in position, stay put until I say otherwise. You’re just a backup, remember?’

The driver’s eyes warily darted back to his cargo as he ducked back into the vehicle’s cab. ‘I won’t forget it, sir,’ he said, slamming the hatch shut behind him.

The Cleaner began to roll forwards, and Deaz winced at the loud rumble of its engines. Surely the eldar would hear it coming?

Suppressing his concerns, he tapped his vox-bead and spoke to the rest of his men.

‘Plan B is on its way. Begin Plan A,’ said Deaz.

Kulkavar’s eyes snapped open at the sound of gunfire, a rude awakening indeed. It was not one shot, but many, echoing around the square. Kulkavar’s sensitive ears recognised that the shots were not from eldar weapons.

Kulkavar drew a breath, taking in the scene before him. His perception of time slowed with the controlled breath, and he could see the las-fire slicing through the air in a dozen places, shots fired from high windows in the buildings around the square. On the ground, Kulkavar’s warriors were the targets. Some fell, shots finding their mark, collapsing with smoking holes in their armour. Others received only light wounds and began to fire back, moving towards cover.

The slaves provided a living shield, and resourceful warriors slipped into the ranks of cowering humans, firing over their heads at the enemy positions.

Kulkavar exhaled, and his perceptions returned to normal. His retinue of guards were encircling his position, and as a paving slab near Kulkavar’s feet was scorched by a las-shot, his guards returned a precise salvo of splinter-fire in the direction from which the shot had come.

The ambushers had the benefit of surprise, but it would not get them far. Kulkavar was relaxed in the knowledge that his warriors were more than capable of eliminating a handful of marksmen. Aside from the returned fire tearing into their positions, the humans would soon find shadows moving in on them, agonisers poised to attack.

Soon, the attackers would be enslaved with the others.

As Kulkavar savoured this certainty, the second wave of the attack hit the eldar lines.

Plymton ducked as splinter-fire shattered the window from which he was firing. Crystalline shards cut through the space where Plymton’s head had just been. He fell to the floor as chunks of plaster and masonry exploded from the walls and ceiling above and behind them.

Plymton scrabbled forwards on his knees, staying out of sight. The fire from below subsided, and Plymton peered over the windowsill, looking down into the square below to see the dark eldar preoccupied. Small teams of Guardsmen had emerged from around the square, rapidly moving in on the dark eldar, firing on the aliens as they were distracted by the marksmen above.

The dark eldar guarding the slaves were caught between the marksmen above and the heavier fire at ground level, and were thrown into disarray.

Calway was with one of the squads on the ground, emerging from the burnt-out restaurant, running towards the nearest line of human slaves and their eldar guards. He had been with a squad that had blown through wall after wall to get into position within the buildings, but out in the open he had a very different job. Keeping low, he let the trained Guardsmen draw fire from the eldar, and ran straight for the slaves.

As he got close, a dark eldar guard turned in his direction. The xenos was a spindly creature, its tapered helmet and chitinous black armour plates giving it a repulsive, insectoid appearance. Turning to Calway, the creature drew back a long whip, preparing to strike. Ripples of alien energy distorted the area around the whip, and Calway flinched at the sight of it.

The eldar was thrown back by a burst of las-fire cutting into its chest, and fell to the ground, the whip flailing harmlessly backwards as it fell.

Calway didn’t look back to see which of the Guardsmen had saved him, but concentrated on his own objectives. He ran to the slave at the end of the line, and began to examine his bonds.

The eldar handcuffs were elaborately wrought rings of black metal, seemingly crude but sophisticated enough to have tightened precisely around the captive’s wrists. Too tight for the hands to slip out, they left enough room to allow blood circulation. To discourage attempted removal, the inside of each cuff had an undulating curve to the surface, which peaked in vicious-looking spikes – let the cuffs hang and the spikes would barely graze, but try to remove them and they would dig deep into the flesh.

Hurriedly inspecting the cuffs, which were linked to a chain running down the entire line, Calway couldn’t see a lock, clasp or weak point. The cuffs seemed welded solid.

‘Did you see how they locked these?’ he hurriedly asked the slave, not looking up. ‘Is there a key?’ If there was, Calway could search the body of the nearest eldar…

He was receiving no reply. Calway looked up, paying attention to the face of the man before him for the first time. He was young, with dirty shoulder-length hair. Slim, pale, blue eyes. Unremarkable, but for his facial expression: his eyes were unfocussed, his jaw slack, but with a twitch at the corner of the mouth and a narrowing of the irises that suggested something other than a comatose state.

Calway repeated his question, holding the man’s chin to try and get him to focus. Nothing, just the same vacant stare, and a quiver that suggested that the man was preoccupied by some imaginary threat or struggle.

A shot narrowly missed Calway, hitting the next slave down the line. Calway flinched, turning his attention to the woman who had been hit. She too had the same blank expression, even as she bled out through a throat wound and slumped forwards, blood spurting from her neck. She didn’t make even the most basic, instinctive attempt to break her fall, her neck twisting at an unnatural angle as she fell face down on the ground, her eyelids fluttering before she went still.

Her dead weight dragged the slaves either side of her down as the chain tensed, but they didn’t react, just twisted.

Back in a crouch, Calway ran down the line of slaves, looking into their eyes, giving them rapid shoves and taps, trying desperately to get any reaction.

Nothing. Whatever the eldar had done to them, they were all broken.

Calway turned and began to run for cover, giving a high whistle to tell any Guard in range to retreat. Similar whistles rang out across the square, faintly audible over the gunfire.

Retreat. Abandon mission. Objective lost.

Somewhere among the chaos, officers would be relaying the whistled message by vox to Lieutenant Deaz, the message that the slaves were lost, broken, beyond saving. Plan B was required.

As he ran for cover, Calway uttered a silent prayer to the Emperor: not for his own survival, or even for the slaves himself, but for forgiveness for what came next.

The Cleaner was just turning into the square as Deaz received garbled, overlaid reports on the vox regarding the slaves: although the men were talking over each other, the message was clear. The slaves could not be helped.

Deaz, who along with a dozen of his men was jogging alongside the slow-moving loader, switched vox-channels and gave the driver an order.

As the Cleaner moved onto a straight path towards the centre of the square, the cab opened and the driver scrambled out as the Cleaner continued rolling, locked on course.

Deaz looked out into the square. He could see fallen Guardsmen, while survivors were retreating to the edges of the square, fighting off the eldar as they did so. The eldar were still dealing with fire from high windows, and Deaz could see a cluster of heavily armoured eldar near a lavishly decorated alien vehicle, a floating barge of some kind.

Then there were the slaves, still lined up across the square, oblivious to the battle around them.

Painfully slowly, the Cleaner kept moving towards the centre of the square. Deaz hoped that the eldar didn’t notice it until it was in position, and if they did, that they reacted as he expected them to.

Enraged, Kulkavar barged through his retinue to personally cut down one of the human warriors with his monomolecular sword. The blade hummed, a pleasing feedback vibrating through the hilt as the sword passed unhindered through the human’s body, slicing down through shoulder to waist. Kulkavar watched with satisfaction as the human fell into two neat pieces, blood soaking into the blue cloth of its jacket at the edges of the divide. As the soul of the dead man left his body, Kulkavar closed his eyes and inhaled, savouring the despair of his last moments.

The consumed human soul momentarily took the edge off the emptiness that forever gnawed at Kulkavar from within, a brief respite from his eternal need. He opened his eyes, his senses blissfully taking in the clamour of gunfire, the smells of blood and burnt flesh.

He felt something else, a disturbance in the air, an unfamiliar vibration in the ground. Sheathing his sword, he turned to see a long, ugly human vehicle slowly moving towards the lines of slaves. A rescue vehicle perhaps? Kulkavar scoffed. Such an attempt was futile.

‘Destroy that thing,’ he ordered his incubi dismissively, and a wave of dark matter was unleashed upon the vehicle.

In the millisecond after the dark matter struck the vehicle, before there was even any visible sign of a reaction, Kulkavar felt a subtle change in the air. A subtle, but unmistakable, rush of heat…

He turned, all grace and dignity abandoned as he ran for his Raider, screaming an order to the pilot, desperate to stay a precious second ahead of the inferno he could feel approaching.

Deaz couldn’t stop a bleak smile passing his lips as the dark eldar fell for the bait, firing on the Cleaner as it approached the slaves. The smile faded quickly with the knowledge of what would come next, as Deaz turned away from the square, ducking his head as he did so, preparing for that inevitable rush of heat.

The Guard all looked away as the Cleaner, stacked with chamazian barrels, exploded under the dark eldar fire. The explosion was tremendous, a vast wall of fire spreading in all directions as the volatile chemical ignited. All the slaves, and the remaining guards, were consumed by fire in an instant.

At the centre of the blast the shell of the Cleaner flipped in the air, a blackened skeleton at the heart of a white-hot explosion.

The eldar, clad in their armour, fled the heat but were mostly unscathed, some emerging from the fires itself, armour smoking but seemingly otherwise unharmed. At the end of the square the large floating eldar vehicle tore away, armoured eldar warriors jumping on board as it moved off, its lavish canopies scorched and covered with little patches of flame as it escaped the worst of the inferno.

The fire burnt itself out as fast as it had started, the flames dissipating to reveal blackened, twisted carnage where the incredible rush of heat had done its terrible work. At the centre of the explosion, a deep crater had been gouged into the ground, shattering paving slabs and digging into the earth itself, and the wreck of the Cleaner fell into the pit, vanishing into the depths of the hole.

Smoke wafted from every surface below. At ground level, the fronts of the buildings around the edge of the square had been scorched, paint blasted away and the few unbroken windows cracked by the sudden temperature. As the smoke cleared, the ground became visible. Ashes drifted like sand dunes across a black-scorched surface, the entirety of the square burnt clean of life.

Strewn across the centre of the square were mounds of charred remains, still roughly in line even as they were thrown back by the blast: the burnt remnants of the slaves, set free in the harshest and most final way from the dark eldar and their cruel, soul-draining tyranny.

Kulkavar, taking the command throne at the rear of his Raider, composed himself. The slaves may have been lost, but they had always been a very secondary objective, a handful of souls compared to the millions Kulkavar would soon gather. The humans had played a clever hand with their firebomb, but Kulkavar’s warriors would be ready for any proposed repetition, and prevent it.

Nothing of significance had been lost. However, it would be remiss of Kulkavar not to order his warriors to regroup and return immediately to the scene of the explosion, storming every adjacent building until the perpetrators were captured so that their souls could suffer for the indignity that they had inflicted.

Kulkavar’s train of thought was interrupted by an incoming communication from Zekov.

As Kulkavar listened to his haemonculus, a rare smile played at the corner of his mouth, the loss of the human slaves and his undignified retreat from the fireball entirely forgotten. While part of his mind listened to Zekov’s words, another part of the archon’s consciousness simply rolled a single phrase around, again and again:

The Lung was his. The Lung was his.

As the platform carrying the Lung and the struggling dark eldar and human forces finally reached ground level, Inquisitor Velasco and the Guardsmen of the 114th now under his command did not have a plan for how they were to prevent the dark eldar’s plans, but they did at least know what they needed to do next: retreat and regroup.

Velasco had calculated on a data-slate their relative position to the city-factory, and where they would need to be on the platform to provide the most direct route back. Avoiding detection by the dark eldar, they had moved under cover around the platform edge.

Velasco’s calculations were correct. The platform emerged at the centre of a barren rocky outcrop a kilometre from the city-factory’s west wall. Between them and the city-factory was an ugly stretch of rough, muddy moorland pitted with stinking, treacherous bogs. Skeletal trees and huddled bushes littered the route ahead, pitiful signs of life in a desolate landscape.

As soon as they could get off the platform they did, and Hool found his boots sinking in the swampy ground as, Velasco in the lead, they began to run towards the looming mass of the city-factory, its twisted jumble of industrial towers and chimneys silhouetted by the cold light of the late sun.

The sun would begin to slowly set in an hour or so, thought Hool, as he ran with as light a step as he could, trying to avoid sinking. Past nightfall, their problems would double.

Nearby Hool could hear a breathless vox-operator trying to raise a response from Geiss and the other officers. To destroy the Lung and deny Kulkavar his prize would take more than the remnants of Smoker’s platoon. Hool wasn’t sure what it would take – even with the inquisitor taking the lead, a hostile alien force and a weapon as unearthly as the Lung seemed beyond the capabilities of common Guardsmen.

Hool heard a shout of warning, a semi-audible declaration of something behind them. He turned, lasrifle raised, expecting to see the dark eldar in pursuit. What he saw instead was possibly worse.

Behind them, the Lung stood on the platform surrounded by the crumbling remains of a handful of buildings. Raised from its underground home, the Lung had begun to glow more vibrantly, and seemed to be pulsing with agitation. The alien device was becoming more active, and there was clear, visible evidence of its increased activity. A low bank of pure white mist was beginning to roll out from the platform, a wave of infection expanding across the moor towards the city-factory.

Seventeen

An hour passed in hectic activity.

The survivors of Hossk’s platoon, supplemented by Stellin and the other workers from Hab C, were the first to respond to the vox-messages from Smoker’s platoon. The dark eldar had abruptly abandoned their slave-raids on the workers’ habs, Hossk, his men and the surviving workers rapidly moved out, opening a maintenance gate on the west wall to allow Velasco and the Guardsmen back into the city-factory.

Also answering the call were Tordez and the survivors from the destruction of the ship. Deaz’s men were further away in Emperor’s Square, but moved out as quickly as they could on Velasco’s command, and remained in constant vox-contact.

The remains of the strike force were being reassembled in the west of the city, at the edge of the refinery area. Velasco convened with Geiss’s officers, forming a plan of attack. Resources were gathered, and troops reorganised to compensate for men lost.

News was hastily shared. For those who had accompanied Smoker underground, there was the shock of Geiss’s death and the losses inflicted on the 114th by the dark eldar. For those who had lived through those losses, there was the revelation of the existence of the Lung, the source of all Belmos VII’s current woes.

Sentries had been posted on the west wall, looking out towards the craggy, raised area where the Lung had reached the surface. The fragmented remains of buildings from the underground city that littered the platform looked like standing stones, ancient monuments built to the glory of the weapon at the centre of the platform.

As the Guard prepared to make their move, the sentries caught sight of dark eldar movement around the Lung, their anti-gravity vehicles moving to and fro as the aliens made preparations of their own.

‘My archon,’ said Zekov, bowing obsequiously, one arm gesturing towards Kulkavar’s prize, as if it were a personal gift from the haemonculus to his master. The archon saw it differently – The haemonculus was merely an agent of destiny, bringing Kulkavar the means to his inevitable ascension, a footnote in the rise of Kulkavar.

As soon as Zekov had informed him that the Lung was real, intact and raised to the surface of the planet, Kulkavar had ordered the pilot of his Raider to take them out of the city-factory and head directly to the haemonculus’s position. They had swept out of the city’s main gates, banked off the causeway and rapidly arrived at a rocky island in a dreary sea of mud. Kulkavar had disembarked before the Raider had even landed, casting protocol aside to stride quickly through the broken remains of ancient buildings that, in their chilly blackness, reminded him of Commorragh, the home that the Lung would allow him to return to a champion, his unassailable status bought in souls and conquest.

And here it was, the instrument of his glory, neither machine nor beast, a living weapon rippling with unnatural life. There was poetry in the deep, bass rhythm of its exhalations, a beauty in the shimmering colours that flowed through its undulating skin like liquid. Glowing mist seeped out of its great vents, changing the quality of the air, harmless to an eldar but ruinous to their enemies.

Ignoring Zekov altogether, Kulkavar removed a gauntlet and walked close to the Lung, placing his naked palm against a section of its semi-metallic flesh. It felt warm and cold at the same time, natural and unnatural. The complexity of the sensation thrilled Kulkavar in ways he had not experienced for some time.

‘A thing of wonder,’ Kulkavar said, stepping away from the Lung and sliding his gauntlet back on. ‘Graath truly was a genius, even by the standards of our race, to create such a weapon. To us, a weapon. To the savages it will break, the Lung must seem like a god. A god under my command.’

There was a brief silence, Kulkavar’s underlings no doubt taking in the depth of his rhetoric.

‘Yes, my archon,’ Zekov said after a while.

‘Are the preparations for transporting the Lung under way?’ Kulkavar asked.

‘The anti-gravity rig is almost ready,’ said Zekov, waving his arm to indicate the metallic collar that had been fitted around the base of the Lung. ‘It will require some tailoring to the current size of the Lung. We will also need to counteract the gravity locks connecting the Lung to the platform.’

Zekov tapped the toe of one boot against the brushed stone surface beneath their feet. Kulkavar held him with a questioning gaze.

‘The platform is a gravity device,’ explained Zekov, his masked helmet as impassive as ever. ‘Most of the energy of the city below will have been expended driving the platform to the surface, but a negligible field remains to keep the Lung in position. Nullifiers will remove the effect.’

‘Then proceed with the work,’ said Kulkavar.

Tearing his eyes away from the Lung, Kulkavar turned to inspect the rest of the activity on the platform. Warriors had been recalled from attacks and slave-gathering sorties within the human settlement to support and guard the removal of the Lung, Raiders landing around the platform, sybarites giving their forces new orders as they arrived.

Kulkavar had lost any taste for enslaving the inhabitants of this world. An under-populated planet like this was barely worth picking over at the best of times. The Lung was exhaling enough mist to pollute the entire population, and Kulkavar was content to leave the humans to tear themselves to pieces under its influence.

He was savouring this image when Veldrax approached, discreetly seeking his attention. Kulkavar graciously turned to the sybarite, consenting to be addressed.

‘My archon,’ reported Veldrax. ‘The mon-keigh are approaching from their settlement. They wish to engage us.’

Kulkavar paused to assess this new development. These primitive apes refused to submit to the inevitable, and this defiance was unacceptable.

‘I was willing to let these creatures kill each other in their own time,’ Kulkavar told Veldrax, sighing ostentatiously. ‘But if they wish to confront us, so be it. Assemble all warriors. We will grind these humans into the dirt of their filthy world, and leave no survivors.’

‘This is not the time for surprise or stealth,’ Velasco had said, standing atop Hossk’s Chimera and addressing the gathered men. ‘They will be expecting us, and we need to draw them out and away from the primary target. Fire as soon as you are within range, make them meet us out on the ground.’

Hossk’s platoon, supported by the workers from the habs, were to strike first. As the west gates of the city-factory slowly ground open and Hossk led his men out onto the muddy moor, he was entirely aware that they had been sent ahead to absorb the brunt of enemy fire. His was the largest surviving part of the strike force, especially when supplemented by the workers.

It was understandable that Velasco saw them as easy cannon fodder. In the case of the workers, Hossk would broadly agree with the inquisitor. Velasco’s strategy required that the dark eldar be drawn away from their fortifications to as great an extent as possible, and these civilians, untrained but brutalised from their weeks surviving, were the best candidates. They would fight and die for their Emperor, as would the Guardsmen they fought alongside.

What made less sense to Hossk was his own refusal to take a more strategic role. Velasco had suggested that Hossk might better serve the plan by holding back and forming part of the second wave, to assist in the storming of the platform. Hossk had surprised himself by arguing against this, insisting that his men, and especially the undisciplined mob of workers, needed his leadership out in the field.

In doing so, he had put himself in danger with them.

Hossk was unsure what motive had driven him to do such a thing. He had signed away men’s lives without a thought on many occasions, and there would have been no cowardice in holding back. Velasco’s plan had little chance of success, and a high chance that every man involved would die today, with the only variable being the opportunity for glory in death. Why had he chosen the less glorious path?

Hossk pushed these questions aside as he led his men out onto the muddy moorland. Cold seeped through his uniform as he took his first steps onto the bleak ground. Ahead, across the barren expanse, stood the cluster of broken buildings atop the eldar platform. As Hossk and his men approached, they would be easy targets for snipers gathered in those ruins.

Hossk looked around at the men he led. The Guardsmen marched in perfect time, but even the workers in their overalls, wielding weapons dropped by fallen Guardsmen or their own adapted tools, stood tall as they walked.

Behind Hossk’s platoon came the rest of the men, spreading out and staying low, moving from rocky outcrop to clump of vegetation, trying to stay in cover as much as possible.

Hool was among them. Inquisitor Velasco seemed to have adopted the survivors of the force he had encountered when he landed on Belmos VII, with the majority of Smoker’s platoon assigned to follow him.

Ahead, the usually conspicuous figure of Velasco led the way. Velasco had produced a long, green-grey cloak from under his robes, and with it tied around his neck his brass armour and white robes were largely concealed.

Across the moor the Guardsmen marched, advancing on the platform. Behind them, three Chimeras rolled out of the city-factory’s west gate, each surrounded by a defensive ring of Guardsmen, moving slowly so as to not prematurely detonate the sensitive barrels of chamazian loaded on board.

Lieutenant Deaz led this odd convoy from a seat next to the driver of one of the Chimeras, painfully aware of the volatile liquid loaded behind him, and the extent to which he would be incinerated in a second if a stray bolt or las-shot hit one of the barrels.

As the Chimera rolled out onto the moorland with a lurching thud, the barrels behind him making a loud slosh, Deaz was reminded of the fate of the slaves in Emperor’s Square, burned alive in seconds.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought, but Deaz knew that getting at least one of these Chimeras to the target was their only hope of eliminating the threat the Lung posed. He just hoped to be well away from the explosion when it happened.

The first assault came as Hossk’s platoon came in range of the platform. Splinter-fire tore into the first line of men, as armoured dark eldar warriors emerged from the ruins of buildings to fire on the approaching humans.

Hossk himself was not hit, but a shard hit Weir square in the chest, and the sergeant fell backwards, his coatfront shredded by shrapnel.

As the Mordians fired back at their attackers, las-fire pounding the dark eldar’s fragile cover, Hossk dropped to his knee to check his sergeant’s condition. The wounds were not deep, but they didn’t need to be – Weir was convulsing, muscles taut, and even through the lenses of his rebreather mask his eyes were wide and reddened, pupils unnaturally small: he had been poisoned, the dark eldar venom from the splinter shot destroying his nervous system. The projectile could have lightly grazed him and been just as deadly.

Hossk swore, but couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by the death of one man. As he stood up, he shouted to the men around him to rally, to charge the dark eldar on their platform, and to make them pay for every drop of blood spilled on the muddy ground.

As Hossk’s men engaged the first wave of aliens, the rest of the force moved in to provide backup, to fill gaps in the line where Guardsmen and workers had fallen.

As the platform was higher than the surrounding moorland, Smoker’s troops had a line of sight over the heads of their comrades, so the more able marksmen could take aim at dark eldar warriors as they appeared at the platform’s edge or over the tops of the broken buildings.

Hool managed to get the odd shot in, but his lasrifle was hardly up to the task and he thought most of his shots went wide, although it was hard to tell as the air ahead became crisscrossed with las-fire. Smoker and his squad of grey-jacketed marksmen were more confidently opening fire, Lieutenant Essler pausing to let off a couple of shots from his hellgun before taking a few more steps ahead.

The exchange of long-distance fire was broken as the Imperium forces and the dark eldar met at the edge of the platform, the xenos spilling down onto the ground to attack the Guard with glaives and scythes, the humans rushing forwards to meet them.

Velasco tossed away his concealing cloak to reveal his brass armour, and bellowed an order to charge, to meet the dark eldar face to face.

‘Right then!’ shouted Polk to his squad. ‘Let’s show these xenos filth whose planet this is!’

They charged.

Kulkavar strode into the fray with his retinue, monomolecular sword slashing right and left. He aimed to strike cleanly, but not to offer any easy deaths: one human raised a pistol and Kulkavar slashed through the creature’s forearm, the hand holding the gun falling to the muddy ground as the mon-keigh reeled away in agony.

Kulkavar ignored the wounded mon-keigh as he fell to his knees, instead turning to pierce the heart of a bulky human in coveralls, who had impertinently swung a large cutting tool in the direction of Kulkavar’s head. A follow-up kick pushed the corpse from the end of Kulkavar’s blade.

It was an indulgence, stepping out onto the battlefield while the Lung was being secured, but Kulkavar felt the need to deliver a lesson, as well as to treat himself to the pleasure of seeing the humans fall to his sword. It was one thing to order pain on a massive scale, to rain torment upon a planet, but quite another to step in and treasure each individual wound. A smile twisted at the corner of Kulkavar’s mouth as he let the fury of battle overtake him.

The roar of battle could be heard across the platform, but Zekov barely noticed.

The Lung was rising, the gravity field around it reversing.

The most difficult part of the process would be guiding the Lung over the rubble of the hazardous, rubble-strewn surface of the platform itself. Once out onto the moorland, it could comfortably hover across land and sea all the way to the spaceport.

Zekov needed to be close to guide it. He ordered a Raider to attend him.

Then, it would just be a matter of slowly leading the Lung back to the ship, like guiding a pet.

A pet that Zekov was eager to dissect, of course. But that had been the fate of everything that came into his care, so why should this be different?

On the moor, carnage.

Closing the gap between the human and dark eldar forces had reduced any advantage the latter had in terms of stealth, preventing them from picking off the human forces from afar with their splinter weapons.

But up close the dark eldar were ferocious killers, acrobatically spinning from one attack to the next, wielding glaives and curved blades in vicious, arcing strikes that severed limbs and ruptured bodies. All of their close combat weapons seemed to be powered or poisoned or both, so that even the most glancing blow could leave a man screaming on the ground or convulsing in agony.

Deress had already fallen, a powered glaive jammed into his back by an eldar warrior. Hool shot the dark eldar where he stood, hand still attached to Deress’s back, but it was no help to the Guardsman – the shock from the glaive had already stopped his heart.

Nearby, Hool could see Inquisitor Velasco swinging his chainsword around to slice straight through the nearest eldar, leaving the alien’s right arm hanging by a sinew.

As the wounded eldar collapsed, Velasco elbowed him aside, stretching over the falling body to swipe at another, seemingly unaware of the bladed gauntlet an eldar warrior was about to swipe into his armoured back, each bladed finger rippling with pain-inflicting energy.

Before Hool could raise his lasrifle to protect Velasco, a shot from Smoker’s hellgun sent the gauntleted dark eldar reeling backwards. The inquisitor didn’t register the shot, as his chainsword was locked with two monomolecular daggers wielded by an eldar warrior, the fight reduced to a contest of strength as Velasco put his full body weight behind his blade, forcing the eldar’s guard down.

‘Polk, Hool – cover the inquisitor,’ Smoker ordered. ‘But don’t get too close to that chainsword of his.’ Before either Guardsman could respond to the order, Smoker had disappeared into the fray, hellgun barking at some distant target.

Hool and Polk provided covering fire to keep the other eldar back as Velasco, locked in a hand-to-hand struggle, pressed downwards with his chainsword as his opponent continued to try and force him backwards. When the eldar lost the struggle, its arms giving way to gravity and the tremendous force Velasco was exerting, it wasn’t Velasco’s chainsword that killed it, but the downward descent of the eldar’s own blades as they sliced into his upper body.

The inquisitor seemed to be in a near-frenzy, his gaze sweeping in search of another target. A dark eldar swept a scythe-like weapon in the direction of Velasco’s head, but the inquisitor just ducked under the blow and batted it aside, swinging his chainsword through the alien’s guts.

Hool was so distracted by the inquisitor’s performance that he didn’t notice a dark eldar heading right for him until Polk shoved him aside, levelling his combat shotgun and firing at almost point-blank range at Hool’s assailant. The shotgun blast shattered the dark eldar’s helm into fragments, and left a bloody, broken mess where the front half of the alien’s head had been.

As Polk helped him to his feet, Hool muttered a thank you, a pleasantry muffled by his rebreather.

Each of the three Chimeras had a data-slate mounted inside, displaying a crude layout of the platform as captured by Inquisitor Velasco. There were two routes between the few buildings left standing large enough for a Chimera to pass through that led to the Lung, but judging by the entry path of dark eldar vehicles landing on the platform, the one at the south end of the platform would be blocked by the Raiders and other vehicles spotted by sentries earlier.

The heavy-tracked vehicles were rolling in single file across the moor, arcing to the north to circumvent the battle and mount the platform. Deaz’s Chimera was at the back of the convoy, which allowed him to lead from a secure position but was frustrating as he could not see ahead.

They were halfway to their destination when the vox squawked.

‘Halt, immediate halt,’ voxed the driver of the first Chimera. ‘We’ve hit quicksand.’

‘Can you reverse out?’ Deaz asked.

‘Afraid not, sir,’ said the driver. ‘Muddy crust only broke when we were half on, we’re nose-down in it and we’re not getting out without a tow.’

Deaz switched the vox off and let off a string of imaginative curses, loud enough for the driver sitting next to him to flinch slightly in his seat.

Chimeras could handle most ground, but even they would get stuck if the terrain was rough enough.

One down, two to go. They would need to find their way around the quicksand, and hope the route didn’t delay them too much.

Inquisitor Felip Velasco barely noticed the xenos as he fought them. These were footsoldiers, underlings, and he cut through them like thin cloth in pursuit of his real target. Velasco knew Kulkavar must be close by, and any obstruction was a mere distraction to be dashed aside. His real enemy drew him on with a force akin to gravity, a relentless onwards tug.

Everything else was insignificant. Velasco followed his instincts as he weaved through the hectic battlefield, humans and dark eldar alike dying at his feet. When they obstructed his path, he stepped over them without a thought.

Velasco didn’t have any difficulty identifying his prey when he saw him. Although he had never seen Lord Kulkavar before, a dark eldar lord was hard to miss, even to the untrained eye of a human: his robes were lavish and, even compared to the naturally imperious nature of the eldar, every movement Kulkavar made dripped with contempt for those around him, for the Guardsmen falling to his blade.

Velasco stepped forwards and issued a challenge.

It was with exquisite boredom that Kulkavar realised a mon-keigh was shouting at him, and turned to face the speaker. A human male was approaching, a rather different figure to the others. He was almost as tall as an eldar, and dressed in some gaudy plating that was almost elegant, certainly more so than the bulky armour worn by the hardier human warriors.

The human was wielding a crude cutting tool with rotating teeth, a clumsy weapon if ever there was one, but dangerous enough to have Kulkavar drawing his own, far more graceful, sword.

The whole situation was unutterably tedious and a worthless distraction, especially when Kulkavar was on the verge of triumph, but the dark eldar lord forced himself to mentally translate the human’s guttural utterances.

‘– that we should meet under such circumstances, after all this time,’ it was saying.

‘All this time?’ repeated Kulkavar, the words rough against his tongue. ‘Should I know you, primate?’ His monomolecular sword was fully drawn now, and it hummed through the air between the dark eldar and the human.

‘I am Inquisitor Felip Velasco,’ snapped the human, raising his chain-blade. ‘I have thwarted your efforts on a dozen worlds and denied you your prizes every time.’

Kulkavar tilted his head, inspecting Velasco closely, trying to untangle his words. They seemed loaded with significance, but Kulkavar couldn’t quite fathom the inquisitor’s meaning. Efforts, worlds, prizes…?

‘Ah,’ said Kulkavar, hissing the exclamation. ‘You are the little thing that keeps interfering with my acquisition of Haemonculus Graath’s creations? Your efforts have been futile, as you can see, little nuisance. My destiny is at hand.’

‘Your destiny?’ repeated the affronted Velasco. ‘Destiny, yours or anyone’s, has nothing to do with it. It is my duty to defeat your plans at every turn, and it was inevitable this would draw us together like this, into battle.’

Kulkavar smirked. He and the human were circling each other, just a sword-length out of range of each other.

‘You think you are of relevance to me?’ Kulkavar asked Velasco. ‘You are nothing more than a pest. Nonetheless, if you want your grand conflict, to fool yourself that you are worthy to be some kind of nemesis to me, I am happy to oblige. You have been a sufficient irritant to warrant dying at my hand.’

Hool and Polk held back as the inquisitor confronted the dark eldar lord, watching from a distance as the two circled each other, exchanging taunts.

Hool found the whole experience surreal. A year of war had taught him to shoot first, because if you didn’t the enemy certainly wouldn’t hesitate. It was the lot of the Guardsman and, he supposed, the common rebel or xenos warrior to be thrown against the opposing lines, to feel that desperate rush to kill the enemy before they killed you, a frantic struggle to survive.

The inquisitor and the eldar lord danced around their conflict as if it were some aristocratic game, some fancy or distraction, exchanging fine words and diplomacies before attacking each other. Even in the heat of battle, eldar and humans alike were stepping away from them, creating a duelling space at the centre of the battlefield.

Velasco made the first move, wielding his chainsword in a low sweep that aimed to cut straight through the dark eldar lord’s waist. The alien easily sidestepped this blow, using his own sword to flick Velasco’s weapon sideways, the monomolecular blade briefly engaging with the chainsword’s rotating teeth in a shower of sparks.

As Velasco stumbled sideways, Kulkavar brought his blade around and up in a jab for the inquisitor’s throat. However Velasco had regained his balance and easily ducked the blow, stepping back to take a fighting stance.

The two blades clashed and the duel continued.

With Kulkavar engaged elsewhere, Veldrax was leading the Kabalite troops. His success in obtaining their archon’s prize had ranked him above the other sybarites in the shifting sands of the dark eldar warrior hierarchy, and they followed his suggestions as orders. Veldrax knew this situation wouldn’t last – all it would take would be for one of the other sybarites to claim some measure of victory in this battle, and the jostling for position would begin anew – but he used his authority while he could.

The dark eldar fought well, claiming many souls, but the mon-keigh were many and the battle was fierce. Although they were crude creatures, Veldrax was surprised by the directness of the attack, the brazen onslaught.

This suspicion caused Veldrax to look further afield, and it was then that he saw the human vehicles.

It was Ganch, of all people, who spotted the dark eldar officer redirecting his troops in the direction of the two Chimeras. The former sewer worker had managed to survive the battle while many more experienced fighting men had not, and was clubbing a fallen eldar in the face with the butt of a salvaged lasrifle when he spotted the shift in the tide of alien warriors, and alerted Hossk.

Ganch pointed, and Hossk looked across the field of battle to see a squad of dark eldar breaking away from the main melee, firing in the direction of the Chimera as they approached the platform.

Veldrax’s warriors opened fire on the human vehicles, but splinter weapons were no match for armoured vehicles, especially at such a great distance. He called for Keldaz to bring his dark lance to bear.

Keldaz levelled the lance and he was cut down by a torrent of las-fire. As he fell, his back a mass of smoking burns, Veldrax could see a blue-jacketed mob approaching, guns blazing.

Hossk was barely aiming as he ran at the group of dark eldar who had broken away to attack the Chimera – the aliens had made themselves a discrete target by leaving the field, an easy cluster for Hossk and his men to attack.

The dark eldar returned fire, turning their attention to the humans behind them and breaking off their attack on the distant vehicles. Either side of Hossk, Guardsmen were falling in mid-stride, cut down by splinter-fire, but ahead of them the xenos numbers were thinning too, breaking under the onslaught from the Guard.

Hossk hadn’t even noticed that he had ceased to think of the workers from the habs as a separate group. As Stellin collapsed into the mud, doubled up by a splinter-shot to the gut, he was as much a comrade to Hossk as any Guardsman. Even Ganch, pierced through the eye by a barbed shard of crystal, struck Hossk as a loss.

All the dark eldar were dead and wounded as Hossk and the last of his men reached their position. Hossk skidded in the mud as he came to a halt, digging one heel into the wet ground.

A wounded eldar rolled over in the mud and raised a long, heavy-barrelled weapon Hossk and his final surviving troops were no more, blasted to pieces in a flurry of dark matter.

Veldrax was dying, but still found enough pleasure to smile as fragments of the humans he had obliterated with the dark lance fell all around him, smoking scraps littering the ground. The sybarite coughed painfully, liquid filling the grille of his helmet. There was a low, numb heat in his chest, a las-wound that had burnt through a lung and who- knew-what else.

Soon, She Who Thirsts would know him. His tainted soul was doomed, there was nothing that could stop that, but Veldrax could cause a little more suffering before he went.

Chest wracked in agony, Veldrax rolled over on the filthy ground, raising Keldaz’s dark lance and aiming it at the first of the two Chimeras.

He would not get a chance to fire at the second – as the weapon unleashed a furious burst of dark-matter energy, its kickback caused the entire weapon to buck, slamming into Veldrax’s injured chest and crushing his lungs. He slumped across the lance, dead eyes unable to see the carnage he had caused.

The Chimera ahead of Deaz was gone, dark energy tearing through its armour and leaving little but a patch of liquid metal. Deaz instinctively recoiled, but the shot consumed the Chimera’s volatile cargo whole, without any wider explosion.

Deaz shouted at his driver to swerve around the smoking wreckage, which somehow he managed to do without igniting any of the chamazian within. They prepared themselves for a further attack, but none came.

A couple of minutes later, Deaz’s Chimera rolled onto the platform, heading towards the Lung.

The Imperial and dark eldar forces had both suffered heavy casualties, but their respective leaders still fought on. Hool watched as Velasco and Kulkavar continued to circle each other in what was an increasingly uneven combat: the dark eldar lord had the upper hand, the inquisitor seeming clumsy and exhausted by comparison. Kulkavar was dancing around his opponent, his blade slicing right through Velasco’s armour, leaving long, bloody cuts.

The dark eldar lord could have killed Velasco at any time, but instead he was toying with one of the Emperor’s inquisitors, torturing him for sport in front of a field of Guardsmen. The insult would not stand, and Hool aimed to end this farce.

He raised his lasrifle to fire at Kulkavar, but Polk lunged over and batted it down again.

‘Velasco will shoot you himself if you interfere,’ said Polk.

‘Then he’s insane,’ replied Hool. ‘That eldar is going to kill him.’

‘He’s an inquisitor, and our superior,’ Polk snapped. ‘You can’t say he’s insane, and if he wants to fight this xenos to the death, we need to let him.’

Hool was about to protest, but was struck by the precision of Polk’s words. You can’t say he’s insane. Not he isn’t insane, but you can’t say he’s insane. Hool looked back to where Velasco and the dark eldar lord were fighting. The inquisitor had rallied, and had pushed his opponent backwards, smacking the flat side of his chainsword’s blade into the eldar’s lower arm to knock away his sword.

They were insane, but the likes of Polk and Hool weren’t allowed to say it. The rational thing to do would be for Hool to intervene on Velasco’s behalf, but Polk, a lifelong Guardsman, had stopped him. Because inquisitors, lords and officers had to be given free rein to indulge their madness.

Was this how it was to be a Guardsman, was this the unspoken presumption beneath everything they did? That in spite of all the noble talk of the Emperor’s will and the good of mankind, men like Polk and Hool lived and died at the whim of lunatics?

Were all their battles as meaningless as Velasco’s grudge duel against an alien he had never met before today, an alien who didn’t even know who he was?

Hool felt a cold weight of realisation in his stomach, that even if this were the case, the Guard was his life now. He would either bend to the insanity as Polk had, or be broken by it.

After much trial and error, Zekov had aligned the gravitational forces involved, and was successfully towing the Lung. He stood at the rear of the Raider’s deck, and as the vehicle lifted from the platform the Lung did also, staying at a fixed distance behind.

He ordered the Raider’s pilot to rise higher, to bring them above the level of the buildings around them, so that they could guide the Lung off the platform.

Out on the moor, dark eldar and humans alike turned to see the Lung rising above the cluster of blackened buildings on the platform. It seemed even more alive while defying gravity, its corpulent mass glowing from within, as if it were elevating itself.

Kulkavar knocked back an incoming blow from the human Velasco, and took satisfaction in his prize as it was lifted to safety. Some of the humans were attempting to fire on the Lung, but their feeble las-weapons couldn’t scratch it.

His victory was complete.

Deaz could hardly miss the Lung as the Chimera rolled into the centre of the ruins on the platform. Deaz ordered the driver to floor the accelerator, but he knew he was too late. The plan had been to drive at least one of the Chimeras to the centre of the platform, abandon it and detonate the chamazian from a safe distance. But it was clear the dark eldar were on the verge of escaping.

The Chimera rolled under the Lung without even scratching the underside, braking over the scuffed section of platform where the Lung had sat for so many centuries.

Deaz craned his neck forwards over the Chimera’s dash, staring up at the strange alien device above. Was it even within range?

There was no time to find out. Deaz wished he had time to let the driver get away. He wished he had time to let himself get away. But there was no time left.

Deaz drew his bolt pistol, leaned into the back of the Chimera and fired a bolt-round straight into a barrel of undiluted chamazian.

The Chimera was torn apart by the blast, a white-hot fireball ripping through its armoured shell, casting out fragments of red-hot metal as flame spilled out in all directions. Most of the roof of the vehicle was thrown upwards as a single slab, smashing into the bottom of the Lung as flame enveloped it.

The power of the explosion buffeted Zekov’s Raider, and the vehicle carrying the haemonculus spun out of control, reeling over the buildings to crash on the other side of the platform.

At its centre, the surface of the platform was cracked and scorched by the explosion, a crater gouged out of the centre where Deaz’s Chimera had been just seconds before. Fault lines began to open up, cracks spreading out from the areas of greatest damage.

The Lung had been unaffected by the initial blast, its uncanny surfaces untouched by burnmarks, but the same could not be said for the gravity rig Zekov had attached to it, which was utterly destroyed. Without it, the Lung’s great weight dragged it downwards as the smoke cleared. The Lung hit the ancient stone surface with an impact that could be felt well beyond the platform’s edge, that reverberated out into the muddy ground of the surrounding area.

In spite of the force of the impact, the Lung remained undamaged. But the platform itself was not. What had been hairline cracks after the explosion widened as the jolt from the Lung shook the ancient stone, spreading out. Sections of rock began to fall away, revealing the pit below, a sheer well that reached all the way down to the Lung’s original underground location.

A central section of the platform began to tilt, freed by deep cracks that ran on either side. As that section tilted, so the Lung began to slide downwards. The weight of it accelerated the tilt of the stone, and the section of platform swung through one hundred and eighty degrees, the Lung unceremoniously falling into the pit below in a shower of smoking stone fragments.

The Lung fell, tumbling into the pit below, hurtling towards the empty cavern where it had sat, neglected, for uncounted years. Where once it had rested on its platform at the heart of Dalson Graath’s underground lab, now there was just the dusty rock floor where ancient machinery had detached itself on its rise to the planet’s surface.

While Graath had built the Lung to be resilient, even he could not protect it against the momentum of such a fall. It hit the bottom and shattered on impact. As its shell was breached, the unnatural energies that flowed within it expanded outwards in a rush, a column of gaseous energy spiralling outwards and upwards, searching for release. The flow of sinister energy burst from the hole in the platform, piercing the sky, wraithlike currents churning within it.

For a few seconds, the air for kilometres around was filled with blinding, unnatural light.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the light was gone, leaving nothing but a smoking, frayed hole in the centre of the platform, steam rising from the vertiginous chasm below.

The Lung was destroyed, no trace remaining.

Eighteen

Kulkavar looked away from the pillar of smoke emerging from the platform, to see the human Velasco smirking.

‘Everything you try and achieve, I will destroy,’ said Velasco, raising his chainsword with visible exertion. ‘Now I will kill you, and end this.’

‘There is no “this”,’ replied Kulkavar, sheathing his monomolecular sword. ‘This is a setback, and you are an irrelevance unworthy of my attention.’

Kulkavar issued a high whistle as he turned his back on the inquisitor. Responding to their master’s signal, Kulkavar’s retinue sprang into action, forming a wall between their lord and the human.

Kulkavar walked away, his warriors forming a path for him across the battlefield, some throwing themselves into inevitable death from the humans to do so.

‘No!’ shouted Velasco, his chainsword meeting the shield of one of Kulkavar’s personal guard. ‘Come back here!’ Guardsmen were running to assist Velasco, firing at the wall of warriors between him and the dark eldar lord, but this support wasn’t arriving fast enough. Kulkavar was slowly, impassively walking away.

‘No heroic confrontation for you, Velasco,’ Kulkavar called back. ‘Live or die here, you are beneath my attention.’

As Kulkavar walked away, the screams of his enemy at his back, he maintained a nonchalant external appearance. To deny Velasco his impertinent dreams of significance was the only revenge open to Kulkavar.

Beneath this impassive surface, a storm of rage was boiling.

Denied his victory! Denied by a human!

Across the battlefield, the dark eldar were retreating, laying down suppressing fire as they withdrew to the remains of the platform. Anti-gravity vehicles began to lift off, swooping away towards the spaceport.

The men of the 114th fought them every centimetre of the way, not letting them retreat without casualties. Commissar Tordez rallied the surviving men, threatening a las-shot to the back of the skull to any man who didn’t hound the retreating xenos with fire and fury. Even as the last Raider flew away, Smoker was down on one knee, hellgun spitting at the distant vehicle.

And then they were gone, leaving only a field of dead eldar and humans as evidence that they had been there at all.

Zekov awoke to disorientation and nausea to find himself slumped against cold metal. Wherever he was, everything was moving. He tried to move, but every part of his body hurt. Under certain circumstances such pain might be appreciated, but not considering the humiliation the haemonculus had just endured.

Opening his eyes, Zekov found that he had been dragged aboard Kulkavar’s personal Raider, and he lay slumped on the deck, propped against a railing. Kulkavar was sat on his command throne, eyes looking down at the haemonculus, but unfocused, as if Kulkavar’s attention was turned inwards.

Zekov wasn’t sure Kulkavar had noticed him wake until his lord spoke. He turned his attention elsewhere, his eyes falling upon Veldrax’s corpse lying on the deck of the Raider, glassy eyes staring upwards. The damage to the corpse seemed limited, and although Veldrax was quite dead, Zekov would have the sybarite regenerated without any difficulty, to fight, and possibly die, once more for Kulkavar.

It was the archon’s voice that broke Zekov’s train of thought.

‘Everything lost,’ Kulkavar said, his voice low. His posture was almost slumped, and he seemed stripped of his aristocratic bearing. ‘To have come so close, but to be denied…’ He trailed off, one gauntleted hand grasping through thin air.

‘My archon?’ Zekov said, his throat hot and raw, the words slurred.

Kulkavar was staring off into the darkening moorland. The sun was beginning to set across the bleak landscape, and the cold air whipped the dark eldar lord’s hair behind him.

‘This… this…’ Kulkavar trailed off, then threw back his head and laughed in a way Zekov had never seen before, each laugh seeming to shake some of Kulkavar’s old aristocratic bearing back into his shoulders. By the time he tipped his head forwards, a bitter smirk still slashed across his features, he seemed restored.

‘This loss, this rage at denial, is quite the most exquisite misery I have tasted in decades,’ said Kulkavar. ‘To experience such unique suffering, why, it justifies this venture in and of itself.’

Kulkavar laughed again, his laughter echoing across the causeway as the Raider swept into the spaceport.

As the dark eldar ship took off in the distance, streaking out of Belmos VII’s atmosphere, Velasco was already barking orders into his vox, requesting extraction.

With Major Geiss and his three lieutenants dead, Smoker, lieutenant for less than a day, was now the most senior surviving officer on the planet. As such, once the battle was over he shadowed the inquisitor, ready to receive orders. Smoker assigned Hool to follow him, to relay said orders to the troops.

There were none. Velasco barely spoke once the dark eldar had retreated. In spite of having denied Kulkavar the Lung, and having prevented what terror the dark eldar might have inflicted with such a device, the conflict had left him brooding.

Surprisingly, Velasco’s landing capsule had survived the destruction of much of the platform. Scorched but not destroyed, it sat at the end of a jagged outcrop over the still-steaming pit. Either fearless or heedless of the possibility of collapse, Velasco walked across the fragile-looking promontory, and stood on top of the capsule to wait.

The mist had cleared, and Velasco removed his rebreather helmet. Unmasked, his features seemed more ordinary, more human, to Hool. His silver hair and blue eyes were still striking, but he had a weak chin and protruding ears.

‘Lieutenant Essler, I suggest you withdraw your men to the city-factory,’ Velasco said, looking down from his perch atop the capsule. ‘When my shuttle grapples the capsule on board, it will need to hover low. This may cause further structural damage to the area. I would not wish your men to suffer any injury.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Smoker, snapping out a salute.

‘I regret that I cannot offer your men transit, or stay to aid you in your mission,’ added Velasco. When asked, the inquisitor had described the wreckage of a ship in orbit around Belmos VII, confirming the destruction of the Seraphim.

‘I must continue my pursuit of Kulkavar, and prevent his next gambit,’ said Velasco. ‘When opportunity arises I will inform your superiors that you require extraction.’

With another exchange of salutes, Smoker and Hool left the inquisitor standing alone in the ruins. Shortly after his silver shuttle hovered overhead, the roar of its engines temporarily deafening them all as the capsule was hoisted into the ship’s cargo bay, the tiny figure of Velasco clinging to the cable as the capsule was winched home.

Then the shuttle was gone, and with it the noise.

The Guardsmen were left to return to the city-factory in silence.

The silence that hung over the surviving Mordians as they trudged across the moor was not just a response to the losses they had incurred, although those had been terrible.

It was the knowledge that night was falling, and the inevitable conflict that would occur.

The numerous battles, explosions, raids and fires of the previous day and night must have reduced the infected population severely, but no one among the Guard could retain enough hope to presume that infected numbers would be minimal, or that the destruction of the Lung might have wiped them out or cured them.

Hool was aware of the threat that faced them once they crossed the city walls, but the day’s events had left him with difficulty processing any new danger. In less than a day he had encountered his first xenos, an Imperial inquisitor, and a living weapon capable of incredible destruction. He had been exposed to the terrors of the universe in ways he had not previously thought possible, and had his eyes opened. It was all much, much worse than he could have imagined.

Most of all, Hool couldn’t shake the image of Velasco and Kulkavar locked in futile, self-indulgent combat, and how it might be a microcosm for all the struggles across the galaxy. A million battles, each the whim of some commander aiming to make his mark. Billions of lives lost on vanity and miscalculation.

Hool looked furtively across at Polk. These thoughts were not the kind that the sergeant would approve of. Even after the losses they had suffered, Sergeant Polk continued to walk tall, uniform torn, wounds showing, but still the picture of a Mordian Guardsman, disciplined to the last. Unbreakable, as a man of the 114th should be.

Polk might entertain doubts about this or that order, but he would never let them undermine his loyalty to the Guard, his duty to his fellow Guardsmen.

But, past Polk, Hool could see Smoker, striding along, a lho-stick lodged in his grille. Hool couldn’t pretend to entirely understand Lieutenant Essler, but he suspected that he was not beset by doubts, not because he had endless faith in the orders passed down to him, but because he simply did not care.

Smoker was a machine for survival. He did not concern himself with the context of his actions – he just continued to survive.

Hool’s thoughts remained conflicted, but to an extent he had no conflict at all, as he was too exhausted to do anything but react. Instead he marched, and steeled himself for the night ahead, suppressing the frantic, uncomfortable feeling that he was at the edge of coping, that he was one further crisis away from losing some part of himself altogether.

As they re-entered the city’s west gate, Polk was keeping an eye on Hool. The young Guardsman seemed disturbed. Understandable, perhaps, but Polk didn’t want to see Hool survive so much only to receive a commissar’s bolt in the back of his skull due to a battlefield panic.

The area around the west gate was an anonymous goods yard, equidistant between the workers’ habs and the refinery. The ground was greased with tyretracks and spilt oil, and multicoloured barrels were stacked high on all sides.

Polk’s instinct was that, having survived so far, Hool would cope with the inevitable battle against the infected, and would continue to persevere. He was a good Guardsman, a survivor, the kind of man the Unbreakable 114th rested upon.

This confidence grew in Polk’s chest. He was increasingly certain Hool would be fine. That Polk would be fine.

‘We are being watched,’ said Gilham.

‘I know,’ replied Smoker. ‘Prepare yourselves. Make no move until they do.’

Polk felt fine. Better than fine. In spite of the day’s exertions, he felt strong and well. Although night had settled on the goods yard, and lighting was intermittent, he could see the infected on the city walls and jumping across the rows of barrels, their eyes gently glowing with a dull inner light. He could almost smell them, even over the bloodrush of his fellow Guardsmen.

‘Here we go,’ Hool muttered.

To Polk’s sensitive hearing, he might as well have shouted it. Yes, here we go, Hool. Another battle, ho-hum, as if the younger man really knew what he was talking about, had lived through real conflict. Who was he, to talk of war, when Polk had decades of experience over him?

‘Incoming,’ snapped Smoker, raising his hellgun to shoot an infected out of the sky as he leapt from the top of the barrel stacks. ‘Fire at will.’

Polk ignored the order. He was staring at Hool, who had started firing his lasrifle at approaching infected. Polk’s bitterness had curdled to rage, that rage tinged with hunger, and his fingers tightened around the barrel of his combat shotgun as he looked at Hool, and saw neither a friend nor ally but prey, coursing blood and tender meat and–

‘Sergeant?’ asked Hool, turning to Polk. ‘Is something wrong?’

When he looked closer, and saw the unnatural glow of the whites of Polk’s eyes, Hool knew, knew not just what had happened, but how. He saw in his mind the moment when Polk had fallen near the Lung, deep underground, shot down by a dark eldar. There had been no injury, but Hool remembered how the splinter had shattered on impact, tearing through the front of Polk’s jacket.

It would have been an easy thing for any of them to miss, a stray crystal fragment nicking the rebreather mask Polk had been wearing. The tiniest fissure would have let the gas from the Lung into the mask, and Polk would have been breathing it in from that point on.

One breath, and he would have been infected, and it took a similar amount of time for Hool to realise that, and to raise his lasrifle. He heard himself making some entreaty to Polk, but had no idea what he was actually saying. Whatever it was, it did no good – Polk batted Hool’s lasrifle aside and piled into him, knocking them both to the ground.

Then Hool was flat on his back, winded, clawing hands digging into him. There was no help from elsewhere – in Hool’s peripheral vision he could see Guardsmen fighting off incoming infected. In the chaos, no one had noticed Polk turn on Hool.

Polk’s right hand clamped on to Hool’s face, the thumb gouging into his cheek, tearing through skin and flesh, as Polk’s forefinger pressed into Hool’s left eye. Searing pain burned through Hool’s optic nerve and he screamed, choking with effort not to black out, as Polk’s finger burst his eyeball.

Looking up through his one good eye, his reduced vision blurred further still by a mist of tears, Hool could see Polk was completely rabid, reduced to utter savagery. There would be no reasoning with him. Another wave of pain and nausea wracked Hool’s body as Polk’s forefinger dug ever deeper within Hool’s eye socket, the corresponding thumb scraping bone within the wound it had torn into his face.

Finger and thumb were pushing closer to each other. Hool had the horrific realisation that Polk was going to grip his skull and tear Hool’s head off.

With a rush of cold fury Hool brought his knee up into Polk’s chest, knocking the older man upwards. The blow didn’t loosen the grip of Polk’s right hand on Hool’s wrecked face, but it did leave the other arm flailing, allowing Hool to bat it aside. As Polk jerked briefly upwards, Hool’s hand darted into the narrow space between their two bodies, to where Polk’s combat shotgun still hung on a safety strap. Grabbing the barrel, Hool pulled the gun upwards so that as Polk fell flat on top of Hool, the shotgun was jammed between their chests.

The pressure of Polk’s body weight pressed the shotgun down into Hool’s ribcage, the barrel a solid bar of metal that threatened to crush the air from his chest. Hool had perhaps one lungful of air before he was finished.

His face in agony, pain shooting through his entire body, Hool let go of his grip on Polk’s right wrist, removing the resistance to Polk’s attack. As Polk used his other hand to push himself upwards, his hand digging further into Hool’s face, Hool dropped his free hand down to the trigger of the shotgun, fumbling into the space between them as Polk pushed himself up, preparing to tear Hool’s head off.

With both hands gripping the shotgun, Hool exhaled and put every gram of energy in his body into one great upwards thrust pushing the shotgun up into his mentor’s chest, the tip of the barrel resting against Polk’s chin.

Hool’s pain-drowned mind swam with memories and emotion.

Recruitment on Mordian, saving his life and giving it new purpose.

Training him to survive, watching each other’s backs.

Side by side on Elisenda and Belmos VII, surviving while all around them fell.

Fighting together against rebels, savage humans, eldar.

Camaraderie, leadership, loyalty.

Hool’s mind snapped back to the present, his one surviving eye taking in the now, Polk’s merciless, savage gaze, the glow within the whites of his eyes, the mouth twisted in sadistic fury. A monster, the old Polk already gone.

Hool’s little finger pressed down on the trigger of the combat shotgun. Polk kept the mechanism well-oiled and easy to use, and it only took a little flick of the finger to fire. The shell that burst into Polk’s chin shattered his skull explosively, and the kickback slammed the weapon into Hool’s knee, almost shattering the kneecap.

Polk’s headless body bucked backwards with the impact of the shot, and the force of Hool jabbing the gun upwards combined with the sudden loss of tension in the lifeless body sent Polk’s corpse rolling across the oily ground.

Hool lay there for what could have been seconds, hours, minutes, his entire body wracked with shock, the open wound in his face feeling ever colder. Presently Hool saw a face looking down on him with urgent concern. It was only as Hool instinctively swung the combat shotgun up towards the man looking down at him that Hool realised he was still gripping the weapon with both hands.

Avrim batted Polk’s shotgun out of Hool’s grip, the gun slipping between his numb fingers. The medicae leaned close over Hool, examining the extent of his wounds, and swore under his breath.

‘We need to get you to safety,’ said Avrim slowly and precisely, resting a reassuring hand on Hool’s shoulder. ‘Once we get you clear, I’ll give you a shot to put you out, and I’ll fix all this before you come round.’ Avrim gestured to the mauled side of Hool’s head.

‘No.’ Hool didn’t know he was going to protest until he did, but as he spoke cold certainty rose within him. He had suffered so that he could fight on, not retreat from the field. He needed to fight on, it was why he survived. Hool grasped Avrim’s upper arm, and the medicae looked surprised at both Hool’s sudden strength and his determination.

‘Seal this up and give me enough stimms to get through the next hour or so,’ Hool told the medicae. ‘Everything else can wait.’

Avrim held Hool’s gaze for a few seconds, as if weighing up whether Hool was fit to make such a decision.

‘Very well,’ the medicae said, digging into his kit for the right instrument. ‘This is going to hurt a lot.’

It was through the efforts of every man standing that the 114th won the night against overwhelming odds.

Adept Gilham, technically a non-combatant, slaughtered dozens of infected, swinging his pneumatic hammer back and forth, his red robes torn to shreds.

Calway, a civilian the day before, led his group of new recruits in a tight squad, suffering only two losses in a gruelling battle.

Tordez, fighting both the enemy and the danger of a collapse in morale, hectored every last man to fight on in the face of exhaustion and the relentless nature of their enemy, wielding his pistol and his words with equal vigour.

And there was Hool, a young Guardsman, fighting alongside Lieutenant Essler as he led the Mordians to victory.

Everyone who saw Hool, bloodied and one-eyed, fighting that night agreed that he seemed to be unstoppable. When the power cell of one lasrifle gave way with a splutter, Hool tossed it aside and pulled another from the dead hands of a fallen comrade, doing so without hesitation or emotion. With his infected sergeant dead by his own hand, Hool rallied the remnants of his old squad to keep fighting through the night.

It was this level of relentless aggression that won the night, that drove back the few infected who survived, infected who would be hunted down and slaughtered over the coming days, until Belmos VII was clean of the Lung’s influence, and all there was to do was wait until extraction arrived.

Throughout, Fernand Hool fought without fear or mercy. Unbreakable.

Epilogue

Inquisitor Velasco had proved as good as his word, informing the authorities on the next planet he visited that an Imperial Guard strike force required extraction from Belmos VII. This message had been relayed to the appropriate military authorities, including Colonel Ruscin on Elisenda.

This information had been accompanied by a glowing endorsement of the strike force’s military prowess from the inquisitor, for their assistance in – and these were Velasco’s exact words – ‘the spectacular aversion on my part of a disastrous threat to humanity from a xenos mastermind wielding a weapon of terrible power.’

Thus, when a shuttle from the Imperial Frigate Iphigenia landed on Belmos VII, six weeks after the strike force had landed, they not only provided a welcome extraction for a force of men who had killed the last of the infected a number of weeks before, but also news that they had raised their reputation within the Imperial Guard.

No longer would the 114th Mordian Iron Guard be deployed against rabble like the Elisendan traitors – after their victory against the dark eldar, they were considered worthy of a place on the front-line against the enemies of man.

The fringe of the Gothic Sector, where greenskins infested countless worlds, awaited them.

The existing city on Belmos VII was, as the late Lieutenant Hossk had predicted, finished. The few civilian survivors had been press-ganged into the 114th, and left their former home with the regiment. Few looked back as they mounted the ramp of the drop-ship.

Somewhere, the Munitorum had set in motion the process to rebuild and repopulate Belmos VII. Soon, great ships would come, with cargo bays loaded with equipment and supplies. Legions of servitors would go out onto the surface, and repair and rebuild the industrial facilities and living quarters.

In due course, a new population of workers would arrive, shipped in from some other planet due to a change in Imperium priorities. They would be set to work, entirely unaware of what had previously occurred on Belmos VII.

That was for another day. As the troopship lifted off, the city-factory was left empty, the dead lying where they had fallen, the streets deserted, the only movement that of debris tossed around by the icy winds that swept in from the moors.

On board the Iphigenia, the men of the 114th began to recover, to resume training and recuperate from any injuries. For some, limbs were splinted and painkillers were provided. For others, more radical interventions were needed.

‘Look at the orange dot,’ Gilham said, holding up a data-slate with a glowing circle in the centre of the display. ‘Now keep looking at the dot, follow it, but don’t move your head.’

Gilham moved the slate through a precise series of manoeuvres: up, down, left, right. Hool sat on a chair, sensors taped to the rim of the optical augmetic Gilham had fitted into his empty eye socket. The augmetic was simple, a red lens fitted into a housing of polished plasteel, and wires trailed from the sensors attaching it to a second data-slate on Gilham’s work bench. His tests finished, the adept checked the readings on the second data-slate.

‘All seems to be in order,’ he told Hool, leaning over to remove the sensors.

Underneath the augmetic, the wound on Hool’s face had begun to heal into a livid pink scar, still criss-crossed with the surgical staples Avrim had used on the battlefield. Gilham had consulted with the medicae to ensure Hool’s wounds were sufficiently healed to accept the augmentation, and Avrim had mentioned that the staples had been redundant for a week, but Hool refused to have them removed.

Gilham was not a medicae himself. He understood how to augment the human body, but was not equipped to deal with the general health of his subjects, and certainly not their mental health. Nevertheless, Gilham’s brush with the repressed anger Lieutenant Essler felt over his augmentations had left the adept with a wish to be more diligent in Hool’s case. Lingering trauma was not beneficial to the functioning of the regiment.

‘I understand that augmentation cannot entirely compensate for an injury,’ Gilham said, attempting to express concern in his synthetic voice. ‘It is understandable should you continue to feel some sense of loss–’

‘I’m fine,’ said Hool, cutting Gilham’s rambling speech off in mid-sentence. He pointed at his augmented eye. ‘I’m a soldier. Providing I can still fire straight, I’m fine.’

Hool and Gilham stared at each other for a second. Gilham’s enhanced senses noted the pure whiteness of Hool’s surviving eyeball. It almost seemed to glow, but Gilham had no metrics to assess whether this was actually the case.

Gilham had considered the possibility that the gas emitted by the Lung might have caused multiple levels of infection: that, aside from those transformed rapidly by breathing deeply, that limited exposure to the gas, perhaps via the skin, might cause a slower change, one with a longer incubation period.

It was a possibility, but Gilham had no hard data, certainly nothing to warrant raising it with authorities who might exterminate the survivors of the strike force on a precautionary whim. Gilham would watch and wait. The predicted life expectancy of a Guardsman was fifteen hours: what chance had a slow-incubating infection of actually taking effect?

This entire chain of thought passed through Gilham’s cogitator- enhanced brain in a second as he held Hool’s gaze.

‘The augmetic has welded to the optic nerve well,’ Gilham told Hool. ‘Your marksmanship should be as good as before, if not marginally better. Please, return to your duties.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hool, standing up from the examination bench. He had stripped down to his shirt sleeves for the examination, and reached over to a hook on the wall to retrieve his jacket.

As Gilham stood patiently, Hool wordlessly buttoned the charcoal-grey jacket that marked him out as one of Essler’s elite marksmen. He had changed squad on Belmos VII, barely resting in the weeks since the destruction of the Lung, as Smoker’s squad gunned down the savage infected during the night, and burned down vacant buildings thought to harbour them during the day. Gilham had seen Hool take to this bloody work with cold determination. There was a difference in the man that Gilham didn’t have the insight into human behaviour to quite place.

As Hool leaned forwards to put on his cap, for a moment all Gilham could see of the man’s face was the red glow of the optical augmetic, and it was like Essler was standing there himself.

Then Hool straightened himself, gave Gilham a clipped salute, and left the room.

With an unplaceable sense of unease, Adept Gilham watched Corporal Hool walk away.

The Siege of Fellguard

Mark Clapham

+++ Reconstructed extract of confidential Inquisitorial communication begins+++

For immediate attention of Lord Inquisitor Montiyf of the most sacred ordo Malleus, from the devoted quill of your loyal servant, Inquisitorial Clerk Menshon Lytle.

My Lord,

Pertaining to the events that took place on Kelthorn in this year 452999.M41 I have reviewed the materials extracted from the ruins of Fellguard, along with the official accounts provided by survivors of the Cadian 39th with particular attention to the testimony of [WORDS OBSCURED]

[WORDS OBSCURED] to be aware that no civilian witnesses [WORDS OBSCURED]

Those materials pertaining to the actions and beliefs of the heretics themselves were stored for review in the Scorched Archives and subjected to the required blessings, exorcisms, rites and quarantine procedures to ensure their malice remained contained.

Annex 3 of this report makes recommendations for the destruction of certain of this material, which I consider to [WORDS OBSCURED] in particular those entitled ‘the Bacterial Psalms’.

Annex 4 recommends that I myself be assigned six months compulsory meditation and [WORD OBSCURED] scouring to cleanse my soul before approaching a similar assignment.

[PAGES OF TEXT MISSING] in no doubt that the end of the campaign on Kelthorn was a victory to be embraced, there is equally little doubt that the tragic fall of Kelthorn to the enemy within that necessitated such a campaign was a dispiriting example of loyal subjects falling to corruption, and that matters were considerably worsened by the events surrounding the taking of Bastion Beta-3 in which

+++ Extract ends +++

‘Into the breach!’ Castellan Blakov’s voice echoed everywhere, through every vox-bead in every trooper’s helmet, through the vox-casters on the vehicles behind the footsoldiers, echoing back from the wall ahead and across the open, muddy fields behind them. ‘Into the breach, you useless–’

Blakov’s voice, continuing to unleash a stream of foul invective to encourage the men to keep moving, was drowned out by a shell exploding near Regimental Priest Vurtch, knocking him sideways and reducing Trooper Saunt to a shower of bloody chunks. The deafened Vurtch held his hands over his head, breathing in muddy filth as blackened dirt and human remains fell down on him, still hot from the explosion.

Saunt would, if he was in any position to comment, have accepted his fate. He was a Cadian, as were they all, and they lived to die in battle. He might, however, have wished that the shell that killed him came from the enemy, rather than a badly targeted shot from the small row of ill-maintained heavy weapons half a kilometre behind the frontline.

Vurtch was scrabbling to his feet before his ears stopped ringing, and looked around him to see what everyone else was doing, to try and divine orders he couldn’t hear.

That was easy enough: they were charging, running towards the wall of tarnished, yellow-white ahead of them – the perimeter wall of Fellguard.

Fellguard was a sacred city, sacred mainly for the many lives sacrificed in conflicts with now long-forgotten enemies for reasons lost to ancient history. The frontlines of galactic conflict had now moved so far away that the planet Kelthorn was no longer of strategic value, but that did not negate its symbolic value.

Seeing Fellguard’s skyline of spires, towers and monolithic habs in the distance, Vurtch felt the city’s pull, the urge to retake it from the enemy. But before any Cadian could fight the traitors in the streets and alleys of Fellguard, the city’s defences needed to be breached.

First, there were the wastes across which Vurtch now ran, and then there was the outer wall, which loomed ominous and pallid ahead. Beyond that, there was a no-man’s-land spotted with heavily armed bastions before the Cadians could reach the city’s less-fortified inner wall.

The few heavy guns and tanks that accompanied the Cadian 39th had done their work, reducing the nearest of the enemy’s watchtowers and heavy gun emplacements to smoking ruins and demolishing the crude blockade the enemy had piled up across one of the gateways in the outer wall.

Running towards that gateway, nearly falling as his feet slipped on the mud, bayoneted lasrifle raised, letting out a war cry his ringing ears couldn’t actually hear, Vurtch still why Blakov and his lieutenants had been careful to destroy the blockade with minimal damage to the perimeter wall, why they hadn’t made the Cadian 39th’s job a lot easier by at least marshalling their limited artillery to smash the wall to dust before a single Cadian infantryman laid a foot on the battlefield.

It was not just ‘a wall’. That creamy white surface was not some local stone, nor was the pattern that became visible as Vurtch ran towards it a decorative engraving.

The wall was made of human bones, the bones of millions who had sacrificed themselves for the Emperor in long-ago battles, blessed and anointed and built into defensive walls on the shrineworld of Arabella’s Hope, then shipped back to Kelthorn and blessed thrice more as they were assembled to form a sacred defensive ring around Fellguard.

The wall was almost a shrine itself, a first line of defence embodied with the spirits of fallen martyrs. The main part of the wall was a three-storey structure that encircled the city, with a parapet from which defenders could fire down on any approaching enemies. That there was no-one firing from up there now suggested that the enemy were too intimidated by the sacred wall to climb on top of it. Behind that wall was a trench, and then an inner barricade – also made from blessed bones – slightly shorter than a man before the no-man’s-land that stretched between the outer and inner walls.

As he charged towards it, Vurtch, who as a Regimental Priest lived both in the brutal world of Cadian warfare and the sanctified realm of the Ecclesiarchy, could almost feel the sacred power of the wall, an aura that would surely intimidate any traitor daring to approach Fellguard.

It was tragic irony that the traitors had instead come from within.

‘The followers of the Corpse Emperor are charging the wall of dead fools,’ said Grent, listening to a squawking vox in one corner of what had once been the great council chamber of the city of Fellguard.

Recent events had left the statuary around the chamber demolished, the tapestries burnt and the murals scarred and defaced. Blood stains were splashed across the walls, the floors, and the great table around which the council had once sat, which were now broken in two, crumpled in the middle. The stench of decay filled the air.

The chamber’s two current inhabitants were not discomforted by the squalor around them.

‘Do not speak to me of corpses,’ hissed Mazalai, who had his hand placed over the face of a day-dead follower, trying to channel sorcerous energies through his scratched palm and into the dead man. In his other hand he held his staff, with which he attempted to draw power into himself.

Grent continued to blab, the words slightly slurred by the rictus that had frozen half of his face, twisting one side of his mouth permanently downwards. Such symptoms were a sign of favour, as was the malady of the brain that kept Grent babbling, but it didn’t make Mazalai want to listen to those babblings. Grent was a loyal servant, with great local knowledge, who acted as a useful conduit between Mazalai and the more mundane members of the faithful, but he often failed to filter the information he provided.

Mazalai closed his eyes, and breathed deeply the decay around him, isolating each part of the stench, the first hints of decay, the reek of dried blood, the festering smell of the sores that had made the dead man such a promising subject. Mazalai pushed his consciousness outwards, through his palm, feeling the forbidden magics flow, making contact with the bacteria that crawled over the corpse, with the traces of disease lingering within the flesh and organs.

All Nurgle’s gifts and Mazalai, sorcerer and follower of the Plague God, felt their presence, the traces of his deity’s work. Yet that was not enough. He was trying to summon forth the greatest and final of Nurgle’s blessings, the disease of unliving, the infection that raises the dead and spread itself through bites and scratches.

If granted this boon, Mazalai would have an army of the dead to match in number the Cultists already fighting off the loyalist filth who marched on Fellguard.

Mazalai grunted, willing the corpse to twitch into unlife, searching with his soul for that animating presence.

Nothing. Only dead flesh.

He slammed his fist into the stone floor next to the corpse’s head, and a window near to Grent exploded. Mazalai looked down at his hand to see psychic energy flowing over the scabbed skin, energy that had emerged without him willing it.

Once Mazalai had meditated for days to break objects with telekinesis – now it happened as an emotional response. His power was growing, but also straining against his control.

He forced himself to concentrate, to rein in his rage, and gradually the white-hot energy faded.

Why had he not been granted the next level of mastery? Was he not powerful enough? Had he not served his god loyally, offering up a sacred city of the hated Imperium, drawing the elites then the whole population into collective worship? Was it not enough?

Who could tell? Mazalai thought himself a master sorcerer, but he was not fit to know the appetites and wisdom of a god, nor the daemons that acted as intermediaries and emissaries. None had emerged on this plane, but he could feel their presence in the void, and sometimes heard their whispered commands in his dreams. It was their entreaties that had led him to become a sorcerer in the first place, and placed him amongst the highest ranks in Fellguard’s new regime.

He had been there from the beginning, one of the early few to believe themselves held back by the Imperium’s restrictions on knowledge. That cult had, from those small beginnings, expanded until it took over Fellguard in its entirety, the military leaders and city elite coopted to the cause. And while it was those elites and officers that continued to give orders, sorcerers like Mazalai, those who had first pledged their loyalty to the ruinous powers, had great influence, and provided spiritual guidance.

Unfortunately, with power came responsibilities. Mazalai wished he could concentrate on his meditations, but the demands of war came first. The likes of Grent were always claiming Mazalai’s time, either to report the latest movements of the mewling Cadian filth sent to reclaim the Fellguard, or to request orders on some matter or other.

Grent. Yes. Hadn’t Grent been saying something?

‘What was that about the wall?’ asked Mazalai, head twitching towards Grent like a predatory bird sighting a fat rodent.

The enemies Vurtch encountered as the 39th breached the outer defences of the Fellguard did not challenge or undermine his faith, they were an affront to it.

Vurtch had passed under the arch of one of the outer wall’s gates as part of a surge of Cadians, and all around him, his brothers and sisters of the 39th were clashing with cultists, all of whom were marked with signs of decay and infection. These afflictions didn’t slow down the enemy at all, and the cultists were able to get in close, running between the outer wall and the lower barricade, engaging with Cadian invaders hand-to-hand.

The presence of these heretics was an insult to the Emperor, and to the martyrs whose bones surrounded them. Perhaps it was just the frenzy of battle, but Vurtch imagined he could feel the presence of those martyrs demanding retribution.

Vurtch wanted nothing more than to appease those restless souls, and as a Cultist charged him, Vurtch muttered a prayer and defended himself, knocking aside the Cultist’s sword and jabbing at him with his bayonet, the blow’s ferocity fuelled by self-belief. Vurtch struck, knowing he was right in his cause, that the Emperor and all those martyrs stood behind him as he struck out against the heretic.

If their will was with him, divine assistance did not guide his aim, as the bayonet missed the Cultist’s heart and jammed in his shoulder instead, a debilitating but not fatal blow. The Cultist, scabbed and fly-ridden, was wearing filthy overalls, and as the bayonet gouged through the coarse material and into the flesh beneath foul-smelling yellow liquid seeped up, staining the cloth and causing Vurtch to gag with its rank stench.

As Vurtch flinched back, the Cultist roared, mouth open to reveal blackened teeth, and kicked upwards with a booted foot, landing a blow right in the centre of Vurtch’s body armour and knocked the regimental priest backwards. As Vurtch stumbled, winded by the kick, his finger squeezed the trigger on his lasrifle, but the bayonet was almost free of the wound it had caused and the shot only clipped the Cultist’s upper arm, scorching away skin so heavy with sores Vurtch doubted the Cultist could feel pain from its loss.

The Cultist pulled a short knife from his belt and eyed Vurtch hungrily, vision seemingly sharp in spite of the milky cataracts on his eyes. Beneath the caked filth and dried blood on the man’s face, Vurtch could see a crude tattoo of a fly inked on one cheek, the mark of a plague worshipper.

Vurtch stepped back again as the Cultist swiped at him with the knife, and the blow missed. The footsoldiers of the enemy here rarely fought with guns or grenades, instead trying to get close, to cut and slash, to tear through protective clothing and open up wounds with filthy blades. Infection was sacred work to their heretical minds, and they sought not just to maim or kill the Cadians but to pollute them with disease, to corrupt them even if for a brief moment before death.

For that, they needed to get in close.

Vurtch had no such desire to engage the enemy up close and shot the man square in the chest with his lasrifle from a few paces away, waiting until the heretic dropped before walking over and jamming the bayonet into his skull. Vurtch grimaced at the unnatural scum that seeped out as he twisted the bayonet, the softness of the skull’s disease-weakened bone as the blade churned through it.

Weak in faith, weak in body, thought Vurtch. That was why, for all their horror and fanaticism, these heretics were doomed to lose.

Around him, a cheer went up.

The wall was theirs.

Mazalai stared out of compound eyes. Looking out of those eyes, the human scale was lost, the giants that walked nearby incomprehensibly immense and misshapen from his perspective.

The sorcerer imposed his will on the creature he was using as his spy, forcing his consciousness to shape the images he was receiving. All the disease carriers, the fleas and the rats and flies, were part of the vector and accessible to him.

As Mazalai looked through the eyes of the fly, what he saw went from the rough impressions of mass and movement that the fly perceived, and solidified into the complex patterns only a sentient mind could draw from those raw images.

The enemy had taken the outer wall, and massacred its defenders. Mazalai could see uniformed Cadians pouring fuel onto piles of corpses and setting light to them, the black smoke drifting upwards. There was a bustle, but no sign of the Cadians crossing the barricades that stood within the wall, beyond which lay further defences before the inner wall of the city was reached.

No, the Cadians were occupying themselves with other activities. As the fly drifted over muddy ground to land on the outer wall, Mazalai saw uniformed men chanting and waving incense burners, while others splashed the wall with liquid from ceremonial brass cylinders which they held by short wood handles, droplets scattering from dozens of tiny holes in the brass.

With a flick of the wrist, one man cast a shower of water at the part of the wall where the fly clung, and a droplet hit the insect.

Mazalai burned, screaming with rage as fire consumed his body. He felt that fire driving his consciousness out of the dying fly, and his mind snapped back into his own body and–

‘My lord,’ Grent was shouting, gripping Mazalai’s shoulders. ‘My lord, what do you see?’

Mazalai shrugged off Grent’s concern, suppressing the sense of fierce, blazing light that had seared through him. The Cadians and their priests were far away now, while Mazalai and Grent were back in the old council chamber.

‘They have retaken the wall,’ said Mazalai. ‘They have taken it back in every way possible.’

Vurtch walked and chanted with his fellow priests as they reconsecrated the outer wall, casting blessed water and filling the air with the aroma of sacred smoke. The incense fumes went some way to blocking out the terrible, sickly stench of burning corpses from the pyres, and the even worse smell that had clung to the traitors when they lived.

All around the wall, other priests were doing the same. Blakov had attacked on all fronts, seizing the entire perimeter, and only when the Wall of Martyrs had been truly reclaimed – the blessings driving out any lingering hint of heresy – would he order the next advance. For now, having taken all four gates, the whole of the 39th were encircling Fellguard as the outer wall was blessed.

For all that Blakov was of a fearsome and terrifying leader, he was without doubt a pious man, and he knew that the enemy would be beaten not just by military might, but by the Emperor’s benevolence. By reconsecrating the wall, they formed a ring of light, one which would tighten to strangle the usurpers of Fellguard and restore this world’s honour.

Vurtch could feel that cleansing as it happened. It could have been his imagination, or simply a reflection of the clear white skies above, but it seemed to Vurtch that the wall was beginning to glow a little, the souls of the martyrs restored to their rightful place.

As he chanted and walked, Vurtch felt a glow within himself, the sure and certain knowledge that these traitors, however terrifying their aspect or their heretical beliefs, would be defeated and destroyed. The light of the Emperor would prevail.

These Cadians would not prevail. Mazalai knew this for a fact.

While their stranglehold around Fellguard was complete, the Cadians were just men, mere humans, regardless of the strength of their beliefs. A man with a gun cannot fight the relentlessness of a disease, the omnipresence of blessed bacteria. Great Nurgle was present in every exhalation and excretion of his troops, spreading through the air and water, every beast and microbe his carrier.

And yet… the Plague God had not granted Mazalai his greatest gift, and that must surely mean that their faith and resolve were being tested. The gods did not bless followers who simply waited for their deities to aid them; they cherished those who fought for their honour, who spread their word through decisive action.

If the Cadians were a test, then Mazalai and his fellow Cultists needed to pass it without hesitation. Though they were doomed, these violet-eyed infidels could not be dismissed, they needed to be eliminated with fervour.

‘Who guards the west gate?’ Mazalai asked Grent, as they walked down the steps of the old city council building.

‘Krauer commands all defences from Bastion Beta-3,’ said Grent, confusion stretching across the mobile part of his face. ‘I did not think you wished to be concerned with the minutiae of military matters, my lord?’

‘I do not,’ said Mazalai. ‘Yet, the western gate is where the enemy will likely strike first. It is well defended, but we should take such an opportunity to show these invaders the truth that has been revealed to us, and make sure the message is well understood. You understand that this is our sacred duty?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Grent.

Mazalai would have punished the note of doubt he heard in Grent’s voice, if he did not feel the tiniest shred of similar feeling inside himself, a doubt that itched like the burning sensation he had experienced coming into indirect contact with the Cadian priest’s blessed water.

Through possession of that fly, Mazalai had felt something, a very different presence to those he worshipped, the impression of a burning light out amongst the stars, flaring out from Old Terra.

As much as he scorned the Corpse Emperor as a myth held by fools, Mazalai could not quite rid himself of the memory of that burning, intense light, and with it the shaking of his own spiritual certainties.

Bastion Beta-3 stood on a hill, a dark squat structure jutting out into the pallid sky like a tombstone. Two storeys high, with weapon slits on the ground and battlements on the top, the Bastion overlooked a no-man’s-land of mud, traps and trenches that stretched between Fellguard’s inner ring of city walls, specifically the stretch dominated by the west gate, and the outer wall captured by the Cadians.

There were other bastions and bunkers surrounding Fellguard, but the west gate was the most accessible route into the city, and Bastion Beta-3 overlooked the entire approach to the gate. Eliminate the Bastion, seize the gate, and the city would fall.

But while the Bastion still stood, occupied by the enemy, it would be able to rain death on anyone who dared to cross those first barricades.

All around the outer wall, squads of Cadians were preparing for the assault. They had many targets, and Vurtch knew that Blakov would leave no weakness in the traitors’ defences unprobed. There would be strikes on waste outlets and watch towers and low-lying bunkers. The Cadian 39th would close in on the enemy from all sides, showing no mercy, testing all their defences for a weak point to break through.

But it was those who would attack in the shadow of Bastion Beta-3 that Blakov chose to lead personally, and to speak to before he ordered the assault.

Blakov stood straight-backed to address the squads before him, Lieutenant Rawl at one shoulder and the Commissar, Chavaria, at the other. Blakov was tall, even for a Cadian, and his black hair was cropped short on top and shaved to a thin layer of stubble at the sides, accentuating the severity of his jutting jaw. Violet eyes glared out beneath eyebrows almost permanently lowered into a scowl, and a tiny white line – infamously the only scar an enemy had ever given him – stood out against skin sun-weathered from a long desert campaign in the Perides Crusade.

As he spoke, Blakov gestured with his left hand, but kept the right forever at the pommel of his sword. The Castellan’s skills at close combat were well known, and the reason he had only that single, tiny scar to show for all his years of victories.

Blakov was many things, but an orator was not one of them. His speech was a barked series of threats and demands, telling the troops nothing they did not know already aside from the fact that he, Castellan Blakov, would be amongst them as they went into battle. This was less a reassuring or inspiring thought as a warning against any attempt to retreat.

Vurtch did not listen to the Castellan’s speech closely. As Blakov spoke, Vurtch walked along the line of men and women, saying a quiet blessing over the rebreather that each of them wore. As he did so, each man or woman nodded their thanks, eyes closed in brief supplication.

They had all seen the yellow mist that hung over the territory they were about to charge into and knew that it was not some simple chemical, a poisonous gas that the normal workings of a rebreather alone would protect them from. This miasma was some accursed weapon of the enemy, and it would require a higher form of protection if they were to survive it.

As Vurtch finished, Blakov made a final entreaty to those under his command. Not only would Blakov be watching them, along with his officers and Commissar Chavaria, none of whom would hesitate to deliver field justice, but they fought in the name of the Emperor, and it was in his eyes that they would be most harshly judged should they fail to do their duty.

At last, here was a sentiment that Vurtch could entirely agree with.

After Blakov’s speech, the Cadians spread across the barricades, preparing to go over the top. There was no subtlety or planning to this assault – they were to pull themselves over the sacred barricades and charge forward until they engaged the enemy or died. The yellow fog ahead of them made the landscape hard to assess from the glimpses over the barricade Vurtch had risked.

As a regimental priest, Vurtch was not assigned to a specific squad, but went where he was needed or ordered to be. For the purposes of this assault he would be fighting alongside the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Squads, under the temporary command of Lieutenant Rawl.

Rawl was a veteran, nearly eighty years old, although juvenat treatments made her seem considerably younger. She was popular with the troops in the way Blakov wasn’t, an officer drawn from the ranks who had the scars to prove it, including augmetic eyeballs that glowed beneath thick rimmed goggles, the strap of which kept some control over her wiry, grey hair.

Lieutenant Rawl wasn’t a soft touch by any stretch of the imagination, but her hard practicality included a strong desire to keep as many of those under her command alive for as long as possible. Her presence gave Vurtch hope for them all as they prepared to jump the barricades.

That hope evaporated within seconds of the charge beginning. As the Cadians ran across open ground, mud churning between their feet, distant guns opened fire. Looking ahead to Bastion Beta-3, so many heavy weapons opened fire from that structure that it seemed ablaze with light as barrels flared.

The bombardment hit the Cadian line and turned human flesh and ground alike to a boiling mush, tearing human bodies to pieces and churning new landscapes from the malleable ground with the ferocity of the explosions. As Vurtch ran the very land around him changed shape, all in a blur of flying debris that scorched and splattered his protective layers. Swarms of marauding insects descended on the killing field, somehow avoiding the explosions and descending on those Cadians who survived, searching for an entry into their protective clothing.

Vurtch saw one Cadian whose visor cracked, allowing the insects into his rebreather. He flailed close to Vurtch as fat black flies crawled over his face and poured into his mouth and nose, before a shell landed and blew him to pieces.

Some combination of gore and mud splattered the visor of Vurtch’s rebreather and, trying not to enrage any officers or commissars at his back by slowing down, Vurtch tried to wipe away the mess so that he could see again, gloved fingers fumbling and slipping on the smooth surface.

When he finally cleared his field of vision, he found that he had stumbled into lower ground, heading down a gully into a trench which wove ahead, splitting into other similarly deep channels ahead. Vurtch was not alone – he seemed to have a handful of men and women from Eighth, Ninth and Tenth squad still close by, though Lieutenant Rawl was nowhere in sight – and as they kept moving forward the walls of mud became taller than they were, and the Cadians marched in single file as those walls closed in.

The sound of the guns seemed dampened by the mud packed around them, but not entirely. A shell landed somewhere nearby, and a brief cloud of debris obscured the crack of white sky overhead, a severed arm dropping down, ricocheting off the walls to land limply on the watery ground between two of Eighth Squad.

‘Grief,’ said Trooper Irvan, kicking the arm out of the way. Hardly a suitable tribute to a fallen comrade, but any Cadian would understand the midst of battle is no time for tributes, but a time to clear the body parts out of the way and mourn later.

If you were still alive.

The arm bounced off the wall and landed in slightly deeper water ahead of Sergeant Golbok, who led the party. It floated for a second before a mass of wet, grey fur emerged momentarily from above the waterline, sinking a mouth full of sharp, white teeth into the flesh of the limb before disappearing back beneath the water with its prey.

Golbok let out a stream of invective, the general filthy gist of which was to question what had just taken the arm and why Golbok in particular should be forced to live in a universe of such over-sized vermin.

Vurtch didn’t appreciate the colour of the language, but empathised with the sentiment. He himself expressed his feelings through a muttered prayer and an aquila gesture in the air, a call for the Emperor’s protection.

‘Do we go back, Sarge?’ asked Irvan. Now they were below ground, with no officers in sight, the pressure to move ever on had lessened. But they couldn’t stay still all day.

‘And face Blakov’s temper and death from above?’ asked Golbok.

‘Rats it is,’ said Irvan, to mumbled assent from everyone, including Vurtch.

Then they moved on, and as they did Vurtch couldn’t help noticing they were walking into deeper and deeper waters.

Krauer looked out of one of Bastion Beta-3’s firing slits, taking the opportunity as one of the autobolters was reloaded.

No living thing moved in his field of vision, and it was beautiful.

The expanse between the hill on which his Bastion stood and the perimeter wall of the Fellguard was a scorched and blasted landscape, cratered and strewn with bodies and body parts. Fires burned and a toxic cloud of yellow mist and thick black smoke hung over the cursed ground.

The Bastion’s weapons and those of the soldiers manning its battlements were slaughtering the Cadians before they could get anywhere near the Bastion, churning the ground and the Cadians trying to cross it into a smoking, hot mulch.

When the day was done, those fields would be left with the remains of the dead unburied, the decay and pestilence spreading an offering to Nurgle.

Krauer smiled and clenched a fist in satisfaction as he backed away from the firing slit to let the autobolter resume its thunderous assault.

Or at least, he tried to. In truth, both gestures were beyond him now. He had been blessed with an extensive mutation, a great scabbing that covered most of his body, making fine movement difficult but acting as something akin to armour.

Krauer creaked back to his command chair. The ground floor of the Bastion was a small chamber with rockcrete walls and floor, with the command position at the centre and weapon placements facing out of the firing slits. A rough staircase led to the battlements above, from which snipers and fixed guns could fire down on approaching enemies.

Krauer took his seat, the modified Kelthornian uniform he wore scuffing away flakes of diseased, dried out matter from his scab-covered skin. He sat in his chair, wheezing but satisfied, drinking in the clamour of weapons fire echoing around the Bastion’s interior.

He was truly blessed. They all were.

Rats. Rats everywhere.

‘Rats’ was an understatement – these vermin were bloated and mutated, rank with disease and covered in over-sized fleas that bit bloody marks into the many patches of exposed flesh where skin irritations had caused the hair to fall out.

They were also, if not fully amphibious, then certainly capable of holding their breath for longer than any mammal Vurtch had ever seen. Creatures of Chaos, warped by the forces at work within Fellguard, turned from simple vermin to something far more threatening.

And they were everywhere, lurking beneath the water, jumping out with a screech that no normal creature could make.

‘I didn’t train so that I could kill a hundred rats before fighting an enemy that’s taller than my knee,’ grumbled Trooper Irvan, impaling another of the beasts on his bayonet. The rat splashed around beneath the fetid water of the trench, legs and tail thrashing wildly as Irvan pinned it until it lay still.

‘To purge such abominations is sacred work,’ said Vurtch, stabbing another rat with his bayonet. The blade went right into the skull, killing the foul thing instantly. There was no point trying to shoot at them – they moved fast, and mainly underwater. The only way was to wait until they were close then stab them, as he had done with this yellow-toothed horror.

That would teach it to try and snack on a Cadian’s leg.

‘No creature of the enemy, however small, should yet live,’ he added as he removed the blade. He delivered the sermon gently, for he knew Irvan was only lightening the threat with typical Cadian bravado.

‘No danger of anyone thinking these rats too small, preacher,’ said Irvan, who swore as another of the rats burst out from the filthy water, going for his knees. The trooper jabbed it with his bayonet, taking out an eye, and the thing went running, squealing.

‘Should we give chase after this enemy of the Imperium?’ said another muffled voice. Vurtch couldn’t tell who, the rebreathers hiding identities and disguising exact voices.

‘Let it go for now,’ said Vurtch, letting the insolence pass. ‘We’ll drain this place and burn them all out once Fellguard is ours.’

There was a minor cheer at that. Good, their spirits were up. It was slow progress, but they were making their way through the trenches in the direction of the Bastion. While their course was weaving with the curve of the trench, a glance at Vurtch’s compass indicated they were moving the right way.

Ahead, Golbok swore again. Vurtch glanced forward to see what was up, but the Sergeant was standing completely still in the trench.

‘What is it…’ said Irvan, but Golbok waved him back with one hand.

Then he pointed that gloved hand downwards, beneath the filthy water, to his feet.

‘Mine,’ he said. ‘I can feel it.’

Vurtch believed him. Vurtch had done the same training Golbok had, running through a field of concealed, disarmed mines, the training sergeant shouting BOOM if a rookie made a misstep. He knew what Golbok felt – the solid metal beneath the boot, the slight give as the mine pressed down.

If Golbok removed his foot, the mine would explode.

There had been other traps already. Golbok himself had gingerly disarmed a tripwire connected to explosive charges in either side of the trench that would have buried them all beneath the mud. An unfortunate rat had activated a spiked snare that impaled the creature, foul blood leaking out of the rat as it thrashed in the filthy water.

Of course there were mines as well, as there doubtless were on the open fields above. The enemy would have set many traps.

That didn’t make the prospect of disarming one any easier.

The Cadians had tried to avoid them, staying close to the walls of the trench, being careful with their footing. But conditions were poor, the rats were a constant distraction. That someone would step in the wrong place was almost inevitable.

‘Get past,’ said Golbok. ‘Quickly, and tread carefully for Throne’s sake.’

‘Yeldi,’ shouted Irvan. ‘Get up here, we need to disarm–’

‘No,’ said Golbok, with enough ferocity that he had to calm himself with a deep breath. His eyes darted back and forth across the water. ‘I can feel them beneath the water, the moment they bite I’ll move, then…’

He trailed off. They got the point. But Irvan seemed about to come back with some retort.

‘Disarm a mine in this filth, before a rat knocks me?’ said Golbok, cutting him off. ‘No chance. Only hope is you get out of range before it happens.’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ said Irvan reluctantly, and he led the way.

Vurtch said a blessing as he passed Golbok quickly. The Sergeant wasn’t listening, though. Beneath the lenses of his rebreather Vurtch could see wide eyes filled with tears, and Golbok’s entire body was shaking.

‘It’s… chewing on me,’ wailed Golbok in a low howl, and Vurtch started running as best he could, the mud and water dragging his feet, slowing him down.

He was almost out of range when Golbok collapsed – or shuddered too much, or pulled his leg away in agony – and the mine exploded behind Vurtch, throwing him off his feet and face down into the filth of the trench.

Krauer’s victorious mood was tempered when someone detonated an explosion within Bastion Beta-3, then followed it up by setting Krauer’s troops ablaze.

It started with a grenade. Krauer did not hear it enter the Bastion, as the clattering of a small sphere bouncing along the floor was inaudible beneath the roar of the heavy guns, but he noticed the explosion that ripped through one of the gun crews.

The grenade went off close to Krauer’s command seat. A normal man would have been killed or severely injured by being caught in the blast radius. The explosion licked the hard surface of Krauer’s scabbed, near-chitinous skin, scorching away part of his uniform and setting his chair ablaze, but he felt no pain, blinking slowly at the debris as remains of the soldiers manning one of the guns scattered across the Bastion floor.

The explosion distracted the other gunners, and so they were looking the wrong way when flame began to pour through the firing slits of the Bastion. Lacking Krauer’s unnatural protection, the flow of white-hot promethium led to an agonising death.

Krauer was out of his seat, but there was little he could do. Apart from a couple of injured soldiers far enough away from the edge of the Bastion to survive, he was the only one alive on the ground level, surrounded by a ring of fire that near-encircled his command chair.

There were still snipers on the roof, and still time to kill whoever had managed to evade the fire from the Bastion and get close enough to attack.

The fire ceased, and Krauer was about to shout for reinforcements from the roof when the doors of the Bastion were blasted open.

Krauer had seen even loyal servants of Chaos, creatures of utter depravity, hesitate at his bizarre and foul appearance, but the Cadian officer who charged through the doors didn’t blink at the encrusted creature before him. The Cadian ran in with pistol in one hand and sword in the other, shooting Krauer’s two surviving troops then running at Krauer with sword raised.

A wise, snap decision, thought Krauer. A laspistol would do nothing to him.

A sword would not save the Cadian either, of course. The officer swung the blade at Krauer’s neck, but he blocked the blow with one arm. Chunks of scabby plating flew off Krauer’s forearm as the blade made contact, but the sword still bounced off without doing any serious damage. Krauer lunged forward with his other arm, punching the man in the chest.

The officer staggered back, but didn’t hesitate to push forward again with his sword.

A rain of glancing sword blows hit Krauer, the Cadian officer dancing back and forth in a fencing stance, weaving around Krauer, hitting and jabbing with his sword, ducking back after each strike.

Krauer’s condition protected him against much harm but slowed his movements, and he felt nothing but rage and frustration as the Cadian attacked him, weaving out of the way as Krauer tried to grab or strike him. Determined to crush this impertinent officer, Krauer was also aware that other Cadians had followed the man into the Bastion and were engaging in a running battle with Krauer’s soldiers on the stairs of Bastion Beta-3.

Then Krauer felt pain and let out an involuntary yelp, more from the shock of it than the actual sensation itself. The Cadian had stabbed at a weak spot on Krauer’s chest, where the ever-shifting mass of scabs had left an exposed area of putrid, green-tinged skin. A lucky blow.

Krauer looked up to see the Cadian standing bolt upright, looking at the blood on his sword, mouth twisted in a cruel half-smile.

Before Krauer could react, the Cadian struck again, on the same spot, this time plunging deep and twisting, the officer spinning around into an unnatural angle so as to thrust the sword deep into Krauer’s body, piercing his heart.

His enemy in reach, Krauer tried to grasp him, to crush the man’s skull with his heavily crusted hands, but as he tried to do so he found his limbs not responding, a cold darkness numbing his senses, as oblivion overwhelmed him.

Irvan and the others had dragged Vurtch out of the mud where he had fallen, pulling him to his feet. Together they had marched the rest of the way cautiously, until the water around their feet gave way to drier ground, ground which tilted upwards, and they found themselves approaching the bottom of the hill where Bastion Beta-3 stood.

The guns of the Bastion were silent.

They could hear gunfire from inside the Bastion, and as Vurtch, Irvan and the others ran up the hill to join the combat they found themselves accompanied by men and women who had taken the higher ground, Cadians blasted and scorched those who had nonetheless fought their way over to reach the Bastion. Vurtch saw Rawl and the commissar amongst the survivors, the latter doling out the usual admonishments and threats to those he considered too slow or too cautious.

As they crested the hill, coming level with the Bastion itself, a great cheer went up along with shouts of Blakov’s name. The Bastion had been taken.

As the others ran to join the celebrations, Vurtch found himself slowing as he climbed, looking behind him. The smoke was clearing now, and the killing fields were a mass of churned mud and human remains, the scorched bodies – and body parts – of countless Cadians strewn across that blood-soaked field, over which silence now descended.

Vurtch couldn’t bring himself to look for long at such carnage. He said a short prayer and walked the rest of the way to the Bastion.

The besieged citizens of Fellguard fell to their knees as Mazalai passed them in the streets, Grent sloping behind him as surely and uneasily as the hem of his tattered robes dragged across the uneven cobbles.

It had been a holy city, drawing pilgrims from across the system to see the sites of martyrdom in the Emperor’s name.

It still was a holy place, though now it was devoted to different gods. The spires that twisted up towards the sky had banners with blasphemous symbols scrawled upon them, and the statues of the Emperor that looked down from the looming buildings had been defaced, often literally. The streets were narrow, the sky blocked by the ominous curved spires of the city’s warped cathedrals, and it was in these shadows that the penitents approached Mazalai.

The Kelthornians wanted to have a blessing from Mazalai, a boon, though virtually all had been touched by the powers already and hardly needed him to draw Nurgle’s attention to them. Welts and sores were abundant, vermin and insects crawled across skin and chewed on clothing. Flies circled.

It was a beautiful sight, accompanied by a rich and potent stench of decay and disease.

Mazalai didn’t stop, but made priestly gestures through the air to keep the spirits of the faithful up during these difficult times. They might hope, as Mazalai did, for a direct sign of support from the warp, but in the absence of a god stepping in, the intervention of one of the sorcerer priest’s would have to do.

As for Mazalai’s fellow sorcerers and high priests, they had been engaged in meditations for days, attempting to bring forth powerful forces to defend the city. Mazalai had been assured that, when the time came, he would have a role to play in the summoning. He awaited their word.

For now, Mazalai was occupied enough by the enemies at the gates.

In this case, the west gate. Mazalai gave a leaderly nod to the troops setting up barriers and spikes behind the west gate, ready for when the forces of the Imperium broke the gate itself down, and swerved away from the gate towards a door in the wall. From there a narrow stone staircase led to the battlements, and guards who saluted as he passed on his way to a good viewing position.

A brass telescope stood on a stand. Mazalai put his eye to the eyepiece, and gently adjusted the knob to focus in on the Bastion.

The guns of Bastion Beta-3 were inert. That wasn’t a promising sign. Mazalai focused in closer, moving the telescope very gently.

He caught a flash of muddy, green uniform at one edge of the Bastion. Pale faces at the firing slits. As he watched, the corpse of one of his own cultists was thrown over the battlements.

The Cadians had taken the Bastion.

Mazalai took a breath, so that the order he was about to scream at the soldiers nearby would be heard as far away as possible.

Inside the Bastion, spirits were high as the doors of the Bastion were resealed and Cadians took control of the fixed weapons or took to the rooftop battlements with their own guns. Everyone knew the counterattack would come soon, and if they hadn’t known before then Blakov was now screaming at them to prepare targeting, to be ready, to be alert.

In spite of the sure and certain knowledge that someone would try to kill them again sooner rather than later, there was a nervous energy in the air, fear mixed with heady excitement. They had the Bastion now, they had the higher ground. A tide had turned.

The presence of blasphemy was still thick in the Bastion. Even though the corpses of the traitors had been dragged outside or pitched off the roof, it was visible in the heresies scrawled on the walls, in the scars across the signs of the aquila. There was also a stench in the air that wouldn’t shift, something beyond even the vile smell of burnt flesh – a sickly smell of disease and decay.

There was a limit to what anyone could do about the foulness, now that Blakov had locked down the Bastion, but Vurtch helped as best he could by performing simple blessings and prayers to hold back the taint of Chaos from weapon placements so that the Cadians who took charge of them felt their souls were safer when they fired them.

A silence gradually descended upon the Bastion as they waited for the inevitable. If they were vigilant against a surprise attack, then that vigilance was wasted, as when the enemy came it was with a shrieking cacophony of blasphemous battlecries that could be heard before the first heretic was seen.

‘Fire!’ shouted Blakov, the order echoing around the Bastion so no officers needed to pass it down the chain of command. ‘Fire at will and kill them all!’

Vurtch was on the battlements when that order came, and heard it as clear as if he were standing next to Blakov downstairs. The air was clearer up there, and Vurtch had already taken a firing position – from up on the roof, the cultists could be seen advancing from the city’s inner walls, an unruly mob. They came in force, a horde of screaming cultists with guns and swords and barbed weapons of a kind entirely unfamiliar to Vurtch.

He held his position at a narrow firing slot looking down towards the city’s inner wall, lasrifle aimed. Vurtch was not a sniper or even a sharp-shooter, and the enemy would need to get close for him to get a clear and accurate shot.

Vurtch’s finger never got to squeeze the trigger. The Cultists never got within his firing range, as the weapons of the Bastion and the lasrifles of the Cadian sharp-shooters tore the heretics to pieces, wave after wave of them dropping before getting within scratching range of the Bastion. Bodies piled high but in no way dissuaded the further hordes of Chaos worshippers that followed in their wake, all of whom seemed eager to die for their blasphemous beliefs.

Even though he knew it was righteous to strike down the heretic, Vurtch was unsure whether to feel elated or nauseous by the scale of the slaughter he could see before him.

‘This… This is unacceptable,’ said Mazalai, one eye fixed to the brass telescope on the battlements. He and Grent had taken to the top of Fellguard’s inner wall, from where they could watch their forces charge from the west gate to attack the Bastion.

‘My lord?’ asked Grent, but Mazalai didn’t answer his subordinate.

Instead, Mazalai stepped away from the telescope. He had seen enough. Wave after wave of cultists, cut down by the weapons Krauer had been tasked with using against the enemy.

The course of the siege was turning unacceptable. While the enemy were yet to advance further, holding the Bastion gave them complete oversight of the West Gate, and heavy cover to allow a future advance on the city’s inner wall. Those corpse-worshipping bastards had turned the Kelthornians’ own weapons against them.

‘My word!’ said Grent, who was now looking through the eyepiece. In spite of his rejection of the Imperium’s ways, and his embrace of all that was filthy and diseased, Grent still retained a vocabulary as scrupulously clean as the treatment room of a rich man’s private medicae.

Normally Grent’s odd manner of speaking irritated Mazalai, but he had greater concerns. Any further waves of Cultists would be mowed down by those damned heavy bolters, and with the inner wall being hammered from other directions, it would only be so long before a full-scale assault on the heart of Fellguard.

It would come by night fall, if not before – the Cadian commander seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, judging by the fearlessness of the siege so far, so Mazalai doubted he or she would wait to cautiously attack under cover of darkness.

No, it would be sooner than that. Perhaps the Cadians would strike the moment the waves of Cultists attacking them ceased. Yes, even if there was a high chance that an assault would cause the first wave of Cadian attackers to be massacred before they took the inner wall, whoever this Cadian commander was would happily risk the lives of a few squads in an early attack, just to see what happened.

In which case there was no time to wait for a decision. Mazalai was running out of men and women to send out on to the killing fields, reinforcements would need to be called from elsewhere in the city, and that would take time…

‘My lord,’ said Grent, unwisely tugging on the sleeve of Mazalai’s cloak to gain his attention. ‘We have no time. We must take to the tunnels and get you and the other leaders to safety. Fellguard can fall, but we can–’

‘No!’ said Mazalai, knocking away the wart-covered hand. ‘There will be no retreat, no withdrawal. I will not see Fellguard fall, not see all we have built here be desecrated and set ablaze by mindless brutes. We will stand and fight.’

‘But my lord,’ said Grent, and Mazalai felt repulsed at the genuine concern for his welfare in the underling’s eyes, ‘your followers cannot defend you if you stay, we have few lines of defence left, and no time, no time…’

The man collapsed into babbling and muttering, feverish.

‘You are right,’ said Mazalai, and he knew what he must do. He placed a hand on Grent’s shoulder and the muttering ceased. ‘There is no time, and our options for defence are limited. Yet you may still be of service… follow me.’

Mazalai ran, and Grent followed, his mutations slowing him down. While mutations were a blessing, Mazalai had to acknowledge that they could also prove a disadvantage, and he cursed Grent’s slowness.

Thankfully, the sorcerer’s tower was only a short distance from the west gate. It had once been a building of the Ecclesiarchy, but those marks had been stricken, the priests who once resided there impaled on the wings of the great aquila sculptures and left to decay, the symbols transfigured through the draping of rotten flesh.

Mazalai ran up the steps, and slammed the knocker three times.

‘Let me in,’ he bellowed. ‘The time for meditation is over.’

The double doors opened, and Mazalai walked in, Grent at his heels, to a ring of hooded figures. The air was thick with smoke, the floor stained with blood. Many sacrifices had already been made.

‘We are ready,’ said one of the sorcerers. ‘But it is not without risk…’

‘There is more risk in allowing Fellguard to fall,’ said Mazalai.

The sorcerer nodded his hooded head.

‘You shall be the vessel, Mazalai,’ said the other sorcerer. ‘We shall sacrifice ourselves so that you might strike down our enemies.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Mazalai. ‘May we proceed?’

‘Not yet,’ said the hooded sorcerer. ‘One more sacrifice must be made.’

‘An innocent?’ said Mazalai. He looked at the dried blood on the floor. ‘Shall we fetch one from the cellars?’

The hooded figure chuckled.

‘No, not an innocent,’ he said. ‘Quite the opposite. A true believer, devoted to our cause.’

All eyes, visible and hooded, turned to Grent.

There were tears in his yellow eyes, his twisted mouth twisted further still into a smile of joy.

‘My Lord, it is an hon–’

Grent hadn’t finished his sentence when Mazalai’s blade, a knife so thin it could be mistaken for a long needle, pierced his chin and dug deep into his skull, a hand gripping Grent’s shoulder to press down as the knife drove up. Weeping pus dripped down the blade, over the handle and onto Mazalai’s fingers on the hilt, and the sorceror chanted a prayer of offering as his most loyal servant bucked and died in his grip.

As Grent died, he gagged three times and coughed out a small swarm of fat, black flies that buzzed around his head, then drifted off over the battlements.

A good omen, thought Mazalai, turning to his fellow sorcerers.

‘Let us begin,’ he said.

If Vurtch had not been called down to the Bastion’s ground level by Rawl to perform another blessing, he would have died on the battlements of the Bastion like the others. As it was, he was halfway down the steps when the attack struck, and only narrowly survived it.

Just before he heard, through the rattle of gunfire, the voice of one of the Cadians still above on the battlements, curiously, asking a three word question.

‘Who is that?’

The answer came as witchfire embraced the Bastion, and Vurtch looked back to see tendrils of psychic energy crawling over the rooftop, spilling over the battlements, swirling and glowing in a maelstrom of blinding mystical power.

The terror came not from that unnatural energy itself, but the effect it had on what it touched. Weapons rusted and collapsed, the very rockcrete of the Bastion began to blacken with fetid mould.

Worst of all was the effect that it had on the Cadians on the roof. They died screaming, skin turning green and black with disease, eyes yellowed and blind. As Vurtch stumbled backwards down the stairs, just out of reach of the witchfire’s touch, a sergeant reached towards him, his hand a claw covered in boils, before collapsing and dying. Vurtch recoiled in horror and fell, rolling down the hard stone steps.

It was a short fall and he landed on his side, bruised but nothing broken. No-one noticed him fall, Blakov and the others were urgently talking about something outside the Bastion, phrases overlapping:

‘What was tha–’

‘Did you see his eyes, they’re–’

‘Like fire–’

‘The barrel, it’s rusting–’

Then silence, and a single word uttered underneath someone’s breath, but loud enough to carry across the Bastion’s interior before the next wave hit.

‘Psyker!’

Then witchfire tore over the Bastion again and Vurtch, standing, could see even from a distance through the firing slots to where a glowing figure was approaching the Bastion, clothes seemingly ablaze and terrifying energy pouring out of his hands.

He was surrounded by a miasma of rank vapours, swarms of black flies swirling around him, but at the heart of the storm Vurtch could see a man more dead than alive, a skeletal figure with diseased skin and patchy hair, dressed in tattered purple robes, yet animated by a malice that seemed more alive than the healthiest human being.

This one man, this sorcerer, was attacking the Bastion alone, and the powers he was unleashing tore at the very fabric of that heavily fortified building. A couple of unfortunates near the firing slots had fallen to their knees, stricken by disease just as those on the roof had been, while the heavy weapons were dripping with rust and mould. Wet clumps of matter began to fall from the ceiling as corrosion set in.

Then Vurtch felt strong hands grabbing him by the shoulder and backpack, swinging him around and tossing him aside like a sack of supplies, and he rolled across the dirty, dusty floor of Bastion Beta-3.

Vurtch looked back to see Trooper Irvan, who had just thrown him to safety, being crushed by a support beam that fell from the ceiling.

The entire Bastion was coming down around them, the rot eating away at the building itself.

Was this what godhood felt like, or was that heresy in itself?

Certainly, Mazalai had never felt power like this before. He had given in to all his emotions, his rage and his fear, and used them to draw every scrap of psychic energy he could through himself, channelling it into the psychic blasts that were picking apart Bastion Beta-3, the fortification that had turned the tide of battle.

What Krauer had failed to do from within the Bastion, and all those waves of screaming Cultists had tried to do from outside it, Mazalai was achieving alone: he would tear every defensive wall away from this cluster of little Cadians, and he would fry those who hid within, and if they did not die that easily he would simply crush them as the Bastion fell down around them.

He could do anything now, with this kind of power. If not a god himself, he was at the very least one of their most potent instruments. Had he now proven himself worthy? Surely he must have, to be granted such power. These mortals were no obstacle at all, and neither was the Emperor who supposedly watched over them. If Mazalai had felt doubt, it was dispelled now. His faith had never been stronger. He believed in the glory of his gods, and his own glory as their instrument.

Mazalai was irked to find this elated line of thought interrupted by Cadians out on the battlefield, spreading out from the collapsing Bastion.

A mere inconvenience. They would be easy enough to kill, even if they removed themselves from the box Mazalai had tried to crush them within.

‘Out out out!’ Blakov had screamed, leading the charge out of the building. ‘Spread out around the Bastion, target that psyker from all directions. I want him taken down.’

As Vurtch ran around the outside of the Bastion, lasrifle raised, he knew that he was likely running towards his death, that many would fall to this sorcerer before the heretic died.

No matter. It was Vurtch’s duty and honour. He whispered a prayer as he ran, that his lasfire find its target.

Mazalai was aflame with witchfire, alive with the relentless, feverish heat of disease, as unstoppable as the plagues he carried. He barely noticed the Cadians opening fire on him. Their lasfire was absorbed by his own heat, the bolts melting and corroding as they hit the field of corrupting psychic energy that crackled all over his body.

He smirked as he looked at their efforts. Pathetic. They were mere flesh, while he was the conduit for immortal power. It was flowing through him, the power, and it was glorious. Mazalai felt connected to the warp in a way he never had before. He could feel the power working its way through him, a pressure in his skull, the expectancy of something about to be born.

Mazalai looked at his hands, gripping his staff, so incandescent with raw psychic power he could see through the papery, diseased skin to the bones beneath as the power flowed through him. His brother sorcerers had sacrificed themselves to invest him with their power, their bodies dissolving into swarms of black flies that flowed into him, burrowing into him. He was Fellguard’s Nurgle cult now, entrusted with defeating the Cadians and leading the city to further greatness in Nurgle’s name.

It felt glorious.

Did he now have the gifts he had sought for so long? He tried to redirect that power towards the bodies of slain cultists around him, to resurrect dead flesh in Nurgle’s name… but nothing came.

No matter. He was still more powerful than ever before.

He tried to reach out with witchfire to strike at the Cadians once again, but although their gunfire had no impact on him, he found he could not release his own psychic power against them, could not unleash that energy.

Instead the pressure, the power, was building within him, a very real, malevolent presence forming, pushing through from the warp.

Mazalai had thought himself a vessel for the desires and power of his cult, to be honoured this way, and he was right, but not in the way he had thought. He realised the power bestowed upon him wasn’t his to wield, it was just a precursor for something far greater, something terrible. His fellow cultists had seen that he would push his psychic powers to their limits, that he would not hesitate to use power that was not his.

He had been in control but now he was losing it. His brothers in death had left him not to rule, but to be destroyed in the birth of something greater.

He looked at his hands again and they were still ablaze, but now the staff had gone, the wood rotting to dust, and the skin on his hands was beginning to peel. Mazalai could feel a searing weakness within his bones, beneath the skin, as if his very skeleton was about to liquefy under the intense pressure. It was not just in his hands, either, but spreading through his whole body, and the growing white light was so intense that Mazalai was blinded by the energies coursing through his own body. Pain wracked his body and he felt himself collapse to his knees. The last sound he could identify was a terrible scream, and he realised faintly that it was his own.

Even his own imminent death, the pain and the scream of his dissolution, seemed distant, as Mazalai felt himself crushed, his soul and consciousness ground into nothingness, by the immensity of what was coming.

He had thought himself an honoured servant, a valued worshipper of Nurgle. He had thought their struggles meant something. He had been wrong.

It had been his moment of glory, but now he knew despair.

He was not Mazalai. He needed no name, he was not significant enough to warrant one. He was not a person, an entity. His life was over and had never mattered. All that he was, all that ever mattered, was that he was the conduit, that he opened the way.

Something was coming, using Mazalai’s tainted soul to push its way out of the warp.

Vurtch had fired upon the heretic sorcerer, as had all the Cadians spreading around to target the psyker, and seen those attacks do nothing. He felt despair then, a creeping sensation of the universe’s horrors he had never felt before.

Through everything, through so many atrocities and battlefields, Vurtch’s faith had kept him strong. Now, though, in the face of such heretical and deadly power, Vurtch did not know what to feel. Terror? Awe?

He felt nauseated with himself, and that fuelled his anger.

Suddenly he realised that although the heretic was still standing, he wasn’t actually attacking the Cadians anymore. The energies that consumed him seemed to be turning inwards, his whole body glowing, fierce with raging energy. The swarms of foul insects were closed around him, crawling over his body, and the stench of his evil powers carried across the battlefield.

Vurtch wanted to turn away, the unnatural powers he was looking upon causing his eyes to ache and a sickness to build in his stomach, but he couldn’t stop.

Then the heretic held both hands to his head and screamed, and although there was not a cloud in the clear white sky, darkness spread around them, the sky turning black. The sorcerer, the psyker, was shaking uncontrollably, and his skin blackened like an over-ripening fruit, the flies descending to consume him.

Then this enemy, this sorcerer, exploded. His entire body liquidised, a hot flow of vile green ichor that shot into the air and sprayed all around, splashing across the ground and sizzling where it landed.

Though the sky was still unnaturally black, and a low rumbling could be heard, their enemy dead.

Vurtch was not sure whether to be entirely relieved or to give up and go mad. He had seen enough, he had seen enou–

He was snapped out of it by an order issued by Blakov.

‘We move on the walls now,’ Blakov said. The Castellan had taken cover behind a rusted gun emplacement a short distance away from the Bastion, firing at the heretic through a creaky hatch, but now he emerged from cover to direct his surviving troops. ‘One heretic is dead, there are still plenty more to–’

He was interrupted by a high scream, an inhuman wail that came from near and far, both outside Vurtch’s head and inside, working at his consciousness.

He instinctively looked to where the sorcerer’s unnatural blood had spilled. The blood was rippling, still steaming. Vurtch looked into the small amount of hot liquid, and saw something black, deep and endless, and within it whole universes – it was spreading, and something was moving.

Vurtch looked around to see others reacting in the same way, seeing the same things. Where the heretic’s blood had landed, rents were opening in the fabric of things and dark presences were moving. The enemy was dead, but his passing had just opened the way, and Vurtch could see what was coming.

‘Oh no, dear Emperor, no,’ said Vurtch, falling to his knees. Just looking at that hole in the world, at the things stirring beneath, was breaking his mind, shaking everything he believed to be true.

He had no idea, the horrors out there. He thought he had, but he was wrong.

It never ended, he thought. There was no escape, no purification or blessing that could hold back such a relentless tide of evil and decay.

All light would be snuffed out, even – and he shuddered to think of it – the light of the Emperor himself. How could even an immortal hold out?

It never ended, it would never end, it could never end.

+++ Extract from confidential Inquisitorial communication resumes +++

The events that followed, hysterically referred to as ‘The Hour of Hell’ by witnesses, would threaten to turn the rebellion on Kelthorn into a crisis of more significant consequence, and it is only due to the fortitude of Castellan Blakov and his men and women of the Cadian 39th that victory was assured.

While those valorous actions of the Cadian 39th resolved the situation on Kelthorn satisfactorily, the propagation of any references to the Ruinous Powers and their agents are of course completely unacceptable.

Knowledge of heresy is intolerable and must be extinguished. Knowledge of the processes by which the knowledge of heresy is extinguished is also, of course, unacceptable. Only in ignorance is there safety and clarity.

To this end while the actions during the Siege of Fellguard should be commemorated for the purposes of propaganda, I recommend that the details of the campaign be redacted.

Considering the extensive process of excavation required to retrieve all blasphemous materials from the ruins of Fellguard, I do not consider it likely that surviving witnesses have been exposed to the ideas that motivated the Kelthornian rebellion.

To that end I do not recommend that the survivors of the 39th be liquidated as a standing threat, but instead be reassigned immediately to the most lethal front line available. Their resilience proves them to be of some worth as combat assets, but that it would be unwise to allow the 39th to fight in regions where survival chances stretch into the medium term.

However, my final recommendation is that the pious survivors of the 39th swear an oath in the sight of the Emperor that they will not speak of those events, colloquially known as ‘The Hour of Hell’, on pain of death, and those events are also to be redacted from all records outside our own. Of some things we should not speak.

Yours in loyal service,

Inquisitorial Clerk Menshon Lytle

+++Message ends +++

The Hour of Hell

Mark Clapham

From To Serve and Suffer: A Personal Account of the Pericles Crusade and other Campaigns of the Glorious Cadian 39th:

If the Pericles Crusade was the great saga of the Cadian 39th, a long defining series of victorious battles over many years, then Kelthorn was the short and bloody coda, the proof that all regiments, and the men and women who serve in them, no matter how successful, will eventually face a reckoning, an enemy that brings down their elevated view of themselves.

On that fortress planet we found a population fallen to the foulest heresy, of a kind that we were entreated to not speak of once the campaign was done, and the details of which I am inclined to not remember, never mind commit to parchment.

Of those horrors I will not write, but I shall write instead of the acts of heroism and valour amongst the men and women I served with, and the officers they served under.

While the Pericles Crusade was gruelling and hard fought, it was on Kelthorn that my impressions of so many of the 39th were fixed in my mind, defined by how they faced the terror.

These were often final moments. Though we were victorious and our regiment fights on, our losses were huge. It is in that adversity that myths are forged.

We reached Kelthorn under the leadership of a man already on his way to becoming a myth, or at least a legend, in the annals of Cadian commanders.

Castellan Blakov had led us to victory in the Pericles Crusade and would prove pivotal in the short, brutal hours of conflict at Fellguard. For his actions, he will doubtless have a place in the history of our regiment, and perhaps the wider history of Cadia.

Did those achievements make him a hero worthy of remembrance, or something else altogether? Even in the earliest hours of the Siege of Fellguard, before what came to be known as the Hour of Hell, some of us had doubts…

‘I had heard the Cadians were great fighters,’ Commissar Chavaria screamed into the vox-bead under his rebreather, the visor misting up as he shouted. ‘Instead, I see motherless pups, ready to die in the dirt! Get up and charge, you filth! Follow your Castellan or shame your ancestors even in death.’

Chavaria had no way of knowing how much of that was audible over the explosions as shells ripped up the ground all around, churning up the mud and tearing up any Cadian unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. The entire field between the outer wall of Fellguard and the Bastion, which rained death upon them from its firing slits and rooftop battlements, was a killing ground covered with poisonous gases and seeded with mines, where the unwary could fall into deep trenches filled with rank water.

That they were still alive after five or six minutes was a miracle, and if they were to survive for much longer Chavaria knew that the men and women whose morale was his responsibility needed to stay as close as possible to the trail led by Castellan Blakov, commanding officer of the Cadian 39th, a man who in Chavaria’s opinion was only marginally less dangerous to his allies than his enemies.

Blakov was a predator, and Chavaria knew that the only safe place to be when in the presence of such an entity was in its wake.

So Chavaria shouted himself hoarse while trying to keep low as red-hot bolts cut through the air above his head and shells impacted around him, and encouraged the Cadians as best he could through the fog of the battlefield, all the while trying to keep himself alive as his boots sank into treacherous mud and the body parts of his allies threatened to trip him up.

Crossing the killing field between the blessed outer wall of Fellguard and Bastion Beta-3, heavy bolt shells continued to chew up the filthy ground around them and obliterated many of the Cadians trying to cross it, Chavaria kept himself as close to Blakov’s heels as possible. All the while, he kept Blakov, charging ahead with his lieutenants at his heels, in his sights, tried to keep up and encouraged those around him to do the same.

Staying in Blakov’s shadow was their best chance of living, and Chavaria had come to the conclusion that, on balance, he preferred to continue the grinding misery of human existence than be reduced to paste by the traitors’ heavy weaponry as it barked from the firing slits and parapets of Bastion Beta-3.

The Bastion was a looming block of rockcrete and metal on the hill ahead, a blackened molar against a clear white sky, square with a rough edge on top. This dark mass was speckled with the light of blazing weapons at its firing slits and battlements.

Blakov ran straight for the Bastion. His gift for self-preservation, his instinctive avoidance of a seemingly inevitable demise, did not constitute caution or cowardice. Far from it, Blakov’s gift was one of being able to charge headlong into danger and survive it on the fly.

Throwing himself flat against the wall of the Bastion, the tombstone-like fortified structure that overlooked the killing field, Blakov – imposing even for a Cadian, with close-cropped black hair, piercing eyes and a sword at his waist – drew a grenade and, weaving to avoid fire from above, tossed it through a firing slot into the interior. Before the grenade even detonated, Blakov was screaming follow up orders at the remnants of Eighth Squad, directing a Guardsman with a flamer to pour fire into the Bastion, and another to blow the bulkhead open with a melta bomb.

Chavaria, who had been scrabbling up the hill as this happened, reached the blasted entrance to the Bastion just as Blakov kicked open the remains of the internal doors and charged in. The commissar entered the Bastion itself to see the Castellan duelling with a hideously scabbed and mutated traitor.

The traitor’s disease seemed to act as a protective shell and Blakov was flailing around, trying to find a weak spot in that shell with his sword. To Chavaria, who had fought a few duels in his time, Blakov’s fighting style was flawed – showy, grandstanding, leaving himself open to counterattacks as he whirled and struck.

Chavaria didn’t think much of Blakov’s technique, and tensed with the presumption that this armoured beast would smash through Blakov’s guard and deal a killing blow.

That blow never came. As Blakov bobbed and weaved, the traitor, slowed down by his own heavy mutations and crippled by the very armoured scabs that made him hard to kill, lumbering around, unable to keep up. Blakov kept dodging and weaving, stabbing again and again at the creature, striking sparks as his blade hit its armour plating, until eventually he struck a weak spot, drawing a wince of pain from the monster.

Weakness revealed, Blakov twisted around to a ridiculous angle, pushing his blade up through this vulnerability and shoving it into the creature’s tender internal organs.

The traitor commander, this mass of armoured scabs, died with that single blow, presumably having had its heart pierced. Blakov withdrew the sword, his blade covered with vile black residue, and the creature fell to the floor with a thud.

Chavaria wouldn’t be able to do his job if he wasn’t aware of when the eyes of others were upon him and, feeling that familiar bristle of hairs standing up on his neck beneath the stiff material of his commissar’s collar, he turned to see that, just as Chavaria watched Blakov, so Lieutenant Rawl was watching Commissar Chavaria.

Chavaria tipped his head slightly, and gave Lieutenant Rawl an informal salute, two closed fingers tapped against the visor of his cap, snapped forward. It was a mark of pure respect and reassurance – commissars stood outside the ranks of the Guard, and for one to acknowledge the rank of anyone below a Colonel was a great honour.

Rawl, decades older than Blakov, with wiry grey hair and artificial eyes glowing behind thick goggles, gave Chavaria a cautious twitch of a smile in return, acknowledging his respect, but also holding back, making sure he knew that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with his approval.

While a man like Blakov doubtless saw the rank of lieutenant as an inconvenient stepping stone to higher standing, a tedious formality – Chavaria had seen the records, and knew Blakov only held the rank of lieutenant for five months before accumulating sufficient honours his superiors had to promote him – for men and women like Lieutenant Rawl that position, of being a senior officer’s iron right hand and the conduit between strategic leadership and the ranks, was closer to a calling.

Rawl had risen to the rank of lieutenant decades ago, and her ascent had stopped right there. She had never sought glory or promotion for herself but equally never retreated from duty, and had served loyally alongside three senior officers, of which Blakov, a man her junior in years, was only the latest. She had assisted many a member of the 39th, whether above or below her in rank, to glory and honours rather than seizing them for herself.

As many of those honours were posthumous, and she was still alive, her caution – which never shaded even close to cowardice – suggested a strategic mind sharper than most of her supposed betters.

If Rawl was cautious in accepting Chavaria’s respect, it was because she was shrewd enough to know that, while she might not want further promotion, Chavaria did not feel the same way. If Blakov fell, struck down either by the enemy or the suspicious commissar at his back, Rawl must know that Chavaria would have her field-promoted into the Castellan’s position, leading the 39th, before Blakov’s body was even cold.

Chavaria tried to make an expression to suggest that he was not about to take hasty action and, although Rawl’s expression was virtually unreadable beneath the thick goggles that kept her augmetic eyes in place and dust-free, she seemed to get the message.

They both stood with Blakov, for now.

As Blakov’s lieutenant, Rawl took charge of ordering the clearing of the Bastion and the positioning of the troops, many of whom were reluctant to step into the shoes of traitors, even once the bodies had been disposed of. The lingering smell of promethium could not quite shift the stench of decay.

The Bastion was a building about two storeys high, but the top floor was an open roof with battlements, a rough rockcrete staircase leading from the high-ceilinged chamber on the ground to the firing positions above.

‘Ninth Squad, on the roof,’ she ordered. ‘Vurtch, go with them once you’ve done the blessings.’

Vurtch, the regimental priest, saluted as he sprinkled sacred water over the guns previously manned by traitors. Rawl didn’t know whether it made any difference, but she knew the troops would feel better about stepping into the firing positions of dead heretics if Vurtch had cast a prayer over them.

‘Eighth squad, take positions down here. I want those guns manned as soon as Vurtch is done with them.’

There was a murmur of assent. Rawl glanced around to check that everyone was where they should be, and caught the eye of Chavaria once more.

Of all the problems to have with commissars, Lieutenant Rawl had never expected an excess of mutual respect to be one of them. The men and women of the Commissariat were mostly hard, merciless characters and a scourge to the common Guard, relentless with the pistol and lash to instil terror in the ranks.

This Chavaria was irritatingly different, belying every bit of Rawl’s experience through a long military career and in the process daring to suggest that, perhaps, she could still be surprised after all these years.

Commissar Chavaria was a hard man, as he should be, and entirely capable of delivering field discipline when needed. Pin-black eyes stood out from the olive skin of his face, the collar of his black coat turned up so that it almost touched the brim of his cap. He terrified the lower ranks when caught by those eagle-sharp eyes, and they’d seen him kill enough cowards and miscreants to know their terror had foundation. If an example needed to be set to prevent a rout, Chavaria would set it with a single shot to the back of a head.

But over time Rawl had noticed that Chavaria preferred to use the threat of violence to motivate the troops into action rather than the actual application, and that rather than driving the Guard to their deaths with his words he was often keeping them alive.

He had done so today, screaming over the vox as they charged Bastion Beta-3 head on. Rawl had no doubt that many of the men and women taking positions around the Bastion now would not be alive if not for Chavaria’s threats and insults to drive them on.

Now the Bastion was taken, and a brief sense of victory swelled amongst the ranks, one which grew further as the first waves of cultists to try and retake the Bastion were mercilessly suppressed, the heavy guns blaring as they blasted the heretics to pieces before they got near the Bastion. They had taken the high ground and Blakov was in his element, throwing out orders as he peered through the firing slits.

In spite of this victorious mood, as Rawl exchanged looks with Chavaria she could see that both of them had reservations about the human cost Blakov had expended on taking the Bastion, and the recklessness of leaving so many dead on the field behind them when the rest of the city of Fellguard remained to be taken.

Rawl knew that it was within Chavaria’s power to remove Blakov from command, if he saw fit, and place her in charge. Rawl didn’t want the job, but she would have no choice if Blakov died or was removed. Her loyalty to her mission, to her regiment, to the Emperor would demand that she step up.

Those same loyalties made her want to gag at even the thought of it. Blakov, whatever his faults, was her commanding officer, and she would serve him as loyally as she had the other commanding officers before him.

Suddenly, more immediate concerns took hold, as a wave of energy hit the Bastion, followed by a murmur of discontent and a single word to identify the cause.

‘Psyker!’

From the centre of the Bastion’s ground floor, where Rawl was giving orders, it was hard to see out of the firing slits, and she could barely tell what was going on when the sorcerer attacked, although she felt the Bastion being wracked by his powers as much as any of them.

She caught a glimpse of the sorcerer through the firing slits, a glowing figure covered in swarming flies, loosing witchfire from his staff that caused humans to rot and the Bastion itself to decay around them. She saw those nearest the firing slits touched by that witchfire, reeling as their flesh began to blacken and rot, and she was ready to relay the order to strategically retreat before Blakov even shouted it. The Bastion, so defensible up to seconds before, was a trap now.

As they abandoned the Bastion, encircling the robed heretic as he screamed and collapsed to the ground, Rawl was not the only one to feel relief as the man seemed to be consumed by his own powers, exploding in a hail of bloody, steaming chunks.

What happened when those boiling human remains touched the ground soon put paid to that brief surge of optimism.

Where the remains of the sorcerer hit the ground, the hot liquid mass stirred and stretched, turning the mud beneath into something pliant, through which shapes began to press. There was something about looking at these patches of ground that caused Rawl’s vision to blur and her head to swim, as if she was looking not just at a patch of ground but a pit, infinitely deep, stretching into another reality.

Through these indeterminate spaces, clawed limbs began to burst out of the bloodied ground, diseased inhuman fingers gripping rusty swords and other sharp implements. Twisted hands grasped the solid ground around these bubbling portals to provide purchase so that the creatures could haul themselves through.

Rawl had heard rumours, of course she had. Whispers beneath the hearing of commissars and priests, talk that could earn you a fatal visit from the Inquisition. Stories of creatures that were not just hated xenos, but something more heretical. The stuff of the warp, pure evil, beings of cruelty. Abominations that should not be spoken of. Powers that those who shunned the teachings of the Emperor worshipped, and could bring forth into the world.

Daemons. That was the only fit word for them, looking at them now, their skin yellowed and covered in suppurating sores, intestines hanging loose from split skin, as foul and diseased as a ten-day-dead plague victim. They came surrounded by fat, black flies that swarmed out, and all around Rawl the Cadians were backing away. Some prayed, some seemed frozen with terror, while others were gibbering to themselves.

Rawl felt her sanity tested, a childlike impulse making her want to fall to her knees in the face of such horrors. Their stench alone was worse than the most infected wound she had encountered, viler than a grave pit. They were everywhere, emerging now from rents in reality that had expanded well beyond where the sorcerer’s blood had fallen.

It was too much. The sky had blackened, and Rawl felt she was a very tiny human falling into some dark abyss. It had become cold, a frost spreading across the muddy ground beneath her feet.

‘Pull yourself together!’ shouted a voice nearby. It was Chavaria’s voice, and Rawl could detect a quivering note of fear in it, but the tone was assertive enough to snap her out of a frozen panic. ‘These are your enemies, stand up and fight them! How dare you fear them more than the Emperor, when he demands you stand up and strike these filth down.’

Chavaria wasn’t actually talking to her. He was shouting at Vurtch, the regimental priest, who had clearly dropped to his knees while Rawl wasn’t looking. He was now dragging himself to his feet, Chavaria’s words giving him new strength.

Rawl was glad of those words too, and suspected Chavaria knew what he was doing by shouting them louder than needed, projecting to as many Cadians as he could.

Override their shock, keep them motivated, keep them alive. The daemons were swarming towards the Cadians, and while many of the troops were opening fire, the line was in disarray.

Cultists and less mutated traitors were emerging from Fellguard’s west gate and the bunkers, screaming as the daemons attacked them too. Daemons were crawling up Fellguard’s inner wall, and their unearthly shrieking and the screams of their mortal servants as they died combined into an almighty din.

The blackness in the sky had spread over the whole of Fellguard, and a distorted shimmering in the air suggested that the tears in reality that were letting the daemons into this world weren’t restricted to the battlefield but were within the city too. Clearly the daemons had no loyalty to these cultists – perhaps they considered the treacherous humans to have failed them, or perhaps they were offering the human lives to some greater power?

Fellguard was ablaze, black swarms of insects dark against the burning city as they rose and fell, presumably descending to consume the inhabitants of the city. A tower on the skyline, taller than most of the other buildings, began to crumble and fall, as if consumed by decay.

‘Retreat!’ Blakov shouted. ‘Abandon the Bastion, we regroup at the outer wall. Spread the order down the line, let these monsters and heretics fight each other. We’ll attack when they’re done.’

‘We’ll retake the Bastion and hold them back for you as long as we can, sir,’ shouted Sergeant Yanson from Eighth Squad, firing shots at daemons, who seemed to brush them off. Then she turned and started shouting orders to her squad.

Blakov gave a crisp salute to the woman, acknowledging Eighth Squad’s courage as everyone else began their retreat.

It was a mark of respect. If anyone in Eighth Squad noticed it, no doubt they took it on face value. Their sacrifice was well-meant and eager, heroic in a way that Rawl respected deeply.

Blakov’s easy acceptance of that sacrifice impressed her less. As they began to descend from the hill on which Bastion Beta-3 stood, clambering over the bodies of Cadians who had died taking the Bastion, Rawl was sickened by the lives lost, the lives still being thrown away, all for a fortress that they were abandoning on Blakov’s whim.

‘Be ready,’ someone said nearby, the voice so close she felt outward breath on her ear as the words were spoken. She snapped around only to see Chavaria running ahead, continuing to motivate the troops to keep moving, insisting that his commissar’s pistol remained the devil they should really fear today.

Be ready, Rawl thought. Be ready.

Commissar Chavaria had seen talentless officers crumble under overwhelming odds before, the elevated self-impression that came with their official status punctured by the harsh realities of the battlefield. Faced with a situation that their training had not prepared them for, these rotten apples in the officer class would usually go one of two ways, either lashing out or retreating inwards.

The former type would start raging against cruel reality, screaming and maybe even descending into tears and wails. They would blame everyone but themselves and start shooting the most able of their own side until someone, usually a commissar, took them down for the good of all.

The other type, whether they were in denial or finally accepting reality, would clam up and become useless that way, either offering timid orders or no orders at all. They would delegate, back away from their responsibilities, start distancing themselves from their own command and preparing excuses for their inevitable defeat.

Those type of officers were just as damaging as the ones who lashed out, but far harder to find a pretext to remove from their station. It was that category of officer Chavaria hated the most and if, as seemed to be the case, Blakov was going that way, Chavaria was damned if he would let the Castellan walk away from Kelthorn and pin the losses incurred on someone else.

‘Keep out of its reach!’ Rawl shouted to Tynon, but it was too late. A clawed finger grazed Tynon’s face just as the corporal pulled the trigger on his combat shotgun, blasting the creature in the second, sickening mouth that stretched across its belly. The daemon flew back, that second, horrific face blasted into an open bloody wound, but with one touch the damage was done. Tynon’s eyes blackened in his head as infection spread through his skull where the daemon had touched, his tongue bloating in his throat so he couldn’t even scream.

‘Maintain your fire but keep back,’ said Rawl, stumbling backwards herself, taking shots at the daemons lurching towards them down the hill. They were tall, gangly creatures with bones and organs visible through yellowing, greenish skin. That skin seemed to sag from their bodies, and was peppered with pink sores and wounds. Many had only a single eye above a mouth full of grey teeth, and blackened horns protruded from their heads.

Everything these daemons touched was soiled with decay and disease. Under Blakov’s orders, the Cadians were tactically retreating to the sacred outer wall of Fellguard, but to do so they needed to cross the no-man’s-land between the inner and outer walls, a thick muddy circle of land strewn with traps, and they had to do so while keeping the daemonic hordes at bay.

Rawl tried to keep an eye on her footing, carefully avoiding a mine. As she glanced down a daemon lunged for her and she threw herself to one side, its rusty sword cutting through the air where she had been. She landed hard on her side, and was raising her own gun when another corporal charged forward, firing her own lasrifle at the daemon. The daemon swung towards the woman as Rawl was getting to her feet, raising its sword and stepping forward to engage this new attacker.

The daemon stood on the mine Rawl had just avoided, and she found herself thrown to the ground once more, hot debris scorching her face as she rolled out of the way. Her sleeve was on fire, but the wet mud put it out.

Rawl dragged herself to her feet to find that not only had the daemon gone, but the corporal had been killed too, half of her upper body destroyed in the blast.

There was no time for regret. While there were no daemons immediately moving on her position, further down the line she could see other squads still in the thick of it. Nearby, she could see the regimental priest, Vurtch, helping a wounded sergeant to his feet, and the air was thick with las-fire as they continued their retreat to the outer wall.

They were close now. The outer wall, built from the bones of martyrs on the shrineworld of Arabella’s Hope, was in itself a two part structure: an outward facing wall with battlements on the top, taken by the Cadians early that day, and a shorter barricade facing into the no-man’s-land between the outer and inner wall. It was that barricade they ran towards now, where they could drop into a safe trench and fire upon the advancing daemons from some kind of secure cover.

As she ran, concentrating on not dying and keeping those around her from also not dying, Rawl tried to keep her mind off Chavaria’s words.

‘Be ready.’

Be ready to take command, when Chavaria struck against Blakov.

Even now, with her doubts in Blakov at their highest, Rawl didn’t like the sound of that. So she pushed the thought away. Be ready? She was always ready. She would deal with the next crisis as it occurred.

The next crisis came in the form of a distant roar, and a pulsing thump through the already unstable ground beneath her feet. It came from the city.

Rawl looked ahead to see Blakov, who had already reached the barricades of the outer wall, looking past her, open-mouthed.

She had never seen him shocked before.

Rawl turned herself, looking up at Bastion Beta-3, which had been raining fire down on the ranks of daemons to keep them back as the rest of the 39th made their strategic retreat to the outer wall.

A giant Daemon was tearing itself out of a rent in reality near the Bastion, an unearthly aura surrounding it. Were those the souls of the cultists that the daemons had killed, paving the way for this appalling thing to escape from hell?

Even from a distance, Rawl felt sickened by the puckered, diseased skin of its bloated body as it strode towards the Bastion. It hurt her artificial eyes, this unnatural thing, this abomination against the Emperor, this towering mass of decaying flesh, alive against all reason. Even against the tumultuous darkened sky, this thing from hell seemed out of place in the real world, hard to focus on. The horror was hard to bear, and a small voice inside Rawl was screaming for her to give in, to bow down before it.

As the giant daemon advanced upon the Bastion, looming over it, the other daemons moved towards it, screeching in incomprehensible worship, warbling a horrific war cry in its honour.

They had held on longer than Sergeant Yanson had ever hoped, to the point where some small voice inside her skull had suggested that they, Eighth Squad, might actually survive this. From within Bastion Beta-3, a squat, crude building already undermined by the sorcerer’s attack earlier, support beams stretching at unnatural angles, surfaces corroded, ceiling leaking unnatural fluids, they had somehow fought the daemons back with the few heavy weapons still functioning and their personal armaments, lasrifles and shotguns, hopefully buying a little time for the Castellan’s withdrawal to the outer wall.

Yanson had no illusions as she had volunteered her squad to hold the Bastion. Irvan lay dead inside the Bastion already, crushed by a falling beam. The mottled bones of unfortunates too close to the firing slits when the sorcerer attacked had been evidence to the enemy’s hideous power.

But still they had fought on, and while they hadn’t stopped the tide of daemons pursuing their comrades, they had at least punched a hole in their advance, delaying them a little.

It had been enough to allow a sliver of hope.

Looking up at the thing, this abomination, Yanson lost all that hope. She said a prayer to the Emperor, pleading that, even now as she was about to die, at least, please, would the Emperor of Man keep her from being torn apart or eaten alive by these daemons.

Even that wish seemed forlorn. As she looked through the firing slit she kept firing, as did the rest of Eighth Squad, pouring las-fire at the colossal daemon as it lumbered towards the Bastion, its putrid existence bending her sanity, making her want to throw her weapon down.

But Yanson kept firing. Whit, who had been trying to get one of the corroded heavy weapons working again now that the sorcerer’s taint seemed to have worked its course, shouted in jubilation as a shell shot from its barrel, tearing into the gigantic daemon as it stared down on them.

The shell struck with an impact felt throughout the Bastion, and gobbets of rancid flesh were blasted away from the giant daemon’s body. It was a wound, a blow.

The thing could be hurt, was there hope again there?

But no, the daemon didn’t fall or even rock back under Eighth Squad’s attack. Instead it just laughed, the noise carrying all the way to Rawl’s position, a disgusting, self-satisfied, humourless gurgle. As the heavy weapon tore chunks out of its body, as the lasguns of Eighth Squad fired upon it, the daemon shuffled slightly on the spot, its bloated, obscene body quivering.

It was as if all that firepower was just tickling it, an amusing nuisance.

Damn you, thought Yanson. How dare you laugh as we fight for our lives?

Then the beast stopped laughing, opened its mouth, and vomited a stream of bile at the Bastion. It was a torrent of glowing filth, and Yanson barely had a moment to register the foulness of it before it flooded the Bastion, pouring through the firing slits and through every crack in the shattered building. It covered her and her skin was on fire, the corrosion consuming her whole body and then she felt nothing at all.

The guns of Bastion Beta-3 went silent. Neither Rawl nor Blakov needed to check over the vox to know that all of Eighth Squad were dead – nothing mortal that wasn’t already under the thrall of the enemy could survive contact with the excretions of something that vile.

On the hilltop, the Bastion began to collapse in on itself, the structure already shaken by the sorcerer’s assaults crumbling altogether as the huge daemon’s bile ate through anything that could be corroded.

The monstrous daemon wasn’t looking at the damage it had wrought. High up on the hilltop, it stomped around to face the outer wall where Blakov and many of the 39th had gathered, staring out across the wasteland from its high vantage point. Rawl almost expected it to spray a stream of vomit right across the intervening space, drowning them all in corrupting, corrosive filth without even bothering to step forward.

While the huge daemon did open its mouth, it did so not to projectile vomit but to let out a blasphemous, rattling shout that made Rawl’s ears ache. As it cried out, the creature, this lord of the daemons, raised a sword above its head, shaking it in the air.

Though the language – if language it was – spoken was indecipherable beyond its vileness, the nature of the shout and the gesture was unmistakable.

A battle cry, a call to arms.

The army of daemons turned their attention back to the Cadian 39th.

Nearby, Rawl heard one of the men begging the Emperor for forgiveness. Another began to babble heresies, begging for the giant daemon to consume him whole.

Chavaria shot the man from a distance but only injured him. The man, eyes rolling back in his head, continued to shout obscenities. Someone tried to shout down these heresies, swearing at the fallen man until Chavaria walked over and shot the babbling lunatic in the head.

There were tears and moans all around, the shaking of heads and muttered prayers, but no more heresies. Chavaria waved his pistol back and forth as they withdrew to the outer wall, as if challenging anyone to utter heresy in his presence.

Rawl thought she saw his hand shake as he did so.

As the battle roar of the ‘Great Unclean One’ echoed around the outer wall of Fellguard, and the last survivors of the 39th dropped down into the trench between the wall of martyrs and the defensive barriers, uncertainty shook through the ranks. Cadians they might be, born under the glare of the Eye of Terror, but they were face to face with daemonic forces beyond their comprehension, the very presence of which threatened to break their will and shake their sanity.

Chavaria knew how they felt. Every time he looked at these vile beasts he felt the urge to flee or kill himself rather than face hell itself. As he holstered his pistol he realised his hand was shaking.

He forced his hand and nerves to steady. He did not have the luxury of fear or doubt, he needed to drive it out of the men and women around him. As they prepared at the barricades, readying to defend the outer wall from the attack that would soon come, Chavaria was amongst them, doling out threats and insults, pistol in his hand, eye open for anyone who might seek to flee beyond the Wall of Martyrs, deserting their post to disappear into the wastes outside Fellguard.

As he did so, Chavaria was also watching their commanding officer. This was the moment Blakov would crack, he was sure of it. A battle with heretics had turned for the worse into a full-blown outbreak of daemonic horrors, and Castellan Blakov’s colossal ego would surely splinter under the terrible awareness that, far from being a warrior of legendary status, he was a triviality in a universe full of terrors like this towering daemon.

If Blakov showed any sign of cowardice or instability, Chavaria would take him out and trust Rawl to lead them competently to, if not victory, at least a more honourable and well-planned death.

Show me what you’re made of, Blakov, thought Chavaria. Break down in front of these battered, shaken men and women, show you aren’t worthy to lead them and I’ll end this right now.

Blakov seemed confused as he stepped down from the barricades, searching for something in the wall of sacred bones, and Chavaria quietly released the clasp on his pistol holster, ready to draw it once more.

Then Blakov found what he was looking for, and the great man reached out and dropped to his knees. Chavaria stood frozen in shock, hand hovering above the butt of his still-holstered gun.

What Blakov had found was a skull embedded in the Wall of Martyrs, a skull with the symbol of the Ecclesiarchy engraved into the bone of its forehead. Then, Castellan Blakov touched two gloved fingers against the skull, dropped into a position of supplication, and began to speak.

He was whispering, but Chavaria, Rawl and a few others were near enough to hear what Blakov was saying. Though not Cadian himself, Chavaria had fought alongside Cadians long enough to recognise that Blakov was muttering the words of an old, very common Cadian prayer.

Its words were simple, an entreaty to the Emperor for protection, for courage, for the strength and fortitude to fight on for the glory of the Emperor without wilting under the gaze of hell itself.

It was a prayer known by all those who were born near the Eye of Terror, and overhearing what Blakov was saying, Regimental Priest Vurtch, a quivering wreck only a short while before until Chavaria snapped him out of it, began to repeat the prayer loudly so that others could hear.

While Blakov’s whispers were hoarse and stilted, Vurtch’s voice was clear and almost musical, bringing out the rhythm of each line so that, as the prayer carried down the line, it sounded more like a hymn, a slow and purposeful song expressing the fears and hopes of every Cadian, the desire to serve well in the Emperor’s name and not be crushed by the monumental horrors they faced.

And as Vurtch sang, others joined in, quietly then louder, as each line of the prayer went around the outer wall of Fellguard, presumably to units and squads unseen since the 39th first breached the outer wall earlier that day, uniting them all in faith and loyalty and common cause.

Chavaria knew loyalty, he believed in the Emperor and the cause of the Master of Mankind they all served, but at the same time he was a pragmatist who had little time for ritual.

Yet he too found himself saying the words, and as he repeated these humble pleas to the Emperor, started by Blakov – who remained in his position of prayer, head down, seemingly not noticing anyone repeat his words – Chavaria resealed the clip on his holster and took his hand away from his gun.

When his prayer was done, Blakov stood, taking his hands from the wall and opening his eyes. When he issued an order, it was only two words, but they were infused with moral certainty.

‘Make ready.’

Cadians lined the barricade within Fellguard’s outer wall, the barricade constructed from the bones of martyrs as was the wall behind them. Part practical defensive wall, part sacred relic, these walls had been meticulously constructed on the shrineworld of Arabella’s Hope, a prayer said over each bone as it was painstakingly slotted into place.

Chavaria wasn’t sentimental about the bones of the dead, but he prayed for them to protect him now, even if that prayer was just inside his head. He stood against that barricade of bone, the outer wall looming behind, and hoped the martyrs looked favourably at a commissar who had dealt harsh justice to many of their kind.

The skies were still dark, and as the daemons approached the outer walls, marching in the shadow of the gigantic creature in their midst, Chavaria and those around him opened fire the moment they came within range.

The daemons looked more dead than alive, decaying creatures with their innards exposed, and as Chavaria and the others fired, las-fire cut through their soft, decaying bodies, yellowing flesh burning away. The daemons were slowed by these injuries, but did not stop unless concentrated fire crippled them.

They were also not alone. A handful of cultists who had survived the culling ran among them, taking cover and firing on the Cadian positions, while the Great Unclean One had unleashed smaller daemons, spore-like beings of pure filth that scuttled along the ground, mouths wide with rotten teeth.

Daemons were disintegrating under concentrated fire, las-fire from two or three sources managing to burn through to what passed for a heart in these foul beasts, causing them to evaporate as if their hold on the mortal world had been broken.

These few small victories raised muted cheer amongst the ranks, and Chavaria took comfort from the fact that these daemons could still be sent back to the warp, that Kelthorn had yet to become irredeemably polluted.

Such comforts did not provide any solution as to how they would deal with the greatest of their number, though. Unmolested by anything other than stray las-shots, the foul tower of rotten flesh rumbled behind the advancing daemon lines, plucking the corpses of Cadians and traitors alike from the battlefield and throwing them in the direction of the outer wall. As these corpses flew through the air they were consumed with disease and pestilence, exploding into swarms of flies and maggots as they hit the ground.

Plague grenades, the battlefield fallen turned into disease bombs by the Great Unclean One’s corrupting power.

One landed near Chavaria’s position, and he barely escaped as flies swarmed over an entire squad of Cadians, the men and women screaming as their skin blackened and insects burrowed into them. Knocked over by the impact, he shuffled away on his back, heels scrambling against the ground as the Cadians caught in the fly swarm reached out in mute despair for aid, their mouths already choked with flies.

There was nothing he could do to help them. Chavaria was left with seconds to work out how to save himself before the swarm consuming the fallen bodies descended upon him. He fumbled with gloved hands to remove an incendiary grenade from his belt, tossed it a perilously short distance away from him into the mass of black flies, and rolled on to his front.

The rush of heat over his head scorched his uniform, but didn’t reach the flesh. He rolled back over to see motes of ash drifting towards the ground, with no living flies to be seen. Blackened bones in the mud were all that remained of the squad hit by the plague grenade.

Chavaria was barely on his feet when the gigantic daemon spoke.

Its words were yet again unintelligible and made Chavaria want to weep for the horror of that gurgling, foul tongue, but nonetheless the sentiment behind the order given was clear, if not the specifics. An order to attack, to destroy.

The daemons responded to the voice and surged towards the barricades, the inner part of the wall of martyrs. Chavaria felt a swell of panic in the air and he, Rawl and Blakov overlapped as they shouted at the 39th to stand firm and fire on all targets, quelling the threat of a rout.

Then the daemons were nearly upon them, blades raised and claws gouging forward, hitting that low wall and about to push over the top and into the 39th’s line of defence…

…when they halted, reeling, contact with the blessed wall causing them to pull backwards, disgusting flesh burning where it had touched the bones of martyrs.

And in that moment of hesitance, those precious few seconds where the daemons were vulnerable, Blakov and his lieutenant and commissar acted as one to urge the troops forward, lasrifles blazing and tearing the weakened first line of daemons to pieces, sending them scuttling backwards as the fury of Cadia struck at them, emboldened by the power of their faith and the presence of the martyrs, their spirits coursing through those walls of bones to defend them.

Chavaria hadn’t even time to process his shock at such a manifestation of the pure light of the Emperor and his followers burning through corruption and evil, as he was already over the barricade and setting an example, firing upon daemons at either side. Rawl was up there too, lasrifle raised to her shoulder, and Blakov’s sword crackled with power as he cut a daemon’s arm off, causing it to reel away with foul-stinking ichor dripping from the wound.

The pushback didn’t last. It couldn’t, not with the presence of the huge daemon to counterbalance the pure influence of the wall of martyrs. It screamed abuse at the lesser daemons scuttling around its feet like grotesque children, batting some of them forward with brutal swipes of its limbs. Steadily the tide began to turn and the daemons pushed forward once more.

The Cadians were horribly outnumbered, even having killed dozens of the daemons in their first attack. Having pressed their brief advantage, the 39th were also partially spread beyond the safety of the barricades.

The bloodshed escalated within seconds. The daemons lashed out at the Cadians with claws and blades, slicing Guardsmen and women to pieces, the wounds instantly festering as the daemonic taint entered the Cadians’ bodies.

‘Concentrate your fire and hold your ground,’ shouted Blakov over the vox, which was crackling with uncanny interference, an underlying sound of tormented howls. ‘Keep them back from the wall, don’t give ground, and stay together.’

Chavaria and Rawl found themselves following Blakov’s lead, staying close to Vurtch and a couple of others, concentrating las-fire on the daemons as they advanced and driving them back, even injuring one. Chavaria could see Blakov ahead, leading the charge with half a dozen or so Cadians surrounding him, lasrifles blazing.

Along the line, Blakov’s words were helping to keep some of them alive, but not enough. Cadians were lying on the ground, gutted, suppurating sores spreading over their skins from contact with the enemy, the disease and the bleeding racing to kill them. Others had been killed swiftly, heads detached from bodies with one swipe of a cursed blade.

It was a noble last stand, thought Chavaria, but a last stand nonetheless. He hoped no one else had to set foot on this world to face its horrors after they were dead, that Exterminatus was ordered and Kelthorn was blown to pieces, these daemons condemned to oblivion in one blinding white moment of destruction.

Through this last stand, Blakov was rallying the troops, no trace of doubt in his words or gestures, and Chavaria could see now that the Castellan was the leader the 39th needed at this hour, to rally them forward with faith and fanaticism when all hope was lost. They didn’t need a realist or a strategist, they needed Blakov. Maybe he was a lunatic, but he was the right lunatic for this hour of hell.

As he had this realisation, Chavaria glanced towards the Castellan again and saw that Blakov had lost two or three of the squad accompanying him on his charge, and was now exposed as daemons closed in. Blakov’s duelling stance came into its own as he wheeled around, lopping off diseased limbs from the daemons surrounding him while keeping out of their reach.

Then a roar echoed from the towering daemon, and the daemons encircling Blakov backed away slightly. The huge daemon lord was advancing, arm outstretched, one diseased finger pointing at the Castellan. Its eyes were small and embedded deep in its grotesque face. The hatred in those eyes as it stared at Blakov, advancing upon him, was easy to read. Did it see the Castellan as a threat, or just despised the fact that he dared to defy it, rallying his troops to fight back?

For whatever reason, this monster clearly intended to crush Blakov personally, batting aside its own daemonic followers and ignoring the Cadians who stumbled out of its path, futilely firing their lasguns into its body in a vain attempt to defend their commander.

Such efforts were useless. The gigantic daemon didn’t even bother to shrug off the shots, just ignoring the scorches on its diseased skin as it advanced on Blakov, and the small number of surviving troops who surrounded him.

Castellan Blakov did not flinch as the abomination approached. The urge to bow or flee rose in him, but he suppressed these urges and held his position. He was a Cadian, born in the gaze of the Eye of Terror, and he would not give even this insult to the Emperor the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate. Smaller, spore-like daemons scurried in the shadow of the great beast, but Blakov let the troops around him target them, instead maintaining his eye line with the towering daemon.

As it got closer, Blakov could see that the giant daemon, many times Blakov’s own height, was not entirely unscathed from the battle so far, though it had deep gouges in its flesh left, presumably, by the heavy weapons on the now-destroyed Bastion.

Perhaps this thing could be killed after all? Blakov had to believe that. The light of the Emperor was stronger than the foulest beasts the warp could spew out.

Blakov began to recite the same prayer he had uttered earlier, barely audible to himself but transmitted over the open vox via the bead at his throat. He didn’t look around as the giant daemon loomed over him, but over the vox he could hear Cadian voices repeating the prayer as they had before.

Good. His Cadians were strong in faith, they would hold the Wall of Martyrs and step forward to fight again, to follow in his footsteps. It felt to Blakov as if the wall itself was supporting him, even as he stood far away from it in no-man’s-land, glowing with the power of the martyrs and the faith of those who still lived.

The great daemon raised its sword, and Blakov took a defensive stance, he knew that the rational move would be to turn away from facing the daemon head on, to retreat to a strategic position then hit back under more favourable circumstances.

But it would be the wrong move now. He needed to hold his ground, to set an example, to show that these daemons could be fought.

‘For Cadia and the Emperor!’ he shouted, hearing the war cry echoing over the vox.

As the Great Unclean One’s sword came down, Blakov’s realised something that shook his immense self-belief.

He couldn’t block the blow that was about to descend on him, it would cut straight through his sword then his body.

He was going to die.

Blakov couldn’t die now, Chavaria knew that. The 39th needed them to lead him, to defeat this and all the other daemons on Kelthorn. The Castellan was the right man to lead them and he had to survive, even if Chavaria fell in his place.

Chavaria broke into a run the moment he realised Blakov’s attempt to stand his ground was doomed to fail, pushing the Castellan out of the way of the falling blade and raising his laspistol. He fired even as the monster’s blade tore into him instead, slicing through his body so effortlessly that he wasn’t sure whether there was no pain, or that his entire body was so suffused with pain he knew nothing else.

As the blade tore through his shoulder, cut straight down his torso and halfway through one of his legs before sinking into the ground below, Chavaria felt panic, and fear swelling in him, but also a distant satisfaction as the last shot he ever fired hit the monster in one eye, causing it to flinch just slightly.

That injury, however minor, gave Chavaria a brief moment of satisfaction at the end. Even as agony bloomed within him, his mouth opening in a scream that was choked off before it began, Chavaria briefly felt the kind of burning faith that Blakov did, that absolute confidence and sense of self-sacrifice.

Then, in an agonising instant, Chavaria’s consciousness was wiped from existence by the monstrous power of the weapon that had cut him in two, and the corrupting power of Chaos consumed his body.

Blakov, shoved aside in the instant he had become aware he was about to die, landed on his side in time to see the huge sword bisect Commissar Chavaria. As the two halves of Chavaria fell apart, the commissar’s fingers seemed to claw the air, reaching out for something, his mouth open in a final question, his eyes blank and wide.

As Chavaria’s body fell it was not blood that gushed forth, but a tide of maggots writhing in yellow and black liquid, the touch of the great daemon’s blade causing his body to decay instantly. Chavaria’s skin blackened and slipped off his skeleton as the body fell apart, his clothes chewed apart by a swarm of fat moths, and as the remains hit the ground even the bones crumbled and liquidised with corruption, leaving nothing but a tide of decayed ooze splashing outwards, maggots and other insects crawling and tumbling out of the puddle that had once been Commissar Chavaria.

Blakov, still on the ground, realised he had lost his sword. Not bothering to stand as the giant daemon stepped towards him, one vile, claw-like foot squishing in the liquid remains of the commissar, Blakov sighted and crawled towards his best source of a potential weapon, the body of a dead Guardsman. He could see just what he needed emerging from the Guardsman’s prone corpse…

‘Castellan!’ Rawl shouted, running towards the giant daeman and firing her lasrifle as the monster turned to Blakov once more, sweeping down with one of its claws to seize him.

Rawl’s las-shots bounced off the skin of the daemon, and the arm came around, sweeping Blakov up. Rawl just got a glimpse of the Castellan snatching something metallic up in his grasp as he was lifted close to the daemon’s face.

Blakov didn’t even know what he had grasped as the daemon seized him, but he never doubted it would be important. His life had been a straight line of certainty, an arrow shot through the history of this time, a progression of battles in the Emperor’s name leading to where he was today. He had fought and won and never doubted, not even as the great daemon’s sword had descended and death had seemed imminent. He didn’t doubt now, even as the daemon squeezed, and Blakov could taste its foul breath shrivelling his lungs and feel his ribcage and hips crack in the daemon’s grip.

He had never feared death when he evaded it and he would not fear it now it was inevitable.

Through tremendous pain, and fighting back the terror the daemon struck into his soul, Blakov looked at what he had pulled from beneath the dead Guardsman, and in spite of his agony and impending demise, he smiled.

The Emperor provided. The Emperor knew best, and guided Blakov’s hands and those of the men and women who served under them. Even here at the end, he was aware of the Emperor’s grace in what fortuity had provided him with.

A melta bomb, gripped in his hand.

The melta bomb was like a key, and as the daemon lifted Blakov up to devour him whole in its maw, he didn’t have any problem finding the lock it slotted into – there was a ragged gash in the daemon’s chest.

Blakov smiled as he twisted the melta bomb’s primer and thrust it into the wound. He felt giddy now, the pain increasingly distant, and after a life of feeling the burden of duty, the weight of his own significance, Blakov suddenly felt pleasantly small. He was a tiny part of the Emperor’s plan, after all, and he had served his role well.

The Emperor provides, he thought before the melta bomb detonated.

He always did.

Rawl was thrown off her feet as the colossal daemon, still holding tightly on to Blakov, was consumed by an expanding field of white. She felt a hot rush of air scorch her skin as she was thrown face down into the hot mud, the roar of the explosion drowning out any other noise.

Then the explosion died out and she pulled herself to her feet.

The giant daemon was gone, and so was Blakov. Where they had been, a crater had been gouged out of the ground, a perfectly round steaming pit amongst the uneven undulating churn of the battlefield. Both the Castellan and the huge daemon had been utterly vaporised.

Above her, the darkened skies began to clear slightly, revealing patches of the clear white sky that had been there before. In the distance, a shaft of thin light shone down on the shattered remains of Bastion Beta-3.

Around Rawl, her fellow Cadians were still battling daemons, and she tried to collect herself as she fired on those nearby. The daemons were still a terrible threat, but with the greatest of their number gone they seemed to have lost some of their direction.

One ran at Rawl, and she fired it straight in the head. She fired again straight after, knowing that it took more than one shot to banish one of these things – but it had already gone, the first blast of las-fire causing it to lose its grip on the corporeal world, disappearing into the warp with a blur of light, dissolving into a sickening pool of fetid liquid.

The 39th needed to strike hard and fast while the daemons were vulnerable, but they were now without either a commanding officer to give the orders or a commissar to back them up with threats of field justice. Rawl needed to act as both in the absence of Blakov and Chavaria, and in their last moments they had shown her the way, shown her the faith and determination she needed now.

‘Cadians,’ she said into the vox-bead at her neck so that her voice would be heard all around Fellguard, wherever men and women of the 39th still stood.

Rawl paused, licking her dry lips. She needed to be clear, to show absolute certainty of purpose.

‘Cadians,’ she repeated. ‘Castellan Blakov is dead, but in doing so he has struck a great blow against our enemies. We must not falter in our mission now, we must strike hard against these horrors and drive them from this world once and for all. We have survived the worst of these daemons and heretics, and only death awaits them now.’

‘Forward, Cadians!’ shouted Rawl, maintaining fire on the daemons and the heretics as they continued to surge towards the Wall of Martyrs, to be met by fire and steel. The daemons and the scattering of cultists were vulnerable now, Rawl could see it, and though many more Cadians would become martyrs before the day was done, she was sure now that day would bring victory.

Fellguard would be retaken, for the Emperor, and his light would shine on the Wall of Martyrs once more.

From To Serve and Suffer: A Personal Account of the Pericles Crusade and other Campaigns of the Glorious Cadian 39th by Castellan Merlene Rawl:

Having seen the worst that our enemies could conjure forth, I led the survivors of the Cadian 39th to retake Fellguard. While many of the enemy had died, and the leadership of the rebellious forces removed, pockets of resistance remained, and it took many days to fully retake the city, and weeks after that for support to arrive and the cleaning up that follows such a campaign to commence.

For reasons I cannot disclose in this account, due to the nature of the enemy we fought on Kelthorn the city of Fellguard was cleansed with fire, to be blessed and reconsecrated before it was repopulated.

The space between the inner and outer walls of Fellguard, that battlefield we had crossed under enemy fire and where much of the combat took place, was scourged, burned, dug over and salted. Many artefacts relating to the enemy were either destroyed or taken away as contaminated waste.

I did manage to retrieve one of Commissar Chavaria’s pins of office from the spot where he had died. It looked a thousand years old, tarnished and blackened, but it was intact, and Regimental Priest Vurtch made a blessing over it to ensure it was safe for me to remove.

I attempted to pass the pin to the 39th’s next commissar, as a token of honour, but she considered the gift of an item belonging to her deceased predecessor to be either a veiled threat or an irrelevance, and told me to keep it.

I did, and have it still, as a reminder of what we could achieve with faith and determination, and the sacrifices required to attain victory in the face of the most terrifying of enemies.

It may seem odd to you, that the memento I keep closest to me is of Chavaria rather than Blakov himself, but it has always seemed that Blakov’s sacrifice was not something I could commemorate personally.

Instead, he is a martyr and example to many, the few scorched bones retrieved from the battlefield preserved as relics and returned to Cadia, while a thrice-blessed silver replica of his skull is now part of Fellguard’s Wall of Martyrs.

What I took from Blakov was not some token of his heroism, for I am still not sure that he was a hero. Instead he is commemorated in the way I have led the 39th, the example he set for me in that last hour of hell.

Though I doubted him many times, and have many less-than-fond memories of the man, in our moment of greatest need his fanaticism was exactly the madness we needed to survive, and in all the horrific warzones the 39th has been dispatched since, I believe it is the little shred of Blakov’s madness I carry within me that has helped ensure our victories and survival.

In a universe like this, Blakov taught me, sometimes the right kind of madness is a more sensible response than retaining your reason.

+++ Extract from confidential Inquisitorial communication +++

To Junior Propagandist Second Class Kelnhofer,

While Castellan Rawl’s account of the events on Kelthorn a decade ago is inspiring in many respects, the portrayal of conflict between the officers of the Cadian 39th and their commissar is utterly unacceptable. The rank and file must understand that their officers are always correct, and the Commissariat is always correct, even if they are correct in conflicting ways. Doubt in authority cannot be tolerated, and neither can the persistent references to Guard leadership as ‘insane’.

As such I order the suppression of this account for the greater moral good.

Yours in loyal service,

Senior Inquisitorial Clerk Menshon Lytle

+++ Message ends +++

Monolith

Chris Dows

‘I repeat – this is Colour Sergeant Pedahzur of the Cadian 46th. Traitor Space Marines equipped with jump packs have overrun our position. We cannot offer any covering fire or assistance. We need reinforcements. Now!’

Despite the rattling din of equipment and weapons, the colour sergeant’s voice was clear enough through Zachariah’s vox. It wasn’t panic in the Cadian’s tone, but the urgency of his delivery said it all – this was going to be a tough one.

The briefing on the Obliteration had informed them that intelligence was ‘incomplete’, but it was clear enough that the situation had deteriorated.

Somewhere below, on the surface of Ophel Minoris, the Cadians had lost control of an installation vital to security in the Arx Gap – a massive structure of unknown origin with, it was said, similar properties to the famed Cadian Pylons. With their experience of these mysterious structures, the Cadian forces had been the obvious choice to occupy and defend them.

When the first distress call had come, the Obliteration had been the closest Imperial vessel, but it had still taken nearly a week to reach Ophel Minoris. Surviving an attack for so long under normal circumstances would have been a tough call for Cadians, who were amongst the hardiest fighters Zachariah had ever met. It was apparent these were far from normal circumstances, and if any had survived against a foe of such terrifying myth and legend then this only increased his admiration for them.

‘Chaos Space Marines… Emperor’s Throne,’ muttered Adullam.

Over the years Zachariah had heard whispers about these dreadful creatures. Space Marines who had rebelled against the Imperium and turned to the worship of dark powers.

He felt Beor shift uncomfortably in his seat, tightly wedged into the meshed metal bench he currently shared with the hulking brute to his left and Adullam to his right. Directly in front, the three troopers’ heavy boots almost touched the feet of veteran Guardsmen Sojack, Melnis and Coarto, the other half of Zachariah’s team, who sat quietly, conserving their energy for the mission. Their thoughts were drowned out by the roar of the Valkyrie’s twin engines as they hit the upper atmosphere.

Zachariah nodded once, and within seconds respirators were connected to helmets and tinted visors flicked over eyes, each man moving expertly inside the straps and harnesses holding him in place against the violent shaking of the ship.

‘Drop point in two minutes. All ships are holding formation. Clear skies, Elysians – we’ll get you down in one piece.’

The voice of the Valkyrie’s copilot warbled with the buffeting of the plunging ship and Zachariah acknowledged the message. Signalling his team to keep vox silence, he knew the other five squads somewhere behind them would do the same; comms would likely be monitored by the enemy and the last thing they needed was to give away their pitifully small numbers.

It bothered Zachariah that they had been sent in with such little preparation and, for that matter, recuperation after the fighting on Rysgah, but they’d been assured that reinforcements would join his beloved 158th as fast as they could. Whether it would be fast enough was immaterial; they had a job to do, and despite his many years of service he still felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach.

Slipping off the restraints from his shoulders, Zachariah reached below the bench and retrieved his grav-chute by its battered nozzles and heaved it off the deck. Sitting forwards, Adullam and Beor took a side of the pack each and lifted it up and over Zachariah’s head. He put his arms through the straps and began clipping them together. Leaning forwards to create more space, Adullam and Beor followed the same practised routine until all three were ready for the drop. Within seconds, Coarto, Sojack and Melnis had done the same. This was always the most uncomfortable part of any mission, trying not to clang and crash into everyone and the bulky weapons containers taking up the rest of the drop ship’s interior before making the way to the exit hatch. It was the very reason the veteran squad waited until the last minute of a drop, as well as one of a thousand things they had learned over countless missions.

Wham.

Zachariah looked sharply to the starboard side of the hold. He knew the normal clatter of orbital entry and that wasn’t it. Something had hit them, and hit them hard, brutally illustrated by a dent in the grey metal wall. A frantic shriek of metal on metal filled the hold, choreographing the movement of the six men as they writhed to free their strapped-down weapons.

A sliver of light became a ragged, gaping hole as two sets of razor- sharp talons punched inside, and the Valkyrie’s pressure warning alarm blared into life. A bulky bronze and scarlet figure gripped onto the entrance it had brutally torn open and stared impassively at the men. Buckles popped, webbing slid back and straps loosened, but it was all too late.

The creature screamed.

A fist of sound hit the men, smashing their senses into submission. Ducking down, the armoured monster launched itself inside, slashing talons cutting furiously through the racks and webbing. The ship lurched to one side, throwing the intruder towards Melnis, Coarto and Sojack, who were eviscerated in a scarlet flurry before Zachariah’s eyes. Facing the three remaining troopers, the massive figure raised a powered arm, but its swing was unbalanced by the Valkyrie, which shuddered violently and dropped.

The shrieking Chaos Space Marine was thrown up onto the ceiling with a crunch, silencing its mind-splitting howl with the impact. The ship spiralled to starboard, throwing the traitor along the ceiling then back out of the hole it had made, taking a good part of the fuselage with it. Their reprieve was short-lived as Zachariah watched a fracture line run up and across the top of the hold, and with a mighty crack the vessel split in half.

In a blink, Zachariah found himself in free space, still strapped to the bench between Beor and Adullam. Experience overtook shock as the freezing air cleared his head, and he began assessing how to free himself from the plunging rack. Pieces of the Valkyrie fell past: an angled wing section, torn plates of the container floor and the entire nose of the dismembered ship. Zachariah caught a whirling snapshot of the pilot and co-pilot clawing desperately at the jammed cockpit mechanism. Their escape would never come.

Pulling his legs sharply underneath the bench, Zachariah fought the sickening gravitational forces and withdrew his combat knife from its sheath. Three slashing cuts across his restraints and a hard kick against the seat sent him tumbling into space, closely followed by Beor and Adullam, who had followed his cue.

Zachariah threw out his arm to right himself with the horizon, sheathing and securing the weapon in a seamless movement. Spread-eagled to increase drag, the three men drifted into a classic fall position – just as a volley of bolts tore between them.

Zachariah looked around – the traitor was plunging towards their position, firing with little thought for accuracy. Adullam and Beor saw the threat and split out of formation to provide two smaller targets instead of a single large one. Zachariah twisted and turned his body, pulling in his arms and legs to increase his drop, but he knew he was an easy target. The option of hitting thrusters and returning fire was futile because any reduction in speed would make things even worse, and he couldn’t free his chest-strapped lasgun without stabilising himself.

He was in real trouble.

The dark green blur of a Valkyrie filled his vision, its speed startling him nearly as much as the fierce, breathtaking push from its twin exhausts. In all the confusion he’d forgotten the other five ships of the attack group. The new arrival roared down to the falling foe. The hulking creature powered towards the approaching ship but was met with a searing lascannon discharge that lanced a perfect hole through its chest.

Well, at least they can be killed, thought Zachariah as he watched the Chaos Space Marine plunge to the ground with broiling gore spewing from its back. An after-image appeared of Melnis, Coarto and Sojack’s horrified faces as they struggled in the Valkyrie and Zachariah shook his head to free himself of the dreadful vision. That creature had taken half his team. Half his friends.

He would have to deal with that later.

Just before he plunged into the thick blankets of cloud directly below, two shapes moved from either side into his peripheral vision. Surrounded by vapour-heavy whiteness, he felt a strong double pat on the fluttering arm of his jump suit. Through streaks of mist and drizzle on his visor, he saw Adullam nod once.

Zachariah returned the greeting and, despite the comms risk, tapped twice on the side of his helmet.

‘We’re about three miles up. They won’t be able to see us in this, and once we get through it the remaining Valkyries should protect our backs. Keep an eye out for a landing spot when we–’

‘Sarge, look at that.’

At this height the ground far below was a suggestion of detail painted by swathes of parched black earth and lush green forest. They’d seen variations on the pattern a hundred times or more, but the colossal, towering black stone monolith thrusting up to meet them was astonishing in scale and brutality. It had to be at least a mile high, terminating in a roughly triangular base. As it rose into the air, the weather-worn, pockmarked and partially eroded outer walls corkscrewed into an ever-narrowing spiral towards its summit. Thousands of randomly distributed outcrops, ledges and entrances suggested themselves thanks to the yellow-white gleam from Ophel’s sun. That’s how it attacked us, thought Zachariah. It jumped from the platforms on the top.

Greater detail formed as they fell towards the structure’s peak. Perched impossibly on the apex was a series of massive cracked and broken angled stone pillars: two giant cupped hands cradling the network of makeshift Imperial structures comprising the Cadian command post. The whole thing rested on a triangular platform supported by metres-thick buttresses projecting from the structure’s narrowing sides directly below.

How it stayed in place was beyond Zachariah, and his attention was suddenly drawn to flashes of colour from inside and out, pieces of debris and larger objects being thrown down to the ground. His jaw clenched.

The objects were men.

Zachariah unclipped his modified sniper lasgun and brought the telescopic site up to his visor, fighting the buffeting wind as best he could. The shaking image confirmed what he had feared. Through clouds of smoke and tongues of flame, he could see his Cadian brothers fighting, desperately and in close quarters. The crackle of static in his ear was replaced by the breathless, urgent voice of Pedahzur. They were close enough to pick up his short-range vox.

‘Regroup on the left of the – the left! Oranis, watch out for–’

A huge explosion ripped out the far side of the listening post, its prefabricated plasteel walls spinning out and down the steeple-angled black rock parapets. Screams could be heard over the open vox, cries of fury and agony as Pedahzur’s men fought the traitors to the bitter end. At such close range, it would be a massacre.

As if to confirm this, Zachariah’s razor-sharp gaze was attracted to movement within a ragged hole as he passed: a dozen men, perhaps more, backing out and firing repeatedly into the orange-black smoke. Despite unleashing withering fire, their unseen target kept at them until, inevitably, they tumbled off the ledge and fell to their deaths. Over a mile up, only a few would see out their doom to its bone-smashing end.

Zachariah’s scope bloomed with a brilliant flash from above. Instinctively he snapped it away from his eye, but blobs of colour punctured his sight with every blink. He felt something searingingly hot streak past, and his vision cleared enough to see the burning remains of two disintegrating Valkyries cascading out towards him in a lethal curve. The reason for their brutal demise became clear some seconds later when another pair of Valkyries turned and climbed upwards and away from each other in the distance as two Chaos Space Marines descended towards them.

‘No!’ shouted Zachariah uselessly as one pilot made the dreadful mistake of opening the hold door, clearly thinking it best to disgorge his precious cargo before it became victim to the traitor’s frenzied attack. The six Elysian men presented instant targets on their exit, such was the proximity of the rust-red streak of fury to their fragile hold. They died within seconds.

Despite its own relentless pursuer, the second Valkyrie swooped around to help its brother, whose port fin stabiliser had melted away. The traitor was torn into bloody confetti, but its crippled victim spun out of control towards its would-be saviour.

The second pilot pulled up and away, but it was too late; the Valkyries smashed into each other, creating a tangled mess of engines and fuselage that spun furiously past Zachariah and the others to the ground.

Zachariah looked in all directions, but he could only see empty space. Worryingly, the two other creatures were nowhere to be seen.

‘Head for that large outcrop at eleven o’clock. I’ll be damned if I lose all of you in one day. Move!’

The three remaining Elysians dipped heads, pressed their arms to their sides and pitched downwards at Zachariah’s barked order, arrowing towards the scarred and pitted wall of the monolith. Streaks of weapons fire flashed past from above, forcing another break of formation.

Zachariah twisted to try and find their attackers; the two monsters who had met the Valkyries were gaining on the Elysians, smoke belching from the underside of their massive jump packs. They must have landed then immediately launched, and Zachariah’s innate calculus told him they would intercept seconds before the Guardsmen reached the safety of the structure – unless he did something about it.

Tilting his body upwards, Zachariah hit his port thruster a fraction before the starboard, spinning him on his vertical axis, halting his fall with a sickening jolt. The renegades roared on, unphased by this impudent human wretch levelling its feeble weapon at them, revelling in the midair carnage they were generating.

Breathing deeply to correct his aim, Zachariah fired repeatedly at the lead traitor’s oncoming form, hoping to strike a vulnerable spot. The creature shook off the insect bites, but Zachariah kept on relentlessly, determined to buy the extra time Beor and Adullam needed. Somewhere inside the hideously decorated armour, he supposed the creature was laughing at his pathetic efforts as its own fire crept ever closer, but a flash of metal directly above had Elysian and traitor looking up as one.

The final Valkyrie was belching smoke from its port engine. A good part of the starboard wingtip was missing, but its multi-laser was still functional. Wildly inaccurate fire spat from the weapon, forcing the two monsters to break off their attack on Zachariah. Turning to the crippled ship, they fired into the cockpit, quickly reducing it to glass and steel splinters.

With the pilot certainly dead and the rear hatch gaping open, Zachariah saw his chance and aimed at the vessel’s underside. He struggled to centre his aim on the remaining Hellstrike missile, sitting proud on its pylon, but with the third shot the ship erupted in a ball of flame, engulfing the nearest traitor and sending chunks of metal into the remaining creature’s jump pack. One piece tore through the starboard nacelle, which disappeared in an oily bloom of brown and black smog, the port engine increasing its output to compensate.

Caught off-balance, the traitor flipped and rushed towards Zachariah, who cut thrusters and dropped out of the way. As he watched the hulking red form streak past, horror quickly replaced his relief. Despite its damage, his foe had found another target.

‘Beor, above and behind. Peel off!’

Zachariah’s warning was too late.

Beor seemed to fold in half around the Chaos Space Marine’s armour, his back snapping from the sickening impact. Only just managing to avoid a collision himself, Adullam was consumed by the inky black plume marking the traitor’s steep curving descent towards the enormous building. If the initial impact hadn’t claimed Beor’s life, the collision with the monolith’s side made certain of it.

Zachariah watched in utter dismay as the trooper’s smashed body fell away from the traitor’s mangled form and down the side of the massive structure, all dignity lost as he bounced doll-like off protruding sills and ledges.

Adullam became a shadow as he fell towards a huge triangular opening several levels below, his grav-chute deploying perilously close to the rough black wall. Stray fire darted from the still-raging battle from the listening post directly above, and Zachariah reached to hit his own thrusters as several Cadian bodies were expelled in a ball of fire. Most were dead, their lifeless forms taking on unnatural poses as they spun through the freezing air. But one clearly had some life left as he kicked and grasped at nothingness, one hand clutching a piece of flapping cloth. Even from this distance, Zachariah knew it was torn from regimental colours. Could it be Pedahzur falling towards him?

The swoop was going to be tricky. Midair rescues were hard enough with two experienced Elysians, even if they had practised as both rescuer and rescued repeatedly. Catching a falling, untrained individual was far more difficult. The man had no idea he could be saved. Attempts at communication were pretty futile, as it was hard to hear a vox while you were screaming your lungs out. Besides, the colour sergeant’s headset was trailing like a useless streamer around his neck.

Zachariah knew his thrusters had scant seconds of fuel left, so he would only get one attempt. Slowing his descent, the dead bodies passed in a ghoulish shower of khaki. The flailing Cadian plunged past as Zachariah’s pack began sputtering its own death throes. Taking a deep breath, Zachariah made some last-minute calculations before making his descent.

Fleeting, hurtling moments passed and then Zachariah slammed into the man’s side, his momentum and line of travel throwing both of them into the gaping hole and onto the cold, wet stone of the monolith’s interior with a gasping thump.

The insistent stabbing pain across Pedahzur’s right side told him he wasn’t dead. What swam into view was hardly the stuff of the glorious afterlife either – this was no vision of the Emperor looking down at him benignly, ready to embrace him into the heavenly fold. The face was filthy and bloodied, criss-crossed with scars and with a sunken left cheek rapidly darkening into a purple bloom.

‘He’s coming to, sarge.’

A second figure moved into view, the uniform immediately recognisable. Elysians.

‘Colour Sergeant Pedahzur?’

He nodded once, then tried lifting himself up. Searing heat coursed across his right arm and chest, and he dropped back onto the unyielding stone floor.

‘I’m Sergeant Zachariah, this is Guardsman Adullam. Your shoulder’s dislocated. I can fix it if you like, but it’ll hurt like hell.’

Zachariah’s matter-of-fact tone might have sounded callous to some, but Pedahzur appreciated straight talking. Adding the fact that the Elysian had just saved his life, the colour sergeant liked him already.

‘It already hurts like hell. Do what you have to.’

Zachariah nodded to Adullam, who retrieved a handful of field dressings from their discarded packs. Wrapping them into a roll, he tossed it over to his kneeling sergeant who carefully placed the soft material in the crook of Pedahzur’s injured arm, directly below his dented shoulder plate. Shuffling around on the black rock, Zachariah positioned himself astride the Cadian’s now outstretched arm and grabbed the man’s wrist between his gloved hands.

‘I’m going to push my boot against the padding while I pull. Are you ready?’

Zachariah leant back, pulled and then rotated the wrist slightly. Gauging it perfectly, he increased the pressure and was rewarded with a loud, wet pop from inside the shaking man’s tunic. Pedahzur slumped in immediate relief. Only then did he register that he still had a hold on the torn cloth in his other hand. He looked down at the precious material.

‘What are we up against, colour sergeant?’ asked Zachariah.

Pedahzur took a deep breath then gingerly brought himself to a sitting position. The pain hadn’t disappeared completely, but it wasn’t debilitating either. Tucking the colours into his tunic, he reached out his left arm to Adullam, who stooped down and pulled him to his feet. His back was wet from a cold sweat and lying on the slick floor. The Cadian did his best to smarten himself up, but knew he looked exactly like he’d just fallen off a building and been thrown back in on the way down.

‘The traitors came from nowhere six days ago. They hit the ground level garrison and the command post at the same time. It took us three days to destroy their air support, but most of our forces were wiped out doing it.’

Pedahzur retrieved his laspistol from the ground, inspected it momentarily, then holstered it as Zachariah pointed two fingers to his eyes then over to the triangular entrance through which they had all plunged minutes before. Adullam moved towards it. Pedahzur could see that the sky was beginning to turn orange as the sun moved lower on the horizon, the wind whistling in from outside.

Zachariah continued with his questioning.

‘What’s their strength now? And what are they up to?’

Pedahzur took a closer look around the massive cave-like level on which they’d landed. Squinting into the darkness, he moved his injured arm gingerly backwards and forwards to ease life into it.

‘Strength unknown, although there weren’t that many to start with. I’d guess a few dozen. As for what they’re up to… They’re going to blow the top off this structure.’

Adullam threw a look over to Zachariah and frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘This place isn’t the same as our pylons, but the general consensus is that it’s similar. We’ve had tech-priests here for years doing various tests, but I don’t think they’re any closer to figuring out this monolith than they are the ones on Cadia.’

Pedahzur grimaced and corrected himself.

‘Were any closer. They’re all dead now.’

Zachariah exhaled, unbuttoned his canteen and offered it to Pedahzur, who took a couple of gulps then handed it back with a grateful nod.

‘I was in the command post up top when they cut us off from below. They used our own network of gantries and the scaffolding we’d built up over the years to reach us once they figured out we were dug in well enough to fend off jump pack assaults. Hitting us from the air and from below was just too much.’ Pedahzur gritted his teeth, more from recollection than from physical pain. ‘Too much.’

The Cadian looked to the high vaulted ceiling, greater detail coming into view as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

‘Just before we lost it up there, I saw a lot of fyceline being hauled up by a couple of the Raptors.’

Zachariah cradled his lasgun lightly in his arms and frowned. ‘Is that what they’re called?’

Pedahzur looked back down and met the gaze of the Elysian. Of course. He wouldn’t even know what it was that had attacked him. ‘My captain knew what they were the second he saw them. He’d fought one before on another campaign, and lost most of his men bringing it down. The Chaos Raptors are amongst the worst of the traitors and if they’ve been sent here, it’s to do something very important as quickly as possible.’

Zachariah looked over to Adullam who nodded in agreement. Stories had turned to reality, and a grim reality it was proving to be. The veteran sergeant looked back to the Cadian.

‘Reinforcements are on their way, but they’re going to take time which we don’t have. No point in heading down to ground level – there’s no one left to help us. The Raptors will be putting charges into every possible nook and cranny. The captain also said the tech-priests believe this place will only work if it’s intact, particularly the temple on the summit.’

Zachariah raised his eyebrows at the description.

‘Temple? You mean those stone pillars?’

The colour sergeant nodded, a half-smile on his lips.

‘That’s what we called it. Seemed fitting, with its shape and location. Whatever it is, the traitors’ mission seems to be its destruction so that’s reason enough to stop them.’ He rested his hand over the cloth tucked into his tunic. ‘What’s more, they’ve got my colours.’

Zachariah saw the pain and anger in Pedahzur’s eyes. That, more than anything, would be playing on his mind. Before he had time to respond, Adullam shouted from his vantage point.

‘Sarge, there’s something–’

Adullam flew past the two men in a shower of rock and debris that caught Zachariah sideways. The remaining packs on Zachariah’s back and shoulder armour took most of the explosion’s force but he was still thrown to the ground, rolling to protect his precious rifle from a potentially damaging impact.

Within seconds he was in a defensive crouch. He could hear the groans from Adullam somewhere towards the centre of the chamber. The blast hadn’t killed him, but any help would have to wait; silhouetted in the entranceway was the battered form of the Raptor he’d thought he had lost with Beor, its breath rasping laboriously in the gloom.

Whatever it had used to create the explosion heralding its appearance had been discarded. Staggering forwards, the abomination raised its bolt pistol in a shaking hand, steadying itself with a clenched fist on the angled rock wall. It fired wildly, pumping bolts towards the three prone men, but none found their target, giving Zachariah just the time he needed to bring the scope to his eye and activate the intensifier.

A speckled green image of the monstrosity flickered before him, the reticule brighter than the surrounding field which partially obscured the enhanced details of the Raptor’s armour. He fired immediately, creating flashing blossoms of zero effect. The Raptor tried to summon a scream, but all that issued was a garbled, grating noise which made it stumble forwards with the effort.

The light changed imperceptibly but it was enough for Zachariah’s acutely trained eye. He’d never seen a Chaos Raptor before, but the small crack in its elaborate mouth grille gave him more than he’d need for a shot. A bolt whistled past his shoulder and impacted somewhere far behind, showering rock to the floor of the cavern, but Zachariah was in his zone now, breathing slowly, the outside world blocked out.

He fired twice. The first shot deflected away, but the second disappeared into the vertical slots and darken. The creature’s head jerked backwards and it stood motionless for seconds until it pitched forwards, crashing face down. After the echoes had died in the massive room, the only sound was the loud ticking of the battered jump pack’s casing which, Zachariah assumed, was down to it cooling in the dank air. Even so, he kept a healthy distance from the Chaos Raptor’s hulking form. He snapped the intensifier off and walked over to his friend, who raised his eyebrows sardonically. Zachariah nodded. Lucky shot. Weakened target.

‘Can you walk, Adullam?’

‘I think I’ve broken a couple of ribs.’ His battered face contorted with pain as Zachariah pulled him upright. ‘Emperor’s Throne, I have. At least two.’

‘Get your jumpsuit off and I’ll strap you up best I can. I’m guessing we’ve got a lot of climbing to do, Pedahzur?’

The Cadian rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘That we have. I know which level we’re on. We’ve got twenty to climb. Some have good staircases, but there’s one that’s going to be difficult. It’ll leave us wide open too.’

Zachariah began rolling out a field bandage between his hands as Adullam painfully removed his bandoliers, webbing and various bits of kit. Retrieving his helmet, he flicked on its integrated image intensifier and the darkness of the cave’s far side flickered into an eerie green glow. He could make out large, steep rockcrete and metal steps disappearing up into the vaulted stone ceiling thirty yards up, and a large triangular shaft in the floor and ceiling.

‘At least we’ve got no issues with the darkness. We’ll lead you through,’ Adullam said.

Pedahzur laughed as he walked into the gloom.

‘I’ve been going up and down this bloody tower for nearly two years, sergeant. I could do it with my eyes closed, and have done before.’

Adullam looked to Zachariah with a frown as the bandages tightened around his ribs.

‘Fair enough.’

Despite every breath and movement being painful to Adullam, the first three levels were traversed with little incident. Remarkably, the traitors hadn’t raided the various weapons caches stored by the Cadians on every other level, so they weighed themselves down with as much ammunition and grenades as they could carry. They even found a compact missile launcher and, while it slowed them somewhat, they all felt comforted by their new acquisitions – particularly a short-range vox headset for Pedahzur, the old one having snapped off during his fall.

Despite having the ability to communicate, little was said and they fell into a silent, steady pace, their senses straining for the first sign of trouble. By the fourth level, the lack of resistance left them all feeling uneasy.

Pedahzur tried to recall how many Chaos Raptors he’d seen on the initial attack but still couldn’t reach a figure he felt comfortable sharing with the Elysians. Regardless of numbers, it was highly probable the traitors knew they were here and it was only a matter of time until an attack came.

While the floor space was decreasing with every level, the chambers were still massive, allowing them to avoid the huge, triangular shaft that ran upwards in the middle of the structure. Neither Cadian or Elysian had any idea what it was for, but they realised it was a long, fatal drop.

Coming to the base of a badly damaged staircase, Pedahzur beckoned them both to come within whispering earshot.

‘We’re heading into the final big chamber. It’s been crumbling away for decades so watch for bits falling off.’

He paused to wipe his heavily sweating face before continuing.

‘Like I said, it’s an absolute pain.’

The Elysians followed the colour sergeant up through the opening in the metres-thick solid rock floor. Zachariah looked up at the wall before him and took a breath. A series of metal gantries, plasteel tubes and ropes had been lashed together in ever-decreasing widths, zig-zagging up to the triangular roof and a large ragged exit hole at the junction of the wall and the ceiling. This chamber was the biggest yet, and he noted the central shaft terminated on this floor.

Adullam exhaled more noisily than he’d wanted to, his shortness of breath difficult to conceal.

‘Couldn’t you have done a better job?’

Pedahzur threw Adullam a grim smile.

‘The walls couldn’t take a single staircase so we had to do it this way. Engineers had to drill through this level’s ceiling, such is the unstable condition of the rock. It was originally separate to the last fifteen floors.’

Pedahzur gingerly placed his boot on the plates of the lowest platform, the whole walkway swinging and clanking as he began up its slippery surface. There was still enough light filtering in through a number of high triangular openings on all three sides, but he’d have to use the luminator he had retrieved from a supply cabinet a couple of floors below sooner rather than later.

Pulling himself along the rope guide with his free hand, he headed towards a flatter platform at the far end of the wall which, thanks to a stubby vertical ladder, connected to the next, shorter, upward-angled platform. He’d told Zachariah and Adullam to wait until he’d mounted the next level before following on, and ensure they traversed one person at a time. That’d spread them over three levels at the very least, and as there were a dozen stages to this ramshackle network and it would take them at least twenty minutes to cover it. He just hoped the Raptors were slow at positioning charges.

It was as Zachariah hauled himself up onto the fourth level that the world went green. Even though his helmet’s intensifier had a safety system built into it, there was always a lag before it could adjust to rapid changes in light, so he was effectively blinded by the huge explosion that shook the room.

Rocks, tubes and girders rained down past Zachariah, who clung for dear life to the safety rope running on the outside of the precarious walkway. A high-pitched shriek built to a deafening howl, sending the veteran sergeant to his knees on the bucking platform. His teeth felt as if they were being ground with a rasp file.

The Raptor’s meltagun dissolved the bottom three walkways, causing Zachariah’s level to pitch violently downwards. Losing his grasp on the rope, the Elysian slid uncontrollably towards the disconnected end of the gantry, watched by the traitor.

With its shrieking vox-caster still at full volume, the Raptor angled its weapon higher, vaporising a good part of the upper levels towards which Pedahzur was desperately trying to scramble. Glowing rockcrete rained down, the width of the platform directly above his head, diverting the lethal debris but still forcing him to duck away from blobs of molten metal.

With a roar of thrusters, the scarlet monstrosity fired up its jump pack and leaped towards the disintegrating network of ropes and metal, the flickering fire from its exhaust lighting up the cavernous interior of the chamber. Landing heavily on the near side of the gaping triangular shaft, it picked its way through stone and steel, staring up at Zachariah with an unflinching gaze.

‘How dare you try to fight us in the skies?’

The creature’s rage boomed around the unrelenting black walls, the force of its words causing chunks of stone to break loose and crash onto the floor or disappear down the shaft’s gaping maw.

‘We rule the skies! You are naught but prey, and a disappointing hunt at that.’

Zachariah’s head spun, his body ached and he had no real idea exactly where he was, but the traitor’s words cut through the mist like a white-hot knife. Old tricks he’d developed over years of bombardment and confusion played out: he forced his head clear, focus returned, and he found enough support on the safety rope’s steel rods to push himself upright against the steeply angled metal floor. The Raptor took a couple of steps closer, mounting a large rock, its meltagun held almost casually within its huge spiked gauntlets. Another piece of black granite crashed within a metre of its position without causing it to so much as a twitch.

‘We shall destroy this place and consume you all. There is nothing you can do against the glory of the Blood Disciples. Chaos shall reign!’

Zachariah brought the lasgun’s scope up to his eye, but he didn’t fire on the Raptor. Instead, he pointed the muzzle skywards and searched for the source of the falling rocks. Sure enough, he could see a fissure deep in the roof, a maze of cracks running from it in all directions. He pulled the trigger and fired repeatedly, aiming surgically precise shots into the weakened ceiling. The Raptor didn’t even bother looking up, such was his arrogance and hubris.

‘I will carve my name into your mortal body. Prepare for your death!’

The first chunk of rock to fall was barely a metre across, but it threw the Raptor off balance, smashing over its raised arms so that its meltagun’s lethal super-heated blast ejecting wide of Zachariah’s position. The second rock, however, was far larger and seemed to fall in slow motion, majestically gathering momentum until it piled onto the traitor’s head.

The sound thundered around the chamber, dislodging yet more rock from the walls and ceiling. Such was the weight of the slab, the Raptor couldn’t push it up and off. However, it could still move sideways and Zachariah realised it was only a matter of time until it prised itself free.

Strapping his rifle to his chest, the veteran sergeant threw himself towards the safety rope which was now trailing to the debris-strewn ground below, and rappelled down it in seconds. Grabbing a bandolier of frag grenades, he wrapped them tightly together as he ran, forming a large loop with the remains of the strap.

Before him, the huge slab was moving and he could see the arched projections of the Raptor’s jump pack intakes; it was freeing itself faster than he’d hoped. Pulling the pin on one grenade, he threw the makeshift lasso towards the opening gap in the rocks and saw it rattle downwards into the makeshift tomb he’d formed around the Blood Disciple. A single grenade against power armour wouldn’t do a great deal of damage, but half a dozen detonating in a concentrated area was something else.

This was a realisation evidently shared by the Raptor, whose movements suddenly became frantic. Zachariah turned and dashed towards the precariously dangling scaffolding, counting under his breath.

‘Ten… Nine… Eight…’

Zachariah had once held the regimental record for rope-climbing, but that had been on the vast training grounds back on Elysia, without full armour and exhaustion. Even so, the threat of dying in a shower of rock and Raptor shrapnel put urgency into his ascent. He continued his countdown as he climbed, until he had his hand on the crazily tilted platform. He was back where he’d started his attack, and prayed to the Emperor he was high and far enough away from the emerging form below.

‘One…’

The blasts threw the Raptor backwards towards the shaft, its left leg exploding into fragments and right leg completely dislocated from its socket. Screaming in pain and fury, the creature pulled itself along with its arms and tried to right itself, but it couldn’t stand. Weapons fire lanced into it from above. Zachariah craned his head upwards but he couldn’t see who was responsible.

‘Adullam… Pedahzur, come in.’

There was a crackle, then he heard the Cadian swearing to himself as he fired at the crawling Raptor below.

‘Adullam, respond. Adullam!’

Zachariah tried to keep the concern out of his voice but failed. Adullam had been in bad shape before the Raptor attack. He might be stuck somewhere above or, worse, buried below in a pile of rock. Regardless, the Raptor was still alive and, as such, still a threat.

Zachariah braced himself as best he could and aimed at the flailing abomination directly below. As the Raptor filled his scope, there was a brilliant bloom of light and the creature disappeared from view into the triangular hole. A few soft flickers of light suggested the creature was trying to ignite its jump pack but they faded to nothing as it plunged to its doom. Zachariah heard Adullam bark a laugh in his headset.

‘Sorry to worry you, sarge. I was too busy setting up this missile launcher to talk.’

Zachariah exhaled with relief.

‘Apology accepted, Guardsman. Now, let’s get off this bloody death- trap’.

Pedahzur was the first to haul himself up through the ragged hole in the ceiling before half pushing and half pulling Adullam to safety, despite his pained curses and protestations. While they caught their breath, the remains of the gantry gave up what little integrity they had left and collapsed. Pedahzur wiped his grimy face with a dust-covered sleeve, blood from numerous cuts and grazes streaking across his cheeks.

‘Not that we had any intention of leaving, but there goes our chance of going back down.’

Adullam doubled over with a coughing spasm and spat down towards the settling debris. All three moved towards the far corner of the dimly lit chamber and a sturdy looking set of ladders that disappeared into the relatively low ceiling.

‘The rooms get a lot smaller now until we hit the command post and temple,’ said Pedahzur. ‘If they haven’t sealed any of the entrances up, we should make good time. They probably assume we’re all dead after all that noise, so we might have surprise on our side.’

Zachariah and Adullam gave Pedahzur a raised eyebrow and a frown respectively, shouldered their lasguns and motioned for the Cadian to take point.

As they climbed, the ringing in Zachariah’s ears fell a tone as he screwed his eyes shut and worked his jaw. Despite the events of the last few hours, he felt very, very lucky.

Harking back to tales from the mess room, despite a soldier’s habit of exaggerating combat, he realised that to defeat even a single Space Marine was an extraordinary achievement, let alone two. That being said, the first had been crippled and the second had been in a less than ideal tactical position. He had no doubt that more than one in a confined space with a strong defence would make things very different.

The chambers approaching the apex were similar in configuration, save for the relative reduction in size, but as they came within two levels of the command post things changed dramatically. It started as a faint chemical smell that quickly escalated to an overpowering stench of burned flesh and promethium. Cautiously entering the chamber, it was brutally clear what had happened. Instead of sealing the floors below them, the traitors had dropped incendiary devices into whoever had been attempting to attack or retreat. Carbonised bodies and twisted metal formed distorted, hellish visions that might have come from the warp itself. Along with Pedahzur’s brothers in arms, the fires had also consumed all hopes of fresh ammunition.

They trod as respectfully as they could over the blackened, brittle bones of the Cadian 46th, the temperature rising from the heat still retained in the monolith’s walls and floor. The two sets of connecting ladders had been fused together, but were intact enough for them to reach the second level, which revealed an equally dreadful scene. A sudden rumble had them readying weapons, but no attack came from within or above the small, ash-covered room in which they stood.

‘Something heavy being dragged?’ whispered Adullam.

The sound came again, now loud enough for the vibration to disturb the thick layers of soot coating the windowless walls. Without respirators they had to bury their faces into the crooks of their arms to muffle retching coughs, and Adullam doubled over in pain again.

After a few seconds it stopped, and the heavy thumping of power armour could be heard moving away. The Guardsmen closed on the large smashed hole forming the entrance to the floor above. Light from the brightly illuminated Cadian facility filtered through, enough for Zachariah and Adullam to deactivate the image intensifiers in their helmets. Ducking underneath the hole, Zachariah could see no shadows of movement directly above. Looking to the wall, the ladders had been melted away completely; regardless of how they got up there, if they were spotted emerging they’d be dead in an instant. Of all the places not to have darkness, thought Zachariah ruefully.

Their only hope was that the Raptors would be too consumed with their business to notice their arrival. Retrieving a rope lashed around Pedahzur, Zachariah fashioned a grappling hook and waited patiently for more movement. As soon as it came, he tossed the hook up and tugged sharply.

Pedahzur was first up the rope, gingerly poking his head above floor level to see if their presence had been detected. Wreckage strewn in all directions obscured his vision, and the slain bodies of his Cadian brothers lay everywhere. In places, the reinforced flooring that extended out to the finger-like columns had been punctured, and the air whistled noisily through a number of gaping cracks and holes. One of the three sides had been blown away, as had parts of the ancient outer temple supports once cradling it. Closer and to his right, fallen beams and conduits were all that remained of the once out-of-bounds tech-priest laboratory, their arcane equipment at the mercy of the darkening sky above.

There was no sign of the traitors, so he tapped his boots twice to the anxiously watching Adullam and Zachariah, who prepared to ascend. Pulling himself onto his stomach, Pedahzur crawled to a heap of rubble and carefully readied his lasgun to cover the entrance hole. The climb forced a gasp of pain from Adullam, thankfully unheard by the enemy.

He’d not taken a lot of notice when he’d scrabbled to his position, but Pedahzur saw that one of the thick snaking cables he’d moved was a detonator cord – the Blood Disciples were close to blowing the place up. Very close.

Within seconds of Zachariah’s arrival, all three moved towards the middle of the smashed command post. Its state made it difficult to gain an uninterrupted view of the heavily protected central core where the transmitter and other vital systems would be located, and Zachariah dropped to a crouch and signalled the other two to follow his lead as he spied the shadowy movements of at least three Raptors in the middle distance.

Kneeling behind a partially demolished briefing table, Zachariah shifted position until he could clearly see two traitors working in front of a long grey box balanced atop a blackened console. It had a series of thick cables and thinner wires terminating in rubberised plugs along its top. From his own experience of special weapons, he suspected it was a detonator in the final stages of preparation. A third, much more ornate, warrior joined them in the work. Zachariah signalled readiness to Adullam on his left and Pedahzur to his right. All three had shuffled themselves into a fair line of sight, and unless other Traitor Adeptus Astartes were busying themselves outside the structure, they had a target each.

As they steeled themselves for the attack, the elaborately suited abomination suddenly straightened and thumped around in front of the other two, looking directly at Zachariah’s position.

‘So… the prey returns.’

The voice dripped with contempt. The Raptor clearly saw them as posing no threat whatsoever and, as one, the two remaining Blood Disciples turned and moved to flank him. The abomination on the right spoke casually, dismissively. Wrapped around its left arm was some material: torn, dirty and ragged. They were Pedahzur’s colours.

‘Shall I destroy them, Shamhuth?’

Somewhere from inside the metallic red form, a laugh devoid of humour crackled forth.

‘We shall all take them, my brothers. We have no time for this distraction.’

The left Raptor charged towards Adullam who ducked out of the way behind a steel plate, but his improvised cover took the full force of a bolt at close range and propelled both the steel and the man through the weakened exterior wall. As the creature moved to finish his attack on Adullam, Zachariah targeted Shamhuth’s weapon and fired repeated controlled bursts, crippling the bolt pistol into uselessness. The third, flag-carrying Raptor emitted an amplified howl and lumbered directly towards Pedahzur who, to Zachariah’s utter astonishment, started running towards the scarlet-suited behemoth, screaming oaths about his colours being lost and firing crazily as he went.

The flag-bearing Raptor shared Zachariah’s amazement for a split second then, regaining its bloodlust, powered towards the Cadian, bolt pistol now swapped for a chainsword which rattled in anticipation of a fresh victim.

Pedahzur jigged left behind a roof support, throwing himself towards a heap of bodies where he could see what looked like a missile launcher. It was damaged, but the firing mechanism seemed intact and there was a shell in the pipe ready to go. He hefted up the bulky tube. The Raptor was less than three metres away and nearly on him. At this range, Pedahzur didn’t even bother to aim – he pulled the trigger and the shell hit the Chaos Space Marine squarely in the chest. The blast shattered the creature, but at such close range, the shockwave hurled Pedahzur into the air. He never saw the fractured bulkhead strut that ended his life.

The same explosion rocked Shamhuth back on his heavily armoured feet and knocked Zachariah to the ground. Adullam’s attacker turned from his pursuit and screamed in fury at the loss of his brother, thundering towards the prone form of Zachariah. A krak grenade diverted the Raptor rather than stopping it, and as debris rained down on him, Zachariah scrambled towards the outer temple structure and a narrow maintenance ledge that ran around the battered shell of the command post.

The freezing wind whipped around his body, chilling his exposed cheeks and mouth, but it wasn’t the cold Zachariah was concerned about. He’d exited between a series of outer supports and there was no way he could bring his weapon to bear, even at close range, without losing his balance. He also couldn’t make it to the pillars above and to his left without negotiating half a dozen stanchions and exposing himself to attack.

Adullam’s attacker made no attempt to conceal its arrival from Zachariah. Ducking forwards, he peered around a thick vertical girder and saw an armoured foot clamping claws around the inspection ledge a few metres away, the sheer weight of its armour reducing the rockcrete to rubble. The creature’s jump pack roared into life and Zachariah flattened himself back against the command post wall, squeezing behind another support positioned closer to the prefabricated structure.

A volley of bolts sailed past the Elysian, but the Raptor’s angle of attack was as impeded as his own from this position. It was a stalemate the traitor legionary wasn’t interested in maintaining. Zachariah felt the floor beneath him shatter from carefully aimed fire. Within seconds he’d be standing on thin air.

He looked again at the temple columns. He would never make it to their cover. The creature moved a little closer, still firing into the ledge, and a plan presented itself.

Grabbing a grenade, Zachariah pulled the pin and counted up to three seconds of detonation, before heaving himself onto the ledge and hurling it at the base of the nearest pillar. He didn’t see the explosion, as he had to duck back to avoid a volley of bolts. Bellowing in frustration, the creature returned to its destruction of the ledge, causing a large chunk of floor to fall away.

A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the crashing of rock on metal. The firing stopped, and a scream of anger drowned out the whistling wind. Zachariah poked his head out and looked down to see the Blood Disciple disappearing from view. The grenade had done its job; his calculations had been correct. All he had to do now was work out–

A scarlet-armoured fist punctured the plating mere centimetres from his head. His instinctive turn away from the lightning-fast movement unbalanced him, pitching him into the rest of Shamhuth’s massive arm. The creature grabbed the Elysian by his shoulder armour and yanked him back into the panelling with all its lethal might.

The air fled from Zachariah’s lungs and he only just retained his balance by grabbing the stanchion he’d been hiding behind. The plating behind him was peeled away like the skin of a fruit and he could hear Shamhuth venting his fury on the structure. Once again a metal gauntlet took hold, this time around his neck.

Pulling him up, the traitor ripped Zachariah’s helmet off and inspected his bruised and bloodied face as the Elysian gagged on the stranglehold. Perhaps it was some distant memory of familiarity, or a grudging respect for a prey that had managed to dispatch several of its brethren that caused the traitor to pause. Either way, the veteran sergeant thought there was only one real response to such a situation and, with a supreme effort, spat where he thought its eyes might be. With a roar the warped Space Marine held Zachariah out at arm’s length, ready to drop him to his death.

‘Put him down. Now.’

It was more of a croak than a shout, but both Elysian and Raptor heard just fine. Over the abomination’s shoulder, Zachariah was astonished to see the battered form of Adullam, a meltagun trained shakily at Shamhuth’s back. After the briefest pause, its head turned. The Raptor’s words were spoken calmly and deliberately.

‘As you wish.’

Zachariah was used to the sensation of falling. It was as familiar as eating and drinking, but this time it was without a grav chute – a recurring nightmare become reality. He saw the traitor’s open hand ascending away from him and imagined rather than heard the scream of fury from Adullam as he fired the weapon at Shamhuth.

The Raptor launched its jump pack and managed to clear most of the shot, but the edge of the blast caught the right side of its shoulder armour and melted the starboard intake into a heap, spinning the creature at great speed past Zachariah’s freefall.

The veteran sergeant’s mounting panic fled, replaced by a whirl of calculations and adjustments. Shamhuth’s port engine sputtered briefly then died in a trail of smoke. The Elysian flipped himself around in midair and pitched his body downwards. His eyes were streaming from the wind, and breathing was virtually impossible, but his aim was true. The Raptor’s attempts to arrest his fall slowed his relative descent and within seconds the abomination was in range, no more than half a mile above the sprawling surface of Ophel Minoris.

Zachariah hit the Raptor’s smouldering armour around the waist, throwing them both into a spin. Shamhuth gave a grunt of surprise and flailed around, trying to swat Zachariah away. The traitor managed to catch him in the shoulder, sending him flying off into the air, but still falling at the same rate. Curling into a ball, Zachariah used every trick in the book to reposition himself, this time approaching from the Raptor’s blind spot. He hit the jump pack hard, just as the one good engine roared into life.

Zachariah gripped onto the rounded lip of the remaining intake with his gloved fingertips, heat searing through his battered gloves. He would have to let go. The creature furiously turned its head from side to side, writhing and jerking its arms to throw him off. It was then that Zachariah glimpsed something – a melted hole in the armour between neck and helmet, doubtless caused by Adullam’s shot. Holding on with a single hand, Zachariah reached for his final grenade. Releasing the pin, he thrust it into the gap and let go for a split second, grabbing onto the inactive starboard exhaust with charred fingers.

His hands were wrenched away by the force of the grenade’s detonation inside Shamhuth’s armour. Gobbets of flesh and shards of metal spewed in every direction, some slicing through Zachariah’s arm and leg. The pain meant nothing to him. He was entirely focused on the now separated jump pack which, unencumbered by the huge weight of the Chaos Raptor, rose into the air. Grabbing hold with both burned hands and ignoring the agony, Zachariah held on.

The speed was extraordinary. His arms screamed with pain, and his head spun with the increased altitude and the violently shaking pack. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. To his left the peak of the monolith came into view and the thrust increased, then stopped, the arc steepening into a drop. It wasn’t a perfect projection, but it’d have to do; at the closest point to the structure, Zachariah let go as the now useless jump pack fell away.

It took a few seconds for Zachariah to make sense of what he was hearing. The first distorted voice sounded like the captain of the Obliteration, the second Adullam. Opening his eyes, he looked down to see his legs splinted together, one arm tied roughly to his body and both hands heavily bandaged. An empty syringe case next to his head explained why he felt no pain.

‘The threat has been neutralised. Just come and get us. There are two injured to pick up at the apex of the structure. Adullam out.’

Cursing under his breath, Adullam staggered to his feet from the communications station, tripping over a series of re-routed cables. Standing over his friend, his grin revealed three broken teeth.

‘Your left leg’s broken below the knee, left arm above the elbow and both hands are a complete mess. Other than that, you’re fine,’ he grunted. He broke into a racking cough and slumped down heavily onto a broken chair.

‘Do something for me, Adullam,’ muttered Zachariah.

The Guardsman raised a weary eyebrow.

‘What do you need?’

Zachariah lifted his head as much as he could. It felt impossibly heavy, as did his right hand as he pointed.

‘Lay Pedahzur down and cover him in his colours would you? One of the traitors had them.’ It was the least they could do for the Cadian.

Adullam looked into the gloom of the smashed command post, sighed, then back again to Zachariah.

‘Already done, sarge. Already done.’

About the Authors

Mark Clapham is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds and Iron Guard, and the short stories ‘The Siege of Fellguard’, ‘The Hour of Hell’, ‘In Hrondir’s Tomb’ and ‘Sanctified’, which appeared in the anthology Fear the Alien. He lives and works in Exeter, Devon.

Chris Dows is a writer and educational advisor with over twenty years’ experience in comic books, prose and non-fiction. His works for Black Library include the Warhammer 40,000 novel The Red Path, featuring Khârn the Betrayer, the audio drama Scions of Elysia and short stories ‘In the Shadow of the Emperor’, ‘The Mouth of Chaos’, ‘Monolith’ and ‘Glory from Chaos’. He lives in Grimsby with his wife and two children.

Richard Williams was born in Nottingham, UK and was first published in 2000. He has written fiction for publications ranging from Inferno! to the Oxford & Cambridge May Anthologies, on topics as diverse as gang initiation, medieval highwaymen and arcane religions. In his spare time he is a theatre director and actor. His novels for Black Library include Relentless and Reiksguard.

Andy Hoare is the author of the Space Marine Battles novel The Hunt for Voldorius, as well as Commissar and a number of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 short stories. He spent many years working in the Games Workshop Design Studio and now writes background and rules for Forge World’s Imperial Armour and Horus Heresy books.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2017.
This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

Glory Imperialis © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Glory Imperialis, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-701-6

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.